#their children too become angered at the gods

[jaybirdhaswings]

[e1dritchjackal0pe]

𝔗𝔬 𝔗𝔬𝔲𝔠𝔥 𝔉𝔦𝔯𝔢

Summary: Isolated and weary of your solitary marriage with the prince, you gather enough courage to approach him one night with the declaration that the both of you try to become better acquainted. When you had proposed the idea, you never could have imagined how it would forever alter the dynamic of your union.

Warnings: 18+ content. Minor's scram. AFAB descriptions, some female implying terms used such as "wife." Fingering, Oral (F!Receiving), naked female and clothed male, some hints of sub Aemond, unprotected sex, creampie, breeding kink. Not proofread. Probably very poorly translated High Valyrian, blame the internet, not me. Aemond being a little shit, but also a little soft, just to balance it out. Aemond speaking in High Valyrian because it does unspeakable things to me.

Notes: 24.8k words. Another unnecessarily long fic because I have no self-control. Reader is a Baratheon. This was honestly just an excuse to write about dragon riding with Aemond. A little bit of Vhagar appreciation because she receives far too much hate.

Life has not been easy as of late. With the threat of war ever-present, looming over the entirety of Westeros like a great storm cloud, thick and heavy with the promise of shrieking winds and a downpour violent enough to rip the foundations of the Seven Kingdoms from the earth and sweep them away in tides of blood. This war could be the end of it all. With dragonflame so readily at the disposal of both opposing sides, there is the possibility of no victors in this battle. All could very well wind up as a victim. Charred corpses to litter the burned lands, scorched black and red from fire and blood like forgotten toys carelessly left discarded and damaged by the children (or the gods) that played with them. 

It is becoming increasingly difficult to nudge it all - the paranoia and worry - back to the distant recesses of your mind. But it clings to you like a stubborn sickness. Making a home in the pit of your stomach like some vile, nauseating thing. It has you hopelessly adrift with no source of salvation to cling to. Especially now that you are in a place that brings you no comfort. Confined within the cold, labyrinthian walls of a castle that you do not truly know beyond the whispers of its name and the faint, watery memory of once dining in the Great Hall as a child while people jovially chattered and feasted on banquet. 

It's all so lost. Being forced to show a polite expression and nod and entertain lords and ladys that hold no true familiarity or warmth to you. Strangers with faces that would smile and stare as though they have known you for years. It is all so restricting. Binding and tight and clinging to your person like the new garments that you have been gifted with upon your arrival to the Red Keep; forced and expected to sport the customary garb and accessories of the Targaryen culture and trends. All wrapped up and pinned up in fine jewelry and embroidered fabrics like a prized broodmare. 

But perhaps then, even "prize mare" is giving yourself far too much praise. Prized pawn is far more fitting of a term. Just some plain, ordinary piece meant to be moved about the board at the whims of the player. Plucked to jump from square to checkered square with little care. You are a simple instrument on a much bigger board; the scope of which, you know is entirely beyond you and your imaginations. 

It makes it all so difficult to not be cross. To push down the anger that prickles at your flesh like hot coals and burns within the chasm of your ribcage. You feel cheated somewhat. Used and played with despite having prepared for this possibility since the moment you had been delivered from the safety of your mother's womb and into the chill of the world. It should be no shock that you have found no comfort. Not in your daily duties and the nugatory responsibilities and diversions you must fill your time with; all of the needlework, entertaining and book reading. It is tedious. Dull. Weak distractions against your harsh reality. That here, so far from home, you are well and truly at your lonesome. Wed to a man who wants little to do with you beyond your expected obligations.  Though you might truly have only yourself to blame for that. Your husband had worn his intentions on his sleeve when he had arrived Storm's End that one tempestuous evening, bearing his true colors to your father and your sisters when he had traded for the Baratheon House's allegiance and loyalty in the exchange for accepting your hand in marriage. He propositioned such terms swiftly. Shockingly so. Sheading little thought to the requirement - it was as easy as breathing for him. All while you stood alongside your sisters, being mindful to keep your spine rigid and head held high while your future was bartered away so easily; swallowing down the unease that stirred in your gut. 

And even with your reservations on the matter, and the buried urge to rush forward and object, you could not help but to study him from your place beside your siblings. You had heard stories of the Targaryen family your entire life. And although you had seen them once before as a young girl, the memories had done little properly illustrate the nearly ethereal grace with which he carried himself with. The first word that had crossed your mind when you first watched him prowl into your family's ancestorial home was simply just:

Stunning. 

For most men you would have used handsome, or dashing. And perhaps those words could be used for the likes of Prince Aemond Targaryen, but there's something about them that does not quite do him the proper justice. He was imposing as soon as he entered the space. Footsteps softly echoing along the stone floors as he approached your father's throne with nothing but pure confidence in his stride. As though you were the guests and not he. And like a moth drawn to a steady open flame your vision had immediately been caught and fastened onto him as though you were placed under spell. 

A simple, harmless fascination, you like to tell yourself. After all, it is not so strange to be captivated by a man who is said to be closer to a god than man; one who rides on the back of a great dragon. And when you first saw him, even with all your uncertainty of his arrival, it was impossible to look away. To try and not to study the countenance of a man you have heard so much about. Tracing the pronounced ridge of his aquiline nose, the keen cut of his jaw, the curved shape of his lips that were set with a slight purse. His features were decidedly sharp, but it suited him well with the assured way he held himself. The scar that marred the left side of his face could do nothing to damage his beauty. A beauty that is so inherently Valyrian. Attributes that mark someone who has blood of the dragon rushing through their veins, smoldering their hair into shades of smoke. And his hair was no different. Spilling down his back like rivulets of pale, silver silk. 

But it was his eye that had caught your attention the most. Even with only one to look, it peered at the world with a focus that was nearly unnerving. Locking onto your father in striking shades of either blue or violet - you could not tell at the time from the distance that had spaced between you. 

And in the moment that you had stood and evaluated him with a sense of wonder and dread, his eye had never flickered over to you. He had hardly spared you a glance. Holding his focus entirely on the Lord before him with the hints of a satisfied smirk nudging at the curled edges of his mouth, even while he held himself so composedly. Like he was truly pleased with the trajectory of the evening. The lack of his attentions on you should have been more than enough to clue you in on the trajectory of your life with the prince. Moreso than the ominous tempest that raged outside the stone walls. Downpours and thunder are no strangers to Storm's End, often ravaging the world beneath with flurries of rain and winds strong enough to lift waves to thrash the against the surface. But that day you had decided that the storm that had blotted out the golden hue of the sun was not simply just a common occurrence, but instead a bad omen. One brought on with the arrival of the prince, set as a warning - a blight on the future of your matrimony that heeded nothing but misery. And you had been right in some regards. 

You knew for certain that as soon as Aemond Targaryen had stepped away from you to stalk after his young nephew with the insistent ravings, flashing a blade with nothing but a crazed scorn in his voice, that you would find no solace within the cradle of your marriage to the prince. And the death of the Velaryon child and his dragon that swiftly followed that night only solidified that assumption. You are married to a mad man. 

One ruled by duty and strategy, but a mad man, nonetheless. 

Even with that in mind you could not help but to long for a connection with the prince. No matter how minuscule or spurious it might be. Your associations with the second born son have been spars at best. Done purely out of obligation at best. Each time you had ever been within each other's presence it had been out of a means to project the image of husband and wife that was expected by the masses and the court. The wedding, the feast you had partaken in, the consummation of your marriage. It was all done with an air of detachment from the prince. He was never rude, or untoward with you, but there was silent boundary that he had sliced between you with his absence and apparent lack of interest in your union. The nights that he would bed you were few and far in between. Done out of the necessity of producing an heir rather than a means to show affection. You could feel it in the clinical way that he touched you. Gentle, firm and somewhat rigid when he would guide you to bend over the foot of the bed with the palm of his hands, lifting up your skirts swiftly as though he is always eager to be done with it and somewhere else. 

You are not a foolish young girl anymore who would listen to your late mother's romantic stories and tales of besotted, star-crossed lovers with a rapt, captivated attention. You now know the nature of marriages. Especially those of highborn society. The expectations of them. They are often done out of the means to strengthen political alliances, not done out of a declaration of love. 

Still, it would be nice to at least know the man that you are set to spend the remainder of your life until the Stranger finally takes you from this mortal realm. The desire for it burned at you, ate at you with teeth that ripped and gnawed at your heart piece by vicious piece until you felt hollow. Not even Queen Alicent, despite her best, though often rare efforts to bring you ease has managed to pull you from the depths of your melancholy.

You wanted more. You were weary of belonging to a stranger. A man who made no attempts for as much simple conversation with you but spent every waking moment strategizing for bloodshed and the success of his house. You knew that if you meant to alter the course of your union with the prince that it is you who must go to him. And the thought of that terrified you greatly. 

You had heard the tales of those who dared to claim dragons that had no desire to be asserted. Those fools' endings were all same. Snapped up between the sharp maws of the great beasts to be swallowed in a gruesome lump of bloodied meat and crushed bone or engulfed in raging flames of bright, molten gold. You had absolutely no desire to become one of those fools. And despite knowing your husband so little, you were able to gather enough, that despite his cunning, he was also undeniably impulsive. Lead by the ferocity and the heat of the dragon blood that coursed throughout his body and burned within his soul like the fire they spit from their throats. If you went to him in the endeavor of drawing him into a connection that he truly did not seek, the only thing you might gain in turn is his ire. 

And so, you had resisted the urge for as long as you could. Settling for the brief interactions you shared during the supper's spent with the family, or the moments when he would meet you within your chambers to do his duty has husband and prince in the hopes of planting his seed and creating his successor. But it all quickly caught up with you. It was not enough, living on the meager crumbs that these encounters provided. Quickly you had decided that you would rather hypothetically get scorched alive by the scorn of your husband than continue to spend your days as a living dead woman, drifting about the cold corridors like a ghost wondering about the life that could have been, had you simply just confronted him. 

It was nearing the night, just little before the hour of the bat, that you found yourself standing outside the doors of his chambers, with soft lilac hues of the twilight slipping through the windows that lined the corridor and painted the floors in dusty shades of lavender. It was purely unbecoming of a young woman to be out so late without an escort, even if she was intending to meet with her husband. It had made the anxiety quivering in your chest even stronger. Fluttering like some wild, frightened creature while your mind swarmed with paranoia and hesitation. Your thoughts had seemed determined to persuade you from your intentions, begging that you turned heel and returned to your quarters before you were noticed. 

Perhaps he was already abed. Deep in slumber and at peace in his rest. Or perhaps he was not even in his chambers at all. Busy with matters beyond yourself. 

It was all almost enough to tear your feet from their place on the floor, but your body seemed eager to betray you, and before you could even notice the movement of your own hand, it was lifted and the sound of your knuckles rapping against the cool wood of the door had rung out within the confines of the hallway. Sharp, loud, and almost violent in your ears. Echoing out like nails being struck into the face of a coffin. 

You nearly flinched, mouth running dry at the realization of what you had just done, and with it the urge to flee had never been so great. Trembling up your spine like a cold breath. You had hoped that he would not answer. That he truly was asleep or vacant from his apartments, but like a twisted jest, the universe had answered your desires, and the sound of his voice slipped from beyond the door. Muffled by the obstruction, but no less commanding. Unable to ignore the call, you had drawn in a deep breath. Steeling yourself and the relentless patter of your heart before you drew the door open and slipped past the threshold with the drag of your skirts whispering ominously as you went. 

The air had seemed to shift when you had entered, and the shadows that clung to the corners and ceiling of the room felt as though it was prepared to swallow you whole, had it not been bayed away by the low flickering the candles that burned about the space like plumes of delicate amber. Your eyes had flitted about the quarters like a startled doe's, desperate to learn the structure of the area as though you might have to flee. Your vision had skipped over the various tomes and documents scattered about the tables; the random objects placed about in meager means of decoration. But you could appreciate them at least, for giving you a small glimpse into the mind of the man you have been bound to. Much like the chessboard left perched atop a tabletop, like a clue to his intelligence and keenness for scheming, and the quills and ink vials and parchment spread along his writing desk. 

But you were only able to distract yourself for so long before your attention had been tugged along as though by an invisible string to focus on the man sitting across the space from where you stood, one of the aforementioned documents held within one of his hands while he watched you steadily. His expression was mostly neutral. But even with how easily he was usually able to school his features, you could see the hint of surprise bleeding into his gaze. The subtle raise of his brow and the confused purse of his lips. You could practically see the question ready at the tip of his tongue, and you loathed the awkwardness that permeated the air. Stifling and prickling like a rash along your skin. 

"Wife," he finally greeted. Though you could still hear the dull bewilderment in the softness of his tone. 

It took you a moment to collect yourself, feebly trying to shake the uncertainty that still clung to you and when you had finally willed yourself to speak, you could only think the gods that your voice did not quiver, even though it was but a few words. "Lord husband," you returned the acknowledgement, nodding your chin slightly in substitute of a curtsy.  You watched closely as he gently placed the document in his hand down flat on the desk, tracing his face and the shadows the spilt across his features from the dim candlelight and the remaining, dull remnants of sunlight that managed to slip in through the windows; the reflection of the fire and sun glinting within the captivating shade of his eye. 

"To what do I owe the honor?" He inquired. 

It had been enough to snap you out of the daze that had clouded over you, jerking you from it so suddenly that you had nearly gasped with the realization that you had been staring. Embarrassment burned at your cheeks, hot and uncomfortable. You cleared your throat, straightening your shoulders in an effort to at least appear confident, but you swore that you had caught the edge of Prince Aemond's mouth twitching up in the semblance of a smile, letting you know that you had not succeeded in your aim. 

"I wished to speak to you." You had answered, clasping your fingers together in front of yourself, and you were now unable to ignore how clammy they had become. 

"So late in the evening?" Came his quick reply, the brow above his good eye perking ever so slightly. And if you did not know any better you would let yourself entertain the idea that it nearly sounded playful, had his face not been so woefully lacking joy. 

"Yes," you said just as fast. You had to ignore the weight of your tongue in your mouth. It suddenly felt too thick. Too clumsy. 

He only hummed in response to your answer. The sound was low and inquisitive, thrumming through the air like warm velvet. And though he had not spoken a word back to you, the singular eye that had he pinned you with bore into you with enough focus to drive you to speak. Forcing the words from your still lungs like a grip that did not exist. Wringing your breath from your body with only the weight of his gaze. "I would like . . . " Your voice died out as quickly as it had risen, snagging within your chest like it had been caught on something. It did not help that your nerves were alight. That your heart was beating wildly, like a skittish animal. But it was mostly just irritating. It had made you feel stupid, the way that your body refused to yield to your own commands. Far too caught within the spell of a primal sort of caution and reluctance to relent to something as easy as talking. 

"You would like to. . ?" Prince Aemond articulated the question slowly, letting it hang between the both of you, as though you were a child. Annoyance had spread throughout your flesh like a wildfire, and for one idiotic moment you contemplated snapping at him. But fortunately, your self-preservation still clung strong and forced you to be mindful of your tongue. 

"This may sound odd," you began, swallowing around the spit that had welled up within your mouth. "But I would like to get to know you better, my prince."  

It sounded completely stupid as soon as you heard it from your own ears, and a part of you had longed to wince but you remained surprisingly unflinching. But Aemond it seemed, had been taken by complete surprise. Even though the slip in his composure was quick and subtle, you caught it. The mild slump of his shoulders, the straightening of his posture, the soft pinch between his brows. All of these minute tells that told you so much, though they were gone just as quickly as they had shown. Melted away and replaced by a composure that must have taken him years to perfect. 

But no matter how small his shock had been, the sight of such a naked, human emotion flickering across his face was enough to break the barrage that sealed your voice. The words seemed to flow from you more freely then in a rush of thoughts and feelings; desperate to finally speak your mind and make peace with yourself, and most importantly him. 

"I hold no delusions over this marriage. I know that our union was a strategic one, brought on by the possibility of a looming war, and the foundations of it are clear." Your sight had flickered back up to his own once more, and the hold of his stare once again threatened to leave you breathless. "I realize that we are not truly lovers, however, I do not think that must mean we are to be strangers also. I wish to know you, husband. I do not expect your affections, or love, but I desire at least the possibility of your attentions. An understanding of each other. And perhaps, if it is willed, a sense of companionship. A comradery." 

He remained horrendously silent from his place across from you. Watching you with a keen eye while the hand that still rested along the desks surface fidgeted, the point of his mid-finger ceaselessly gliding along the back of his thumb. It had made you nervous, the way he watched you. Akin to a predator lurking in the shadows, awaiting its moment to strike for its prey's vulnerable throat. You must have stumbled. Foolishly, like the greedy men in all of those ancient folktales. You slipped within the dark and it was then you knew that the dragon was stirring; throat welling up with fire to burn you down for being so presumptuous. 

"So you are here, in the beginnings of the night, interrupting me in the midst of my duties, because you are lonely?" 

That all that you needed to know that you had truly wandered too close. Assumed and hoped too greatly. Blindly walking into the dragonpit to be burned alight like kindling for a fire. And even with irritation gnawing at you and begging that you speak out in your own defense, you had known that you must tread lightly, even while the prince scorned you like you were a naive girl child chasing after some witless fantasy. He wished to humiliate you it seemed, and even while he was entirely successful in his aim, you would not give him the satisfaction of showing it. But you knew that you had to be tactful. An unchecked rise of your emotions would only serve to go against you. 

"Yes, my prince," you had agreed without wavering. And much like your own, his gaze had shifted. The sardonic edge that it had held changed into something darker. More directed than even before. Studious almost. But no matter how much gravity it had held, it was no longer enough to withhold you from speaking. You kept your voice as light as possible, but the firmness, the fervor behind it was more than apparent, drifting out to fill the silence of his quarters. And with each sentence, you let the courage that you had not allowed before to guide you a step closer to the prince. "Yes, I long to know the man that I am to be tied to until death. Yes, I long to know the father of my future children. Yes, I long to know my husband." And with that you allowed yourself to halt after your final step. Then you were so close to his writing desk that if you had leaned over you could have easily reached out and touched him. But you remained fixed in your place, hands still clasped and shoulders high. "Regardless, if my husband will become a lover or simply an ally." 

He remained silent in his observations. Regarding you closely as though he expected you to suddenly give way underneath his stare and dash out of the room. But you did not. Not even when the chill of apprehension trembled along the expanse of your back, sneaking underneath the fabric of your garments like a cold draft. He shifted back in his seat, muscles coiling underneath the dark leathers of his doublet and for a moment you had considered the idea that he might lunge. That he would strike forward like the instincts of his blood no doubt urged him to do. At the very least, you had suspected cold words. A detached response that would order you to return back to your apartments and to leave him undisturbed of your person until he saw fit. 

"Very well then . . . Wife." His head tilted just the slightest when he addressed you, and the glint of his eye reflecting the light of the many candles seemed to bore into you; notching the words he spoke that much deeper and nourishing the surprise of his agreement. "I will make more of an effort to appease your loneliness, should it bring you ease." 

It was because of that decision - because of that night, that your relationship with the prince had been altered. No longer did he suit to sit along your side at social gatherings, tightlipped and rigid, but now he made somewhat of a strive. Much more than before. Though still quiet, he took more attempts to include you in the conversations that he would bother to indulge in. Typically, unremarkable topics that he would try to join you in on, like snide comment on the lords and ladies or an observation of your gowns. Prince Aemond, you easily concluded, had no idea how to speak to the fairer sex. A characteristic that you might have let yourself see as charming if he were not always so subtly contemptuous and withdrawn. Even with all of the improvements with his communications, his presence itself was still scarce. Constantly torn away by the impending threat of calamity and battle. 

And no matter how much you knew that his absence was entirely necessary for the good of the kingdom, especially after the Battle of Rook's Rest and the unexpected injuries that have left the King bedridden and near death, the prince was sparser than ever, with him assuming the role of Prince Regent in his brother's stead. But like a poison, that bitter, selfish part of you could not help but to be displeased by the near constant lack of his company.  

Today however . . . Today you might actually be regretting his attempts at companionship. 

"You still have not told me the nature of our outing, my prince!" You call to him, trudging after him like a shadow with your skirts bundled and clutched within your palms as you desperately attempt to keep up with his much longer stride uphill. The muscles of your calves have already begun to burn and ache with your body already growing weary of the incline, and the weight of your dress does little to aid you in your climb along the earth, still damp from last night's rain. Realistically, there are only a few paces between you and he, but in your mind, it feels as though there are stretches of land separating you. 

He only offers you the barest look, hardly even glancing over his shoulder at you as his long legs continue to carry him upward. "For someone who is so desperate for my time, I did not expect to hear any complaints," he answers, full of snark even though his tone remains just as steady and soft as always. 

Heat prickles at your cheeks. Though now, with your exertion, it is difficult to ascertain if it is simply from your efforts to trek after him or purely from annoyance. A retort rests heavy on your tongue, but you are unsure if you should bother spending your breath on it. It is tempting. But perhaps later. "It is no complaint; I am simply wondering just where it is that you are taking me. If you wished to go for a walk, perhaps the castle grounds would have sufficed . . . or at the very least, a mention of it would have given me time to at least prepare for more a suitable attire." 

He spares you another glance, managing to look down his nose at you from over his shoulder as he continues his ascent until he reaches the leveled crest of the knoll. Leaving you to chase after him while the damp soil, and soaked grass and wildflowers threaten to slip your traction out from underneath your feet with every step. You have never had the urge to strike the prince before, but here and now, you think that you could if he were only close enough. This time he opts to remain silent. Returning his attentions on what lies ahead of him, and it has a flicker of concern breathing to life inside of you. The paranoid, unfounded thought that he means to kill you tries to sprout. It would explain why he had lured you so far away from the safety of the castle walls, and why he had chosen to leave both of your mounts downhill and unattended to graze. How pathetic it would be, to be slain in the middle of the wood, like a dumb girl lured away by a fae in an old folktale. 

And if the treasonous whispers that dart about the castle are true, that he had been the one to strike down the king above the battlefield of Rook's Rest, then surely, he would have no qualms about killing the likes of you. 

Still, while irritation and caution thrums underneath your flesh, you cannot but help to stare at the expanse of his back as you near the top of the hill, taking in the sight of the confidence in his posture as he all but struts along the earth. The sunlight dances along the pale shade of his hair, bringing to life the faint hint of cream and soft gold that hides within the silver. He is gorgeous out here like this. Relaxed within the peace and confines of nature, while the little birds nestled inside the protection of neighboring trees chatter and trill. For a rare moment like this, touched by sunlight and the air, perfumed with the musk of a storm passed and the fragrance of flowers, it is easy to pretend that he is still not a complete stranger. That the impossible gap that seems to divide you both has grown closer, and he does not look to you as an obligation but as a comfort. 

Another fool's reverie perhaps. But a sweet one that you cannot help but entertain while you raise your muddied skirts to strengthen your stride and widen your steps in the hopes to gain on him. But then blessedly his pace finally begins to slow, giving you the means to finally draw in your straining breaths and lessen the expanse between you, making sure to near him from his right, so's not to walk in his blind spot. He tilts his body just the slightest, angling it so that he is able to give you his focus as you draw near, and you have to try your hardest not to gasp and gulp for air in front of him. You need to give him no more reasons to tease and prod at you. 

The glint of his eye, a color that you have now discovered to be a delicate, yet vibrant shade trapped between a soft blue and a muted purple draws you into his stare as you approach. It seems to hold you captive, grabbing your attention as you come to walk alongside him, no longer huffing and panting, and the ache in your legs begins to subside. 

"You have asked to become familiar with me," he speaks suddenly. Not a question at all, but a statement, and the mention of it has your brows raising just the slightest as you manage a nod. "All I ask of you is that you do not scream or allow yourself to panic." 

The sound of those words alone has ice prickling along your skin and settling within the pit of your chest. And the sensation of your apprehension melding with your bewilderment does little to aid you in properly asking him what he could have possibly meant by such a cryptic statement. The inquiry hangs heavy in your mouth like metal, and your jaw seems to open on its own in the means to ask him to clarify. But then, as though it had been timed, a guttural bellow rings out across the placid atmosphere. Humming so heavily that you feel the weight of it vibrate underneath your feet as though the earth were speaking, shaking a small flock of tiny birds from their perches within forest, forcing them to scatter and flee into the clear sky above. 

The abrupt noise of it has you all but tearing your vision from Prince Aemond's unbothered, observational expression to whatever lies ahead of you. And your eyes nearly bulge from their sockets at the sight of the behemoth that lies only several yards away. How you had managed to miss the sight of such a monumental creature is entirely beyond you. The only excuse you could possibly make is that the beast has flattened itself along the floor of the clearing, leathery wings lazily stretched open, head resting in the miniscule cover of the knee-high wildflowers and grasses that scatter along the hilltop in what might be some sort of attempt of basking itself underneath the suns glow. 

It is a beast that you easily recognize despite never truly having been within its presence. The sheer mass of the creature, and the rich green shade of its skin easily gives it away as the great Vhagar. You have heard of her name from countless stories. Those passed on down from generation to generation to speak of the ferocity and brutality of the battle hardened she-dragon, of how the size of her alone could blot out the sun from her flight. You have even caught glimpses of her in the air before. Often from within the confines of the castle while she soars high above and far from reach. None of those rare moments or stories had done any justice in depicting the true scale of her. 

And while you stand, gawking like a slack jawed idiot at the sight of her, you can only manage but to wonder the dumb, fleeting thought of how the Crown could ever possibly manage to supply enough sheep for her appetite. And then any semblance of awe or shock is twisted into a pure sense of dread and a primal fear. Your mind blanks as you try to form some sort of reason for you being here. Why Prince Aemond could possibly desire for you to meet his dragon, but you are left with naught. Something primordial and blazing sears throughout your veins with urge to run, but you find yourself frozen stock still instead while your lungs struggle to move and catch breath. You feel as though you have passed away on the spot and left your body behind to, trapped within this singular moment. 

It is not until the dragon begins to lift its head up inquisitively that you manage to regain any control of yourself at all. The sight of her lids peeling open to reveal blazing amber eyes are enough to force your lost voice back into the base of your throat. 

"Wha - why have you brought me here, Aemond?"  

The look he gives you is entirely unsympathetic. If anything, it seems to be amused. The corners of his lips threaten to perk in the shadow of an arrogant smile. If your heart did not feel as though it were seconds away from overexerting itself and giving out entirely, you are sure that this time, you would have struck him. You would love to hear the impact of your hand meeting the shape of his cheek and snuffing out the pompous way that he is holding himself, but he steps away from you before you can even think to act, fearlessly striding in the direction of the colossal dragon. 

"You long to know a dragonrider, lady wife," he answers with the cool timbre of his voice trailing after him and to you. "Flight with one with be the best way to make that connection." 

You are certain that your heart has well and truly stopped with that statement. That it turned still and unrooted itself from the cavern in your chest to plummet down below into your gut. And for a moment you wish that you have misheard him. Despite your internal panic, your brain manages to scramble and put the meaning of his words together quite quickly. The urge to refuse or ask him to clarify illudes you. You are far too bewildered. Too trapped within the seize of your own chaotic emotions to properly articulate yourself and your reservations. There's an anger stirring in you as well. Brewing and twisting with everything else, spurred on from the haughty glance he had given you before making his approach towards the beast he is bonded with. 

You try and fail to connect his reasoning. The logic entirely beyond you, but when you look upon his face it becomes quite clear. No matter how brief your eye contact had been, you saw the dare that had been dancing in his eye quite clearly. He was challenging you. He is expecting you to turn on your heel and run from the trial that he has set before you. And that has lit a sense of competition in yourself unlike any that you have ever felt before. 

He is no longer paying you any attention to see you coming to a sudden grip in resolve. Instead, he has drawn his observations to his dragon, who has lifted her head just enough in a proper greeting to accept the way that he runs a hand along the slop of her enormous muzzle, just above those massive, gnarled fangs that poke like her lips like daggers. The span of his fingers seems so small posted along the swell of her snout, like little more than a speck. And yet he stands before her so confidently. Free from the faintest edge of discomfort or fear. Instead, you hear him murmuring soft words to her. Speaking quietly as though she were a babe in need of praise or encouragement and not a battle worn goliath that has lain waste to armies and dragons alike.

The sound of his ancestor's tongue is beautiful as always. In your short time together, you have heard little of the language from the prince, but when you do manage to catch the glimmers of it from him you make sure to listen keenly. It flows past his lips like a rich silk; all but rumbling and sweeping around words that you do not know but find captivating regardless. It makes you wish that you did understand them. 

It is astonishing that no matter how small the prince appears now in comparison to her vast scale, he still holds himself so proudly. His shoulders are set straight, and head tilted high: the posture of royalty. All while he composes himself alongside a monster that could easily open her drooping maw and swallow him whole. 

But of course, she does not. A low grumble trembles forth from the wide set of her chest, reverberating throughout the air in a sound that could nearly be likened to the purr of a contented feline. It is shocking to see the famed - the feared Vhagar in such a light. And to similarly see the prince in such a manner as well. Both of them are calm. Peaceful on this tranquil, balmy evening. Untouched by their shared excitement for battle and bloodshed. 

It's akin to watching a pair of ruthless gods' slumber. 

And it seems to be that, more so than the sense of rivalry that has been kindled, that inspires you to move forward. No matter how uncertain you truly feel. Despite your reservations the odd sweetness of the situation still has you drawing close. All while a frigid kind of fear pools in your stomach. So, you try to focus on the little bits of life around you. The cheerful singing being carried by the birds of the forest, the soothing whisper of the air shifting the leaves, the saccharine scent of the colorful flowers that sway in the grass. It is all so soothing, so delicate. But still, it does little to appease the anxiety coursing throughout you as you grow closer to the beast. 

With each step forward, she seems to rise bigger; the growing proximity between you both only making her true mass even more apparent, as you are confronted with the mind-boggling truth of her scale. There is no safety of the castle walls to save you, the collection of the trees that surround you in a half circle would not serve to shield you should Vhagar decide that your presence is an irritant. Her potent fire would consume the forest and you with it with a single breath. Here and now, you know that you rely entirely on the word of Prince Aemond to keep her violent urges at bay. 

And that both comforts and terrifies you. 

You make your lungs draw in a shaky breath that does little to calm you as you step closer to the she-dragon. But you are certain that there is not a single thing on this earth that could truly bring you serenity as you bear witness to her. Never in your life have you ever stood before a being that has ever made you feel so miniscule. Not even the sight of the stars in the cradle of the night sky, in all of their multitudes and vastness as come close to the trepidation or awe that she has roused in you. You are small. Insignificant in terms of her looming stature. Pitiful in the decades that she has lived and the feats that she has achieved. You know now why the dragons are said to be old gods. You can hardly process that you are now right in front of one. Watching the rise and fall of her ribs as she pulls in massive breaths. The subtle shake of her wilting neck that shifts as she angles her head in your direction to study you with eyes that almost seem to burn with the fire contained within her. 

Her nostrils twitch as you come to stop alongside Prince Aemond; near enough that your shoulders nearly brush, but a part of you craves the dim amount of comfort that he provides. She is trying to smell you no doubt. Trying to take in your scent as means to familiarize herself with the stranger who travels with her rider. 

"You may touch her," Aemond offers. Or orders perhaps. 

It catches you completely off guard, like most things this evening. Regardless of the gentleness of his tone, it is difficult to tell if it is a suggestion or a command. Having what little knowledge you have of the prince in mind it was most likely the latter. Or it is another challenge of his. 

The sharp blue of his eye pierces through you once again like he is waiting for you to cower. But now, the prince's concerns and expectations are second at best when it comes to the interest of Vhagar. The brief flicker of your gaze on her confirms that she is still quite placid in mood. Her eyelids low with the remnants of the slumber that she had been goaded from. But that still does little to calm you. Dragons are unpredictable creatures. Gaining a trust of her this easily would be ignorance. 

"Does she wish me to?" You ask, and you see that twinge of what might be amusement grace Prince Aemond's features once again. 

"She will hardly pay you any mind." That is his assurance. A useless one. Your unease is strong. But your desire to please your husband, to beat this little challenge that he has set for you, and to form some sort of relationship with the prince - no matter how fragile - is stronger. With all the courage you can muster you begin to lift your hand. Slowly and steady in your movements as not to cause the beast any annoyance. You would not want to suggest to her that you feel entitled to touch her. Dragons can be opinionated things after all. 

A low noise rolls from her throat at the sight of your hand raised just above her muzzle, just where Aemond had lain his own earlier. It gives you pause. Old, primeval instincts rising inside of you bid you motionless. To wait and see what her move will be next. If she will calm or open her armored jaws to snap you between them. 

"Lykirī." 

It is Aemond's voice that speaks out. Low yet firm in its inflection as his tongue purrs out the elegant High Valyrian word in a silky drawl. You know not what he said, but it was enough to appease whatever offence you might have committed. She blinks slowly in response and the growl dies down into a soft silence. Still, you now find it difficult to lower your hand. Sensing your hesitance, or perhaps weary of it, Prince Aemond's own is suddenly engulfing the back of it, nearly threading his fingers with yours as he guides your palm downward. The weight of his flesh along yours comes as surprise. You have felt your husband's hands on you before. In much more intimate places, but it is the care with which he directs you with that almost seems foreign. New and delicate.

Currently he wears his gloves, usually seen on his hands whenever he intends to take flight, and you hate how a piece of you longs to feel them bare. To touch the callouses along his palm, made from wielding the grip of swords in combat and clasping the horns of Vhagar's saddle. It is a juxtaposition to the much softer skin of your own. But you do not find the texture of them offensive in the slightest. You could almost relish the sensation of it had they not been covered by soft hide instead. 

He leans his body much closer to yours. So much closer that the light brush of his breath glides over the side of your face and the length of your throat. The scent of him wafts from his body in the musk of leather, the spice of dragon smoke and the crisp fragrance of wind. It makes you wonder if he had flown long before he had come to the castle to retrieve you. It is all so distracting. The press of him along your arm, the mesmeric sound of his voice whispering soothing words in his ancestor's language. 

But reality comes back to you quickly in the weight of the dragon's flesh settling flat underneath your palm; rough and thick. You have heard before that dragons run hot. Heated up by the fire roaring within their chests. Those words have not prepared you for the warmth that radiates from her and the strength of it. Of the coarseness of her flesh. How sturdy it is. Much like the leathers used in creating amour. Though you suppose that the purpose of her skin is the same. 

Her massive nostrils flicker again and her eyes squint as she watches you. Studies you really. As though she is weighing and measuring you of your worth. Which is not a farfetched idea. It is the dragon, after all, who chooses its rider. She must be deciding if you are worthy of standing in her presence. 

The elation that floods you at the feeling of her beneath your hand comes like the scattering of butterflies. A smile threatens to break across your face at the small success. A rush of joy from still being alive after touching one of the most violent war dragons the earth has ever seen. 

"Are you prepared to ride?" 

Aemond's question rips you from your elation like a sudden storm smudging out the bright warmth of the sunlight. The smile that could have been dies out with the happiness that had filled you. It is water doused over embers. And with it the urge to snap at him is back in full force. No, you wished to answer, you are not prepared to ride, because you were not told that you would be expected to until only moments before. But you keep that complaint to yourself. Locked within tightly as not to offend the prince and the dragon whose massive mouth rests directly underneath your open palm. Still, many questions gush up and stir a torrent up within your mind. 

"How am I expected to do such a thing, my prince?" 

The look that crosses his face appears tired. It makes you wonder if you have somehow asked something foolish, but you come up empty on what that could have possibly been. It is a perfectly expected question. A dragon will only choose a single rider at a time. And only those who are blessed with Valyrian blood could have the potential honor of sharing such a bond. An ancient line that you have no direct lineage to. But the stare that the prince is holding you with now is one of exasperation, yet also sardonic. 

"You will sit on the saddle; I thought that much was apparent." His lips have pursed slightly, making his expression a blend of smug and annoyed. He is toying with you once again. It also makes his boundaries quite apparent. There is to be no possibility of a bond between the two of you unless you push when he shoves. If you let your offence get the better of you now while he clearly raises his challenge, then your relationship with him will be reduced to nothing more than his child bearer. A vessel for his future heirs. You shall not yield. Not even while your heart races like that of a rabbit who has been tricked into a corner by the snarling fangs of a hunter. 

You are soft but firm when you remove your hand from its place tucked between Vhagar's flesh and Aemond's palm. Your determination rests easily on your face as you turn to observe the netting of ropes that are draped down the side of her great neck as a means to climb astride her. Never has something seemed so daunting before. Not the day that you were bid to leave the familiarity of your life in Storm's End, nor the moment that you had given yourself over to Prince Aemond in matrimony. They all seem so little now as you allow your hand to grip one of the lines of worn rope. 

"Lykirī, Vhagar." 

A nervous sweat dampens your fingers as you squeeze your grip along the course lines, the frayed edges digging into your soft flesh. The sound of your husband placating the beast rings in your ears like a warning though she has not stirred from her position against the forest floor, even while another rumbling hum echos from her chest. It trembles throughout your arm from being so close to her, rattling up your bones. For a moment you contemplate removing yourself from the makeshift ladder, but the firm, urging glare that Aemond shoots you from his place beside you and the embers of your determination spur you to continue forward. 

"I will be behind you," you hear him promise as you haphazardly lift your skirts to enable yourself to place a foot upon one of the rungs. It is now you who hardly offers him a returned glance as you focus on raising yourself along the ropes. You expect for Vhagar to disturb upon the weight of you heaving yourself along her neck, but she does not. She remains blessedly stationary as you urge your body to move upward to scale the high length of her neck, for your mind to remain quiet and centered through your internal panic. The way that the ladder wobbles unsteadily as you work to lift yourself does little to quell the way that your stomach flips with the growing effects of nausea. 

You could swear that many moons have passed by the time that you have made it to the top of the ladder, where the ropes meet the smooth leather that creates the structure of the massive saddle. The seat of it is far greater than any other you have ever seen; those having been suited for horses and not the great backs of dragons. But even considering the long forward slop of what must be the equivalent of the rise and pommel and how the cantle stretches slightly backward to support the rider's spine during an upward flight, it is more than apparent that the seat is designed for only a single person. Every bit of grace room is only available for the positioning that must be required in flight. The design of it allowing for the rider to lean forward comfortably in the seat or relax backward, if necessary, but offering little more than that. 

If you were both truly meant to ride together it would be an awkward fit. Surely not one safe for something as perilous as flying. 

The urge to question this little goal of his rises up high. But instead of voicing your concerns you opt to follow through with his desires. If the two of you do truly not prove to fit on the seat and it turns into an ill sighted blunder on his part, then at least you will be able to silently bask in the pleasure of seeing his arrogance dim at the realization of it. 

You reach for some of the leather straps that lie between the junction of the rope ladder and the saddle, using your grip to hoist yourself upward again, slipping a foot into one of the rungs to push yourself within the range of saddle's lowest set of horns. Your fingers can only reach the base of the grip from your current height, but it is enough to enable you to hoist yourself towards the cradle of the saddle, though your muscles burn with the labor. Some torturous thought wonders what would happen should you slip and fall from such a height, and you struggle to block it out entirely as you continue your clumsy ascent. Using the hold that the flat of your feet have within the straps to keep yourself secure as you work on exchanging your hold from the lowest grip and onto one the horns belonging to the higher set to haul your body upward, swinging your right leg out to lurch across the seat. 

It strains your arms as you angle yourself, and the length of your skirts threaten to snag on the curve of your knee when your all but throw your body onto the saddle. But by the grace of the gods, you make it. Your chest slightly heaves from your lost breath, and your muddied skirts have pulled and rucked up above your knees in the most unbecoming manner from the stretch of your thighs around the width of the seat. But you hardly have the ability to pay it any mind while your nerves still cause your limbs to quiver, and your body burns with an excess of energy. 

While you collect your breath, clasping onto the horns of the saddle with both hands tightly enough for the edges of the leather bound around them to bite your palms, the sound of the wind's current whispering in your ear tugs you from your anxieties. 

It is then that you finally realize just where you sit. Comfortably astride the largest dragon, looking down on the world from the ridge of her back. You could see above the trees from this point, the stretches of the wood that gave and showed the lush rolling hills that expanded far beyond your sight. It was all so small and yet so vast this high up, once again making you realize the scope of your existence. You can spy glimpses of King's Landing up in the distance. The glimmer of the rooftops and the spires of the Red Keep, almost lightened in a shade of bronze from the cast of the evenings golden light. The sea beyond it glittering in a reflection of the sun, like a flat mound of shifting coins. 

The sudden weight of a hand clasping the grip along the free space just above your own snaps you from your awe. You hardly have time register it as the prince effortlessly swings himself into the saddle, notching a place for himself between your hips and the support of the cantle. His presence forces you to scoot further up along the swell of seat, much higher up than you are meant to be, but the press of his body flat against your own gives you little choice. The angle of it practically has your rump perched against his hips. And when his other arm reaches around your other side to grip the opposite horn of the saddle, you find that you have been completely enclosed in his body. His chest is pinned snug along your back, and you can feel the point of his chin nudge along your shoulder as he looks past you. 

There is something horribly intimate about it all. Something that you did not even think to consider when you agreed to this. But now that you can fully feel the warmth of him seeping through the layers of your garments to slip through your skin, you could not find any other word to call it. If your mind was not already so preoccupied with your anxieties, it would have easily latched onto the fact that your skirts are still indecently rucked around your thighs, improperly showing off the fabric of your stockings. It could have made you fidget or heat up with embarrassment had you the mind to, but you are far too preoccupied with what is to come. With the weight of your husband so near you. So high up here, with the wind stronger than it had been down along the ground, his scent seems to pool around you. It fills your lungs with musk and spice, and your body longs to draw it in like a glutton, but you do not allow yourself to. You manage yourself to maintain the steady inhales that you have been taking thus far. 

"Remain calm," he reminds you. 

As if on cue Vhagar begins to shift. Her giant head lifts from the meadows floor with a low grunt, as though the action alone costs her a great deal of energy, causing the weathered, battle worn flesh along her neck to wobble loosely along her throat. A bout of nervousness prickles in your gut as the motion jostles you forward. On reflex, your grip rightens around the horns, latching onto the pitiful bit of comfort they prove. Anxiety spreads along your fingertips and toes as she digs the wrists of her great wings into the earth to push herself onto her feet. A simple action, but for you it invokes nothing but unease. Her movements continue to nudge you about, all but prodding you backward to the press of Aemond's chest, and now you are actually thankful for how he is seated behind you. Offering a sense of support that you might have fainted without. 

You can feel the subtle shift of her muscles even through the saddle, and it wobbles just the slightest from the quiver caused by her old flesh. It has your unease spiking. And you think that you yourself could fly, fueled by nothing but your own apprehensions. 

There is a noticeable shift in how she holds herself once she balances on her legs. And incline in her spine lifts as she raises her head high, removing her weight from her wings to unfurl them. You can hear the leathery sound of the thin skin unraveling, spreading out wide enough like sails of a colossal ship preparing to leave port. 

You know what is coming, but you naught of how to weather it. All you can do is stare ahead, looking past the expanse of her neck and to the sky above that you will soon be soaring through. He must be able to sense your anxiety. Or perhaps he felt the tension of it in your back, in the rigid set of your shoulders, because he manages to press himself even closer against you. Like he means to cradle you to him. He releases a single hand from its grip long enough to place it along your waist to steady you. Your mind instantly latches onto the sudden pressure and warmth of it. Your body longing to lean into the weight of his palm but you keep yourself motionless as he leans himself close until you feel the brush of his words along your neck when he speaks. 

"Be still, wife." His voice rumbles out all placid and velvet. The sound of it so close to your ear that it has a tremble skipping down your spine. You can only hope that the thick of your combined attire hid it from him, but his hand flexes against your waist; fingertips pressing inward, and you know that he noticed it. But he fortunately makes no open marks of it. "With me as your guide you will be safe. When she begins her ascent, lean forward into it. It will help to keep you balanced." 

And as quickly as it had appeared, his hand is gone from its position on your waist to return its grip on the horn. You crave to have it back on you again. To have the support of it on you once more, even with the phantom sensations of it still live on your skin, though you do not bother to dwell on your foolish desires. You can only focus on the instructions that he had set. The direction of it serving to ground you, even as the saddle underneath shifts just the slightest as her wings expand. Now entirely unfurled. 

The anticipation of it weighed heavy. Murmuring across the air like something electrical as though you were in the midst of a storm and lightning looms ahead. But apart from a few scattered clouds, it was all but clear skies. Vhagar was prepared to soar. Her muscles were coiled, stretched and tense, and were it not for your being astride, you are certain that Aemond would have commanded her to take off much sooner. If that truly is the case, you are thankful. 

His ribs swell slightly along your back, and the command slices through the air, simultaneously exacting and clement: 

"Sōvēs!" 

Wind claps underneath the great stretch of her wings as she lifts them only to bring them down in a powerful downstroke. It snaps her from the ground in a quick lunge, and the sudden rush of being airborne causes your stomach to turn. You scramble to come to terms with the abrupt weightlessness of your body. It is like all of the breath has been snatched from the depths of your chest as Vhagar brandishes her wings in great, long stokes that sound akin to tremendous waves crashing against the surf; sharp and frightening like a whip slicing towards its target. 

A horrid thought enters your mind, whispering vile things, such as what would happen should you fall off. How you surely would not survive a plummet from such a height. It has your hands tightening around the grips of the saddle. Squeezing so harshly that your tender palms sting. But you almost welcome the burn of it. It is a good distraction from the nausea, from the disorientation that comes from rushing far from the earth so quickly. Now she truly begins her climb upward, and you just barely remind yourself of Aemond's previous command; tipping yourself forward to press yourself along the swell of the saddle as she rises. 

Much as he promised, the change in your posture does help to keep your seat firm as she works to bat her wings to scale her flight. Aemond dips down low after you, resting himself over your body to follow his own instructions. Even while Vhagar approaches her ascent at a slant, the incline is still enough to put strain on your arms as your own weight attempts to pull your backward. You can already feel the strain of it in your limbs, searing along your muscles and setting an ache deep near your bones. 

Never had you ever truly put in mind the physical prowess and endurance a dragonrider must have to properly seat their mount until now. It almost makes you feel idiotic that you would not have truly expected the demands that such a thing would imply. Already the wind claws at your face, slicing at your cheeks like it means to maim you, stinging at your eyes enough to prompt tears to pour. It is difficult to draw in a proper breath as the air passes too quickly for your lungs to properly catch, making you fear that you might suffocate. It feels as though your chest could combust. From the debilitated ability to properly breathe or from the confused sense of excitement, you are not entirely sure. 

Your being has been split down the middle. Caught in a strange limbo of an icy terror and a bubbling kind of joy as she continues her ascension, carrying you both high until the forests below become less defined and meld into blotches of rich greens. You cannot tell if the laugh the begs to erupt from you is one of elation or hysterics, but it froths inside of you with a warmth that rivals the heat that radiates from the brilliant sun above. Your lips part in the semblance of a breathless laugh as your eyes dart to take in your surroundings. The earth is so distant now. Reduced to a flat stretch of emerald and hunter, and the gentle rolling slops of hills and valleys that, in some points giveaway to farmlands. You can spot organized rows of green that must be rich vineyards, and there are many quaint little houses and homely settlements that sparsely dot about the scape. 

Being so high up within the heavens makes the rest of the world seem so small. Reduced down to dots and shadows and shades of color. It reminds you vaguely, of the ancient war table that sits within the council chambers of Storm's End; the stubborn, enduring anatomy of Westeros etched into the face of it, mapping out all of its splendor in its factions and landmarks. 

Out of your peripherals you notice Vhagar's wings tilt, moving to level her body out of its angled position, settling so that she is able to coast on the winds. It near instantly releases the strain on your arms, allowing the sting to ebb from your clenched muscles as you will yourself to try and relax, and the harsh cusp at which the biting wind had struck you with finally loses its violent edge. Still quite strong but no longer clawing along the shape of your cheeks and your unprotected eyes like it means to rip at them. 

It is Aemond who straightens himself first, removing his weight from your back to properly sit astride, completely comfortable in his place along his dragon and untouched by a semblance of worry. Even though you cannot see him from his place behind you, you are still able to sense the composure that he holds himself with. He is entirely within his element. At home here on dragonback. The arm that had grasped the grip on the left of you releases, moving past the line of your vision to where he probably allows it to casually hang at his side, now supporting his clasp on the saddle with only a single, sturdy hold. 

It takes you much longer to will yourself back into an upright position; finding solace in the weight of the saddle pressed to your stomach. But is a crutch that you do not wish to exhaust, and so you right yourself until you can once again feel the expanse of Aemond's chest, snug against your own in an unintentional semblance of an embrace. That stubborn little part of you loathes how the other half preens at the sensation of it. Yearning to bask in affections that are not truly there like some lovestruck girl child that elects to ignore the obvious indifferences displayed by the object of her infatuation. It irritates you to no end. Filling you with a conflict that you do not wish to bear but are unable to ignore. Aemond does not love you, that much is clear. The nature of your union, the quiet apathy that he has shown you thus far have been unobtrusive but very telling in this. Even now, as he makes an effort to test the nature of your will and your desire to truly get to know him, hauling you upon the back of his dragon, it seems to hold closer bearings to that of a trial than a well-meaning rendezvous. 

The look that he had given you when he asked if you were primed to take flight was playful, almost in a malicious manner. Like he was expecting and counting on you to decline and flee. It makes you ponder if you have actually managed to surprise the prince by accepting his proposal and clambering astride the beast's saddle. If your decision to stay and meet his little challenge head on has pleased him at all. 

"Geptot, Vhagar!" Aemond commands, shouting to be heard over the roaring winds. Obediently, the great dragon adjusts the massive span of her wings, muscles rippling to rearrange herself on the support of the currents to redirect her glide in the direction of King's Landing and the vast glittering waters of Blackwater Bay that extends beyond. It is still such a shock to see such a tremendous creature acquiesce its will to the instruction of a man. A man that may sustain the blood of the gods, but still a man, nonetheless. 

She could consume the both of you a single snap of her jagged mouth. Your bodies would be a pitiful bite for her jaws. And yet she allows you to take up space along her back. To become a vessel to suspend you along the heavens to soar between the sparse clouds that hang within the azure cradle of the heavens like tufts of a lamb's fleece. Vhagar is a violent beast you know. You have heard the stories of her wars and blood-soaked accolades, the battlefields that she has left soot covered and smoking, littered with the remains of soldiers. She is a violent creature to be sure. Honed and defined by violence, and yet it is here, carted among the tepid winds, that you decide that she is a glorious behemoth. One whose years have been stained with the life's blood of millions, but it does little to tarnish the position she has taken in your eyes. Not necessarily one held by affections, but mostly a sense of respect and awe. 

You are not diluted enough to think that Vhagar holds any sort of esteem for you. Had you not been accompanied by her rider; you would have been lit aflame from so much as approaching her, but that simple truth does little to dissuade you from attempting to show her your appreciations though uncertainty and apprehension still takes root in your gut. Your hand has a slight tremor when you manage to peel your fingers from their tight grip around the horn. A symptom of the energy and searing heat that pumps through your veins at your body's instinctual fears rather than a conscious bewilderment, but you do not let it stop you from leaning forward as much as your reservations will allow to place a soft, unsure pat along her back. Though the size of the saddle is so great that you still only manage to stroke its leathers rather than the rough expanse of her flesh.

You know that there is no possibility that she managed to feel your touch through the thick of the preserved hide of the saddle. And even if the buffer had not been there, your hand probably would have felt like little more than the landing of a fly; bothersome and barely perceivable. But it still does work for you somewhat, to help in seeing her more as more than simply a vengeful, aggressive beast. 

It shocks you, when you allow yourself to gaze downward towards the horizon to see how quickly you are approaching the edge of the city. It has you daring to tilt your head downward to see past her wings to gaze upon the sprawling cluster of the buildings and structures that create the capital; the clay tiles of the many roofs burning in shades like honey and ginger. The rich hues only amplified by the golden tint of the evening sun. Smoke pours from the some of the stacks, puffing from the hearths, the people down below working to prepare tonight's dinners. The streets thread throughout the ancient settlement like tan lines of thread, intertwining and connecting to unify the entirety of the city, bustling with people who, from your high vantage point, look hardly more than little moving dots; completely unbothered by Vhagar's flight above. 

It's breathtaking. Literally, of course, with the winds that continuously rush against you, but also in the sense of how stunning the view of it is. Had you, in some other life, been blessed with the honor of a dragon, you fear that you would never come back down to earth. As the fear in your stomach begins to thaw and ebb, giving way to nothing but a bright awe, you realize that you could spend an eternity within the sky at peace. This may be freedom incarnate. Untied from the earthly responsibilities and troubles that ail you down below. Here, it is simply the wind beneath Vhagar's vast wings. The same winds that tug at your hair as though it means to unravel it from its dressings. A laugh, a true laugh bubbles up from your chest, rising with the brilliant, beaming warmth of joy, and the smile that tugs at your lips this time is irresistible. 

You doubt that the purpose of Prince Aemond spiriting you away on this outing had any intentions of truly extending an olive branch. Not one in the expectations of actually solidifying a bond between the both of you at least. This was meant to be a game of sorts; you are still entirely convinced. But even with that in mind, you are unable to feel anything other than gratitude. For so long you have been confined to the unfamiliar walls of the Red Keep. Forcing smiles upon your face to maintain the proper ladylike appearances for your social standing. Exchanging forged laughs with the men and women of the court, batting your eyes like a dazed fool as you suffocate within the entrapments of your own longings for home. Strangely, it is here, where the harsh breezes threaten to stifle to the flow of air into your lungs that you feel at your lightest since you have been at the Red Keep. He knows naught of what he has given you, and even if he did, you surmise that he probably would not care regardless. 

Despite the possibility of Prince Aemond's reasonings, it does not stop you from turning your head, rotating your shoulders as best as you can to enable the motion as you make to look at him. It knocks you somewhat off-guard to see that he is already watching you. You had also not anticipated the proximity between your faces, with hardly more than a hair's breadth left between your noses which are so close they could touch. If you only twitch forward the press of your mouth could easily brush along the plush of his lips. The urge of it comes with the realization that the prince has never kissed you. Not even whilst you both fulfil the duties of your marriage in the midst of the night. It has all been disconnected. Done with the same automated detachment that one does with their chores. It should serve as a cold dousing of reality. It should make the rise of your emotions die down into a tame hush, but it does not. 

Your chest heaves involuntarily at the weight of his stare - of how near he is. Your thoughts are tempted to unravel. To get the better of you and indulge in the smoky, lewd corners of your mind that you have not allowed yourself to entertain, like a sinner giving into their temptations. 

The intensity that always seems to lurk within his attention is ignited ten-fold by the way that the sunlight glimmers within his eye, twinging the flecks of soft violets and rich blues with glints of golden light; it bathes his face in the same hue, making it seem as though the pale complexion of his skin has been kissed and painted by the sun itself; set alight by the dragon's blood that surges through his veins like liquid fire. The tresses of his hair billowing in streaks of a pallid silver that rivals the moons glow. 

He is beautiful. You are forced to mark it once again. How captivating the prince is. Disarmingly so, much like the stare that he continues to pin you in place with. The weight of it seems to reach into you, brushing along the boundaries of your spirit and binding it with its grasp. You are unable to discern the reasonings of his intensity, of what his thoughts might be. If they lean in your favor, or if you somehow may have unwittingly foundered into his bad graces. Just how you may have possibly stumbled is beyond you, but his tempers and his motives continue to be elusive. Still, the desire to speak honestly still hangs heavy. If anything, his attention only amplifies the need. 

"Thank you." It leaves your lips delicately. Or as softly as one can project while soaring through the skies without their voice being lost to the wind, and you can only hope that he was still able to detect the depths of your sincerity and appreciation. But you are certain that he hears you. You see the recognition of it flicker in his eye. Something else passes through it as well. It is an emotion that is beyond your scope of understanding. One that you have yet to witness upon the typically neutral or sardonic expressions he tends to display.  

His eye flickers downward. As though it is tracing the shape of your lips, attracted by the sound of your voice when you had spoken your gratitude. For a moment, you think that you must have imagined it. But the steady focus of his gaze is unignorable. He is truly trailing the contours of your mouth with his stare like he means to study them. Transfixed with a similar brand of concentration that he displays when he pours himself over his duties. But there is a fervor behind it that you have yet to personally witness; smoldering in his stare so strongly that it nearly pulls you into a trance. A molten heat flows down your spine, settling inside the pit of your gut with a warmth that startles you. The magnitude of the sensation is a shock, pulling a ragged gasp from your chest and like a puppet follows after the tug of its strings, your head snaps back to face the horizon to break whatever strange influence fallen over you both.

Your vision blindly locks on what lies ahead, desperately searching for something to distract yourself from the hazed chaos that clouds your mind. Though it is hard to focus with the near fevered way your skin has begun to warm, your chest rising and falling rapidly underneath the hold of your garments. The eye contact that you had shared was broken, but the effects of it still linger on you. It envelops you tightly, tingling over your skin, whispering along your flesh like fingertips. It has bout of nervousness fluttering inside of you like a cluster of frenzied butterflies, and it melts when it meets the foreign rush of heat that muddles you, twisting into something excited and burning. 

It has you adrift in a torrent. Completely at the mercy of your own emotions and desires - the severity of which, you had been utterly ignorant to. You scan the rippling face of the waters below, and the sight of it has your mind sluggishly realizing that Vhagar has flown you all past the boundaries of the city and the edges of the land to coast above the glittering, shifting face of Blackwater Bay. It is a sight that would have encapsulated the entirety of your observation before. You would have delighted in the way that the cerulean waters underneath the dragon's wings reflect the suns light like diamonds laid out along a rich silk, but it has become increasingly difficult to do so as you have become increasingly hyperaware of the prince. The press of him at your back, the enticing warmth of him latching onto your skin and spreading so potently that you think it may have sunk bone deep. 

Still, you hardly have the ability to prepare yourself for the sensation of Prince Aemond melding himself closely against you until the faintest stretch of space between you has been completely eliminated. His hips nudge tightly along yours, all but nestling your rear even deeper into the cradle of them in a manner that is entirely crude.

A confused question rests heavily in your mouth, but it is all but snuffed out when he tucks his head against your own, hooking his chin over your left shoulder as the hand that he had previously dropped from the horn of his saddle once again raises to take its position back above your own, as though it had never left. It makes your heart beat wildly like the wings of a startled bird, and the enlivened rhythm only quickens when his scent envelopes you with his proximity. It swaddles you in that mouthwatering combination of leather and smoke. The earthy musk and robust spice seem to find a home in your lungs. 

"Gaomas bisa drējī kostilus ao, ābrazȳrys?" 

The sudden velveteen sound of his voice over the whistle of the wind inspires your body to still. As though drawn under a trance every facet of your being seems to become inert. Quiet in its endeavor to listen to the words that spilled from him. You assume that he must be speaking to Vhagar. Entrusting another command onto her in his ancestors' tongue, but the beast makes no movements to suggest that she has heard him. The tone in which he spoke with was low, but purposeful. As though he were sharing a secret, conversational in its cadence. 

You are almost reluctant to draw the conclusion that he may be talking to you instead. For some reason, the idea of such a thing seems so ludicrous, despite having spoken to him before. In brief moments when your paths cross within the castle or when society demands it for appearances. He had exchanged words with you on the ground previously, just before Vhagar had taken flight, yet it all feels so impossible. Strange from the odd rapport that seeps into the atmosphere around you. The gusts that rush past you in dashing currents are unable to destroy the inviting aura that has dropped around you both. Yet is all still so jarring. Abrupt in a way that is strange and new. And the aspect that he is using High Valyrian has left you especially lost. Hanging onto words that you could not comprehend as though they were the answer to a salvation that you did not know you needed.  

"Naejot sagon kesīr lēda nyke?" His head tips much lower now. So dangerously close that his lips sweep along the edge of your ear when he murmurs to you. 

"I do not understand." You confess, daring to slant your face towards his. Such a minute movement but it has the point of his nose nudging at your temple, drawing him all that much closer. He hums in the back of his throat. A quiet sound as though he is considering your utterance. It is humiliating how it makes your entire being thrum with something that is suspiciously close to delight. 

"Pāsan ziry gaomas." 

Your brows pinch close in a confused furrow as he continues to use his second tongue. It is almost as though he is teasing you. Like he is prodding at a weakness that you did not realize you had; an animal nipping and digging at a wound to watch its prey jerk in its grasp. He is teasing you. The small clues there all connect and tie together a little too finely when the understanding creeps in on you. 

He knows, your consciousness decides quickly. He must have figured out the infatuation you have with his voice. The allure that it has on you when he especially uses it to articulate the rhythm of that old language. Perhaps he had seen it on your face. In your eyes, the way that your breath snags in your throat or how your muscles seen to tense with anticipation at the sound of it. It could make you embarrassed that you have been so obvious in your attraction to it. So much so that he means to taunt you for it so openly. But here and now, with his form so hot along your own and the desire that burns so steadily in your gut, you are unable to find it within yourself to be irritated or sheepish over the fact. 

"Ēza nyke pendagon " - the curve of his lip glides along your ear, and you swear that you can feel the damp warmth of his tongue trace the sensitive skin - "hen mirre se tolie ways nyke could kostilus ao." 

The shiver that skips itself down your spine is completely involuntary. You can only hope that he will assume it to be caused by the chill of the winds, but you know truly that he would be a complete simpleton to think so, and Prince Aemond is anything but. You are sure, without seeing, that his mouth has lifted into the faintest hints of smirk; the impression of it against your ear. Time stutters when his thumb sweeps down along the knuckles of your right hand. It is such a small motion. A gentle, subtle caress. One that would hardly receive one's attention but is so different from any other gesture he has displayed for you that it has something inside of you melting and turning tender. It is damning for you. 

Some kind of plea smolders on the tip of your tongue like molten honey. A plea for what is entirely beyond you. For him to relent and move away to give you air? But even simply the idea of such a thing has you mourning the loss that has not come. This entire situation is nudging at the boundaries of the dynamic you have built with the prince thus far. It is unexpected. Bizarre even. But also, entirely exhilarating in a way that fills your lungs with excitement and looms over your being with a charged type of anticipation. 

And then, just as quickly as he had invigorated the raw suspension between your bodies, he removes himself away from you to hold his posture straight and his thumb slips from your knuckles to return its grip on the saddle horn. You are suspended in air, but the loss of his warmth feels as though the support of the earth has been abruptly tugged from underneath your feet. Humiliation wells up, and anger. It seems like a jest on his part. A cruel trick for what purpose you are not certain. To stroke his own ego. To make you feel like a fool. 

It is bitter in your mouth. The tart of it induced by your bewilderment. It leaves you woefully unmoored as your body craves his even as he still remains behind you, his thighs and hips embracing your own. The whispering of the ocean-salted wind suddenly sounds like a lonely, warbling cry. But even while in the midst of your internal conflicts, the longing has yet to subside; instead pooling in your belly. A gasp pushes from your chest, and you urge yourself to look upon the waters beneath and the horizon ahead. Marking a mark of the clouds that drift about the golden support of the heavens, counting a flock of waterfowl that fly in cluster above the ocean as a means to collect yourself, though it proves to be futile. 

"Let us return home now, wife - the hour grows late." 

You make no means to return a comment or to refute. You remain silent as you both dread and crave the return back to the Red Keep. You have no desire to bear the facade that you have been masquerading in for so long, but being grounded may also help you in gathering the torrent of your emotions. Still, the flight back to Vhagar's chosen plot of earth outside the edge of the forest arrived quicker than you had anticipated, and the dismount from her saddle had nearly been just as awkward as the ascension. Neither of you had exchanged any words as you found your horses still hitched to the branches that they had been left posted at earlier, cropping at the rich grass near the base of the tree with their teeth. 

The bustling of the streets does little to assist the chaotic nature of your thoughts as you guided your mount through the crowds alongside the prince. A part of you was still briefly able to marvel how you had just seen the same avenues from above only moments before; the people who had once appeared as little specs now parted around you to make way for you and the prince. Some daring to pass the two of you fleeting glances as you went about. 

You receive similar looks once within the interior of the 'Keep. The servants and people of the court pass you curious and disapproving peeks at the muddied edges of your skirts as you carried yourself down the winding, grand hallways. Though you pay them little mind. Instead, you direct yourself to try not to focus on the dull, rhythmic tap of Prince Aemond's footsteps from their place beside you as he trails you like a stubborn shadow. He had proposed that he escort you to your quarters, as is expected of a husband. 

There is a new sort of uncertainty that has been wedged between the two of you. Though it is so very different from the quandary that had been there before. This type has no longer tinged with apprehensions or resistance, but instead it is almost alive. The want that festers inside of you is so strong that it is nearly tangible; a creature with claws that means to creep and snatch and a hunger that demands to be feed. You are not entirely lost. You are informed of the body's desires and the symptoms that often accompany it. But it is rarely something that you have ever experienced yourself apart from the few rare nights that you had built up the courage to explore yourself within the privacy of your own apartments. And never have you ever felt it so fiercely, searing and thrumming throughout your flesh. 

The buzz of your previous flight does little to damp the fervor of it. If anything, it douses a potent fuel upon the embers, daring to set the smoldering cinders aflame. The scent of him is strong at your side. Sharp from the winds and mouthwatering with the crisp, spicy aroma of his natural musk, and it is a temptation that you can only hope that you will be able to resist. Your only solace is that the entrance to your quarters draws near, only a few paces left near the end of the corridor, and you look to the massive looming doors as thirsting man would an oasis. 

"I take it that you enjoyed todays outing, my lady," Aemond says from your side. 

It draws your attention to him like an insect becoming hypnotized by the gentle flickering an unguarded fire. You dare to allow yourself to admire the almost lazy saunter he carries himself with, the composed way that he holds his hands behind the controlled posture of his back. 

"I did. Truly." You answer honestly. Not even the muddled state of your feelings and yearning could keep you from repelling the truth from him. You find yourself twisting softly on the heels of your feet as you both come to stand before the entrance of your apartments, moving to enable yourself to meet his gaze. It suddenly feels too vulnerable. You no longer have the buffer of being shielded from his stare as you stand in a pair at the end of the dimming hall. He watches you keenly. His expression is mild, and it is only his eye that displays a faint hint of curiosity, but it is enough to prompt you in continuing. "I do not wish to burden you with my toils, but finding my place here within the court has been an adjustment. The people here have been kind, yet it is still a somewhat of a challenge to find my footing. " You pause, the air snagging in your throat and you find your fingers winding together in an awkward clasp as you work to navigate yourself and bear the weight of his unflinching observation. "The flight with you and Vhagar, it was a reprieve that I did not expect to be afforded. I know that you have been occupied by the priorities of the kingdom and the burdens of the war; you have little moments available for yourself, I imagine. So I am grateful that you made an effort to extend that time to me." 

It all seems so delicate now. Something vulnerable has wormed through the cracks of your already weakened restraints. And you swear that you see something just as uncertain and raw peek through the detached facade of the prince. Such a pale passing of emotions that had you not been paying so much attention to him; it might have slipped past your observation. It looks odd, but not unbecoming on him. He is typically so relaxed and serene. Unstirred by the influences of his surroundings. It manages to endear and embolden you all at once, and as though they have a mind of their own you find your feet closing the small amount of distance that divides you. The prince's vision is latched onto you as you move near, unwavering and heavy in his watch. 

For once in your uncertain relationship with the prince, it is you who seems to hold the sense of power. As shaky and foreign as it is. But he observes you with the same speculative surprise as a predator that has been taken off guard and is deciding on if its energy should be spent on fighting or evading. You make sure to be gentle in your approach, lest you break the brittle, intimate blanket that has fallen the vacant corridor. You can nearly hear the thump of your own heartbeat inside of your chest, pulsing along the palms of your hands. 

You surprise yourself as you dare to lean forward into his space. The scent of him engulfs you, and the perfume of it is almost dizzying. Clouding over you in a rush of subtle spice, leather and wind. It guides you press your lips upon the high ridge of his cheek. The soft divot of the scar catches underneath your mouth; the gnarled slivers of its subtly raised edges. You make sure to be gentle so's not to possibly aggravate the old, damaged tissue. His skin is warm. Sultry and smooth against your lips. You raise a single hand upward to place your fingertips along the sharp sweep of his jaw as a means to ground yourself. Or perhaps it is just an excuse to touch more of him. You are not entirely certain anymore. 

You can feel his chest swell with a surprised breath, muscles pulling taut underneath the leather of his doublet. You fear that you may have overstepped, and it draws you to break the kiss from his skin, though you find it difficult to pull away. He has made no attempt to tear his face from the light hold of your fingertips. He remains fixed in place. Quiet and motionless. For one horrid moment, you fear that you might have actually been able to disgust him. That you had terribly transgressed and shattered the delicate little relationship that you have only just began to fabricate. 

But when you look to meet his gaze the stare that he is studying you with holds a sort of hunger that you have yet to ever experience, and it is so disorienting to be on the receiving end. It completely eclipses the way that he had watched you with during the flight. You are sure that this is how it feels to be stalked by something dangerous and starved. It mutates with the vulnerability that seeps into his posture, and the combination of it melts into an ardor that is stifling. 

You are not sure how to navigate it. Of what this all could mean for you. For him. It has your blood roaring through your veins. Everything falls into a hush. You are sure that the rest of the castle is still lively with the preparations for supper. Servants are no doubt preoccupied by the nature of their longwinded duties, causing the innerworkings of the Keep to astir as they all go about their own matters. But here, in this quiet corridor, it feels as though you have been tucked away into your own private bubble. Sealed away and safe within its dulcet embrace. 

You can see the want in his eye so clearly. Bright and burning in its quality, but he makes no moves to act upon it. It is so strange to see what appears to be a sort of hesitance in the prince. Someone who is usually so certain of their wants and desires and acts on them unflinchingly. Arrogantly, even. It makes him appear so much more human. For once, in the little amount of time that you have known him, he finally stands close at a base that you could compare yourself. Not a god. But simply a man. A man who experiences reservations and uncertainty just as you do. One made of bone and blood - even if that blood may run hot with dragonfire. He still just a man. One who appears as though he wishes to seek you out. To bask in the comfort of your flesh and consume you where you stand but will not allow himself to. 

You are unsure where this sense of hesitancy could stim from. You have already lain together before in the hopes of producing a child and he had not shied away in any of those occurrences; having taken you with that cold, calculating indifference each time. You have no ability to say what has inspired the felling of that austere approach, but the sudden lack of it rouses a bravery that has long evaded you. Your lips, still hovering closely above his cheek venture to press against his skin once again. Much lower than their previous position along the sharp contours of his face, but now only a few scant breaths from his own lips. 

You pause briefly to surmise his reaction. Gauging the shift in his breathing and the way that he holds himself to see if you may have misread and breached an unsaid boundary, but he makes no move to tear himself from your proximity. But that is not enough. You must hear it from him. 

"Do you wish for me to stop-" 

A surprised yelp is snuffed from your throat when the plush of his mouth claims yours in a kiss that is so passionate that it is nearly ferocious. Your teeth clack together from the rough nature of it. It makes your mind draw a complete blank. All semblance of thought mutes down into a quiet hum as every bit of your being draws down to focus on the entirety of him. So heavy in its attentions that you hardly bear notice when he crowds you against the heavy doors of your chambers. So eager that the back of your skull knocks on the thick, ornate wood. The pain that flares is stinging and sharp, but you can hardly bother to pay it any attention as he presses himself along your body like he may starve without it. 

Once it all finally catches up with you, you find your hands reaching to sweep along him explorative, greedy strokes. Your fingers claw at his doublet, slipping along the buttery leathers in a weak grip before moving to clutch at the nape of his neck to draw him closer to you. It is crazed. Animalistic. A perversion of the sort of chaste affections that a lady should share with her husband, but you can hardly be bothered to care while your body is overcome with relief. It is suddenly as though he has become the air you require to breathe, and you are under the threat of suffocating. 

His hands are just as rapacious as your own. Clutching at your hips, your waist; reaching fingers gripping onto your hair. He is like some feral animal that does not know where to bite first. Desperate for the taste of flesh and blood but unsure of where to start. 

His teeth nip at your lips; tongue swiping, and obediently your jaw softly parts to allow him to lick into your mouth. The moan that leaves you sounds shocking to your own ears but it is impossible to be ashamed when the taste of him seems to set you on fire. You are quickly to reciprocate with equal ardor, but it is clumsy and underskilled on your part. And it dawns on you that this is your first true kiss with your husband, so very far off from the demure, obligated peck that he had given to you on your wedding day. It makes you burn all the hotter. Your eagerness intensifying tenfold as you grip onto him as though he may vanish if you do not. 

An almost wounded sound leaves you when he removes his mouth from your own. Though it is promptly stamped out when he nudges your head to the side with his own to latch the wet heat of his mouth onto the tender flesh of your neck. A contented sigh leaves you and your body seems to lose all of its strength, going lax against the support of the door as your head lulls back to bear your throat to the bite of his teeth and the suction of his tongue. You feel as though you are turning to mush. Going pliant underneath his ministrations; the heat of him has melted you like wax. 

It is the low bubble of chatter that breaks you from the haze that dips over your mind like the beginning effects of alcohol. Your eyes flutter open to gaze over the prince's shoulder, though he has not even so much as slowed the searing kisses along your flesh. Whether that be because he simply does not care or because he has not noticed the sound of carried voices you are not sure, but you cannot keep yourself from trying to peer down the long stretch of the corridor to spy for the origins of the conversation. You see no one but you are certain whoever is speaking is nearby. Their voices carried and projected by the stone no doubt, but they could round the corner at any moment and catch you and the prince in a most unbecoming manner. 

You mourn the very idea of stopping him, but the requirement to keep appearances and your position of the court untainted from untoward gossip prevails. It has you slipping your fingers along the roots that grow from the nape of his neck to tug as gently as you possibly can, urging him to pry his mouth from your flesh but he remains unmoving. Almost stubborn in his exploration of tasting the salt on your skin. 

"Aemond," you call softly. "We must stop; we will be caught." 

That seems to pull him from the fervent spell that had been casted over him. He finally allows himself to be removed from the crook of your neck, righting his posture meet your line of vision with a slight pant in his breath. The passion in his stare has not wavered or diminished at all. If anything, it seems all the fiercer. 

 

"Will you invite me into your chambers?" He inquires against your lips. "Will you have me?" 

The way he stated the question was straight forward. Blunt in what it implied. Unshy in its desire. But there is an unmistakable edge to it that is almost frail. Fragile in its essence. You know now that here the both of you are at a fork in the path. One single decision that may decide the fate of what lies ahead, and the balance of your matrimony. Prince Aemond wears that facade of his. Like no matter what response leaves from you he will be unbothered, but you can see the vulnerability bleeding into his gaze. You hear it in his questions. The hope that you do not turn him away. 

You know then that you will not send him off down the corridor while you tuck yourself away in your chambers alone. Not as elation and peace wraps itself around you and urges you to tug him closer; guiding him towards you as you make to reach behind to grab for the door latch. 

"Yes, I will have you Aemond." You whisper it softly, as though it is something sacred and delicate. 

That is all it takes to earn his mouth back upon you. Just as starved as it had been before. You are not certain which one of manages to pry one of the doors ajar, but as soon as it is open, you find yourself slipping through the entry as you pull him through by his shoulders as you blindly guide each other across the floor of your apartments. You just vaguely register the sound of the door slamming shut behind you both, but you hardly pay it any mind as his hands sweep along your hips with a grip that threatens to smart skin. The heel of your foot nearly trips along the edge of the tapestry rug, and it is Aemond's firm grip that keeps you secure as you attempt to navigate your clumsy journey to the bed. 

Already his fingers slip behind you, eagerly tugging at your skirts like he means to ruck them over your hips, but then he stops himself short and backs away from you so abruptly that for a second you fear that he is having regrets. That he plans to storm out of your quarters and pretend that this has never happened. His eyes trails over you as he steps away, halting himself he is several paces from you to observe your disheveled state. 

"Undress yourself."  

He says it that poised, calm cadence of his, but the order in it is still apparent. For some reason it makes you pause. You have never been completely bare before him. All of the previous times you had been afforded the crutch of your shift, skin always concealed from view. During your bedding ceremony, while the corridor just outside of Prince Aemond's chambers were crowded with the wedding quests, the attendees of the court and the Crowns Sept, all present to make sure the tradition was followed accordingly, you had still clung to the safety that your chemise had provided you. The two of you were hurdling over so many new steps and parameters in your relationship. For some reason, it does not feel obtrusive or jarring. Simply unexpected. Unfamiliar. But exciting still. 

You reach for the silk placket on the front your bodice, carefully unplucking the golden straight pins that your maidens had secured it with just this morning, being mindful to tack them back into the fabric so they do not drop upon the floor and run the risk of jabbing someone underfoot. Your fingers quiver slightly as you begin to unwind the ribbon lacings underneath, tugging them free from their eyes to loosen the grip of your bodice until the rest of the gown slides free of its grip on your body, enabling you are able to slip the sleeves from your arms for the rest of the garment to pool around your feet. 

You still have several layers to go; held within the confines of your kirtle but he is already watching you with an impassion stare akin to starvation. All of the vigor that he had unleashed on you before in the drag on his lips and the nipping of his teeth has been detained and seized onto with a shaky resolve; his weak restraint projected through the near feral look in his eye. It is clear that he wishes to watch you unburden yourself of your clothes. It gives him some kind of pleasure, to observe you exposing more of yourself to him at his whims. And you would like to indulge that lewd desire of his, but you know that the lacings along the back of your kirtle will be difficult to undo on your own. It is rigid in its structure, and combined with how tightly the many levels silk cord that cross up your spine are cinched, it will be a challenge. Often times it is a pain for even the deft fingers of your maids. 

"Would you so kind, lord husband, to assist me?" You do not bother in awaiting his response as you rotate around to present your back to him. The room is silent, save for the quiet rise and fall of the air steadily leaving and returning to your lungs. You do not hear him diminish the space the separates you both. The sound of his boots along the stone floors does not make a single tap or echo for you to gauge his nearness. But then his hands are just on you, settling at the point between your shoulder blades to pluck at the knot of your silk ribbons.   

The warmth of him wafts against you, causing the hairs along the nape of your neck to rise and your skin to pepper with gooseflesh. You crave to lean back into him. To bask in his natural, soothing heat, but you command yourself to remain stationary as he begins to tug at your lacings. Much steadier and slower than you have suspected. It has anticipation building and churning within your gut. Smoldering and settling like hot coals and molten wax beneath your flesh. 

His lips come to sweep along the junction of your neck, feeling as though they are branding you in their exploration. It should be of a concern with how much that thought thrills you. The idea of walking around with the prince's marks clearly presented for the court to see is an indecorous idea - downright craven. And yet it does nothing but make the flames inside roar brighter. 

You feel the moment that he finished in unlacing the kirtle. It slackens considerable on your torso, before he hastily slips the embroidered edge of the neckline from your shoulders; the truth of his avidity managing to peek through such a simple action. And just like that the materials fall from your body, leaving you in nothing but your shift. It shocks you how quickly his hands find a place on your hips. Fingers clasping tightly like he is resisting the urge to tenderize your skin underneath the pressure of his palms. But that twisted little part of you is still present and greedy. It has you pressing the shape of your rear against his pelvis, and you are unable to contain the delighted gasp that leaves you at the hard press of his cock straining underneath his breeches. 

He has not even seen you naked yet and already the evidence of his arousal nudges at you through the thin fabric of your chemise. He groans as you continue to roll your hips against you his. It's a pleased, low noise, that nearly sounds like a purr rumbling from his chest, and it vibrates along your neck as he threatens to sink his teeth just underneath the edge of your jaw. His fingers begin to tug and lift at the skirt of your shift to pile it around your waist. 

You twitch as he exposes you to the tepid draft of the room; nipples hardening beneath the delicate fabric at the chill. Suddenly, one of his hands is placed before you, fingers hovering close to your mouth as though he expects something of you. Your thoughts scramble along. Already pathetically sluggish and scattered from the lust searing at your being.  

"Take them into your mouth and bite, ābrazȳrys," he guides in a firm murmur. 

Obediently, your lip's part, allowing him to guide the tips of his fingers past them. The leathers concealing the nimble length of his digits is smooth along your tongue. Warm and slightly tangy in its flavor on your palate. The weight of them makes your eyes lashes flutter, threatening to slip closed before a distant voice in the recesses of your mind chides you to follow his desire, and eager to please you gently clamp the edges of your teeth down onto the tips of his gloves. He coos in a satisfied manner when he notices the compliant press of your teeth. He tugs his hand free from the casing of its glove, allowing the now empty garments to lie limp in your mouth before he removes it from between your teeth to discard it somewhere along the floor. 

You vaguely watch his hand from your peripherals as it lifts past the scope of your vison, but the low, wet sound in your ears cues you on what he may be doing. He is licking his fingers. Getting them wet. It makes your body thrum with want. The flavor of his gloves is still strong. A temptation that you never would have imagined. He had used your mouth for something that seems so frivolous, and yet it makes you ache. It reminds you of a bit of course chatter that you had heard from one of the ladies of the court.  A horrible gossip who often whispers of the most perverse of topics between lovers. Though you could not help but to have been intrigued when she spoke of pleasing one of her paramours with nothing but her tongue. 

You know what Aemond plans to do with his hands. The anticipation of it bubbles along the atmosphere like water simmers inside a heated pot, threatening to boil over as his fingers slip between your thighs and part your damp heat with little fanfare. Your body seems to sizzle. A delicious buzz licks up your spine as he sweeps a single finger over your cunt to gather the slick that already threatens to smear down the inside of your legs. Collecting it on the pad of his digit to aid him in delivering a slow, torturous circle along your clit. A drawn-out whine rips itself from your chest, and even with his hand buried underneath the fabric of your skirt, working pleasure between your thighs, you cannot help but to think of the possibility of taking him into your own mouth. 

To delight in the weight of his cock filling it up, weighing on your tongue. How it might taste. The expressions he would make. If his eye would express the same vulnerability that he had displayed to you in the hallway, when he asked if you would have him. Would that hint of desperation no longer be masked, but instead boldly shown? Would his face pinch with pleasure, eye clouded with lust as he watched you on your knees before him?

How gorgeous he would look. 

You have to tuck your face into his shoulder as you helplessly rock your hips against the ceaseless strum of his finger, muffling your cry as he suddenly slips one within the entrance of your cunt, forcing it to stretch and give around its width. He brushes it experimentally along your walls, almost like he is prodding or searching for something within you. Distracting you with the press of the heel of his hand on the bud of your nerves, feeding the fires the pit of your belly. He does find what he is in search of with an adept quickness. You feel it as soon as he does. The blind yet tactful pursuit is rewarded when he caresses something devastating buried inside of you. You gasp, breath snagging as you burrow your nose into his neck, choking on his scent while you search for your voice.  

"Aemond, please." It comes out as hardly more than a wanton moan puffed against his skin, and your hips continue to chase after the exquisite heat that he is effortlessly stoking within the cradle of your thighs. "Please, Aemond. I want to taste you. I want you in my mouth." 

You feel the way he hums in consideration more than you hear it. A nonchalant noise, as though you have questioned him about the quality of his day. As though he was not knuckle deep inside of your cunt. "Hmm, such a temptation. Though, if I recall correctly, was it not my wife who ventured into my chambers with revelations of her loneliness? It seems that I have long ignored my husbandly duties. I think it is due time that I rectify that." 

Those words sound so promising. So sweet in its oath. So, it is entirely cruel when he all but rips his finger from the walls of your cunt, leaving you feeling empty and the scorching embers in your gut smoking but unfanned. A question, an insult, or a cry hang on your tongue, but you never get the opportunity to figure out which it is. Aemond grips you by the shoulders and nudges you in the direction of your bedding, giving you little time to orient yourself through the lustful haze that has clouded your mind over. 

"I want you lying down on your back; cunt spread." His instruction rings out sharply. Like a strategized order that would be given in council. "And remove that fucking garment from your body." 

He spat out the sentence as though the cloth is an offence to him. The sight of it alone enough to rouse his ire. So eager to see you bare before him. You have half the mind to try and tease him, but tonight you can hardly be bothered. The weight of the shift is stifling on your dampened skin, and his covetous stare urges you to do his bid. You do not turn to face him as you disrobe. It nudges from your shoulders easily. Dropping free from your body to leave you in nothing more than your silk stockings and garters, and the diamond accessories that dangle from the lobes of your ears. 

You swear that you can feel the line of his vision upon your flesh. Trailing down your spine, tracing the shape of your ribs as they meet the contour of your waist, skirting along the swell of your arse. You do not turn to face him until you place your knees on the cushion of your mattress, plush and filled with down and feathers, offering you enough support to crawl along the stretch of it before turning on your back as he had bidden. The impassioned look in his eye seems to suspend you adrift. It does not make you feel disgustingly ogled or leered at to be so blatantly admired. He studies you as though he is in the presence of something sanctified. Divine. 

You are not sure of how to compose yourself underneath such unabashed devotion. The only thing that seems to give you any sort of stability is the continued ring of his earlier command reverberating in your mind. You cling to it, like someone who is threatened to be swept away in a rough tide. It is almost absentmindedly that your leg's part, offering yourself up to the insatiable stare of your husband in a manner so vulgar. But you cannot deny that there is something titillating about it. How his posture seems to simultaneously go rigid and slack all at once. A restraint in his composure visibly snapping before he stalks across the room towards you like he means to devour you. 

He is upon you before you can hardly blink. Gripping onto the thick of your upper thigh with his gloved, left hand to further pry your legs apart. Stretching them until you can nearly feel the strain of it in the joint of your hip. "Sīr gevie se dōna raqagon bisa, issa ābrazȳrys." He lifts your opposite up just enough to nose at your knee, ghosting his lips about the breadth of it as his eye locks with your own sight. Something nearly playful dancing in the vivid shade of colors. "Gaomagon ao sylutegon sepār hae dōna?"

He continues to sweep his nose along your flesh. Dragging it downward towards your intimacy, where you burn and ache for him the most. You cannot stop yourself from rolling your hips upward, tempted by the warmth of his breath gliding along your skin and the heat of your cunt. It makes you clench around nothing, as though your body is mourning how empty you are without the stretch of his fingers. 

"Aemond, pleas-" 

He hushes you softly. A placating, quiet sound but it cuts through the air with the swift impact of a steady blade. Like an eager soldier you find yourself falling silent. Focused entirely on him as he lay between your thighs with the relaxed composure of a dragon with its prey already secure between it fangs. "Patience," he murmurs. Though he hardly gives you any time exercise such a restraint because his mouth is on you as soon as the word leaves him. The shock and feel of it sears through you, lashing itself across your body akin to charges of lightning crackling across a storm. Nothing could have prepared yourself for such a thing. The wet heat, the suction of his lips, the skilled slip of his tongue. 

Your legs twitch on reflex, threatening to close but the hand that he had clasped around your thigh keeps it secure in place. Still, it does not stop him from glancing up at you from the apex of your legs with an unvoiced reprimand glinting in his eye. A broken cry shudders from your lungs. Sharp breaths nearly hiccupping from you as he licks at your cunt, burrowing the pronounced, attractive swoop of his nose against your clit while his tongue laps at your entrance. You cannot stop yourself as you begin to sway your hips along the press of it. Practically riding his face with the mindless drive of a woman possessed. Your fingers claw along the blankets; nails tearing at the fabric like it might help you weather through the bolts of ecstasy that ravage your body.  

Your head lifts to properly gaze upon him as he continues to drag his tongue over you, groaning softly into your heat as though he were the one experiencing pleasure. You have heard of women satisfying their husbands with the comforts of their mouths but never the opposite. You know now that it is easily something that you could become addicted to. And based on the pleased pinch between his brows and the way that his eye has nearly slipped closed it seems that he has just as much of an appetite for it. 

"Oh, my gods! Aemond- fuck!" 

You can feel the amused chuckle he releases vibrate along your cunt, making the burning coil in your gut wind that much tighter. He parts his lips from you just long enough to speak, slipping a finger within the tight entrance of your heat just as he does so, crooking it against that delicious spot that he had found nestled within you earlier. "Such a filthy mouth you have on you. How unbecoming for someone who holds the title of a princess." He mocks, crudely stroking and curling his finger within the tight warmth of your cunt. You think distantly to scold him. To remind him of who has drawn such untoward responses from you in the first place but then he is guiding a second digit in along the other, making you stretch to accommodate them; causing your mind to blank. "What would they think if they could see you now? Mewling like well-paid whore."  

You are not sure why that awful little comment has warmth drizzling down your spine like drops of warmed honey. You feel yourself flutter around the ceaseless pulse of his fingers, back arching in a means to draw him deeper. He notices as well. Of course he does, ever so observant. It has him humming in that considering way of his. Like he is pleased with his discovery. You expect another witty remark from him but get none. What he chooses to say next is even more damning. 

"I'm going to fuck you with my fingers, and you are going to be a good little wife and peak on my tongue." 

His tone leaves no room for argument - not that you have given him any in this state. Especially not when the sultry drag of his mouth returns to your cunt to join the clever curl of his fingers. The combination of it threatens to make you sob. Your body writhes when he takes your clit into his mouth, sucking at it gently with steady pulses of his tongue. One of your hands blindly reaches to grip his head, threading your finger through the silken tresses of his hair as though it might ground you; keep you from floating away. It is all so overwhelming. Too much and yet too little. And like a starved glutton you find your opposite palm coming to slip along your own torso, sweeping along your feverish skin to explore your breasts. You mindlessly reach to take your nipples between your thumb and fingers, rolling and plucking at it to further stoke the fire in your belly. 

You hear the sound of Aemond's pleased groan, no doubt watching you from his place between your legs as you touch yourself. Already the rapture flooding your veins begins to rise up. Cresting upon you like a wave being tossed within a great tempest. You can practically taste it. Dancing along your tongue like something sweet and hot; burrowing into the cradle of your hips by the euphoric drag of his hand and tongue. 

"Aemond!" You sob. With the intent to warn him or to merely cry you are not sure. Your face pinches as the grip of your pleasure begins to close around you, holding you tight within its vice like it means to wring every ounce of euphoria from you. "Aemond, I'm going to- gods-" 

The glide of his mouth and fingers is almost brutal. Precise and nimble in his intent to hurdle you headfirst into the throes of bliss, and he is certainly achieving that goal. You can feel the muscles within you drawing up tight; fire lashing and curling over you and wearing at your soul. You can hardly speak. Now struggling to get out broken panting breaths and pieces of the prince's name as your release bears down on you. He shows you no mercy in your state, continuing to suckle and lap at your cunt like he means to drink you down. 

It is with a wrecked scream that you reach your peak. The cry that rips from your throat is short and hoarse, and there is no doubt that some unfortunate soul wandering the hall has heard you. Though you are too beyond yourself to care. Sparks bursts inside your flesh, dousing you in a bliss that you have naught ever brought yourself. Like a mindless animal your body continues to ride itself against the press of Aemond's tongue, his nose, his fingers, all of which still work against you to draw out the euphoria that engulfs you. 

It is not until you hiss from the sudden tenderness in your cunt that he wills himself to pull away, giving you a reprieve to lay boneless and spent along the plush of the bed. His breath is raged when he rises from your hips, face smeared with the evidence of your pleasure, his stare is wild. He looks disheveled, hair disordered from when you had gripped it and chest pulling in frantic gulps of breath. He nearly looks just as winded as you. Though you are surely partly to blame with how you had desperately pushed his face into your cunt like some sort of sex-crazed whore. And the patch of leather that conceals his eyes has become slipped from its place. Not enough to display whatever grievous, old wound may rest beneath, but another unintended brush against it may knock it askew completely. 

You do not think when you guide yourself to sit up and lift a hand, thoughtlessly using your thumb to nudge the leather back down to rest securely above his socket. But the realization seems to come to you both unanimously. His own hand coming to grip your offending wrist, keeping it suspended in its place in the air; your fingertips still resting on the structure of the patch. 

 The stare that passes between the both of you is joined by so many varying emotions. Many of them extending from his side: a brief flash of anger, bewilderment, unease. And then, there it is again. That trace of vulnerability that he tries so hard to contain. But it seems to always be there. Lurking underneath the surface like pain disturbing an old wound. And like a shadow, you see that hint of hope again too. It is the only things that keeps you from shifting from him. Of giving him space that you would have otherwise assumed he needs. But now you draw near. Resting on your knees to sit before him. Instead of attempting to withdraw your hand from his clutches, you instead reposition it to cradle the side of his face, maintaining to keep your touch light in case he chooses to remove himself from underneath your hand. 

Few breaths pass, and he makes no moves to do so. He leans closer. It is such a tiny gesture. A barely perceptible movement, but you feel it. The difference in weight against your hand. The glint in his eye pierces into you with a desperation. Like he is expecting you to suddenly come to a realization and flinch away out of fear. Like he is hoping that you do so. 

But you will do no such thing. You shift closer to him, making sure to be careful as not to accidentally prod his eye patch from its place while you clutch his cheek. He observes you closely. As though he is studying you. Searching for a shred of hesitation or disgust so that he may turn you away. The opportunity for him to do that does not come as you lift to seat yourself upon his lap. His chest expands almost shakily as he gazes at you. Eye slightly widened as though he is in a state of awe or disbelief. The sheer unabashed emotion reflecting inside that gorgeous mix of blue and violet could make your heart ache and skip. You long to tell him of how you feel. The breadth of your emotions. Not quite love yet, of course, but it must be the beginnings of it with how tender and passionate it burns, like the birth of a blaze. 

But that may be too much to confess. Perhaps, your actions will have to suffice for now. 

You are certain he gasps when your lips press against his, tongue sweeping along the plush of his mouth like he had done to your earlier, gathering the tart and sweet taste of yourself on your palate. The flavor of your own arousal does not deter you in the slightest. Not the damp of it against your skin as you draw him into a soft exchange of kisses. Much softer than the one that he had inspired in both of your earlier. This somehow seems so much more explorative. Delicate, even with the heat that begins to simmer beneath the surface once more. 

Your fingers once again slip and find purchase in his hair, nails lightly scraping at his scalp as your hips begin to undulate against the bulge that still presses against his breeches. He groans, panting into your mouth while he runs his hands along your nude flesh, reaching down to grip the swell of your arse to aid you in grinding your hips with his. The hard impression of his cock nudging at your cunt through the fabric of his trousers is delicious, even while you are still slightly tender from your previous pleasure, licking a sensitive fire along your skin. Still, it does not stop you as you continue to grind yourself on him, wanton and aching once again. Delight peeks through the drunken haze of your desires as he removes on of his hand from you to slip between your bodies, fingers reaching for the laces of his breeches where he eagerly pulls at tugs at them to draw them loose. 

He groans sharply in relief when he guides himself from the restraint of his trousers. The alleviation must be great, with how long the straining weight of his cock has been tucked behind the material. You hear it in the low hiss that rises from his chest, and it has you humming softly at him, a light reposeful sound as you continue you to exchange a languid, unbroken kiss with him. The both of you unable to tear yourselves from each other, even has the hot length of his cock comes to rest against his stomach, now pinned between the pressure of both of your bodies, burning against your ferverish skin. 

"I need to feel you," he breathes against your lips. "Let me have you." 

You peek your eyes open long enough to consider him, and the longing that burns within the depth of his stare knocks something inside of your soul off guard, shaking the very foundations. Such raw, unprotected emotion. He stares at you as if you are the creator of the heavens, having fashioned the moon and the burning of the stars with only your hands. It makes you unsure of how to stand unwavering, unaffected underneath such a devoted gaze. If only he knew that it is you who wishes to worship him. To pour your affections and adoration onto him like an acolyte offering their deity tokens and praise. 

An understanding seems to pass through the both of you, a wordless communication. He reaches down to grip himself as you post your hands upon his shoulders, your nails burrowing into the leather of the doublet that he has not bothered to shed as a means to braces yourself as you line the head of his cock with the entrance of your heat. There is little fanfare before you begin to lower yourself onto him, splitting yourself on the head of cock as you use your thighs to settle downward. You walls stretch to accommodate his girth, fluttering as he guides you open to find solace in your body. A strained set of words seems to squeeze from his chest, all of them in that beautiful language that you yet to understand. It has a sense of pride flaring. A deep, hedonistic satisfaction welling up to know that you have such a strong, composed man crumbling around the edges from nothing more than the grip of your cunt. 

You place another brief kiss upon his lips, a smile tugging at them when he nearly tries to chase after you, but you distract him by further sinking yourself down around his length until your rump meets his thighs. His mouth drops open in response, eye fluttering at sensation of your walls clenching and flexing around him as though it means to somehow draw him deeper. 

The pressure of him inside of you, carving a space for himself within you almost makes you breathless. It licks itself up your spine like a bolt of lightning, forcing your body to shudder and draw closer to his, subconsciously seeking out the warmth of his skin and mourning when you feel nothing but the dim chill of his leather doublet. 

"Aemond," you beg softly. Your hips seem to have a mind of their own as they begin to lift themself upward to roll back down, working to repeatedly spear yourself on his cock with only desperation and hedonism guiding you. His hands come to grip your waist, spreading his thighs out wider to find a better stance to drive himself up inside of you easier, aided by the slick of your arousal, causing his thrusts to become even more pronounced. The sensation of his girth stretching you out to its shape, veins dragging along your walls has your back curving taut like a bowstring. 

The warmth of his mouth suddenly closes around one of your breasts, tongue lapping at the peak of your nipple as he continues to drive himself inside of you in a devastating rhythm. It has your mind drawing a blank. Going white like a wall of fog as embers and fire sear at the pit of your gut. Your lip's part. Soft gasps panting from your throat as he continues to ravage your body for his pleasure while further tearing you through the depths of yours. It seems to choke through you, forcing you to hiccup and whimper around the insistent pounding of his hips, the weight of his cock dipping inside of you. 

It is disoriented and abrupt when he shoves you onto the flat of your back, knocking what little bit of air was still contained inside of your lungs out and leaving you stunned. You can only lay and take it as your mind scrambles to gain a sense of clarity, while pleasure scalds itself throughout your veins, snuffing your body in a cloud of smoke. His body extends over yours, only supported by his arms posted on either side of your head. His mouth leaves your breast with a subtle nip of his teeth, sparking pleasure with their blunt edges, making you arch your chest to seek out more of it. 

But he ignores the blatant offering, opting to nudge himself up to kneel to better support his weight as he grabs one of your thighs to swing your leg along the perch of his shoulder. It somehow manages to drive him deeper. Effectively punching the air from your chest, the crown of his cock brushing along something inside of you that has your body twisting along the support of the bed. A sob wracks through you and your eyes nearly roll in the back of your skull. You distantly hear yourself whispering his name. Repeating it over and over again with all of the devotion and desperation of a mantra, of a prayer meant for the ears of a god. And here above you now, he certainly looked like one. Pale eye blazing and wild with his lust, hair unkept and freeing from its tie, a sheen of sweat glittering along his pale flesh like flecks of gold and stardust. 

"There she is," he marvels in a coo; pleased and smug in the debauched thing that he has reduced you to. A complete juxtaposition to the longing, vulnerable man that he had been just moments before. "My sweet wife gone dumb and pliant beneath me. Do I satisfy you? Having you like this? Taking my cock so obediently. " You moan in agreement, hips twitching and jerking to further aid him inside of you. Even while it feels like he is deep in your gut, shoving your breath from you with his rhythm, you crave more. "I should keep you like this. Fucked and filled. Would you like that, ābrazȳrys? Stuffed full until it swells your belly with my heir?"

 

It douses you with fire. The comment engulfing you as though you have been guided into the starved clutches of an inferno. The satisfied stare that he pins you with only makes you feel bare and exposed despite the intimate positions that he has had you in already. Like he is piecing you apart and gazing at your soul. Even with the filth that he casually rambles, it does nothing to dampen the tenderness and hunger that seeps into your bones and gnaws at your being. Your body thrums with the delight at being claimed so primally by the prince - by your husband. To walk about the great halls with his babe safely tucked away inside your stomach. The idea of it has you clawing at his back, no doubt leaving marks along the leather, and it is a great regret that it is not his skin that you tear the traces of your nails along. 

"You will truly be so beautiful in such a state. There will be no mistake that you're mine. Mother to my child. My wife." 

The possessiveness that streaked through his words made you arch into him, driving the metal clasps of his doublet into your flesh, causing the skin to sting. You can hardly pay it any mind though. Not while you are hurtling towards your peak. The promise of your release rushing towards you with the intensity a liquid fire. He too is close. You can see it in the furrow between his brows, the pale stutter in his breath which begins to meld into low groans; feel it in the slight falter in his pace. 

"Please, Aemond." You moan, just barely managing to get your tongue to cooperate in forming the plea. His eye locks onto you with the concentration of a hunter, but that softness, his need is beginning to melt it around the edges once again. "I want you to let go. I want to feel you filling me up." 

His hips flounder for a good moment, and it takes him a bit of correcting to regain the fluidity of the brutal stride that he had set, though once he does it is like he had never faltered at all. The almost violent bliss smoldering along your being still engulfs you and nips at you like it means to rip you apart. He swears sharply again. The sound of your wish, both a beg and a command having the most delicious effect on him as he continues to build that euphoria within the base of your stomach, causing the muscles there to clench tight.

"I'm yours. All yours." You assure breathlessly, aiming to appease the proprietorial nature that he has shown you. That is all you can manage before the euphoria finally crests and completely blindsides you within the deluge. You feel outside of yourself as your body writhes, cunt clenching around the deep stretch of his cock as he continues to pound into you, tipping you into something akin to a drunken stupor. It is rapturous. The sheer weight of the pleasure that possesses you and leaves you little more than a vessel that can only lie and try to survive the onslaught. 

Aemond's body shudders over your own, spine curling inward to tuck his face within the crook of your neck as his own peak seizes him. His groan rattles along your throat, followed by a strained fuck as a burst of liquid heat floods inside your stomach, filling you with warmth. His hips jerk shakily, meeting the languid pace of your own as you both work to assist each other in riding out your shared highs. Though it does not take long for either of you to lose your vigor, muscles and bones going lax as you both relent to the weight of your spent bodies. He does not bother in removing himself from the grip of your cunt as he all but collapses on top of you, effectively pinning you to the mattress with his weight. 

You make no effort to move him from you - you find no desire to. The air around you is thick with the scent of sex, still thrumming and alive with the fervor of your shared lust even as it ebbs from your body, replaced with the temptation of sleep. Contentment and exultation pools in your chest, syrupy and thick from the pleasant warmth of his form along yours, and it guides you to glide your fingers through the silken strands of Aemond's hair. He has made no efforts to extract his face from your neck. Perfectly at peace to keep himself tucked against you with his flaccid cock still buried deep, as his breathing levels out into steady puffs against your skin. 

"We cannot sleep, my Prince. The servant girls will be here soon to prepare me for supper." You warn, though he does not stir in the slightest. A hum leaves him. The only confirmation you receive that tells you he has heard you. He almost seems to clutch onto you tighter, as though he longs to burrow into you and meld into one. So desperate for your touch even while he hides so many facets of himself from you. There is no way to truly foresee what the future has in store for you and him. For the welfare of the kingdom. The home of your children. There are many uncertainties. Many stimming from your Aemond himself, the many lethal edges that create his being. But that is fine. You are patient. Tonight has marked a new turning point for you and he, you are certain. You will wait no matter how long you must for him to come to you, and to reveal himself and his truths to you unabashedly. No matter how damaged and bloody and wild those parts of him may be. 

You are certain that you will marvel in the twisted beauty of it regardless. 

"I will get up shortly." He finally replies, tone gentle and rich in your ear. "Let us just lie here for a moment; just you and I." 

Does this truly please you, wife? - Gaomas bisa drējī kostilus ao, ābrazȳrys? To be here with me? - Naejot sagon kesīr lēda nyke I believe it does - Pāsan ziry gaomas It has me wonder of all the other ways I could please you - Ēza nyke pendagon hen mirre se tolie ways nyke could kostilus ao

So beautiful and sweet like this, my wife - Sīr gevie se dōna raqagon bisa, issa ābrazȳrys Do you taste just as sweet? - Gaomagon ao sylutegon sepār hae dōna?    

[dcxdpdabbles]

If you had to pick one of your stories to redo, either a portion or change the whole direction, which one would it be?

Ohhhhh, this is a good thought-inducing question. Ironically, some of my work results from thinking, "You know what? This would be hilarious if I didn't stick to plan and went off the deep end," and creating a new AU. (How Danny's grill came to be. It was based on The Bakery is a front with the same idea of Tim being undercover at Danny's food-based business, but instead of looking for proof of lawbreaking, he's looking for evidence that Danny is not human, and the bats freaking out about it)

But I would pick Freelance Inventor just to make it all through the Justice League's POV of Batman and his mysterious lover. They talk in the break room around the water cooler about how the Robins all at one point mentioned "B's Not-Boyfriend" and wonder what that means.

The League would see the Gotham heroes casually threaten Batman by telling on him to "Not-Boyfriend" and watch the Batman actually become the "Let's not be too hasty." meme.

They watch as the crazy, controlling Batman shake his head and sigh when he notices that his calendar was changed by "Not-Boyfried" to force him to stop going up to the Watchtower for meetings and instead go to "Photograph Award show, "Zoo day with youngest" "Cook for the father that raised you, you lazy city dweller who lacks respect."

Flash screenshot of the last one because the previous day, it was marked as "Speedster training and combat counters". Flash needed proof for those who would miss the massacre about to happen. He thought that he would witness Batman drag the poor unfortunate soul to dare mess with his Calander app down to hell, and instead saw him googling British recipes because he needs to have a meal plan out now.

It wouldn't just be the Justice League- though it starts with them from founding day to well over a decade- but all hero communities would begin to hear about Not-Boyfriend.

At different times, the Robins would grumble about doing class work on the extended space trips because Not-Boyfriend would be disappointed in them. They don't care if they piss off Batman, but Not-Boyfriend's sad, letdown eyes would haunt the Robins.

These are the same people who would swing themselves at monsters who were sometimes actually gods of myth with nothing but spandex and spite.

The Teen Titans witness Robin leave with his Not-Boyfriend during the Big Fight, which eventually leads to him becoming Nightwing. They start treating Robin like a Divorce Kid. Batman is the bum dad in that situation.

The Outsiders witness Robin go from anger to a protective, gleeful Redhood when Not-Boyfriend calls to check up on him. They are all welcome to stay in Not-Boyfriend's houses—he owns many properties worldwide for his travels—and he becomes the remarkable, safe adult house. They just never speak to him face to face.

Young Justice's Robin has some serious self-esteem issues. They all sort of do as the ones the older heroes forget about. This is why when Robin shows up one day asking if they would do a random fashion blog to trick Not-Boyfriend, they jump at the chance to make a more solid identity besides the clone, the time traveler, and the daughter of Zues. Then Not-Boyfriend, whom they never met and shouldn't care about, starts sending gifts, and I'm so proud of you kids through Robin up until he becomes Red Robin, they realize he's the cooler dad.

SuperSons Robin will respect no one- not even Batman or Nightwing- as he does Not-Boyfriend. They can get him to listen and calm down after noticing his siblings using the "I'm telling Not-Boyfriend on you" trick that worked on his father.

The heroes know so much about Not-Boyfriend but know nothing. He's like Big-Foot. Everyone knows who Big-Foot legend is, but no one can prove Big-Foot.

Of course, over the seventeen years of Justice Leauge's founding, heroes would assume Not-Boyfriend was helping Batman raise his children and, for some reason, couldn't be married (The rise in heroes demanding equal marriage helped legalize same-sex marriage after a bitter sixteen-year fight).

They accept he's Batman's husband, who may be a civilian, a hero, or even a villain.

They accept that Batman and Not-Boyfriend may be divorced and share custody of the children.

They accept that Batman may not be over his partner and is still, to this day, trying to win him back.

They accept that Not-Boyfriend forgave Batman years ago and are back together.

They accept that there was never a split, and the two just argued that Young-Robins blew out of proportion.

The hero community literally accepts any theory if presented well and backed enough with suitable examples. At one point, it was a tradition of trying to decipher what was going on with Batman and Not-Boyfriend.

It's even wilder when Batman reveals himself as Bruce Wayne because he is known for not having any dates despite the number of people who have tried to fling themselves at him. He's notorious for putting a lid on his playboy tendencies- showing growth, and his new persona changed to Ditzy Dad of Gotham- back when he took in Dick Grayson, but now they know it's because he had Not-Boyfriend?

Then finding out Not-Boyfriend is Danny Fenton, the Willy Wonka-esque of the inventing world???????

This man who disappears from the public eye only shows up somewhere in a jungle with an invention that low-key solves the issue of contaminated water? This man, who freelances to anyone and everyone, things that come straight out of sci-fi without a blink?

The same man who people years ago accused Bruce Wayne of sleeping with, only to be told point black by Bruce, "I wish I was sleeping with him. Have you seen him?," and people thought he was joking on live TV?

They lose their minds.

[trashogram]

He Chose You (P. 7)

Lucifer/Reader: You’ve been chosen to be the Mother of the Antichrist. Rated E.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 13.5 | Part 14 | End

Your sleep had become fitful with dreams that, while not full of violence, left you waking in a cold sweat most mornings. You couldn’t remember most of what happened aside from a parade of images and feelings of discomfort. Sometimes, downright fear. 

The blonde woman was still the star, but you couldn’t remember a word she’d say. The sight of her frowning at two men replayed in your head between sleeping and waking. She frowned at you with dewy wide eyes. 

The woman held her arms out to you: beseeching, sheltering, hurriedly hiding but you were able to escape the gaze of one of the men. 

Fear had spirited you away from unconsciousness when the man’s brown eyes sparked into an unnatural gold. They heated with anger at the mere sight of you. 

—

The only equivalent you could come up with for how you awoke was being jump-started like a car. It took a solid moment of gulping in air and eyeing your surroundings before you could calm the beat of your heart.

“Lucifer?”

It took too much energy to turn and look for him, but you saw that the sheets beside you were disturbed, but duck-less. 

You were overly warm, hopelessly reaching out to run your hand down the opposite side of the bed despite what your eyes told you. 

For a while there was nothing to do but lay in the silence of your darkened room. Eventually your hand drifted into your belly. 

It had become a reflex to pet your own tummy, to feel the bump that had formed there, as small as it was. 

—

You faced forward, looking directly at the screen of your TV without really seeing it. Beside you, Lucifer giggled at whatever was happening between Kermit and Gonzo onscreen. 

His bare hand was latched onto yours, fingers entwined, claws digging into your skin just enough to hurt. Not a lot, just a little bit. Strangely, the discomfort kept you grounded and away from the outlandish yet very real fear that you’d float away without it. 

‘Is it dissociating or disassociation?’

You’d gone long enough with it happening multiple times now but you couldn’t even remember what it was called.

You were pregnant. 

Well, you’d been pregnant for about a month and a half. And your partner in crime had been excited. So excited he’d literally exclaimed ‘oh my golly’ at the news. 

Then he’d had a panic attack, complete with big yet shallow gasps for air and arm flailing, hands flapping, short legs in knee-high boots pacing a hole into your carpet.

You were somewhat grateful for his outburst, if only because taking the steps to placate him was placating unto itself. 

— 

The memory made you smile weakly. A memory that seemed so long ago, even if it had technically happened only a few months prior. 

Everything that had happened afterward had made it seem rosier than it should’ve been. Before things soured so thoroughly that you could barely get out of bed. 

Now, you were exhausted day and night, plagued by not-quite-nightmares during your hibernation-like snoozes, and — when awake — eaten at by fears and doubts. 

You’d never thought seriously about having children. 

There was this permanent barrier to the very idea that lingered in the back of your mind. You don’t know when it formed, or if it was merely a protective mechanism of some kind (God knew you had plenty of those already). Nonetheless, you’d stuck to it, never straying… until now. 

You weren’t the motherly type. And technically you weren’t going to be. As much as Lucifer mooned over you, whether for his own entertainment or because he was genuinely fond of your stupid sarcastic comments and bouts of literary trivia, you would not allow yourself to trust him completely. You had no compunctions about raising the Antichrist once you had fulfilled your end of the deal. 

So you told yourself. Especially when you cycled through detachment and guilt about the creature growing in your womb. Especially when Lucifer was curled up with you, basking in your warmth and bringing you little trinkets and laughing with you at whatever was on TV. Especially when he dropped everything to lay down with you in your sickness, and did anything he could to make you smile, be it with magic tricks or stories from lifetimes ago.

Last night he’d held your hair as you threw up, courtesy of the raw beef you’d craved (thank you, you freaky little fetus). Then he entertained you by shape-shifting into cute animals until you’d cuddled up with his duck self and fallen asleep.

The little slope of your stomach quivered with the rest of your body. You felt the sudden urge to cry. 

—

“Lucifer?”

You braced yourself against the wall to get out of your bedroom. Standing was enough to make you dizzy, skin growing clammy and perspiring while you struggled to move. You were winded after five steps through your rather small apartment. 

Your curiosity was the only thing keeping you going after hearing a series of beeps from outside your door. 

���Aw, shit. Shit, shit, shit! Hold on!”  Lucifer called from a few feet away. 

He was here, in your apartment, more often than not. As a matter of fact, you had the feeling that if you didn’t push him to return to his duties, Lucifer would’ve been with you 24/7. 

Speaking of, he appeared from around the corner just as you buckled and slid against the wall. 

The Devil sprang forward, arms out and ready to catch you. Had you been more yourself, you’d have laughed at the absurdity as most of your weight sagged against its surface and he’d more or less landed on top of you from the side. 

“I’m so so sorry!” He cried, jerking away when you winced. 

“Sorry.” He whispered loudly. “I got your tea and I was trying to make it without waking you but the darn thing wouldn’t stop beeping.” 

“Cassie was here?” You let yourself sway to Lucifer’s side instead of the walls. He was practically carrying you into the living room. 

Unnames illness aside, you found an additional slight against your existence that you still had to keep in contact with your weirdo neighbors. They were both their own flavors of bizarre, but Cassie in particular was extroverted and nosy. 

She brought you tea from her kitchen garden — 

“Just bits and bobs from my little spice garden, things I’ve been growing ‘round the house. Pretty basic stuff: you got your chamomile, mint, there’s rosemary in there too, some cinnamon, ya know.” 

— and wanted to brew it for you while having chats at your kitchen table almost every day. 

Even Lucifer was annoyed by her persistence. 

“Here as in ‘at the door’ but not inside. She actually got it through that thick skull that I didn’t want you to be disturbed.” Lucifer said, equal parts irritated and triumphant. 

You leaned your head on his shoulder. “Thanks.” 

Your eyes closed to avoid the sudden onslaught of more tears when your companion tensed. He stopped short of the couch to relish in the contact. His wistful sigh made your heart throb painfully as you wondered for the umpteenth time how the fucking King of Hell could be so effortlessly sweet. 

‘Just to make pulling out the rug from under you later a bigger betrayal.’

The intrusive thought brought more tears, from eyes screwed up as you wished it away. 

“… can’t make tea as a duck.” Lucifer had carried on while gently lowering you on the cushions. “I did try though, to be fair.” 

He had yet to notice your tears, but your laugh was wet. “I’m sorry I missed that.”

It was sudden when cold hands cupped your face and turned your gaze up. You were met with deeply worried crimson eyes. 

The cold was so nice that you had to snuggle into that touch. “It’s ok.” 

Lucifer’s maw opened and closed a few times, helplessly. 

“Do—uh… do you want me to do that? I can try it again!” He jumped back, getting ready to shift in a puff of fireworks. 

“No, come sit with me.” You held up a shaking hand, trying to ignore your own ashen skin. 

The blond hesitated. 

“Please, Lou.” 

—

Lucifer melted at your request. He came to you immediately and took great care as he rearranged your frail body against his own. 

He was grateful that he’d thrown on his velvet robe that morning twicefold now — once to avoid his elderly worshipper seeing his dick, and twice to be able to pull it to the side so that you could lay your forehead against his cold chest.

The King’s skin would warm up with time and human contact, but he knew that his natural icy exterior did wonders to help your over-warm skin. 

Lucifer fought to not chuckle at the ticklish feeling of your hair against his neck. You laid there against him for a long time, breathing lightly and letting him hold you close. The silence was easy for once, not awkward or uncomfortable. Just one person relying on another for quiet solace.

When you finally spoke, it nearly scared him. “What’s it like? In Hell?” 

“Wh-why’re you asking?” Lucifer tried to play it cool. “That’s not really a fun o-oo-r relaxing…!… topic.” 

“Mmm,” Your head slowly lifted until he count easily count your individual eyelashes. 

“I don’t know if you know this, but there’s a little guy in here.” You pointed between yourself and him, to the little slope of your stomach. “And they're gonna call Hell their home soon. It might be good to know what that’s like before I ship them off.” 

“Oh!” Well, that was easier. “It’s uh, it’s red… and warm.” Lucifer wracked his brain. “Well, my Ring is. See, there are 7 Rings total, and technically I rule them all, but my brothers each kinda made their own homes out of them.” 

“Mine though — mine is full of Sinners, which is what we call the humans that died and were condemned to it. They’re all kinda packed in there, heh. Like, uh, tiny fish. That reek.” 

Your lips pursed. “But no one is burning in molten lava at all times or anything, right?”

“No-oo! Well, I mean it’s not impossible. But it’s not the norm. Nah, people go about their way like they do up here, but even more selfishly and violently.” 

Lucifer smiled at your frowning face. 

“It’s like on Earth? So people work, sleep, eat?”

“Yep!”

“They pay bills? Go to parties? Fuck?” Your brows were nearly to your hairline.

“Mmmm-hm!” 

“And they do it for all of eternity? Forever?”

“Pretty much! In a nutshell…” Was his jolly reply. He squeezed you to him for extra measure.

It was your turn to look flummoxed by the picture he painted, the words he spoke that sounded both improbable and spot on for what Hell would be if it was real. 

Well, not if. 

At last, you sighed. 

“I guess it couldn’t have been all that bad if… if you’ve been there for so long and you’re still so sweet.” Your words were barely audible, muttered into Lucifer’s chest when you gave up on making sense of anything.

But the Ruler of Hell had to stop the last-minute ejection of his own wings at your words.

***

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[starogeorgina]

𝐅𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞

Pairing: Alys Rivers x reader x Aemond Targaryen

Warnings: Smut, hints of breeding & knife kink, slight dubcon (under the influence of magic), swearing

“Do you believe in what I tell you, princess?”

You were tense; the question felt like a trick, so you didn’t answer, and Alys continued to brush your hair, standing behind you at the vanity. Your stepfather, Prince Daemon, had warned you that there was more to Alys Rivers than meets the eye. She was a trickster, a witch. And nothing Alys said was to be believed. Especially when she just said you’d be married and have a child before the week was over, and your babe would end the brewing war between your family.

However, you did find her alluring, which was the only reason you kept her close.

The castle was dark and damp, but you found comfort in it. Daemon had left on Caraxes a few days prior to returning to Dragonstone, while you remained with your own dragon in case anyone’s loyalties started to sway when the green army eventually arrived.

“You don’t believe me now, princess, but in time you will.”

They said Harrenhal was cursed, and you had started to suspect the raven-haired beauty was one of the ghosts that haunted it.

—

You weren’t sure what happened. One moment you’re being informed your uncle has been spotted on Vhagar nearby, and the next Alys head is underneath the skirts of your thick black dress, buried between your thighs, making you temporarily forget about the looming threat. You throw your head back as you buck your hips upward, and Alys slides her tongue further inside you.

Climaxing, you lay back on the bed, feeling limp. You expect the other woman to stop, but soft moans start falling from your mouth again as quickly as they stopped when Alys starts licking your oversensitive clit.

“Oh, fuck. That feels so good.”

Everything starts to become a haze of euphoria…

“Oh, little niece, I’m guessing the rumor of your virtue being intact was indeed only a rumor.”

You snap your head up, and you meet your uncle Aemond’s eye. How did he find you right away? Has someone told him where to find you? Did hearing your moans lead him right to you? Your mind was too fuzzy to think straight. You detested him. Kinslayer. Yet, Aemond, seeing you in such a vulnerable position somehow thrills you. You had wanted to wait until marriage before being touched. The stain of bastardy wasn’t something you ever wanted for your future children to experience.

“I am a maiden.”

Aemond scoffs, not believing a word you say.

“She speaks the truth, my prince.” Alys brings her head out from beneath your skirt and teases a finger between your folds, then slides it inside you. The intrusion was slightly painful, but not completely unpleasant. “Look at her face; see how she reacts to my touch. The princess has never felt pain or pleasure like it before.”

Aemond sits behind you on the bed, and the smile on his face fills you with nothing but hatred and venom.

“Craven!”

“You little-”

“Uh, gods!” You squeeze your eyes shut when Alys adds a second finger. She pushes the fabric hiding her hand up to your waist so your uncle can observe what she is doing to you. “I—I—”

You weren’t even sure what you were trying to say. Aemond notices your nails digging into your palms as your fists clench together and takes pity on you. He links your fingers with yours and holds your hand above your head until you climax again.

—

The last twenty-four seem like a hazy memory; you weren’t sure if it was adrenaline or magic causing everything to feel so... strange. You and Aemond married in an impromptu Valyrian wedding ceremony. One that would surely anger both your mothers, but in time they would see the benefits.

“It’s for the good of the realm.”

The witch's words echo in your head as she rubs circles on your clit while she uses her skilled tongue on the prince. You and Aemond sit beside each other on the edge of a large bed naked as Alys ‘prepares’ both of you to consummate your marriage. You still hated and blamed Aemond for what happened to your brother, but Alys convinced you that this would be mutually beneficial. You have gained the power of Vhagar as a dragon for the blacks, and Aemond would one day possess the power he seeks by marrying the heir to the throne.

A flurry of jealousy shoots through you as Alys gags on your husband's cock, but you can’t let either of them know that, so you hold her silky dark hair out of her face. You were equally possessive and proud, a trait of the dragon.

After a few more moments, you say, “Perhaps we should get on with it, uncle.”

Alys pulls away from the both of you; she wipes the saliva off her chin, then begins to undress. Aemond chuckles as he moves off the bed and stands between your legs. “Indeed, we should, wife. Lean back on the bed.”

When you lay back, Aemond lines himself up and slowly pushes his cock in. As you whine, feeling yourself being stretched around Aemond’s cock, Alys climbs onto the bed beside you and palms at your breasts. “In four moons, these will start to fill with milk to feed the prince’s babe. A healthy boy.”

The thought of you having heavy, swollen teats leaking with milk because of him causes Aemond to thrust into you faster. “You are mine to breed, and you’ll take my cock every night like a good wife until your stomach has swollen.”

“Day and night,” Alys giggles.

Feeling bold, you take one of Aemond’s hands, which is gripping your hip tightly, and bring it to your clit. Knowing what you want, he begins rubbing at it quickly. You didn’t want him to take pride in knowing how good he’s making you feel, so you latch your lips around Alys hard nipple to muffle your moans.

He groans, feeling you clench down on him. It doesn’t take Aemond much longer to spill his seed inside you, and even after he cums, his cock is still hard.

You remove your mouth from Alys breast. “Move up the bed.”

She does as you say, and you roll around on your stomach. Noticing Aemond’s clothes that have been tossed onto the floor, you bend down and retrieve his blade.

Alys stares at you wide-eyed when you spread her thighs open and use the blade to cut her small cloth off, then toss it back onto the floor. You had considered teasing her with the blade, but seeing the wet patch on the flimsy fabric covering her cunny, you decided to please her instead. You swipe your thumb through her folds, gathering wetness, before putting pressure on her clit. Arching your back, you look over your shoulder, hoping Aemond would have gotten the hint, but he looks lost in a trance, watching as your finger slides into the other woman with ease.

“Aemond…”

He takes the cue and slides his cock back inside you. His thrusts are rougher this time. You turn your attention back to Alys and start licking her clit while adding a second finger. Her soft moans encourage you to keep going, even after Aemond spills his seed inside you for a second time and makes you cum again with his fingers. You don’t stop sucking and licking at Alys clit until her thighs stop trembling.

You lean forward and rest your head on Alys soft breasts. Aemond slumps onto the bed, exhausted. He wraps his arm around your waist, holding you close. With one hand, you gently stroke the back of his long silver hair, and with the other, you run your thumb over Alys bottom lip.

“I believe in what you tell me.”

[flowerandblood]

The Fall from the Heavens (31)

[ canon • Aemond x Strong • niece female ]

[ warnings: sex content, sexual tension, smut, angst, swearing ]

[ description: A cool distance turns into friendship and more when two children see that they can find refuge and understanding in each other. However, naïve dreams collide with the reality in which every event has consequences and what once could have been love becomes a dark, newly painful obsession. Angst, sexual tension, obsession, violence, madness, very dark Aemond. ]

The story in this series is an alternate reality from the oneshot Stay and love, leave and die, in which Aemond reads the letters his niece has sent to him over the years. They are the same characters and it shows what would have happened between them − I have changed the background story from their childhood slightly for the sake of the plot.

Characters & Series Moodboard Lady Strong Moodboard Aemond & Lady Strong Moodboard Aemond & Lady Strong Childhood

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

She couldn't believe it, but the measter left her with no illusions − after weeks filled with fear and prayers, a miracle had happened and she was expecting a child.

She knew it was a blessing from the heavens, that some women waited months or even years for their offspring.

She thought with joy that it was a sign that the gods were supporting them and their cause.

That they also did not desire war.

It seemed to her that, despite everything that had happened, her mother was also reassured and pleased by this information − by the thought that perhaps she would give birth to a son who could be declared heir to the throne and bring a solution that would at least partially satisfy all sides.

The only person who was not pleased by this news was Jace. He was the only one not to congratulate her, and at the common table he pretended not to see her, speaking only to his betrothed.

She realised that their mother, while protecting him all her life, had at the same time weakened him, allowing him to remain immature deep inside while maintaining a semblance of masculinity.

She decided, however, that it no longer mattered.

She eagerly awaited her husband's return, wanting to convey this wonderful news to him in person − she wished to see his reaction and enjoy the moment with him. She gushed with delight when one morning her servant announced that a message had arrived from Harrenhal, hoping that she would read in it when she would see him again.

Her anger at him was now completely passed, replaced by longing and desire to be reunited.

She unrolled the parchment, chewing on the piece of bread she had just had in her mouth, and began to read.

I reached Harrenhal however, unfortunately, I found the fortress empty. Lord Strong escaped with several spies − we are still searching for them. In accordance with your will, I have spared Alys Rivers' life and locked her in her chamber. I cannot predict when I will be able to return to Dragonstone. I ask your forgiveness for not fulfilling my duty as your husband and not being by your side. Aemond

She swallowed hard, feeling a twinge of discomfort and grief in her guts at the thought that the matter was not yet closed and there was no way of knowing when it would be.

The thought of further separation devastated her.

This made her come up with an idea that her mother did not approve of.

"No. You are carrying your child inside you, I will not let you fly to Harrenhal. It's too dangerous." She communicated to her clearly, shaking her head.

She pressed her lips together at her words, feeling her heart pounding fast.

"The journey to Harrenhal is not long. Who would attack me in the sky? My husband has informed me that the fortress is empty. I will be safe there. He is there to prove his loyalty to me and you."

Daemon chuckled at her words, shifting from foot to foot, amused.

"He's fixing something he destroyed himself. If he had said what he knows instead of playing with us, I would have taken care of the matter myself, and Larys Strong's head would have greeted visitors to Harrenhal on a spike." He said coldly, staring at her expectantly. She looked at him in disbelief, wondering if this was what they were discussing then, on the seashore.

Daemon knew of what was about to happen to them and Aemond had thwarted his plans.

She swallowed hard at the thought.

"I…−"

"− I'll fly with you −" She heard Baela's voice and raised her gaze to her, surprised. Jace moved beside her uneasily.

"− what are you doing? −"

"− I've never seen Harrenhal − I'll make sure my cousin got there safely, rest a day or two in the fortress and return to Dragonstone −" Baela said without heeding her betrothed's impatient, furtive gaze.

Rhaenyra pressed her lips together, turning her head away, clearly frustrated that her daughter wanted to leave her family home, which she felt was the safest place possible for her.

"− if you lose this child −"

"− I won't lose it − I'll look out for myself − it'll be easier for me to calm down when I'm by his side knowing what's happening −" She explained, looking at her with a certainty from which her mother sighed heavily.

She and Baela set off before dawn the next day. Her mother hugged her tightly, tears in her eyes at the thought that her child was leaving her again.

"− watch out for yourself − you are my only daughter −" She muttered with regret and pulled away, placing a lingering, warm, tender motherly kiss on her forehead.

She glanced at Daemon, who stood in the distance − he was looking at her with his chin raised high, as proud and filled with mockery as always. He nodded as if he accepted her choice, the fact that she had done what he demanded.

She had made a manly decision with all its consequences.

She was her husband's wife.

Flying in the skies alongside Baela and Moondancer, she wondered why she had never done this before; her cousin's dragoness was as beautiful and agile as Larax, her scales shining wonderfully in the light of the rising sun.

She was grateful to Baela for offering to fly with her − her company calmed her and gave her strength, a sense that she wasn't treating her like a traitor, that she was trying to understand her and help her as much as she could.

She thought with pain that if she had opened her heart to her earlier, they would have been close friends for years.

She hoped in her mind that they would make up for lost time when at last the succession issue would be finally resolved.

When peace would reign.

The journey to Harrenhal on the dragon's back proved to be quick and pleasant − they landed just outside the fortress when the sun was already lazily rising in the sky.

She couldn't stop the wide smile that appeared on her face, the rapid pounding of her heart or the trembling of her hands as she slid from her saddle and saw her husband step out of the stronghold gates to meet them, looking at her from afar.

She felt what she had experienced when she saw him for the first time after eight years then, in the courtyard of the Red Keep, when he was duelling with Criston Cole.

She wanted to run to him, throw herself into his arms and whisper how much she missed him.

This time he didn't turn away, and she didn't hold back.

She laughed as she felt her legs begin to carry her forward on their own, her body filled with warm affection and emotion at the sight of his pain-filled disbelief.

As she fell into his arms, as she smelled his familiar scent again, she felt his hands catch her under her hips and lift her high. She threw her arms around his neck, her legs entwined around his waist as their lips came out to meet each other, locking in a sticky, messy, hot kiss from which they both sighed quietly.

She squirmed when she felt his tongue slide deep into her mouth, rubbing her palate, her walls clenched greedily as his throbbing manhood slapped against her lower abdomen, betraying how great his longing actually was.

She pulled away from him, breathing loudly as he did, wanting to look at him and noticed his hazy, dark gaze filled with desire, his lips, puffy from their caresses parted.

She sighed when his broad hand stroked her head and pressed her forehead against his, only to have their lips join again a moment later in a soft, warm kiss with a loud click of their saliva.

Only after a moment did she remember that she had not come alone.

She grunted quietly, pulling away from him − her husband glanced sideways and furrowed his brow, setting her back down on the ground, clearly unhappy with what he saw before him.

Their cousin stood a few steps behind her, smiling at her uncle with feigned affection and mockery, from which his lips pressed together in a thin line.

"Baela accompanied me on the journey for my safety. Mother did not want me to fly to Harrenhal alone." She said quickly, wanting to calm the situation and what was surely just going on inside his head.

She saw him glance at her quickly at her words, as if surprised. He hummed under his breath and nodded − his expression softened, as if he recognised that this was indeed the right decision.

"I am grateful to you for your sacrifice, cousin. I will order a chamber to be prepared for you." He announced coolly and matter-of-factly − their cousin nodded, still smiling.

She knew she was trying to bring him out of balance, but there was nothing she could do with it.

As one of the servants took Baela to her quarters, her husband looked at her and licked his lower lip with his tongue, as if he was thinking deeply about something.

"− I must speak to you in private −"

"− I need to speak to you too −" She said cheerfully.

She was so eager to share this joyful news with him.

She closed the door behind her as soon as they crossed the threshold of his chamber, ready to tell him, but he grabbed her violently by the shoulder and turned her towards him, slamming her back against the wall.

She squealed when his lips pressed against hers as if he wanted to devour her, his tongue invading deep into her throat with his loud sigh on the edge of pain and relief.

"− w-wait − uncle − I must −" She mumbled as his hand clamped down impatiently on her breasts and his hips began to rub against her stomach − his manhood was all hard and swollen beneath his breeches, and the very thought made her feel the wonderful, familiar wetness between her thighs.

"− were you touching yourself? −" He breathed out into her mouth, as if he was in amok and hadn't heard her words, his hands trailing from her hair, down her neck, to her breasts and buttocks, as if he couldn't decide what he wanted to feel more, what he longed for so much.

"− I − y-yes − gods, Aemond −" She gasped in pleasure as one of his hands slid deep between her thighs − his fingers dug into her womanhood hidden beneath the fabric of her breeches, teasing and squeezing it, making her nipples harden all over with desire.

Only a sigh escaped her lips as he turned her with her face against the wall, his moist tongue running over her thrill-warmed neck, his twitching cock pressed against the place between her buttocks.

"− me too − every day −" He hummed into her ear, untying her breeches with his long, nimble fingers − she involuntarily pressed her cheek against the wall understanding and desiring whatever was about to happen, her fleshy insides clenching desperately around nothing.

"− morning and evening − thinking of this tight little cunt −" He gasped with delight, running his fingertips over her soft, plushy folds as he spoke the words, satisfied apparently that she was completely ready for him.

"− as always sticky and warm for her husband − hm? −" He hummed, sliding her breeches down with a single, sure flick of his hand.

She swallowed hard, feeling her thighs and what was between them being enveloped by the cool air of the room, her heart thumping like mad as she heard him try to deal with the material of his garment behind her back, his hot breath teasing her neck again and again.

"− yes − ah −" She mumbled when she felt him grab her with his arm around her waist and pull her hips closer, forcing her to buck her buttocks and bend over.

Pathetic, helpless moan broke from her throat when she felt how swollen the head of his cock was, with what difficulty he tried to force it between her slick, hot, puffy walls.

"− fuck − fuck −" He exhaled, with impatient thrusts of his hips invading deeper and deeper into her warm core, spreading her open on his fat erection.

She gasped, clenching her eyes shut, trying to keep her balance by leaning against the wall in front of her and fit what he was trying to force into her − she thought in disbelief that it seemed more swollen to her than usual, she could feel exactly every vein of it rubbing again and again the wonderful spot inside her.

"− why is it − so big − o-oh, gods −" She mewled, moaning like a mere whore as he began to pound into her without any warning, opening her wide again and again on his throbbing cock with loud splats of his thighs against her buttocks.

She felt her wetness run down her thighs − she knew he had seen it because she heard his low groan of pleasure.

"− and what do you think − fuck, Rhaenys, I'm not going to pull it out of you tonight −" He breathed out, leaning forward, slamming into her again and again as brutally and quickly as if he'd lost his mind − he leaned one of his hands against the wall just above her head, the other clenching at the same time on her hip, forcing her to take what he was giving her.

She clenched her hands into fists, feeling the tickling, hot sensation building up in her lower abdomen at a startlingly rapid pace, her hips involuntarily beginning to respond to his thrusts, meeting him halfway, clenching around his manhood, refusing to let him go.

Her nipples swelled wonderfully as she felt him press his face against her hair, as if he was drawn to her scent, groaning and panting along with her, thrusting into her so fast and deep that he was hardly sliding out of her.

"− let me, Rhaenys − let me, let me, let me −" He uttered with a heavy breath, and she felt that it was over for her − her body shook with a wonderful, tickling shudder that she felt in her mouth, in her fingertips, in her nipples and in her weeping cunt, which began to suck him inside her in an fulfilment so strong that for a moment she saw darkness before her eyes. She heard his surprised gasp of pleasure, followed by his loud sigh of relief.

She felt his hot seed fill her womb again, his hips rocking inside her for a moment longer, his face pressed into her neck, as if he wanted to prolong this wonderful moment.

They both couldn't catch their breath, panting and quivering, his arms wrapped tightly around her waist, keeping her from slipping to the stone floor.

"− Rhaenys −" He whispered, and she sighed quietly, smiling involuntarily, tired and fulfilled.

"− hm? −"

"− stay wtih me −"

She swallowed hard and pressed her lips together into a thin line, for some reason feeling a squeeze in her throat, a wonderful elation at the thought that he craved her presence so much, that he missed her as much as she missed him.

"− I will, my love −" She hummed and heard him sigh in relief, his lips placing a soft, warm kiss on her neck.

"− what did you want to convey to me? − your mother has another condition? −" He asked reluctantly, as if he didn't want to bother himself with this topic, having her at his fingertips again. She smiled at his question, placing her hand on his arm, with which he embraced her at the waist.

Her heart sang with joy.

"− I'm carrying your child −"

She felt him freeze behind her, his breath caught in his throat.

"− what? −" He muttered, as if he thought he had overheard himself and needed her to say those wonderful words again.

She smiled under her breath feeling that, for the first time in months, happiness and hope filled her. With a soft movement, she grabbed his wrist and gently placed his hand on her lower abdomen, pressing it against her bare skin. She heard him swallow loudly, taken aback in disbelief.

"− you're going to be a father, uncle −" She hummed, turning to face him over her shoulder − her breath caught in her throat when she heard him laugh.

It was not a mocking or cold sound, more an expression of joyful disbelief, there was a warmth and happiness in his gaze from which she felt moved.

She felt the tips of his fingertips dig into the soft skin of her stomach, his lips found hers in a greedy, wet, deep kiss, his half-soft manhood pulsed deep inside her again.

"− Rhaenys − oh gods − this must be a dream −" He breathed out into her mouth, slipping his slick tongue deep into her throat, panting with delight − her walls squeezed him tight with pleasure as she felt him involuntarily begin to root into her again with the tentative, soft thrusts of his hips.

"− then it is a good dream −" She whispered tenderly into his mouth and he murmured loudly, saying no more.

This time, knowing she was expecting his child, he took her to his bed, wanting to look at her face and what he was doing to her, panting into her mouth at how much she pleased him, how well she did, already carrying his offspring in her womb.

He pulled their garments off of them, ripping his eye patch from his face, wanting to be vulnerable with her, wanting to be exposed with her.

She knew what she was to him at that moment.

A dragon egg that had cracked.

As his swollen manhood pushed against her moist slit again, he slid into her with ease, slowly and unhurriedly this time, merely rocking his hips back and forth inside her, making her lips part in delight at how gentle and tender the experience was.

His cheek snuggled into her hair and his face sank into the pillow under her head as if he didn't want her to see the expression on his face, how much pleasure he was getting from this soft intimacy.

They both moaned shyly as he slowly began to accelerate his pace, each time slapping his bare skin against her buttocks − her lips placed soft, butterfly kisses on his bare shoulder and neck, her hands ran down his back and buttocks making his soaked cock pulsate impatiently deep inside her.

"− I've missed you −" She whispered, answered by his low sigh, his hand blindly finding her breast and squeezing it lightly, as if the sensation of that plump, soft structure under his fingers gave him a sense of security and reassured him.

"− me too −" He muttered so quietly that she barely heard him, a lazy smile filled with happiness spread across her face as she closed her eyes and let herself drift off.

When it was all over, her husband, all breathless and sweaty, laid his head on her womb, facing her, looking down at her belly, running the tips of his fingers over it as if he was thinking about what was hiding under her skin.

"− how did you find out? − are you absolutely sure? −" He whispered, as if doubts were beginning to invade him, as if he feared it was too beautiful to be true. She sighed quietly at his words, the smile never leaving her face.

"− I fainted and was examined by the maester − I am sure −"

At her words her uncle furrowed his brow, raising the gaze of his healthy eye at her, his sapphire shone dangerously in the sunlight.

"− you fainted? −"

"− yes − I despaired because I didn't know when or if I would see you again −" She mumbled in embarrassment, combing his long, snow-white hair with her fingers. He closed his eye and murmured contentedly, opening his eyelid again after a moment.

"− if you had only written to me − I would have flown to Dragonstone immediately −"

"− I was afraid my message would fall into the wrong hands − I didn't want to take the risk −"

Her husband hummed at her words.

"− wise girl −"

She smiled, letting him place a warm, moist kiss on the skin of her lower abdomen.

"− I have a gift for you −" He murmured, running his fingers over the hot skin of her stomach. She looked at him, surprised, her heart beating harder in excitement.

"What's it?" She asked, curious.

"I give Harrenhal into your possession. I hand it over to you in my letter, which I have already sent to King's Landing. The fortress is your property until your death. It will then fall as a inheritance to our offspring."

She blinked, twisting in her place, looking at him in disbelief. Seeing that he grinned, she covered her mouth and giggled like a little girl, unable to contain the joy and warmth that spread through her body.

"Do you mean it?" She mumbled, unable to believe that he could do such a thing without consulting his brother and mother.

That he had made this decision alone.

Her husband hummed under his breath, trailing his fingers from her lower abdomen to her chest making goosebumps appear in the places he ran over her bare skin.

"You are your father's daughter. This is your legacy." He replied, his wide hand stroking her belly with a tenderness from which shivers ran through her.

"And my brothers?" She muttered, reminding herself that, after all, her father, although she didn't know him very well, had sons too. Her uncle smirked at her in a way that was disturbing, to say the least.

"I don't give a shit about your brothers." He sneered, making her swallow hard, wrinkling her eyebrows but unable to hide the smile of amusement from which his face lit up.

"You're cruel." She mumbled, stroking his hand lying on her womb with her fingers, softening her words and their overtones in the process. Her husband snorted at her words.

"I am. I am a walking cruelty." He whispered maliciously before he lifted himself on his hands, moving towards her, leaning over her face − his tongue invaded deep between her lips with his hum as his mouth pressed against hers in a loud, sticky, messy kiss.

She squirmed as his fingers slid from her womb between her thighs, warningly beginning to tease and squeeze her sore bud, puffy from earlier caresses and fulfillments.

"− uncle −" She mewled weakly into his mouth, feeling the wonderful tickle in her lower abdomen again, tentatively parting her thighs apart, his half-hard erection slapping impatiently against her belly, demanding her attention.

"− I warned you −" He exhaled, shifting the weight of his body to his elbow, spreading her legs apart with his knee. "− open −"

She obeyed his command obediently and whimpered loudly with exertion as she felt him try to force his long, throbbing manhood into her again with the impatient thrust of his hips.

She threw her head back as he finally broke between her oversensitive, swollen walls, pulsing around him in panic, her short nails digging into the sweaty skin of his back as he began to sink into her again, panting with pleasure.

She felt her moisture mingled with his seed ran down her buttocks.

"− too much −" She mumbled out, moaning each time he teased the sore, swollen spot deep inside her again, trying to pull out of him at the same time and bucking her hips in response to his thrusts, feeling both the discomfort and the wonderful, tickling pleasure shaking her body.

"− shhh − I know − we'll take it slow − there's no reason to rush −" He whispered tenderly, placing comforting, soft, warm kisses on her face, leaning on one forearm, his other hand stroking her effort-warmed cheek, as if trying to give her reassurance.

"− I warned you − I warned you that I wouldn't pull it out of you today − didn't I? − is your husband lying? −" He cooed, as if he were speaking to a small, frightened child. She shook her head, struggling to fit him deep inside her again and again, feeling his thighs hit her buttocks with loud splats of their shared wetness.

"− n-no − no, husband −" She mumbled, looking up at him pleadingly, running her hand over his scarred cheek, her puffy lips parted in heavy breaths. He gasped with satisfaction at her words, pressing his forehead against hers, with slow, deep thrusts making his way to his next fulfilment.

"− just like that − let me do my duty to my wife − as many times − ah − as necessary −" He exhaled, quickening his pace, swollen and already completely hard deep inside her, slamming into her with greedy, sure thrusts from which she felt like she was losing touch with reality, the chamber around them, the bed she lay on seemed blurred to her, she could only smell his scent, only feel the strong grip of his hands.

"− g-gods, Aemond −’" She mumbled out, feeling the way his bare chest pressed against hers with his low groan of satisfaction, her nipples rubbing against his exposed skin with his every push making his cock pulsate aggressively inside her with pleasure, intensifying her sensation.

She gasped when she felt him grab her thigh and lift her leg higher, putting her knee on his shoulder, pulling her closer to him.

"− uncle, what are you − o-oh, fuck, uncle, uncle, uncle, uncle −" She whined out, tilting her head back with her lips parted in disbelief, her eyes closed with her loud, shameless moans as she felt him like never before, his entire length pressing wonderfully against a place inside her with each of his thrusts, from which her body quivered all over with pleasure, writhing before him.

Nothing more than a babble and a plea left her lips as he watched her in awe, not slowing his pace, placing hot, sticky kisses on her knee, stroking her thigh with his wide hand, panting loudly along with her.

Something like a smirk of satisfaction flashed across his face as she threw her other leg over his shoulder on the other side of his head, his body leaning over her in such a way that she could in no way escape his brutal thrusts, which again and again teased the intensely oversensitive spot inside her.

"− I can't − I can't, I can't, I can't, I can't, p-please −" She cried out, but her husband didn't stop, bringing her to a state where pleasure different than usual took her speechless − she felt a sudden, wonderful relief, her walls began to squeeze and suck him inside her, she heard him hiss quietly, clearly feeling what she was feeling.

He groaned low as he came a moment later, clenching his eye, panting hard and swallowing loudly as he looked down at the sheets beneath them, under which a huge wet spot had formed.

"− did I hurt you? or the baby? −" He exhaled horrified, thinking that perhaps she had miscarried due to his brutal treatment, however there was no blood after all. She shook her head, rising on her elbow, struggling to collect her thoughts, panting loudly, her body quivering all over.

"− no − b-but − this time − it was different − I mean − my fulfilment was different − and then I felt...this −" She muttered in shame, feeling that her whole buttocks were wet. Her uncle swallowed hard at her words, embarrassed, his lips tightened into a thin line as he looked at their sticky bodies.

"− I − I think I read about it − in one of the books −" He said uncertainly and grunted softly, sliding out of her gently with a click of their shared wetness. She hissed quietly, pulling away and noticed a large, colourless stain under her buttocks, as if someone had poured water there.

"− the maester wrote in it that a woman is also able to − well − come as well as a man if she is properly… teased inside −" He hummed, licking his lower lip involuntarily, looking at the stain beneath them as if he was proud of his achievement.

She raised her eyebrows in amusement and giggled involuntarily, feeling some kind of relief.

"− what kind of books do you read, uncle? − what would your mother and Ser Criston say? −" She sneered, smiling broadly. Her husband threw her a frustrated look, which however softened after a moment, his grimace turning into a mischievous smirk.

"− in the same book I also read about this position − after I became your husband I began to delve into the mysteries of these…sensations − what else can I do with you −" He murmured, running his index finger along her thigh, a glint of satisfaction and contentment in his eye from which she sighed heavily.

She leaned back and made herself comfortable on the bedding, shifting her body closer to him so that she wasn't lying on a wet spot. Her uncle leaned on his elbow, watching her intently in silence − they stared at each other for a moment, with only the rustle of leaves and birdsong outside the open window around them.

"− I'd like to rest now −" She muttered, running her knuckles over his bare chest. Her husband hummed quietly under his breath and nodded, his broad hand stroking her head.

"− sleep − rest after the journey −" He murmured, combing his fingers through her hair the way he had when they were children. She closed her eyes and purred softly when she felt him lay his head beside her, his gaze on her face, his warm breath enveloping her cheek as his free hand covered their naked bodies with warm furs.

"− do not fret − your husband is by your side now −"

_____

Author note: Those who were to know know. I promised you, didn't I? Hehehe. 👀👀👀👀👀

[ryescapades]

❝ [ say (no?) yes! ] ╰┈➤ of the same thread (kaiju no. 8)

— v. to love is to fight.

genre/warning: narumi gen x lil sis!reader, bf!hoshina, slight angst, hurt/comfort, mention of injuries and blood, fluff, a bit of goofiness in the end, some canon-divergence plot, lots of time skips/scene changes(?)

a/n: pls accept this as my apology for that previous part kwkjdsfds also i listened to jk's stay alive while writing the first half of this. really loike the vibes :>

2.9k wc | mini series masterlist

in all his life, narumi gen has always believed in luck.

it was luck that he was still alive after everything he used to call home was razed to the ground. it was luck that he even got transferred to an orphanage. it was luck that they noticed his achievements despite not acknowledging his hard work. it was luck that he was born with such tremendous power to kill a kaiju without any training whatsoever. it was luck that shinomiya isao had decided to take him— and you— in to become soldiers.

"captain narumi, sir! apologies, but... i'm here to report about your sister,"

and it was the absence of luck that separated you and him. narumi was angry— furious, even. why did it have to be you? out of all the possible outcomes, why did it have to be his sister's life being taken away from him?

he's angry at that godforsaken kaiju for killing you, at hoshina for not protecting you when narumi himself couldn't, at you for being too selfless and wanting to save those reckless children, at the world for taking away one of the extremely few good things in his life, at himself for being so helpless.

the hollow, aching misery bemoaned in his chest as he quietly carried your limp body into the mobile medical unit. he didn’t even bother to stay in the vehicle. narumi knew a certain vice-captain would do so in his stead anyway. too consumed by his grief, he went to take out his anger on the last few monsters.

they did not stand a chance against him. not when he was feeling so much, grieving so much. at the end of it, only dust, corpses, blood, the smell of rotten flesh and gunpowder and his own sorrow remained.

"y/n-san, she—"

but this... this was no luck. it was a miracle.

"she survived, captain! your sister is alive!"

narumi didn't care whatever gods existed up there but he has never prayed his gratitude this much ever.

he pauses in his steps, knees almost buckling as his heart pounds wildly behind his ribcage. placing a finger on his earpiece, he finally speaks for the first time in the last few agonizing hours, "where's she now?"

∘₊✧─────────────✧₊∘

through the clear glass, narumi studies your lifeless figure laying in the hospital bed, an oxygen mask worn with various needles, wires and tubes connected to your once battered body.

"vice-captain hoshina detected a minimal chest movement a few hours after her heart stopped beating. we believe it was the work of her remaining unleashed force that had pushed her suit to carry out the resuscitation. she was immediately rushed to the nearest med-bay after that and was transferred here as soon as her condition was stabilized there." the military doctor beside him explains.

"she's in a comatose right now, but i have full confidence she will wake up soon, captain. and when she does, i assure you that you'll be the first to know. she's your sister, it's only natural that she's also a real strong fighter. just like you, sir."

and now, it's been weeks since that.

narumi, amidst his busy schedule of attending meetings, finishing his reports, training and carrying out missions, has been visiting you as much as he possibly could.

he'd just sit there beside your bed, listening to the stable beep of the heart monitor and switching between playing games on his switch, or resting with his back hunched, his arms acting as his pillow or staring at you with an undecipherable look on his face before grumbling at you to better wake your ass up right now, you brat.

he sort of never said anything other than that, really. because he knows hoshina has been coming to the hospital to see you as well from the amount of your favourite flowers he keeps seeing on the nightstand in your hospital ward, and your boyfriend's the one who has been doing all the talking.

guess narumi can cut you some slack by not annoying you while you sleep (he doesn't know you’ve only ever found your brother to be annoying, albeit in a fond way, but never hoshina).

∘₊✧─────────────✧₊∘

...

it's dark.

it’s deadly silent.

you feel like you were drowning in murky waters. deep, deep, deep down at the bottom of it. you hear voices too. they all sound familiar, but you could never place a finger on which one is whose.

it's been like this for god knows how long. weeks? months? it felt like years, even. but all you know is that you've been trying to escape from this darkness since then. were you really dead?

you remembered the kaiju, the excruciating pain from that fatal blow on your vital area, the expression on your boyfriend's face and the trembling of your brother's hands, the warmth of his tears on your skin.

how long has it been since you last saw gen cry, you wonder. or was that the first time? but one thing for sure, you never wanted to see him like that again. you never wanted him to be sad, ever. as the strongest, gen has shouldered enough burdens of the people to be in such a state. he deserves everything that is good in this world. if it were up to you, you'd have given him the whole universe itself.

and soshiro— oh, your beloved soshiro. in a room full of all kinds of living souls, you'd always choose him every single time. no one has ever made you feel so loved, so appreciated, so seen. every second you've spent merely thinking about him is a testament to how intensely you hold him dear to your heart. you would've devoted your whole life just cherishing him, if only he'd asked for it.

so why are you here, trapped and stuck in this endless gloom when you should be there with the most important people in your life?

stay alive, stay alive, stay alive, your mind chants repeatedly, like a desperate, haunting piece of a broken record.

and you did. you stayed alive.

∘₊✧─────────────✧₊∘

hoshina's body jerks up.

he doesn't know if he's hallucinating or not— he can't even recall when was the last time he's had a proper sleep— because he swears your finger had twitched just a second ago.

straightening up from his position on the chair beside your bed, hoshina gently grabs your hand, holding it in both of his own. he calls out your name hesitantly, wanting to confirm whether you really did move just now or was it all in his head.

his heartrate quickens when he finally feels it, another twitch of your finger. "y/n, dear, i'm here. can ya hear me?" his grip on your hand tightens slightly, hoping that he could urge you to make any form of a reply.

a dull silence greets him.

"y/n?" he tries again, but no response. you're still there, all stillness and tranquility in your sleep.

his shoulder drops, head hanging low as he clenches his jaw with a heavy heart, disappointment settling deep in his gut. he's in the middle of slowly letting go of your hand to put it back where it rested on your blanket-covered body when a faint, breathy voice enters his ears.

"s-soshiro...?"

hoshina has never snaps his head up so fast in his life but when the sight of your eyelashes fluttering, eyelids heavy but they're opening to reveal that pair of eyes he's always been drawn to, and they're meeting his own brightening irises, he doesn't care how many whiplashes he gets.

because you're finally waking up.

the violet-haired man rushes to the intercom system nearby, "call for captain narumi. now! officer y/n is awake," he orders, not bothering to wait for a reply from the other side before he turns back to you.

panic surges through him when he sees you already trying to sit up. "hey, hey, slow down, sweetheart. why dont'cha take it easy, hm?" he says, helping you maneuver yourself into a sitting position, back against the pillows. once seated, he stares at your steady form on the bed, mouth opening and closing as if in disbelief.

“i...“

"you're crying," your first whispered statement snaps him out of his daze, startling him with the realization that he is, in fact, crying. bringing his hand up to wipe away the tears, he can't even bring himself to stop the small sniffle that comes out of him.

your lidded eyes soften. "come here," you croak, a hand weakly reaching up to motion him into a hug. your boyfriend complies without a word, his arms carefully wrapping around you to hold you close.

"you're here... gods, you're here. i'm so glad you're back, baby, you—" his throat constricts from the emotions he tries to hold in. hoshina buries his nose into the crook of your neck, indulging himself in your scent and brushing a few kisses on your skin. you freely bask in his affection, noting the tinges of happiness, relief, concern and regret, all in one from the hug alone.

suddenly, the door opens and you can't help the frown on your face when he eventually pulls away. you both turn your heads, seeing your appointed doctor walking in with a clipboard in his hand.

after a few minutes of checking up and getting you up to date with everything that has happened, the doctor deems you safe to be discharged in a few days, though you're not allowed to do any heavy work yet lest you put a strain on your body. the injuries you've suffered were way too detrimental to be taken lightly, even when you've recovered.

your boyfriend is back at your side the second you two are alone again. he sits quietly, holding your hand in his with his thumb tracing back and forth on your knuckles.

"i'm sorry," he mutters, voice low with a hint of remorse. you tilt your head to the side. "what for?" you ask, confused. you almost, almost pull your blankets away and lunging at him for another hug when hoshina looks up at you with such anguish in his eyes.

"if i had been there earlier, you wouldn't have been in this situation," he says, causing your breathing to pause for a second. has he been feeling like this the whole time you were asleep? who the heck put that absurd idea in his head?

"no, it's not your fault, soshiro. it never will be. it was my action, and it's a consequence i bear on my own. don't ever put yourself to blame for what i did," you press, gripping tight on his hand.

"but you almost died, y/n. i could've lost ya, i swear to god i'd never forgive myself if that ever happens. narumi was right, my sector was so much closer to yours. it was my fault, i could've reached there faster, could've saved ya from that kaiju and—"

you don't let him finish, grabbing his face to crash your lips against his in a desperate attempt to stop his rambling. his hand goes to your neck to keep you in place, your lips melding perfectly with his like they were meant to be. his body shudders with both regret and passion.

a ragged sigh then leaves him when you pull away. "i love you, soshiro but shut up, please. it hurts me when you keep blaming yourself for something that was out of your control... also, remind me to smack the hell out of my brother when i see him later," you murmur, planting a few tender pecks on his lips as reassurance.

he rests his head against yours as a comfortable silence envelops you both. hoshina's head is muddled with too many thoughts, but one thing is clear. so clear he straight away voices it out loud.

"marry me," he rasps, so lowly you almost didn't hear it.

your eyes widen, pulling back a little to look at him properly with shock evident on your face. "...come again?" you gape. the love of your life stands his ground, crimson eyes sharp and gaze transparent as he repeats, this time louder and clearer for you to hear.

"i know this isn't exactly a good place, nor it is a good time for it. but i can't bear to see ya like this again, love. i can't bear the thought of losing ya while knowing i could've done so much more to make you happier, safer. i've long sworn to myself that if i was to die one day, i would go down with my soul completely bound to yours, y/n," he vows.

your eyes glisten, the words stuck in your throat as you try to get them out. you've wanted this for so long, wanted him for much longer. only god knows how many nights you've spent hesitating to bring up such heartfelt topics with your soshiro, afraid that it would never work out, that it could only stay as a pipe dream, nothing more. and so, you utter out the one and only answer you would ever give.

"yes!" "no!"

hoshina falters. "wait, what?"

you also falter. "...what?"

instinct tugs at the both of you, causing you to swivel your heads towards the entrance of the ward.

and there your brother stands hunches, breathing heavily with his hands braced on his knees as if he had ran a marathon just to get here (he certainly did). your eyes widen at the sight of him just as narumi wheezes before lifting his head to glare at the other man in the room.

"i said no, you dumbass!" he snaps at hoshina, causing the vice-captain to frown. "captain narumi, glad to see you're finally here," he trails off, glancing at you.

this time, you don't pay your boyfriend any mind as you call for gen, voice small and timid like you were back to your child self crying out for her big brother.

"nii-chan..."

that is all narumi needed to hear before he dashes for you, pulling you into a bone-crushing hug.

"i'm here, kiddo. you're okay, you're fine," he mumbles into the side of your head, stroking your hair as you bury your face in his chest, clinging onto him like he’s your very own lifeline. just as you were his.

hoshina smiles at the side, looking away to give you two some semblance of privacy.

you don't know how long you stay in your brother's arms but when you move to pull away, you can't help the next words that come out. "i still wanna marry soshiro, though," you mutter and just like that, the bittersweet and wistful atmosphere comes crashing down.

narumi freezes, and hoshina suppresses his growing simper, which doesn't go unnoticed by the former. "the hell you're smiling at, you bastard?! did you threaten her or something?" he sneers before turning to you. "y/n!! listen here, did he do anything to you? drugged you to say yes??? this place has a lot of that shit, after all. i swear to god if he so much as touches you, i will—"

you sigh exasperatedly. "he didn't. none of those things whatsoever. you're being overdramatic, gen. besides, did you say to soshiro that whatever happened to me was his fault?" you narrow your eyes at him.

narumi immediately scowls, throwing a dirty look at your boyfriend while avoiding your eyes at the same time. "fucking snitch," he hisses. hoshina only rolls his eyes before approaching you, not caring that he's deliberately pushing narumi to the side.

your brother's offended squawk is lost to the wind as hoshina dives in, giving you a chaste kiss on your lips. "thank you for making me the happiest man alive. love ya, baby," he quietly whispers. you hum lovingly, reciprocating your own words of affection against his lips.

the both of you completely ignore the obnoxious vomiting noises from somewhere in the room, too lost in each other’s touch.

narumi exaggeratedly trembles in disgust, "someone needs to pay me for all the times i've had to watch some lowlife with a stupid bowl-cut freaking demolish my sister's face.”

"and someone needs to pay me more for having to deal with your ass every single day. you almost made me crash the car so many times on the way here, narumi." the first division's vice-captain makes his appearance, his figure towering at the doorway.

your brother startles before he turns his head, "hasegawa?! you're supposed to wait at the reception! i told you not to come up!"

your brows furrow in aggravate. "i'm confiscating your console for that, gen." you state, knowing he definitely has the device right now in his uniform somewhere. narumi snaps his head back towards you with a glare.

"what was that? who gives you the right, huh? i could steal all your meals later and the doctor wouldn't even notice," he challenges, harshly whispering the last part as to not let the other two men in the room to hear.

with crossed arms, you throw him a smirk. "considering i'm still a patient here, shouldn't you be treating me properly? like how a big brother should?" you drawl out patronizingly.

"oh yeah? how about you watch this big brother sock you in the face—"

hoshina sighs. "hasegawa-san, i think we should get outta here,"

"you're right. i guess i can send officer y/n a proper regard at another time as i have other matters to attend to. narumi can find his way back on his own."

don't we all love a silly happy ending

--

©🅁🅈🄴🅂🄲🄰🄿🄰🄳🄴🅂. do not steal, translate or repost my work anywhere else !

[mondothebombo]

✨Small Canon Things in Ninjago That Aren’t Necessarily Important to the Plot, but Important to Me Pt 2✨

(in honor of the first post reaching 2.5k notes)

1. the reason the ninja can’t summon their elemental dragons anymore is bc they’re too traumatized

2. Kai takes laxatives

3. Lloyd felt responsible for Nya’s sacrifice

4. Morro took a shot while he was in Lloyd’s body

5. Cole’s favorite color is orange

6. Chamille, the master of form, is a “bad girl” post s4

7. the ninja were literal children when they waltzed into Chen’s tournament and proceeded to beat all the adult EMs in the competition

8. prior to seabound, Nya resented her parents for not being there in her childhood, her mother more so than her father (✨mommy issues✨)

9. Nya is hyper-independent as a result of her childhood; while Kai is more openly accepting to his parents because he has a better memory of them

10. Wu was close enough with Lilly that he could remember whether or not she wore a necklace

11. Cliff Gordon was a “womanizer”

12. Lloyd didn’t naturally hit puberty until s8

13. Cole and Jay are best friends

14. whether or not you see Pixane as a bf/gf situation in canon, they are canonically soulmates

15. Jay has not yet received his inheritance letter

16. at least up until the Merge, Zane’s statue is still in downtown Ninjago City

17. ninjago citizens are fully aware their only protection are six super-powered teens/young adults

18. the ninja are still famous, public figures

19. Jay is the only ninja who hasn’t died (yet)

20. despite being a terrible actor, Lloyd is always sent on the undercover missions

21. the ninja are on first name basis with each others parents

22. Cole’s favorite genre of music is soft rock

23. Zane has selective memory

24. after Nya’s sacrifice, each ninja depicted a different stage of grief (Zane-Denial, Kai-Anger, Lloyd-Depression, Jay-Bargaining, and Cole-Acceptance)

25. Cole never actually had feelings for Nya, he was just flattered by the attention and petty about Jay being mad at him

26. elements react based on the master’s emotions

27. Jay is so emotionally dependent on being around other people that he loses his mind when he’s alone for too long

28. Lloyd had a chat with god and wasn’t impressed

29. Cole’s snoring can be heard throughout the monastery

30. Nya is not a morning person

31. Kai and Skylor have been in a situationship since s4

32. Lloyd being the grandson of god is not common knowledge

33. the group of civilians that were on the bounty when Cole fell are probably the only ones who truly realize the danger the ninja put themselves in on the regular to protect the city, and how close they are with each other

34. Wu didn’t want to tell the ninja about the green ninja prophecy because he was afraid of having a repeat of Morro

35. since s8 at the very least, the ninja all shared a room on the bounty until the monastery was rebuilt

36. Jay’s confidence in his own abilities fully depends on what others believe he’s capable of

37. several villains have called the ninja out on being “just a bunch of kids,” and then proceeded to get their shit rocked by said kids

38. the overlord can gloat to Lloyd all he wants to in crystallized, but fact of the matter is Lloyd defeated him when he was like twelve

39. Kai and Nya raised and took care of each other, it wasn’t just Kai doing all of the work

40. Kai is two years older than Nya

41. Zane’s biggest fear is losing his humanity

42. Lloyd’s biggest fear is becoming his father

43. Nya’s biggest fear is losing her individuality

44. Cole’s biggest fear is letting his family down

45. we the audience are the only ones who see the characters as legos; they’re real people in-universe

46. Kai likes spicy food

47. while elemental masters are immune to their elements to some extent, their elements can also be shown to hurt them in some circumstances

and as always, feel free to add on!!

[blueberry-rose]

Hello!!! It's nice to see new genshin wlw writers!!! I have a request, feel free to take creative liberties with it. Can I have a Harbinger! Reader x Arlecchino, where basically Arlecchino shadows reader to learn from about harbinger duties and responsibilities? The more they're together the more they like and fall for each other.

I struggled a bit on how to write this so I hope you enjoy it.

Arlecchino x harbinger!reader

Arlecchino is 19 at the start of this. Your age is not mentioned but you’re implied to be a little older. Mentions of alcohol.I might have made Arlecchino an angsty teen (but let’s be honest who wasn’t an angsty teen)but the fic is has a two year time skip.

You’re a harbinger and the new fourth harbinger has been assigned to shadow you. She’s so young no older than 20. She was pardoned not even a week ago and already a harbinger. You haven’t been a harbinger for long but you had to work for years to become one. And here’s the new big shot, a criminal turned harbinger.

You got dragged out of your thoughts when your door opened. You set your work down, looking up. She stood there. Her hair was too her shoulders clearly hasn’t been cut in a while, she just got out of jail what did you expect. She wore a suit. “So you’re the new harbinger?” You gathered your work up. Putting it in your drawer.

“Yes.” She had no emotion in her voice. God it was true Crucabena was a monster, you heard rumors about it, but you thought it was over exaggerated. But the look of this girl, it’s clear it’s true, sure she was good at hiding it but you could tell she looked like her whole world has been destroyed. Her voice rang out again dragging you from your thoughts a second time. “my name is Peruer- I mean Arlecchino.”

You laughed. “Not used to the new name? Don’t worry it took me a while too. I’ve read your file, you were raised in the house of hearth. Now you are the knave, and moth-“ she cut you off.

“I’m the father. The title mother died with that woman.” You saw the blacken part on her arms to rise slightly.

“Father? Ok, ok sorry, that woman was a horrible person. But most of us are. You will have to control that anger and curse of yours.” Her fists unclench her face going blank again. You sighed. “I’ll be honest with you harbinger work is not as fun as it seems. We do paperwork I lot, we do get the most important missions. But we usually delegate the work. And if you need anything you can ask me. Now come here I’ll show you most of the work we tend to do.” She walked to your side and watched you. You went on explaining how to delegate work and getting to know your agents to make sure they can handle the work. “Now I do actually have a mission we have to do, it’s nothing too much but it’s something.”

Arlecchino followed you she’s not much younger than you but it’s clear she’s used to shutting up and doing what she’s told. “you can talk, I don’t care if you have questions. You are here to learn not to just mindlessly follow orders,”

“I don’t do small talk, not after her.” Arlecchino clearly doesn’t like talking all that much.

“Her?” It was clear she peaked your interest. Her eyes widened slightly. “Was it a girlfriend?”

“No.” She said it coldly. “She was just my best friend.”

“Did she die, was it the former knave’s fault?” You wanted this woman to open up a bit. Getting to know her was a need.

“Yes, she’s dead, but her death wasn’t that woman’s fault entirely. I killed her.” Her eyes looked dead, it was heartbreaking.

“Oh,” you didn’t know what to say. “Why?”

“Why? Because that woman that I called mother found a it funny to force children to fight to the death.”

“What?” She- she. That bitch. children?” You were surprised this was monstrous. “I’m sorry it must have been hard. Living like that.”

“she impaled herself on my sword. She was mother’s own flesh and blood.” She said all of this with a straight face. Nothing.

“I’m sorry,” you put your hand on her shoulder she tensed, it was clear that she’s been abused. “You don’t have to worry about the old mother. You’re the father of the house now, you can create a new beginning. For the new children as well as the ones that survived her. And rest assured that I will be there if you ever need help.”

She looked at you pushing your hand off her shoulder, it wasn’t hard she just grabbed your hand to took it off. “Alright. I’ll be sure to keep that in mind”

It was like this for a while, she shadowed you for a month before she was allow on her own. You could see her slowly piece her mask together. She was gracefully, and calm. Seeming to be uncaring. You knew better though she seemed to trust you. She comes by your office every once in a while. It’s been about two years since she became a harbinger. And you two ended up on a mission together. It wasn’t hard pretty easy in fact you barely did anything.

“It was nice working with you again, it reminded me of when I was shadowing you.” You smiled at her as she talked.

“You were still piecing together your mask. I think I’m the only one that knows about how angry you were when you got out of prison.”

“I was still a child. I couldn’t help but get mad.”

“Child? you were like 20”

“19 actually, I’m 21 now”

“Oh, a year off forgive me.” You were messing with her. When she stopped suddenly. “Arlecchino?” You looked back at her.

“You’re important to me. You know that right?” You felt your face heat up, Arlecchino’s changed a lot from when you first met her. She was angry, and a reckless teenager, now she was a graceful and calculated woman. “Be ready at 8 pm tonight I’m taking you somewhere fancy to thank you for everything.”

“You don’t have to do that. I swear”

“It’s to late I already have a reservation. Do not keep me waiting.” She walked forward. You walked along side her.

“You don’t take no for an answer do you?” You teased her

“You didn’t say no technically. But no I am taking you to dinner tonight.” She looked at you her Crimson x’s burning into you.

“Alright, alright. I’ll go to dinner with you. Fancy you say?”

“Yes I’m taking you to a fancy restaurant, it’s the least I can do, you’ve always did whatever you could to help me and the house. It means a lot to me.”

It was 6:30 when you got home. Arlecchino’s taking you to dinner. You barely had enough time to get ready in fact you barely put on your shoes when you heard her knock. “Come in” you touched up your lipstick as she opened the door.

“Are you ready?” She walked into your room, archons she was beautiful, her once short hair now reached her butt, pulled into a low ponytail. She was wearing her normal suit. While you were all dolled up, in a full face of makeup, your hair curled, a long skintight black dress, black heals and a silver clutch. “Well look at you all dressed up.”

“You told me we are going somewhere fancy. So I dressed up.” You were blushing slightly, Arlecchino is so much taller the you and the way she was leaning on the doorframe had you melting. You forgot when you started to like her, but you never did anything you know she’s not one to form relations. Your relationship with her was purely based on work.

“You look beautiful, truly” there you go again your face is definitely super red. Arlecchino grabbed your hand and pulled to to follow her, you did of course,

“You’re not one to dish out compliments.” You giggled a bit.

“Then you should know I’m being sincere” she didn’t let go of your hand, she held it all the way to the restaurant. She only let go when you were sat, in a private little corner. “Go ahead and pick out anything you want, I’m paying after all” you looked at the menu. Everything was pretty pricey, now with you being a harbinger the price would be no problem but still you live way below your means. So going to fancy places isn’t something you do often.

“I’ll just have the steak.”

“I’ll order the same then” after a bit the waiter arrived.

“What would you like to drink, ladies?

“Just get us on red wine,” the waiter nodded before hurrying off. And coming back with the wine. Pouring two cups of wine, Arlecchino took a sip of wine.

“So why did you wish to take me to a restaurant? Especially such a fancy one?”

“Am I not allowed to treat my closest confidant.” She raised her eyes brow at you, her expression barely changing but enough for you to notice.

“I’m not saying that, it’s just” you sighed. “You treat me so differently from everyone else”

“Well maybe that’s because I think of you differently.” She grabbed your hand. Placing a kiss on it. “And I always have.”

“Arle.” Your face heating up. When she raised her eyes to meet yours. This crimson x’s focused on you. And only you.

“I, you’re not someone I can lose. Ever.” She placed a kiss on your hand again.

[an-idyllic-novelist]

qin shi huang with yoriichi tsugikuni!fem!reader headcanons

warnings: spoilers from manga, ooc, slow burn friends-to-lovers troupe

Special thanks to @onecantsimply, @yellow-snark and @thatstrangesheep for their feedback and help with these headcanons! Enjoy! :)

Even in death, Qin Shi Huang was an emperor whom everyone respected as the ‘king who began everything’. He had reunited the annexed nations of China, a guiding light who led his people bringing peace and prosperity after almost a millennium of strife. Now, within the vast afterlife known as Valhalla, he reigned over a substantial amount of territory alongside his successors, working as a cohesive council when conflict arose.

Today, however, he has come to handle the problem on his own terms. For the last two months, men, women, and even children have gone missing from the foot of the northeastern mountains. Given the harsh environment, it is not too odd to believe that the cause of their disappearance might be an attack from a wild animal, angering the spirits who guard the terrain, or just simply got lost.

But the disemboweled bodies told the emperor a different story: there is a beast devouring his people, and it is certainly not a bear. For a split moment, Qin Shi Huang feared that Chi You had somehow returned from beyond its miserable grave and had come back to take revenge on the ‘insolent whelp’ who would not bow before its bony knees as payment for being accepted as an emperor of China.

If that were truly the case, though, there would be more corpses strewn about the mountain base than the current number of victims. Qin Shi Huang had already defeated the god, and he will do it again to protect his subjects. Such is the road he leads as an emperor, after all~.

So imagine his surprise when he comes across a six-armed being with pasty skin and glowing golden sclera, hunched over the corpse of a man cradling his child. It was not Chi You, but a demon. A demon that was the stuff of legends many years ago, only for them to suddenly vanish and become nothing more than a bedtime story to keep children from sneaking off at night.

And now, here is the great emperor, face-to-face with this drooling beast. Qin Shi Huang frowned, bending his sinewy body into an offensive position. Just when he was about to launch an attack, his opponent’s head rolled off its shoulders. He blinked, watching the demon’s body collapse onto the grass, twitching rapidly before disintegrating into dust. Hm? He hadn’t even moved! Unless the presence of an emperor is that powerful before a demon that it self destructs?

“Are you all right?” Qin Shi Huang then saw a figure standing where the demon had been, sword unsheathed. At first glance, she seemed like an ordinary traveler by the way she dressed, but the emperor knew that she was certainly not an ordinary person. Not from the tremendous amount of chi circulating around this woman’s body and the sword fastened at her waist.

She was a warrior as Chun Yan had been.

He grinned. “Hao!”

[Eye Color] orbs blinked at him in confusion, tilting her head to the side as she repeated the word. “Does that mean…you are hurt?”

Zori sandals stomped against the bloodied soil as she strode over to him, astounding Qin Shi Huang with her agility. She frowned slightly, her eyes scanning over his body. “You…are all right, it appears.” She glanced up at him. “I…apologize if I had gotten…your clothes dirty. You are a young lord, yes?”

Qin Shi Huang frowned. “Buhao.”

“Hm?”

He raised his right hand, pressing his middle and index fingers together before he pointed them towards the ground, the golden nail guards glowing beneath the moonlight. “Humble yourself. You are in the presence of an emperor. Be grateful I have not executed you for your impudence.”

“You…are an emperor?”

That was how the greatest emperor in all of Chinese history crossed paths with the greatest Demon Slayer in history, the Mother of All Breathing Techniques, the Sun Hashira [First Name] [Last Name].

In your defense, you never would have guessed that the man who had been endangered moments ago had not been a feudal lord looking for trouble in these woods, but an emperor who had come to kill the demon devouring his people.

You did apologize for being rude, and politely asked His Imperial Majesty if there was a town close by. You lived deep in the mountains, though in the opposite direction of his territory. It would take about two days to return should you leave now. That was only if you were lucky enough to not come across any more demons on your journey back home.

To your surprise, this emperor all but commanded you to follow him to his palace. He boasted that it was the largest one in Valhalla, with the finest food and rooms available for only esteemed guests and members of his court. However, since you did humble yourself before him, he will make an exception and allow a weary traveler to stay in the guest quarters for the night. You thanked him, trailing after the man through the woods to the crowded streets of a bustling city and right up the stone footsteps of an extravagant palace the likes of which you had never seen before.

You dared to say that it was much bigger than the Ubuyashiki compound.

With a clap of his jeweled hands, a group of young maidens in flowing robes appeared before him. He ordered them to make sure you received the most excellent care, including running a warm bath and mending your damaged clothes. Before you could have a moment to say something, you were immediately whisked away to another part of the palace until dinner was ready.

The food was just as extravagant as the clothes that the maidens had dressed you in. It was almost too much, but you dared to not insult your host. Instead, you bowed your head to him in gratitude and ate as much as you could without being too rude. Thankfully you could recall some of your table manners from when you had been alive, before becoming a Hashira and just the daughter of a prestigious household in the Sengoku era.

Between the raucous laughter and idle chatter amongst the others who dined at this table, you had almost expected to be asked to leave or escorted out of the banquet hall so that the emperor could speak to his fellow countrymen freely without the presence of an outsider.

Instead, His Imperial Majesty asked you many questions. Who you are, why were you in the woods, how did you defeat the demon, etc. You answered them to the best of your ability, humbly explaining that you had once been a Demon Slayer and trained to exterminate the ones who came out at night to consume human flesh. There is nothing special about you.

You had simply worked hard, protected humanity until your untimely death. There was no need for him to know of your ability to see the Transparent World, much less the Breathing Techniques of a Demon Slayer.

Some secrets were meant to be just that: secrets. And you were bad at explaining things; it had been a miracle that the Hashiras, those whom you had worked alongside all those years ago, could comprehend your words and adapt the Sun Breathing techniques into their own variations: Water, Insect, Flame, Wind, Stone, and so forth.

Again the emperor surprised you; he seemed intrigued by the Breathing Styles and continued to ask questions about how to use it until the handmaidens escorted you to the guest quarters later that night, although His Imperial Majesty wished to keep speaking even in a drunken stupor.

The following morning, you thanked the emperor for his hospitality and left the palace. An armed entourage followed you out to the city’s borders to make sure you would not try to attack His Imperial Majesty nor the citizens. You thanked them for their vigilance and hard work before beginning the journey towards your humble home.

You were certain that this was the first and only time you would come across royalty and thought nothing of it in the days that went by upon returning, weeks becoming almost two months since the demon attack. You would either be tending to the crops or practicing your swordsmanship. Eventually, it was time for you to venture down from the mountains to restock on your supplies.

The villagers who lived at the mountain’s edge were kind people. Some of them were elderly and required assistance with manual labor or errands. You did not mind helping them, and were quite hesitant to accept anything from them, especially rice or other precarious commodities.

Most were merchants who traveled a great distance from the village to the city to sell their wares. How could you even consider taking that away from them? To your dismay, they were quite stubborn and practically shoved it in your hands.

The ‘payment’ from the villagers, including the usual amount of items you purchased from the vendors, became too much for you to carry without making two trips up and down the mountain.

You were almost considering having to borrow a cart when a voice called out to you.

Turning around, your eyes widened in shock at the appearance of the emperor Qin Shi Huang walking down the muddied main road, flanked by four or five armed soldiers. He recognized you immediately, almost running with a wide grin on his face.

He’d been wanting to continue his conversation with you, yet due to his workload in the palace prevented him from venturing out sooner. You had also been difficult to track down as no one seemed to be aware that a Demon Slayer wearing hanafuda earrings existed in Valhalla except for a young whelp and his little sister living in the floating cities alongside the Valkyries.

But now, he’s here and ready to chat~. You should be grateful he had traveled such a long way to visit. He is an emperor after all. He was willing to help carry the supplies up the mountains if it meant he had an opportunity to challenge you to a fight and idly chatter over drinks.

Upon explaining that you did not drink alcohol, the emperor told you not to fret. He’s come prepared. Revealing a large jug of corked liquor in his hand with a wide grin, you realized that he would not go away even if you politely asked him too.

So with great reluctance, you guided Qin and his entourage up the mountains, some of them carrying your supplies.

A peaceful day became chaotic. And from this single afternoon of idle chatter and sparring with an incredibly powerful fighter transitioned to an unlikely friendship. Qin Shi Huang was nothing like Sumiyoshi, that much was certain.

Where Sumiyoshi was a humble man blessed to have a family in turbulent times, the boastful emperor had been an unwanted child from the moment he was born. If it had not been for his mentor and mother, that meek little boy would not have the confidence to move forward and pave the road for his people to live in peace, let alone find a method to deal with the Zhao’s anger aimed at him simply because he was from royalty.

He had many children sired from his concubines but he never took an empress, much to his council’s annoyance even in the afterlife. Chun Yan too, of all people!

Yet despite such different personalities from two different people who are your friends….you knew they both possessed kindness and empathy. Why else would an emperor continue to maintain contact with you via letters and occasionally visit you in the mountains over the next thirty years?

He’s a man who had led his people into prosperity after all, the king of all kings.

You had lost so much when you were alive…is it truly all right to be selfish and treasure Qin Shi Huang as a friend, an emperor of all people?

Qin Shi Huang quickly discovered that there was more to his new friend than being a calm, unreadable individual who never raised her voice once even when he had been purposely annoying just to gauge a reaction.

The Sun Hashira…she was perfect. A beautiful, complex creature who values integrity and kindness above all else. She did not enjoy fighting, preferring a quiet life away from society than challenging one opponent after another. And like him, she knew what it meant to lose a loved one.

When it came to strength, she once told him, those who are marked like herself will all meet the same fate. He had an idea as to the cryptic meaning behind her words…and he prayed that she would live in this afterlife.

When he revealed his past to her, what he had done as a child until his death, the Sun Hashira simply accepted it all as they say together on the snowy veranda of her small home.

“To live in an era of conflict…there can never be true peace without bloodshed. Your Imperial Majesty had gone through so much….and you were loved deeply by Chun Yan. I wish….I could have met her….and thank her for raising a wonderful, strong son.”

Qin Shi Huang.exe stopped working for a span of five seconds before he tried to hide his embarrassment with a swing of the warm sake that his host had prepared especially for them to celebrate the New Year together.

Another year has come and gone…so why was it that his heart hasn’t stopped hammering against his ribcage?

Bonus Content:

After five years of sending luxurious gifts and love letters, it took a stammering confession from the emperor to convey his feelings towards the Sun Hashira.

Although she did not want to marry right away, she humbly accepted a period of courtship from China’s greatest emperor until it was appropriate to be welcomed as his empress.

Some of his court were pleased that he had finally selected a wife to become the mother of the nation, but there were others who believed that [First Name] was too independent and would not respect the traditions required to follow after becoming an empress.

Needless to say, Qin Shi Huang made an example of the courtiers who dared to disrespect his new wife behind closed doors. His warning also extended to the concubines, should they try to do something malicious out of petty jealousy.

Quality time included sampling delicacies in the garden, sparring matches, and cuddling in his private quarters.

Chun Yan approved of [First Name], congratulating her adoptive son on finding a woman who can keep up with his shenanigans.

The domestic bliss between the emperor and empress never wavered…until Brunhilde approached the palace and asked for their aid to fight against the gods. Both of them.

If it hadn’t been for [First Name]’s benevolence, Qin would have immediately executed the Valkyrie on the spot for her arrogance. Instead he gave her the courtesy and listened to her proposal regarding the event called Ragnarok. A battle royale until one opponent is annihilated.

The emperor would be lying if he said he wasn’t interested, but he had no intention of bringing his Sun Hashira into it. He wanted her to spend this afterlife in peace, not to put her life on the line again.

Alas, his wife was stubborn. He agreed to Brunhilde’s terms so long as she agreed to his terms. Once she left the palace, he pulled his empress into a long talk about this…situation.

Whatever obstacles will come their way, they will face it together. The Sun Hashira isn’t alone anymore.

Taglist:

@the-dumber-scaramouche

@onecantsimply

@recreationalfanfics

@deathmetalunicorn1

@yellow-snark

@thatstrangesheep

@dance-till-the-death

@staticradiotv​

Honorable mentions:

@myrisan-melodies​

[ax-killjoy]

☆ Because, you’re kind.

Note ! 𖦹 : this is based on a D&D tiktok i saw. :,) i hope this fic makes sense- if not then it becomes part of my sleep deprived nonsense.

Jake Sully/Gn!Reader (Platonic !)

tw !!: child neglect

Y/N was a child birthed from two horribly neglectful parents. Jake Sully remembers vividly, the way your body was born into the light, a gift from Eywa. And the look of your mother’s disgust written on her face, and the distant look from your father.

Jake couldn’t tell whether the heat rising from his throat was bile, or the anger he felt.

I guess Na’vi can be shitty parents too.

He tried giving your parents a chance, seeing that maybe they were just simply fatigued. But that wasn’t the case, he watched over you closely as you grew up. Neytiri could tell something was up with Jake, whenever your parents came to help with operations.

Jake was stiff, his teeth gritting, his jaw clenched and furrowed brows. “you should be looking after your kid.” he seethes, glaring at the parents who were gathering guns. They were chanting loudly, loading guns into saddles as they cheered, killing sky people around the wreckage. “Why ? That child is no gift from Eywa, a mistake maybe. but no gift.” The father says, and Neytiri ears flatten. A crack in her heart, like glass. Jake Sully suddenly stops what he is doing, “You will love your child, you should. Your child, EVERY child is a gift from Eywa.” he says, before storming off to find more guns.

After that, both Neytiri and Jake swore to look after you. To watch you closely, to treat you like one of their own. Until you officially became one of their own.

When you turned 13, you don’t remember it. And Jake thanks Eywa for that, but both of your parents seemingly forgot about you. Or maybe it was intentional.

It was your first hunting trip, you had been begging your parents to take you hunting. They took you to the forest, to the deepest parts of forbidden to unmarked territory, Telling you that all the good animals to eat were here. Your father and mother say that they will watch from afar, and before you knew it. They had left you there, in part of the forest unmarked on a map.

It took a week for Jake and Neytiri to find you, you hid yourself in the nook of the tree. You slept soundly, and the seeds of Eywa surrounded you like an unspoken hug, as if Eywa was reassuring you. Jake’s eyes became glossy, he kneeled down over your body, and he cried. His body shivered and small sobs were let out, god he was so scared. He was so fucking scared you died.

That was when you became an official Sully.

.｡.:*☆♡*.+

As you grew up, you forgot about your parents. Or that’s what everyone saw, you were bubbly now. Nature loving, Curious, full of life. A personality that was never shown when your parents took care of you.

The Sully family cherished you dearly, quickly becoming one of the eldest of the Sully children. Jake and Neytiri were everything your parents weren’t.

Your parents were quickly exiled from Omatikaya, It felt like the sun got brighter, the stars twinkled more, and the breeze welcomed Jake when they left. Relief washed over him.

It was a quiet day, you had come back from hunting with Neteyam. You and Neteyam had just finally turned 15, meaning you both could officially hunt without supervision. Neteyam went to explore with the rest of the family, whilst you and Jake stayed home. He watched as you prepared food, whilst he cleaned his weapons and reassembled them. Checking each bullet intently, putting the broken ones in a separate box. It was a comfortable silence, the warmth of breeze welcomed both of you.

“I know you’re not my real father.” You said simply, cutting the chunks of meat and putting it in a basket with various vegetables.

Jake stopped what he was doing, looking up but not looking at you.

“I know that Neytiri is not my mother.“ you say softly, like it was a secret. As if it was forbidden to say.

“how did you know ?” he asks, his voice is raspy yet ever so soft.

You look back at him, your eyes bright yet spoke a million words. you stopped cutting the meat, you walked to him and sat next to him. Letting your head rest on his shoulder, and you sigh.

“because you and Neytiri are kind.”

[yandere-kokeshi]

Yandere Ghost with a gn pregnant darling headcanons

The skin color in the picture is nothing but a reference. The reader is YOU; I'm not excluding anyone.

Warnings: yandere behavior, and talks about pregnancy.

A/N: hope you enjoy! This is also pointed at gn audience. König version should be out in a few days.

He’s too quiet. His mind demands that you repeat it all for him. A series of emotions are washed over him, one being happiness and uncertainty. However, a smile spreads on his face, his hands pulling at your hips as he envelops you in a tight embrace.

“Your... ? — c’mere luve. I’m so happy – this is… perfect. Thank you.”

He makes sure to document everything. He’s incredibly cautious of things, reminding you to drink a bunch of water and eat things that won’t give you heartburn; if that food you want is too hot, he’ll wait for it to be a perfect temperature for you to eat.

Simon’s extremely keen on every detail about you. He will always be there when you throw up, holding back your hair (if it’s long enough). Reassuring you when you need it, keeping calm with the mood changes and lack of muscle aches which he will massage for you.

On the topic of massaging, he doesn’t mind one bit about it. Wherever it aches, he will make sure to rub it out with a lotion of yours, asking you questions if it hurts or makes you uncomfortable while your favorite show is on.

The mood changes don’t bother him — he stays calm the entire time. He’ll take your snapping and yelling like a champ, taking a deep breath as he leaves the room for your privacy. Simon embraces you the moment he sees your lips tremble and tears fall, comforting you with a few kisses and assuring words.

Your privileges of showering alone are taken away; images of you slipping and getting hurt make him nauseous. As much as he respects your privacy, which he respects fully and heartily, Simon just doesn’t want you to get hurt. That being said, either he’ll be in the same room, looking over to you every few minutes to make sure you are okay or he’ll step in to help with washing your body, and praising you as he does so.

When your tummy starts to show, he will hint for you to wear his clothes more; leaving them near you, possibly taking away your shirt when in the shower, or picking out a few of his shirts for you when you can’t decide which one of yours will work for you.

Speaking of your tummy growing, Simon gets extremely annoyed whenever people try to touch you, even with closest friends or family members. His anger and annoyance are higher, especially with people he's not so sure about. He hates having people running up to you, he's lenient with children, strict with women, and God helps any men who come near you.

For the next couple of months, it’s expected for things to get harder: driving in cars is slightly more uncomfortable, and going grocery shopping or doing small errands becomes more tiresome. With this info, Simon helps out as much as he can, never blaming you for wanting to go home early or snapping at him over a minor thing.

Cravings don’t bother him. No matter how tired he is, he’ll get out of bed and get you a certain snack. Though, sometimes when there isn’t that type of food you want that isn’t in the fridge, he’ll lazily drive down to the nearest 7/11 market and achieve it; coming back with a small ‘here ya’ go sweetheart,’ before falling asleep near your belly.

Definitely keeps the picture of the ultrasound in his breast pocket at all times. He loves admiring it, smiling under his mask as he can’t wait to have more pictures in the future.

Anything with you being in high places makes his heart race. He will use his commanding voice, grabbing you under the armpits as he lectures you. Even if it’s not high, or you decide to talk back, he will glare at you before ushering you to sit down.

Surprisingly, you will be seeing Soap more (possibly the team as well!). Ghost trusts them enough to be around you, asking them (Soap mostly) to stop by to check up on you when he can't. Expect him to join a few dinners!

During the nights when it's the two of you, Simon gets clingier — holding you tighter, his tattooed arm always covering your belly as he talks with you; mumbling about what kind of clothes or their personality will be like. Hell, he even speaks about what kind of hair color or eye color they’ll have.

When he’s on call or a mission, he tries to get home as fast as he can. Before he leaves, Ghost makes sure to kneel on the ground, kissing your tummy with a small mumble of ‘keep em’ company’ before kissing you sweetly, promising he’ll be back as soon as he can.

For the time being, he will get on calls with you; hearing you do your things on the other end as he lays down wherever he is. Though, when he can’t get on a call with you, he will send more texts than usual — asking how the baby is, and if everything is okay.

Though, when he does come back to you, expect some… surprises he likes to pull in the bedroom and main room.

Simon will definitely talk to the baby. Mostly, it’s when you’re asleep — but sometimes you will catch him talking to your belly, drawing shapes around the sides as he reads about his thoughts, expressing his fears and promises that he’ll keep you two safe.

Because of his past, he will doubt himself — quite a lot. While he does know you will be the most amazing guardian; and with your help, he will too. However, that doesn’t stop his fear of becoming his father, having a harder time grasping that around his head; fear rumbling in his stomach. With reassuring words and his vulnerable personality around you, Simon will surely pass these thoughts and expect better things for the future.

When you are closer to the due date, his anxiety gets worse. While he is excited, he’s extremely anxious something will happen; everything he’s known has been forcibly taken away from him.

However, the mental picture of you holding the baby bean, the two of you watching their first steps, or hearing their first words overshadows those fears; making him feel more ecstatic about the family you two have soon created

—

Masterlist || Please reblog or comment instead of liking, it helps a bunch!

Do not plagiarize, repost, modify, translate or copy my work.

[sailor-aviator]

Amhrán na Farraige

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Selkie!Reader

Summary: For centuries there have been legends of beautiful women who disguise themselves as creatures from the sea, only coming to land to sate their curiosity about the world above. Bradley was a simple man who had a taste for simple pleasures. A whole life spent at sea meant he was accustomed to these tales, but nothing prepares him for the reality of them.

Content Warning: ANGST, smut (brief, p in v), Pregnancy, References to the supernatural, Third person narrative, Some fluff, Dub-con, Kidnapping, Forced marriage (kind of, you'll see), Stockholm Syndrome, Some domestic violence (against spouse and towards children. Nothing heinous, just some grabbing and shaking), Anger, Celtic myths/legends, Celtic songs, Depression, Lies, Men driven mad, Descriptions of blood. I think I got everything, but PLEASE let me know if I missed anything.

Word Count: 13.2k

Helpful pronunciations (not exact, but close):

Amhrán na Farraige - [oh-ron nuh far-ig-uh] "Song of the Sea"

Sidhe - [She] "Fairy" (Also there's a whole etymology thing with this but yeah)

Mo Chroi - [moh khree] "My heart"

Mo Ghrá - [moh graw] "My love"

Mo Mhuirnín - [moh wor-neen] "My beloved"

Mo Stóirín - [mo store-een] "My Little Treasure"

Song One (The cliffs) || Song Two (The end)

God was not real, of this Bradley Bradshaw was sure and certain. At the very least, if he had existed at all, he was surely dead now. Or perhaps he was a neglectful deity. Bradley had seen too much death and hardship in his life to think otherwise.

He had seen men gasp for an unhearing god as they lay on battlefields, blood coursing out the holes in their bodies as tears streamed down their unseeing eyes. He had seen children starve, begging their still mothers for food that would never come, not while hardship endured in the land. He had heard the wails of women as their sons, brothers, fathers, and husbands never returned home, hand reaching out for an embrace that would never be returned.

All eyes looked to God, but God did not look back.

The only thing Bradley was sure of, was the existence of the fair folk, the Sidhe his mother had always called them. The beings who walked the between, never staying long in this world or the next.

“That shadow that lingers in the corner of your eye?” She had smiled, stroking the hair out of his face. “That’s the fair folk, honey. Always watching, but never seen. If they see let you see them, Bradley, then it’s already over. They’ve gotten you.”

His mother had done her best to keep him sheltered from the horrors of the world, but death and famine followed the people along the coast. His father had died in a shipwreck off the coast when he was young, and while his mother had done her best to keep her sorrow hidden, Bradley often caught her eye turned towards the sea. She disappeared when he was only sixteen.

Bradley had heard stories of people being taken by the fair folk, lured to the hills beyond the town, some never to be seen again, while others came back different. He wondered if the men who had gone off to war had been taken, replaced with something hollow, something not quite all there. Had his mother been taken by the Sidhe? Taken to the land beyond to be with his father? Or had her sorrow and longing for her long-dead husband become too much all at once, the grips of the icy waters too tempting an offer to resist?

It didn’t matter anymore, though. Bradley was alone and took work where he could, soft hands of youth turning to calloused hands of adulthood. His once bright eyes grew dull from the monotony of the jobs at sea, life becoming routine as day after day he boarded a ship to earn his livelihood.

As he grew older, the wages from the odd jobs allowed him to purchase his own vessel, a small boat that rocked in the choppy waves as he hunted the seals that littered the coasts.

He remembered watching from the small house he and his mother lived in as the creatures hopped out of the water to lay on the rocks. He would inch towards the door until she caught him, a stern look on her face as she scowled at him.

“If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times,” she scolded him, hands on her hips. “You leave those creatures alone. They’re not doing anything to bother you.”

“Elijah’s da’ hunts them,” he remarked once, only serving to deepen her scowl.

“He does,” she muttered. “And he’s a lucky man that the selkies are a forgiving lot.”

“What’s a selkie?” Bradley had asked, eyes lighting up in intrigue. His mother regarded him for a moment before gesturing for him to sit in one of the chairs by the fireplace. Bradley settled in, eyes eager as he waited for his mother to explain.

“The selkies are fair folk of the sea,” she began, eyes serious as they darted above his head to look out the window towards the beach. “They may look like seals, but underneath their blubber and fur, they look like people just like you and me. They’re beautiful, Bradley, but curious to a fault. They walk on land in human form, shedding their seal skin once every seven years.”

“Why seven?” He had asked, voice small with wonder.

“Just the way the magic works,” she had replied with a shrug. “You can always tell when a seal is a selkie based on the size. The bigger the seal, the more likely it is to be a selkie, Bradley. Killing it and taking the skin will earn you pay, but you’ll have blood of the fair folk on your hand. Remember that.”

And he had remembered, for a while at least. He would watch the seals as they basked on the rocks, always wondering if the ones that met his curious gaze were one of the fair folk - a selkie.

Now the years had passed, grown from a small boy into a man of large stature. He commanded respect from those in the small, seaside village. Long had the days passed when his mother had warned him of hunting the seals and long had passed the days when he took those warnings seriously. He had joined the few who hunted the creatures around the rocky shores, braving the misty seas to earn himself a living.

He sat in his boat, the waves rocking him side to side in the way they often do during misty weather. Bitter cold clawed at his skin, numbing his fingers as he waited. Waited for something to come out of the water. Waited for any sign that he would earn a meal.

He fiddled with the ropes that lie around the floor of the boat, tying knots that he would need later. Undoing them, tying them, undoing them again. Anything to keep himself occupied while he lay in wait.

His breaths came out as white puffs of clouds, matching the ones surrounding him. Ice water clung to the whiskers on his upper lip, dripping down to run along his jaw and throat. He shifted, burying himself further into the warmth his coat provided. It was worn. He would need a new one soon. All the more reason to keep hoping for a prize catch.

The sound of disturbed water drew his attention towards the shore, and he slowly crept forward to peer over the side of the boat. A large seal bobbed at the surface, taking slow, deep breaths of the cold air that surrounded them. Slowly, Bradley reached for his harpoon, watching as the seal floated closer and closer. He raised his arm slowly, taking aim. He took a breath. Then another.

He released the harpoon just as a wave crashed into the side of his boat, sending the weapon veering off course. The harpoon struck the seal’s side, creating a gash that seeped blood into the water. The seal gave a pained cry, diving down into the murky depths of the sea, and Bradley cursed.

He stared at the spot where the seal had disappeared, already feeling the pangs of hunger stab at him. His nostrils flared as the desperate sense of anger welled up within him. How could he have been so careless? The size of that pelt would have brought in enough money to last him months. He heaved a sigh, pulling the rope to bring the harpoon back towards him. His fingers dipped into the icy water, the pain of it distracting him momentarily from his despair.

Bradley tossed the harpoon to the floor, the item landing with a thud as he slumped onto the bench. He buried his face in his hands, mind moving with blinding speed. He could still earn enough money to survive, he thought to himself. He could still do this. He just had to be more careful next time, should wait until he’s closer so he doesn’t miss. Still, his mind wandered back to the seal. The sheer size of it had his mind drifting back to the stories his mother had always told him. Of course, Bradley was older now, and he wouldn’t be scared by tall tales. However, the foolishness of youth still clung to him, for though he was now considered a man, he was barely twenty-two summers old.

Bradley heaved a sigh, sitting up and rubbing his hands together to create some warmth that would awaken his freezing fingers. He gripped the oars in his hands and began to row back to shore, the sun already dipping towards the horizon. He was always tempted to stay out past dark, but the older fishermen and hunters warned him of the dangers that came about at night. While Bradley was a fool, he wasn’t stupid.

He neared the dock that stood on the beach outside his home, moving to secure the boat to one of the posts when something caught his eye.

It floated in the water, a silvery grey blob that moved with the tide. Bradley’s eyes narrowed as he tried to place what it was in his mind. The blob slapped up against the side of the boat, and it was then that he realized what he was looking at. It was a perfectly preserved seal pelt, much like the one he had just seen. He supposed that it had fallen off a cart on the way to market, the winding roads by the cliffs being one of the few ways to make it into town. It wasn’t unusual for things to be knocked off of carts, finding their way onto the beaches and eventually into the sea.

Bradley wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth, not after his blunder. He scooped the pelt into the boat, laying it out to dry before lifting himself onto the dock. It would be days before he could take it to the market to sell, and he hoped no one recognized it when he did make his way into town.

An odd feeling overcame him in that moment, a feeling of unease and tension winding up his spine and gripping his throat. The feeling told him he was being watched, but by what, he did not know. His eyes darted around, expecting to see one of his neighbors by the house, but no one stood atop the cliff. The wind picked up around him, the cold of it stealing the breath from his lungs, and he curled in within himself to try and preserve some of the warmth he had left. The feeling told him he was making a mistake, but he ignored it, surmising that what he felt was guilt at having come into fortune from another’s strife.

Bradley shook his head to rid himself of the feeling, taking one last look around before trudging across the beach and up the path to his home.

The house was cold, but not for lack of warmth. Bradley kept the rooms heated well. No, the house lacked the happiness that made it a home, and this was something he was keenly aware of. It had been a home once, way back before his mother had disappeared.

Now, Bradley existed within its walls, hoping one day that he would find himself ready to settle for one of the pretty girls in town, the ones that smiled at him sweetly whenever he deemed it necessary to venture in. Perhaps he would finally give in to Orla’s flirting. She was a sweet thing, always filling his cup more than she ought to, setting it down in front of him with a bat of her eyes. She wasn’t a bad choice.

Bradley shook the thoughts from his head. He couldn’t entertain the idea of taking a wife, not when his circumstances were so uncertain.

He settled further down into his chair, feet propped up by the fire, the glowing embers serving to help warm him from his time out in the cold air during the day. The wood cracked and popped as the fire consumed it, and Bradley soon found himself dozing off. Exhaustion seeped down to the very marrow of his bones, his muscles stiff from the hours spent hunched over on the boat. His eyes began to flutter shut, urging him to embrace the sweet oblivion that came with sleep.

His body jerked, eyes snapping open. He wasn’t sure what had startled him at first, his heart hammering away in his chest as he let out a shaky breath. His ears perked, eyes darting as he waited for whatever it was that had roused him. He didn’t have to wait long, a second cry sounding from outside.

It was one of pure, unadulterated sorrow. The cry of someone so grief stricken, they sounded almost like an animal. A chill ran down Bradley’s spine at the sound, and cautiously he moved to stand, heading towards the front door. Every fiber in his body screamed at him to leave well enough alone, but he worried that someone might be heart or in trouble. Grabbing his coat, he slipped back into his boots and walked out the door.

The cold was something he thought he should be used to at this point, but it still shocked his system every time he stepped foot out into it. The moon was the only source of light save for the faint, orange glow that filtered out of the windows of his house. The air stung his lungs, and he suppressed a shiver that threatened to run up his spine. The cry had sounded far, coming from towards the beach if he had to guess. He began to walk, boots crunching against the dirt path as it gave way to sand. The waves crashed against the shore like thunder, so loud that he almost didn’t hear the faint cries coming from further down the strip of sand.

He almost missed her huddled in the sand, back pressed up against one of the large rocks at the edge of the shoreline where sand met grass. Her head was buried in the crook of her arms, shoulders shaking as she cried, quiet whimpers wracking her body.

“Miss?” He called out once he was a few feet away. “Are you okay?”

Her head snapped up, hair falling in her face as sorrow filled eyes peered up at him. The look of her knocked all air out of his lungs, and for a moment he couldn’t focus on anything but how beautiful the woman in front of him was.

“Can’t find it,” she croaked. Her voice was still sweet sounding despite the hoarseness of it, and Bradley found himself captivated even further by her. His eyes left her face then, realizing for the first time that she was naked.

“Oh my god,” he murmured, rushing forward as he shrugged off his coat. “Here, take this.”

He wrapped the coat around her smaller frame, the material dwarfing her. Her lips trembled, though Bradley suspected it wasn’t from the cold. She didn’t seem to see him as she continued muttering to herself, eyes darting wildly between her hands and the sea.

“Can’t find it,” she said again, her voice growing in pitch as the desperation took hold.

“Can’t find what?” Bradley asked, brow furrowing in confusion as he glanced around the beach. “Did someone hurt you? Where are your clothes?”

A choked cry spilled past her lips as a fresh wave of tears began to stream down her face. She shook her head wildly, hands darting out to grasp at his shirt. Her fingers seemed to push him away and pull him closer at the same time as another wail climbed up her throat.

“Can’t find it!” She shrieked, eyes growing wider as she stared at the water. “Wanna go home.”

“Where is home?” Bradley asked, his own anxiety beginning to peak as he gripped onto the woman’s shoulders. Her eyes glanced to his, but they did not see him.

“Between the light, between the dark,” she whispered, eyes boring into him. “Between the cold, between the warmth. Between the moon, between the sun. Between the north, between the south.”

The between was something Bradley’s mother had always cautioned him about.

“It’s where the fair folk live, Bradley,” she had told him. “They don’t live here, but they don’t live fully in the other. They’re from somewhere in between.”

He shook the thought from his head. He knew he was being superstitious, ridiculous even. The fair folk were prideful beings, surely one wouldn’t be sitting here talking with him like this.

And yet, as Bradley looked upon this woman, heard how she spoke, a voice in the back of his mind whispered to him that there was something strange about her. Something…otherworldly.

“Are you alone?” He settled on, trepidation clear in his tone. “Is there someone I can go get for you?”

“Can’t go home,” she muttered, eyes turned longingly to the sea as tears streamed down her face. “It’s too late.”

Bradley heaved out a sigh. He would have to take her home, let her rest and try again in the morning.

“Can you stand?” He asked her. She said nothing, nails biting into the skin of her arms as she continued to stare out at the water. Bradley reached out to her, Taking her arms gently to help her stand. Her lips curled in a wince, hand flying to her side. His eyes flickered down, and for the first time noticed the dried blood on her side.

“You’re hurt,” he frowned, moving closer to inspect the wound, but she shied away from him, her own frown tugging on her lips. His tongue darted out to wet his own nervously, as he glanced from her to the house.

“My house is a bit of a ways up the hill,” he started, nodding towards it. Her gaze was more focused now, eyes flickering towards where he gestured. “Do you think you can make it?”

She didn’t respond, instead tilting her head to the side as she regarded the distance. Finally, she nodded, and Bradley felt his shoulders sag in relief. The wind whipped around them, and he was reminded of how cold it was. It would be best to get her inside as soon as possible, though he couldn’t help but notice that she seemed holy unaffected by the freezing temperatures even though she stood in nothing but his coat.

He waited for her to move towards the house, but she remained still, watching him watch her. Finally, he pressed his lips together and began to walk towards the house, boots crunching against the ground once more. The woman made no sound as she moved behind him, her gaze fixated on him the entire time.

He paused outside the front door, hand hesitating above the knob. Slowly, he turned to look at her once more. Her eyes stared back at him, eyes that reflected the orange glow cast into the night, eyes that swirled with knowledge that Bradley could only dream of. She said nothing as they watched each other, those sorrowful eyes watching him with curiosity, so much like seals that littered the shores. Bradley sucked in a quick breath before turning around to push the door open.

The warmth was welcome, and he felt some of the tension ease from his shoulders as he stepped into the main room, turning to watch as the woman stepped across the threshold. Her eyes darted around, taking in the various pieces of furniture and decorations that were scattered about as Bradley closed the door softly behind her. She took a few more tentative steps into the house, head cocking to the side in such an unusual way as to further confirm what Bradley was slowly accepting.

She walked past him, eyes glittering with intrigue as she came up to the fire. She crouched down, head still tilting to one side, and Bradley was captivated by the sight of this beautiful woman bathed in the light of the fire in his home. Before he could react, she reached a hand out into the flame, letting out a startled, pained yelp as she retracted it. A whimper left her lips as Bradley rushed forward, kneeling in front of her and taking her hand in his.

“Why would you do that?” He asked, no real heat behind his tone as he inspected her fingertips. “Don’t you know it’s hot?”

Her fingertips were a little pink, but otherwise no real damage had been done. She stared at him with an unreadable expression, eyes still studying him. He hesitated for a moment before moving to stand, keeping her hand in his.

“I can show you to your room,” he told her, tugging on her hand lightly. Her eyes scanned him from head to foot and then back again before allowing him to pull her to her feet. The two padded down a small hallway before he pushed the door open to a bedroom that had long stood unoccupied. He tugged her inside, motioning for her to sit on the bed. She sat obediently, watching and waiting for him to make his next move.

“I’ll be right back,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck as he exited the room. He made his way to the washroom, grabbing bandages, a cloth, a bowl, and a pitcher of water. He returned to the room quickly, finding that the woman had not moved an inch in the time he was gone. He sucked in a breath as their eyes once again met, wary meeting curious. He set the items on the bedside table as he gestured at her.

“You’ll need to take that off so I can see the wound,” he murmured, heat rising to his cheeks as he glanced at her uneasily. She paid no mind to his discomfort, easily shedding the coat and exposing her naked body to him as simply as if he had asked her to close the door. He cleared his throat, eyes darting down to look at the angry-looking gash on her side. The wound appeared to be superficial, but he couldn’t be sure until he cleaned it.

He turned to ready the cloth, keeping the bowl of water close so he could rinse if he needed to. Tentatively, he reached a hand up, running his fingers over the dried blood upon her skin, eyes darting up to search for any sign of distress. Her face remained impassive as she watched him, and Bradley’s jaw clenched as he began to wipe gently at the wound.

He had been correct in his initial assessment, the gash was more of a flesh wound and thankfully wouldn’t require stitching. He grabbed some of the salve he had brought in, applying a decent layer before wrapping a bandage around her midsection. Bradley tried not to think of how close he was to the woman, of how beautiful she was, especially when she seemed wholly unbothered by his presence.

“I, um,” he stuttered, cursing his nervousness, “I can bring you something to wear. I still have some of my ma’s things.”

He didn’t wait for her to answer, not that she would give him one if the last half hour had been any indication. He made his way down the hall to the door he had not opened in years, taking a deep breath to steady himself before pushing inside.

The room was just as his mother had left it all those years ago, the only thing having changed was the layer of dust that coated everything. Bradley moved quickly to the wardrobe on the far side of the room, opening it to reveal several different clothing options. He grabbed what he could carry, making sure to grab some of the sleeping garments before heading back down the hall. The woman sat unmoved once more as he appeared, draping the options on the chair to his left by the vanity.

“I wasn’t sure what you’d like,” he said lamely, gesturing towards the clothing, “so I grabbed what I thought might look nice.”

The woman’s gaze moved slowly to the clothing before she rose to her feet. She padded across the room, not a sound from her as she walked over towards where he stood. Her eyes darted up to his for a moment before back down to the clothes. Small hands reached out to pick up one of the nightgowns he had grabbed, eyes studying it with a frown. Her hands tightened on the fabric, a look of despair washing over her face and disappearing just as quickly before she slowly eased it over her head, letting it drape down her form. She reached her hands up to pull her long hair out of the confines, letting it run down her back as she stared up at him.

There was something inherently wild about her, something that sent Bradley’s heart racing as he looked at her standing there in the room. She looked so out of place but so at ease with her surroundings, and he could hardly stand it.

“My room is just down the hall,” he told her, shoulders pulling back a fraction as he regarded her. “If you need me, I’ll be there.”

He gathered the things he had brought in, moving to leave when she grabbed his shirt, stopping him. He glanced at her from over his shoulder, brow furrowed in confusion as he waited for her to speak.

“Do you hear them?” She asked, voice barely above a whisper. “They’re calling for me.”

Bradley listened in the silence that followed, and it was a second before he heard the quiet, distant barks of seals mixed with the keen of something he could not place - something not quite human, not quite animal. He looked at the woman, her eyes having grown distant once more as a tear slid down her face. Bradley sucked in a quick breath as a shudder ran up his spine.

“You should get some sleep,” he whispered, breaking the silence. “You seem like you’ve had a long day.”

The woman looked at him once more, sadness swelling within her eyes before she slowly nodded, letting him go. She turned towards the bed, padding silently across the room once more.

Bradley closed the door behind him as he left, hands shaking as he listened for the click of the latch before putting away the items in hand. He put out the fire, washing the room in darkness as he dragged a hand over his face. With a glance towards the hall, he crept towards the front door, opening it and shutting it behind him carefully as to not make a sound. The cries from before could be heard louder now, and Bradley thought his heart would burst from his chest from the unease that enveloped him.

The moon still shone bright, lighting his path down towards the dock and his boat. The waves lapped against the shore, the cries louder the closer he came. His boat knocked against the wooden stands of the dock with every crash of the waves, and sitting there, on top of the bench, lay the pelt.

Bradley’s heart quickened at the sight, a sense of dread filling him at what he might find once he inspected it. His boots clicked against the wood as he made his way down to the edge. He kneeled down, snatching the pelt from its perch and into his hands. It was soft, nearly dry. He ran his hands over it, inspecting it closely as he squinted in the dark.

He was lost in the sensation of the pelt, how smooth and soft it felt in his hands, and for a moment he allowed himself to close his eyes and compare it to how soft the woman’s skin had felt under his fingertips earlier. He was pulled from his thoughts as the soft fur transformed into a matted and cracked mess. His eyes flew open, breath catching in his throat as he took in the bloodied tear down the side of the pelt.

Right where the gash on the woman was.

There was no denying it in his mind now. The woman in his home was one of the Sidhe - a selkie.

The cries grew louder, and Bradley’s head whipped up to stare out into the water. He couldn’t see them, but knew they were out there, searching for a sister that was lost to them. His grip on the pelt tightened, and his heartbeat thundered in his ears. He scrambled back to his feet, boots stomping against the wood and then the ground as he ran back to the house. His mind raced with thought after thought as his lungs burned from lack of oxygen. His hand reached out to open the door, but he stopped short, fingers hovering over the knob.

The cries off in the distance sounded as he stared at his front door before looking down at the pelt in hand. He could return it to the woman, let her return back to the sea she called home. But a more sinister thought crossed his mind. Why should he give it back? The woman was safe with him, after all. He could protect her from those that wished to hunt her, keep her warm and fed like a man should. He could love her, give her a life beyond what the sea had to offer. The memory of her skin under his fingertips once again rushed to the forefront of his mind, and he allowed his hand to drop back to his side. Yes, he would keep the pelt. Keep it hidden away where she nor anyone else would ever find it.

He turned on his heel, running towards the small shack just a few yards away from the house, ripping the door open and stepping inside. The structure held mostly items necessary for fishing and repairing his boat, but an old trunk sat in the back, practically hidden by various tarps and other objects. The cries of the other selkies grew louder, almost like they could sense the pelt in his hands and were coming to find it.

Bradley pulled the trunk out into the open, moving to the workbench and grabbing one of the keys that sat in the top drawer. He kneeled down in front of the trunk, unlocking it and opening the lid with a quiet creak. Inside lay old photos and trinkets that his father and mother had collected over their years together. He pulled a few items out before placing the pelt gently into the trunk, covering it back up with the aforementioned items.

He closed the lid, locking it. The wailing cries coming to an abrupt and sudden stop as he did so. He stayed there for a moment, the only sound to be heard being his heavy breathing and the waves crashing against the shore below. Slowly, he moved to stand, shoving the trunk back where he found it and hiding it away once more. No one would think to look in there. No one would know what he kept hidden. He tossed the key back into the top drawer, stepping out of the shack and back into the night.

The air was still around him, eerily so, and Bradley made his way quickly back to the house. His fingers were numb, whether it be from cold or nerves he wasn’t sure, but the tension didn’t ease as he closed the front door quietly behind him, his back pressed against it for a moment as he listened for any sound that the woman might have heard him. Hearing nothing, he toed his boots off, setting them by the door before making his way quietly towards his room, noting that no light shone under the woman’s door. He changed quickly for bed, crawling under the blankets as if they might shield him from the consequences of his actions that evening. He took a few calm, steadying breaths before closing his eyes.

Sleep did not come easy to him that night.

The first morning had been awkward, Bradley rising with the dawn to find the woman already sitting at the dining table, fingers fidgeting with the sleeves of the nightgown. Her eyes darted up to meet his as he entered the room, stopping short at the sight of her.

“You’re awake,” he murmured, shock clear in his voice as they stared at one another. She blinked at him, saying nothing. She seemed perkier this morning, albeit still cautious as she watched him walk further into the room. Bradley grabbed the box of matches from the shelf, taking one out and striking it with a pop. The woman jumped at the sound, eyes flickering to the watch as he leaned down to light the stove, shaking the match out once he was done.

“What is that?” She asked, and Bradley turned to look at her in surprise.

“What is what?”

“The colors,” she supplied, nodding at the burnt match in his hand. She pointed towards the fireplace. “They were in the cave over there last night as well.”

Bradley’s gaze flickered over to where she pointed before landing back on her.

“It’s called fire,” he started slowly, a frown tugging on his lips. “I use it to cook things and keep the house warm.”

“Fire,” she repeated, testing the word out on her lips. “It hurts.”

“It can,” Bradley agreed, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “You shouldn’t touch it.”

She nodded solemnly, clasping her hands out in front of her. She watched as he began to prepare breakfast, turning on the toaster and slicing up the fish to cook in the pan.

“I like those.”

Bradley turned back around to find the woman sitting with most of her torso on top of the table, her legs stretched to accommodate her. Eyes shone with delight at the sight of the fish, and Bradley arched a brow at her.

“Yeah?” He hummed. She nodded enthusiastically, tongue darting out to lick at her lips.

“There’s lots of them,” she told him. “They swim in groups and they’re easy to catch. The fishermen catch them using nets.”

“They do,” Bradley nodded, laying a strip of the mackerel down in the pan. It began to sizzle, and he was struck with how hungry he truly was.

“What are you doing?”

He jumped, turning to look where the woman now stood, eyes wide as she watched the fish cook down. He stared at her for a moment before turning his attention back to the fish, flipping it over before it burned.

“I’m cooking,” he told her. The woman leaned forward, sniffing at the food before wrinkling her nose.

“It smells weird,” she muttered, and Bradley laughed.

“It smells fine,” he smiled, sliding the fish onto one of the plates on the counter. “You’ve just never had it cooked, I’ll bet.”

He ushered her back towards the table, setting the plate down at the spot she just occupied and handing her a fork. He turned back towards the stove, laying another slice of the fish down as the woman took a tentative bite. Chewing slowly, she perked up as the taste rushed over her, shoveling more into her mouth with a satisfied purr. Bradley soon joined her, chuckling as he watched her. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so light, the last time he laughed so freely.

“You should slow down,” he smirked, taking a bite from his own plate. “You don’t want to choke.”

She peered up at him, pausing in her feast as she considered his words. She cocked her head to the side in that curious way before taking a slower bite, looking up at him for approval. The two ate in silence for a few moments before Bradley cleared his throat, drawing her attention.

“My name is Bradley,” he said, glancing up at her as he swallowed a mouthful of fish.

“Bradley.”

“What should I call you?” He asked, and she frowned in confusion.

“What do you want to call me?” She asked him.

“Don’t you have a name?” He chuckled, disbelief coloring his voice. Surely even the fair folk had names to give. Her face drew tight in sorrow once more, and Bradley felt a twinge of pain in his chest at the sight. Her gaze slowly turned towards the window where the sea lay just out of sight.

“Only the water knows my name,” she told him, grip loosening on her fork as it clattered against the plate. “Only it can say it.”

Bradley watched her. Watched how her breathing grew ragged. Watched how her eyes glistened with unshed tears for a home she would not return to. Her lips trembled, and Bradley cleared his throat.

“I need to head into town,” he said. “Need to see a man about a job. Do you want to come with me?”

She turned to look at him, eyes still hazy from wherever she had let herself wander. She blinked once, twice.

“I suppose,” she whispered finally. Bradley nodded, clearing the plates from the table.

“You’ll need to change,” he told her. “You can’t go out wearing that.”

She looked down at her nightgown with a frown before looking back up at him.

“It’s, uh,” he stuttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s not appropriate for others to see you dressed like that.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Just,” he blew out a breath, “please pick a different dress?”

She gave him a sour look before standing and disappearing down the hall. Bradley blew out a breath before moving to clean the kitchen area. The woman reappeared, wearing a simple, blue dress. Bradley nodded in approval before his eyes landed on her bare feet.

“Stay here,” he told her, walking down the hall to the far bedroom. He walked in, straight up to the wardrobe and began rummaging through until he found a pair of his mother’s old shoes. He reappeared in the kitchen, handing the woman the shoes with a shy smile.

“I don’t know how well they’ll fit,” he started, “but they should work until we get you some new ones.”

She eyed them distastefully, nose wrinkled in disgust.

“I don’t want them,” she said finally, moving to hand them back to Bradley. He shook his head.

“You need them. They’ll protect your feet, and people will expect you to wear them.”

She scowled, pushing them forward once more, but Bradley stopped her.

“Please, mo chroi,” he pleaded. “Just while we’re in town. You can take them off as soon as we’re home.”

Her gaze softened at the endearment, and reluctantly, she shoved her feet into them. He helped her lace them, calloused fingers making nimble work of them, and soon they were ready to go. He grabbed a thin jacket for himself while he made sure to hand her the heavy coat to combat the frigid air outside. The walk to town took about an hour, and the weather was sure to still be cold and damp as it often was during the time between spring and winter.

Bradley turned to her, a thin-lipped smile on his face as his hand rested on the door. He gave her a once over.

She looked like any other person upon first glance, but if you stared too long, something wild shone on her person that drew you in. Like it would suffocate you if you stared too long. He sucked in a breath, torn between keeping her in his sight and making her stay. If she came, the townsfolk would surely be able to guess that she was not a mere human girl, but if she stayed? If she stayed, she might find the one thing he hoped she never would.

“Alright,” he breathed. “Let’s go.”

Weeks had passed, and the two had developed a routine of sorts. Bradley had started work as the lighthouse keeper, walking every day down the path along the cliffs to clean and polish the light that guided ships to shore. When he finished, he began work on the nets for when he ventured out into the sea to catch fish. It was a steady source of food, and food was not something Bradley took lightly. Memories of what it felt like to go hungry when there was so little to go around, fueled his drive to ensure there was enough, always enough and plenty to spare. He showed mo chroi how to prepare and salt the fish they couldn’t eat, showing her how to store it for future meals.

She was a quick learner, performing the tasks diligently as the days passed, and soon she took over most of the household chores. The widow Callahan checked in on them from time to time, her wise eyes studying the new woman of the house every time she came by.

“Be careful, young man,” she’d always say, dark eyes narrowed up at him. “You may have tamed her now, but the fair folk were not meant for gilded cages. Don’t give her what you cannot spare.”

Bradley would assure her that he wouldn’t, but in truth, he had no idea what she was telling him. He was content with how things were, content to have a partner by his side to help with the work he had done by himself for years. He still caught her staring longingly out at the waters she once called home, but the longing looks grew farther and farther apart the longer she stayed with him, resigning herself to her new life on land.

He was mending a tear in one of the nets when she appeared beside him, silent as always. He was used to it now, no longer startling every time she appeared around him without a sound. He became attuned to her presence, sensing when she came and when she left.

She said nothing to him at first, content to watch him as he worked, and he was content to keep working. It wasn’t until she kneeled beside him, gentle hand placed on top of his arm that he stopped.

“What is it, mo chroi?” He asked, gazing up at her. The sun was sinking towards the horizon, casting a faint golden glow onto the summer evening. Bradley couldn’t help but to admire her beauty in the dimming light, eyes glittering and skin smooth as porcelain as they looked at him. She wore only a white chemise, something she was prone to do when it was just the two of them. She didn’t like the heavy, scratchy feel of the dresses, only wearing them when there was company or when the two ventured into town. Bradley complied with her whims, finding it hard to say no to her.

“Why do you not have a woman?”

The question caught him off guard, eyes widening as his jaw went slack.

“What?” He blinked, scrambling to make sense of her question. She hummed, pressing closer to him. Bradley found it hard to think with the feel of her soft, warm body so close to his, one hand tracing over the planes of his chest as she continued.

“The men in the village,” she pressed, eyes never wavering as they bore into his own, almost hypnotic in the way they captured him, “they all have a woman to keep them company, to hold them, to love them. But you do not.”

Bradley’s eyes darted back and forth between her own, words failing him. She lifted a leg, resting it in between his own as she straddled his thigh. The hand that rested on his arm trailed up to play with the curls at the base of his skull, her body flush with his now as his hands came up to rest on her thighs. The hem of her chemise rode up to reveal smooth thighs that had Bradley reeling with lust. She leaned forward, a purr on her lips as she trailed her nose along his jaw and up to his ear.

“Is it me?” She asked softly, hand splayed on his chest as her lips brushed along the shell of his ear. A shudder ran up along Bradley’s spine at the sensation, mind growing hazy and clouded with lust for the creature before him.

“Am I yours?” She breathed, meeting his eyes once more. The air between them was charged, and for a moment Bradley could think of nothing but the way she felt against him. The way her lips hovered over his.

He lunged forward, pulling her impossibly closer as their lips melded against one another. He was spellbound, captivated, obsessed. His hands tightened on her thighs, and she sighed against his mouth, spurring him on to nip at her bottom lip. She granted him entrance, gasping as he licked hungrily into her mouth, the sweet taste of her driving him mad as a hand slid up to press against her lower back.

She wasted no time lifting herself off of him long enough to free him from the confines of his trousers, small hands gripping his hardening length. He let out a pleasured groan, head tilting back as she stroked him slowly before positioning herself atop him. There was no buildup between them, Bradley gripping at her as she slowly eased herself down onto him. A keen left her lips as he stretched her, mind numbing pleasure coursing through his veins as her velvety walls fluttered around him.

Her eyes were closed tight as she rested on top of him, her hips flush against his as her hands rested on his chest for balance. Bradley had never seen a more beautiful sight. Slowly, she rolled her hips against his, breathing ragged as she built a rhythm. Bradley laid against the wood of the dock as he watched her take her pleasure from him, a hand running up her stomach to rest between her breasts. He could die a happy man right then and there.

Her pace grew faster as she approached her climax, whimpers and cries spilling past her lips as she rode him, and Bradley pushed himself into a sitting position, careful to not disturb her. A hand rested on her back as he nuzzled into the space between her breasts where his other hand had just been. The sleeve of her chemise fell off her shoulder, and Bradley lifted his face to nip and lick at the skin there. He could feel his own high approaching as she ground down on him, and his free hand rose up to wrap around her throat, squeezing gently. She froze, hips stopping as they locked eyes. The only sound to be heard between the two of them was their ragged breathing.

For a second, Bradley thought he had crossed the line, but she made no move to remove his hand. The two stared at one another for a long moment before one of her hands came up to rest atop his own, squeezing them lightly as she began to move her hips once more, slower this time, drawing out the inevitable. He groaned at the sensation, feeling his stomach tense as her eyes never left his, her gaze intense as she chased release. Her walls fluttered and tightened around him, and with a final cry, she came, her head thrown back and her hot, wet cunt milking his own orgasm out of him with a shout. His spend coated her walls, leaking out around him as he shuddered and fell back against the dock with eyes pinched closed. Her hips still moved against his, drawing out every ounce of pleasure she could, giving herself to him with every movement.

She was his now, he had marked her.

Her hips finally stilled against his, and he could feel her staring at him. Her fingers trailed up his chest, along his jaw, before finally stilling on his lips. Bradley peeled his eyes open slowly, and he would have sworn he had died and gone to heaven for if he didn’t know any better, he would have thought he was looking at an angel. The setting sun cast a halo around her head as her hair blew in the wind, hypnotic eyes boring into him as the golden glow of the evening enveloped her. His lover smiled down at him softly, fingertips stroking his lips before leaning down to press her own against them.

She didn’t look to the sea much anymore, her longing gazes turned to brief flickers as she went about her days. Still, there were nights when her eyes would glaze over as the sound of seals calling out in the night made their way up to the confines of the house. Bradley would watch as her lips trembled briefly, the look in her eyes growing farther away until suddenly she would snap back to the moment, offering him a loving smile as she continued her mending.

Her stomach began to swell in the autumn months, and Bradley often found himself reluctant to leave her side. He would place a hand on her stomach, eyes lighting up in delight every time he felt a kick to it. He’d rest his head on top of her, muttering sweet words and promises to the babe that grew within. She would rest her hand on his head, stroking his hair soothingly as the fire crackled in front of them.

They were happy.

There was one night, however, when Bradley came back from the village to find his wife no longer at home, and panic overtook him. He tore through the house, ripping open every door he could find until he was faced with a horrifying possibility. He ran outside to the old shack, nearly ripping the door off of its hinges in his haste to open it. His eyes scanned the dark interior, his lantern casting shadows across the walls as he sighed in relief at the realization that his secret was still hidden underneath tarps and old traps.

His brow furrowed as he stepped back out onto the open cliffs, the wind whipping around him as he scanned the dancing grass. His eyes stopped at the edge of the cliff, terror gripping him once more at the thought that his lover might have done the unthinkable. Had she tried to return to the depths from where she came? Her body would not survive the plunge, not without the skin that lay hidden in shadows. He trudged towards the edge of the cliffs, the wind biting his skin and seeping to his bones as his heart thundered in his ears. He peered down at the rocks below, stopping only when a song sounded on the wind.

Little sister, sister hu ru

My love, my sister hu ru

Can you not pity o hol ill eo

My grief tonight hu ru

The voice was beautiful and full of sorrow, cries carried on the wind and out to the sea. Bradley swung the lantern towards the rocky path that led up to the lighthouse, the moon casting ribbons of silver that silhouetted the tall structure.

I am a poor woman hu ru

Sad and miserable hu ru

I climbed up o hol ill eo

Ben Sgrìobain hu ru

Bradley moved quickly through the grass and up the path, the sound of the song growing louder with each step he took. The stone structure stood proud against the backdrop of the sea, the waves crashing against the rocks below, almost drowning out the song as he rounded the walkway, finding his wife standing on the edge of the cliff.

I didn’t find there hu ru

What I wanted hu ru

A girl o hol ill eo

With hair like a daisy hu ru

Tears streamed down her face as he watched her, her hair whipping in the wind as her hands cradled her heavily swollen belly. Her feet were bare, and she wore a thin chemise that did little to protect her from the gusts that enveloped her body. No sobs left her as she finished her song, only the look of someone who had been lost, lost and never found in a world that was not her own. Bradley sucked in a breath, lips pressing firmly together before he stomped towards her. He dropped the lantern at his feet, the flame within dying at the impact as he gripped her shoulders and whirled her around to face him. Her eyes grew wide as his rage flooded to the surface, nostrils flaring and fingers digging into her skin hard enough to leave bruises.

“What were you thinking?” He hissed, shaking her with every accusation. “You scared me half to death! What are you doing out here dressed like this? It’s too cold for you to be out here with nothing to protect you. I thought you had-”

He gestured towards the cliffs, the words dying on his lips as he choked on a sob. The tears sprang to his eyes unexpectedly, rolling down his cheeks as his hands gripped onto her even tighter. If he held on tighter, she would never leave, would never return to the sea, would never leave him. He couldn’t bear the thought of being alone again, not when he had tasted a life that was shared.

She stared at him, eyes wide and searching as the wind danced around them. Her hand slowly reached up to cup his jaw, thumb smoothing over the stubble that grew there.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, voice almost lost on the wind. She leaned forward, and Bradley lurched back, eyes wide and scared as they watched her. The two stayed like that for a moment before she moved once more, hand holding his face in place as she brushed his nose with hers before pressing her lips to his in a gentle kiss. Tears continued to stream down Bradley’s face as his eyes flickered closed, embracing her as different emotions swirled inside him.

“Never leave me,” he begged in a whisper against her, one hand dropping down to cup her stomach as he rested his forehead against hers. He opened his eyes to find her already looking at him, black water dancing in her gaze.

“Never, mo ghrá.”

Their son was born a month later, loud cries spilling into the night as Bradley waited outside with some of the older men from the village. His head perked up at the first wail, eyes shining with excitement as her screams were replaced by those of the infant. The widow Callahan opened the front door moments later, apron covered in blood as she wiped her hands on a rag.

“You have a son,” she announced with a small smile, and Bradley grinned so hard, he swore his face would split in two. The men around him clasped him on the back, cheers ringing out in the night as they opened up spirits brought with them for the occasion. Bradley was keen to see his wife and son, but one of the men shoved a mug into his hands.

“Have a drink first, lad,” he hollered with a laugh. “The misses and the wean will still be there after.”

Bradley downed the drink as quickly as he could, much to the amusement of the others. He shoved the cup into the hands of the man nearest to him, not waiting for it to be refilled as he made his way into the house. The widow Callahan was cleaning up her supplies along with her apprentice when Bradley entered the room. His wife lay propped up in the bed, a small smile on her face as she cooed at the small bundle in her arms. Her eyes flickered up to his for a moment before back down. He crossed the room, easing down gently beside her on the bed. The babe gurgled, eyes closed as he yawned, and Bradley felt his heart swell.

He reached a hand over to run a finger over his son’s hands, heart dancing in his chest when the babe gripped it, small hand so strong for someone who was only moments old.

“What should we call him?” Bradley asked, cuddling into her side, exhaustion seeping through her.

“I thought we might call him Ronan.”

Bradley paused. The meaning of the name was not lost on him, and his gaze flickered to her profile for a moment before nodding.

“Ronan,” he murmured, eyes turning back to his son, nodding. “Aye. I like it. Ronan it is then.”

The babe gurgled once more, and Bradley reached over to take him in his arms, cooing softly as the bundle fussed.

“We should let your mother rest,” He whispered to the baby, a small smile on his wife’s lips as she nestled into the inviting warmth of the bed, her eyes drooping as she fought to remain awake. “She’s had a long day, don’t you think? It’s not easy bringing someone into the world.”

He tore his eyes away from his son to gaze at her, adoration shining bright as he reached a hand to smooth the hair out of her face.

“We’ll be here when you wake up,” he promised, bouncing the baby lightly as he moved to stand, his eyes already fixated back on the bundle in his arms. Her eyes followed him as he walked towards the door, lips curled into a smile as she slipped further and further into oblivion.

Bradley offered her one last smile as she fell asleep, walking towards the main room and sitting down by the fireplace, the orange glow of the fire bathing the two in the warm light. The men outside still celebrated, and Bradley rolled his eyes, smiling down at his son.

“I wanted to talk to you, man to man,” he started, rocking the baby in his arms. “I can’t guarantee you an easy life, Ronan. In fact, it might be a hard one. What I can promise is that I’ll be by your side as only a father can be for his son.”

Ronan cooed, opening his eyes for the first time to look up at his father, and Bradley’s heart soared.

“You’re born from two worlds, you know,” Bradley continued, a small frown tugging on his lips as he considered what this would mean. “A living bridge between the seen and unseen, but what does that mean for you, I wonder.”

The fire popped as it consumed the wood, the crackling the only thing heard besides the faint sound of Ronan breathing. The men had left to continue their drinking in the village, and soon even the widow Callahan and her apprentice left, bidding him a good night as they did. Bradley said nothing to them in response, eyes trained on the baby in his arms even as the sun rose above the horizon.

Ronan grew quickly, much to Bradley’s surprise, and soon he was toddling around and talking, a smart lad whom Bradley found he never had to instruct more than once, eager to take on the responsibility of being the eldest. Two years after he was born, another bundle joined their home, a boy they named Rían who grew to fill the house with peels of laughter everywhere he went. His wife showed no more signs of longing for the sea, too enamored with her children to pay much mind to the sea which she once called home.

Three years after Rían was born, they welcomed Cillian into their fold, a quiet babe who grew into a curious and bright little boy. Bradley was happy with his life and even prouder of his family. He soon began teaching Ronan how to weave nets for fish and how to fix the traps they used to catch the migrating salmon, and it wasn’t long until Rían joined them. Cillian was too young, staying behind with his mother as the other three made their way out to sea to bring home food for the next day.

Their evenings were spent sitting by the fire, the boys playing with their toy soldiers as their mother worked on her mending, Bradley resting from a hard day’s work as he smoked a pipe, a habit he had picked up to help ease the tension he often felt these days as he grew older. It was on one such evening that Cillian pulled on the skirt of his mother’s dress, eyes so much like hers as they gazed up in curiosity.

“Ma,” he chirped, earning her attention. She smiled down at him, setting down her latest project to give him her full attention.

“What is it, mo mhuirnín?” She asked.

“The people in town say you’re not from here,” he continued, earning the attention of the two other boys and Bradley as well. “If you aren’t from here, then where do you come from?”

The silence was heavy in the room, not a soul moving as the words hung in the air. His mother’s eyes glazed over slowly as she thought about the home she left behind so many years ago. A look Bradley had not seen since before their first son was born made its way onto her face, and his heart began to thunder in his chest. Time seemed to stand still as she considered her words.

“Between the here, between the now. Between the day, between the night. Between the land, between the sea. Between the awake, between the asleep. Between the real, between the myths. That is where I am from,” she told him, a hand coming up to cup his chin gently. In that moment, Bradley remembered the wild that dwelled within his wife, the constant call from within to return back to the sea. He remembered that while he grew older, she remained forever the same, never changing. He remembered the fear that gripped him each night at the thought that she might leave, and rage filled him.

“Enough,” he snapped, drawing all four pairs of eyes to him. Bradley was a kind, easygoing man, not prone to anger, and the sight of him now shocked his children, fear flashing in their eyes at the look of anger that clung to his face.

“I won’t hear another word,” he hissed, grip tight on the pipe in hand. He gestured wildly at his children as they sat, paralyzed with fear. “To bed, all of you!”

They did not need to be told twice, scrambling to their feet as they hurried down the hall, the sounds of doors shutting behind them. Regret filled Bradley almost instantly, but it was not enough to quell the fear that still raged on inside of him. His eyes watched the hall before sliding over to look at his wife. Her head was bowed submissively, an impassive look on her face as she continued her mending, and Bradley settled back into his chair, an air of unease settling in around him.

It was a few weeks later when Bradley had taken the two older boys off that his world turned upside down.

Cillian was a curious boy, too curious for his own good, one might say. He loved to experience the world around him and oftentimes found himself in more trouble than he could handle. His father had warned him to stay away from the old shack that stood by the cliff, telling him that there were things in there that could hurt him if he wasn’t careful. Cillian heeded the warning, but grew more and more curious the longer it remained unexplored. It was for that reason he found himself opening the door, the creeks of the old hinges causing him to turn around to make sure he wasn’t heard. Confident that his actions still remained a secret, he crept into the dark shack, eyes wide as he took in the different trinkets strewn about.

It was nothing of import, mostly old tarps and broken traps his father had not seen fit to fix yet. An old desk sat against the far wall, and as Cillian crept farther and farther into the room, he noticed how more and more things lay stacked atop one another, as if trying to convince him to turn back. There was something that called out to him though, and the need to find what it was became stronger with each passing second. The pull pulsed around him, almost like a heartbeat as he inched closer and closer to the far side of the shack. It wasn’t until he came upon an old chest that the energy suddenly calmed, almost like it disappeared and Cillian reached out his little hands to try and pry the lid open. It did not budge, locked so that prying eyes would not find what was not theirs to seek.

Surely there must be a key? His eyes scanned the area around him, frowning when one couldn’t be found. His gaze landed upon the desk, and he stumbled over the items strewn about as he made a beeline for the lone piece of furniture. His hand reached up to drag the top drawer open, little legs stretching as far as they could to allow him to look inside. There were several keys that lay on the bottom of the drawer, but only one was carved ornately enough to match the old chest. Grinning at his prize, he seized it in his little fist, scrambling back over to the chest.

He let out a giggle as the key slipped easily into the lock, twisting it until a click could be heard. Looking behind him to make sure he was still alone, he lifted the lid of the trunk slowly. He vibrated with excitement at the thought of the treasures he might find, only to be met with the sight of trinkets tossed haphazardly inside. He reached a hand in to rummage through the piles of junk, frowning at the piles of nothing. He was about to close the lid once more when his fingers brushed against something soft, and his breath caught in his throat. He gave it a tug, but the object did not move. Huffing, he wrapped both hands around the object, grunting as he tugged it free from the confines of the trunk. He fell back with the force, landing against an old crate with a thud and a shout. He scowled at the crate, rubbing his backside before turning his attention to the prize at hand.

It was a seal pelt, the silver reminding him of the moonlight that danced through his window at night, the same beams that glittered atop the water of the sea. His hands ran over it, delighting in how soft it felt against his skin, and with a grin, he wrapped it up in his arms and ran out of the shack into the late afternoon sun.

His mother was hanging laundry out to dry, the sheets billowing in the wind as she pushed hair out of her face. Her stomach was swelling once more, just enough to be noticeable through her dress.

“Ma!” He cried out, running to her quick as his little feet could carry him. “Look what I found!”

She smiled down at him, gaze adoring before landing on the item in his hands. Her smile faded, the faraway look from that terrible night when his father had lost his temper returning to her face as she beheld the pelt in his hands.

Bradley and his sons walked up the path, smiling amongst each other as they hurried home, eager to be reunited with their mother and brother. Bradley’s eyes darted up the path, itching for a glimpse of his wife when his eyes landed on the scene unfurling before them. Her hands reached out to the pelt his youngest son held up to her, and his stomach dropped as he blanched.

“No!” He shouted, breaking out into a sprint up the path, but it was too late. Her fingers wrapped around the pelt, and something awakened inside of her, something long thought dead. A grin stretched across her face as she snatched the skin into her arms, letting out a delighted cry as she ran down the path, narrowly avoiding her husband’s arms and past her children. Bradley stopped short, turning on his heels to chase after her, legs pushing as hard as they could in a desperate attempt to catch her, hand reaching out to grab her. He was so close, fingers brushing the ends of her hair, but the call of her nature was stronger than any love he carried for her. She threw the pelt around her shoulders, a laugh leaving her as her feet touched the water, and with a leap into the air, the woman was once more a seal, landing in the water with a quiet plop. Bradley continued after her, feet pushing through the resistance of the sea as he clawed his way forward.

“Come back,” he cried, water up to his waist now. “Come back!”

It was no use, his wife was gone, stolen back by the sea, and tears streamed down his face as he scanned the surface for any sign of her. The water was oddly calm given how frantic he had become, and the despair inside him rose to a fever pitch, released in a guttural cry as he unleashed his anguish for the sea to hear.

“You promised!” He screamed, throat strained with the force of it. He let his face drop into his hands, clawing at the skin of his face as his eyes darted wildly all around like he was a man possessed. Sobs wracked through his body as the reality of what happened settled over him.

“Come back.”

Bradley was not the man he once was, and he would never be again. The house felt cold and empty with his wife gone, and he could not find it in him to do much of anything. Numbness filled his bones, the sorrow of losing that which he loved too much for his mind to bear. Most days were spent along the shore, desperate eyes searching for any sign of his wife before one of his children was able to coax him back to the house, usually well after the sun had disappeared below the horizon.

He didn’t eat much, sullen gaze turned down towards his plate, but never eating more than a mouthful or two of whatever was placed in front of him. His face grew gaunt as the weeks turned to months, dark circles growing under his eyes.

A house that was once filled with laughter now served as a tomb, the once happy memories enshrined within its four walls. The children no longer laughed, no longer played. The love of their mother was no longer there to keep them warm. Few words were uttered amongst each other, and no one was quite able to meet the eyes of another.

Utensils scraped against each other, not a word spoken as all eyes remained cast downward.

“I saw a seal today,” Rían whispered, jumping as the sound of metal dropped against a plate. Bradley’s eyes bored into his son, a haunted look on his face as he turned to him.

“What did you say?” He asked, leaning forward, tears gathering in his eyes. Rían stared at his father before casting a nervous glance to Ronan. Bradley pushed out of his chair, kneeling in front of his son as his hand gripped his shoulders painfully. Rían whimpered, trying to get out of his father’s grasp.

“Where did you see it?” Bradley rasped, voice croaking from under use. His nails dug into the boy’s skin, a pained cry spilling out of Rían’s lips. Ronan scrambled up out of his seat, hand wrapping around his father’s arms to try and pull him away from his brother.

“Tell me where you saw it!” Bradley shouted, shaking the boy roughly, eyes wild and unseeing.

“Da please!” Ronan hollered, pulling with all his might, and Bradley’s grip loosened, sending Rían flying back into his chair with a cry. Tears streamed down his face as he stared at his father, limbs trembling from fear. Bradley’s eyes focused, seeing his son for the first time in that moment.

“Rían,” he whispered, eyes darting around to look at the other two. Cillian sat on the opposite side of Rían, tears streaming down his own face as his bottom lip trembled in terror. Ronan stood behind him, face unreadable as stone as he watched his father.

“I’m,” Bradley breathed, stumbling to his feet as he ran a hand through his hair. “I’m so sorry.”

He didn’t wait for a response, exiting the room in a hurry.

The next day had them returning to their new normal. Ronan took charge of the fishing, bringing home what he could, which was just enough to keep everyone fed. Rían had taken up the housework in the absence of their mother, Cillian helping where he could at his young age.

Bradley’s days were spent at the shore, watching and waiting for a love that would never return to him. His thoughts often turned to the happier memories, of days spent in her embrace, the feel of her lips against his, the way she smiled at him. He longed for it. Longed for the time when he didn’t feel so alone, so listless.

The children had changed in the months since their mother left as well.

Ronan had taken up the mantle of provider, taking what he could to the village to barter and trade, but few would do dealings with someone who was not wholly human, mistrustful eyes that had once been focused on his mother now turned to him with disdain.

Rían’s once bright laughter was now nothing but a memory, something thought about only in passing now as he worked his way through the chores that needed doing. He slowly forgot how it felt to smile.

Cillian, who had once been the most inquisitive of the bunch, now never strayed far from his brothers, never moving far from sight. He did only as he was told, and his brothers started to wonder if he ever used to talk at all.

Much like every other night, it was Ronan who bade his father to return to the house once the sun set, frost hanging in the air now that winter was upon them. Bradley allowed himself to be pulled back to their home, head hung low as he trudged up the path behind his son. He sat in his chair by the fire, hand stretched out to hold someone who was not there as he stared into the flames, eyes unseeing, and his children wondered if they would forever see the unseen.

One by one, the boys left for bed, Ronan being the last to bid his father a goodnight, a frown tugging on his lips before shaking his head and disappearing around the corner.

Bradley sat motionless as the minutes turned to hours, still as a statue as he continued to mourn.

A knock sounded at the door, and he shifted in his seat. Another knock had his head turning in that direction. Who would be calling at that time of night? Slowly, he rose from his chair, walking towards the front door. He grasped the handle, twisting it and pulling it open.

The night was dark, the moon, which normally cast light onto the path that led down to the beach, was hidden behind the clouds. Bradley stared into the night, unfeeling and unmoving. He moved to close the door when a song rang out, the voice so alarmingly familiar.

Hò i hò i hì o hò i H�� i hò i hì o hì Hò i hò i hì o hò i Cha robh mi m' ònar a-raoir

'S mairg san tìr seo, 's mairg san tìr 'G ithe dhaoine 'n riochd a bhìdh Nach fhaic sibh ceannard an t-sluaigh Goil air teine gu cruaidh cruinn

His eyes alighted in recognition, tearing out of the house and onto the path as fast as his feet could carry him. The voice grew no closer as he ran, breaths coming out ragged as he gulped for air. The waves crashed against the shoreline as loud as thunder but never drowning out the voice he had longed to hear.

Hò i hò i hì o hò i Hò i hò i hì o hì Hò i hò i hì o hò i Cha robh mi m' ònar a-raoir

'S mise nighean Aoidh mhic Eòghainn Gum b' eòlach mi mu na sgeirean Gur mairg a dhèanadh mo bhualadh Bean uasal mi o thìr eile

He stopped, spinning wildly in search of her, crying out in frustration when he saw no one. A scream ripped its way through him, desperate and haggard as he continued to spin, only stopping when he caught sight of something on the dock. The same dock he and his lover had spent countless afternoons on, basking in the glow of each other and sharing stolen touches. He walked slowly towards it, boots crunching in the sand and then knocking against the wood as he came to the end of the dock. His eyes glistened with unshed tears as he kneeled down beside the small bundle.

Hò i hò i hì o hò i Hò i hò i hì o hì Hò i hò i hì o hò i Cha robh mi m' ònar a-raoir

Thig an smeòrach, thig an druid Thig gach eun a dh'ionnsaigh nid Thig am bradan thar a' chuain Gu Là Luain cha ghluaisear mis'

His hands reached out, stopping when the bundle moved, a gurgle sounding. His heart skipped a beat, the cold seeping through him in the winter’s night. It was then that the clouds moved, allowing the moon to shed light down on where Bradley crouched.

It was often said that Cillian was the son that bore the largest resemblance to his mother, but gazing at the babe in front of him, Bradley knew that this was the child his wife carried before she left. His hands crossed the distance to pick her up, hands gentle as he cooed down at her. He was struck then by the discovery that she was wrapped in silvery grey fur, the same size as a seal pup.

The baby let out a tiny cry, and Bradley shushed her softly, rocking her gently. He and his wife had discussed different names before that fateful day, but only one stuck out to him as he gazed at the babe in his arms.

“Aisling,” he whispered reverently, holding her tighter to his chest as tears streamed down his face. Aisling let out another cry as Bradley moved to stand, never taking his eyes off of her.

“‘s alright now,” he cooed, turning back towards the house. “Your da is here now, mo stóirín.”

His fingers wrapped around the fur with a frown. The small bundle in his arms would never leave him, not like her mother had. He would see to it this time.

Hò i hò i hì o hò i Hò i hò i hì o hì Hò i hò i hì o hò i Cha robh mi m' ònar a-raoir

A/N: I kid y'all not, this fic has been on my mind for MONTHS ever since someone suggested it. Selkies have always been one of my favorite stories from Celtic legends, and I really hope I did this justice because it was such a pleasure to write and pour my heart and soul into. I highly recommend you check out the stories if you have time because a lot of the inspiration for this fic came from them!

Another quick note as I wrap up here, I wanted to touch on the meaning of the names I chose. Ronan actually translates to "seal" or "oath, promise." Rían (pronounced Ree-on) means "king" or "ocean" depending on the etymology. Cillian (pronounced kill-ian) means "war, strife." Finally, Aisling (pronounced Ash-ling) means "dream, vision."

The first song I actually looked up the English translation, but it's a song sung by a woman who was stolen by the fae, calling out for her sister to come and help her. I thought it would be interesting to see it used in the reverse. The second song is actually one said to be sung by the selkies themselves, very fitting for this fic, I think.

Thank you all so much for reading this one! As always, reblogs and comments are appreciated. You can also find me on AO3 under sailor_aviator. Until next time!

[ratgrinders]

anyways ivy embra post because on god if she wont get the scenes in canon ill imagine it myself

Ivy and Oisin were friends in middle school. Oisin was still scrawny and hadn't had his growth spurt yet and Ivy hadn't yet gotten her braces taken off. They meet each other in some group project or club or whatever, the setting doesn't matter, but what happens is you have these two children with the inherent shittiness of middle schoolers who maybe haven't had the easiest time making friends because their passive aggressiveness is too aggressive, their barbs not hidden. And they act the same way with this new, kind of nerdy looking stranger they meet and find a kindred spirit. All of a sudden you're 12/13 years old with an outlet for all the shittalking about your classmates you want. You stick together like glue, it doesn't matter what anyone else thinks of you two because they all fuckin suck anyway, and you finally found someone who isn't a wuss and can give as good as they take.

Oisin gets better at hiding it though, being raised by a long family line of evil dragons who have had to hide their connections in plain sight will do that to you. Ivy never lost that edge around her though.

The first day of classes Freshman Year at the Aguefort Adventuring Academy, Oisin's met with this group of randos, they seem competent enough, the tall sad one seems nice enough if a bit of a pushover and the small one with the ponytail seems to have her entire academic career planned out already. She's intent on the name the High Five Heroes, it's a pun, get it? Because there's five of them. But Oisin won't go anywhere without his best friend. He pulls Ivy over, and Ivy isn't having the best luck finding a party (she insults them saying why would she want to join a party with any of these losers anyway, when they're put off by one pointed comment too many). Oisin tells the others they could do well with a fighter, that they're sticking together. The tall one, the gnome, and the kobold don't seem to mind (or don't care), but the halfling seems to have swallowed a lemon. "Well, there's six of us now which throws off the entire point of the name, but that's fine! I don't care!" (she's stubborn and doesn't want to change it).

Ivy and Kipperlilly clash CONSTANTLY. Kipperlilly's specific brand of Type A nerdiness and uptightness clashes horrifically with Ivy's specific attitude of not giving a fuck and chronic need to get under people's skin. And yet, Kipperlilly's barely concealed rage and passive aggression leads that same realization Ivy had back in middle school, of having finally found a kindred spirit. If there's two things Kipperlilly and Ivy have in common, it's their initial impression driving most people away, and their need to externalize this jealousy and bad feelings as hatred and disdain for others. They LOVE gossiping. Ivy's always down to be a hater.

Corsica Jones, the fighter teacher, sees Ivy come in on the first day of classes, bow in hand, and is immediately reminded of the sister she lost, who is still missing. Every time she trains Ivy on her stance, on basic hand-to-hand, she's reminded of the times she taught her sister the very same things. She's worried, because Ivy always seems so closed off and not very engaged, so full of rage. Unfortunately Corsica's attempts to reach out and forge a connection are stopped in their infancy when instead the barbarian teacher takes an interest in her. "Well, at least she has support from someone on the faculty, even if it isn't me."

It's Oisin that kills her. They always go off as a pair anyway, and Oisin may have been acting off recently but who is she to judge a bit of anger. But a quick stab to the back, one Choice later, and all Ivy can think about is rage.

After the Mountains of Chaos, Ivy's disdain becomes Venomous. Suddenly its not fun gossip but outright Hatred, its saying words maximized for cruelty directly to the person's face, because there's a kind of sick vindication in hurting the people who rejected you for so long, even if they may not deserve it. She and Kipperlilly don't get along anymore, snide comments and petty jabs devolving into screaming matches and insults. She proposes the name Rat Grinders with Oisin, because her stubbornness at refusing to change the name isn't endearing anymore, and there are six of them, did you oppose me joining the party that badly? It's a bit funny to see her so worked up over a stupid party name, that kind of earnest childish straightforwardness of the High Five Heroes makes her gag. The Rat Grinders is a funny inside joke, and Ivy is not comfortable engaging anymore without that layer of irony. For some reason, it doesn't feel good in the same way to hurt Kipperlilly like this, it just leave a knot of frustration that rankles in her stomach, because why does she care so much??

When Lucy dies, she doesn't remember much. She remembers the realization at the choice she'd made, and the rage that followed. Afterwards, though, was a deep all consuming bitterness. Of course she wasn't coming back, little miss goody two shoes never had any intentions of following through and left the rest of us with the fallout. She never expected otherwise, and she refuses to mourn someone who did not give enough of a shit about them to come back. She doesn't think about how Lucy helped her bleach her hair, how she braided Lucy's in return. How Lucy's birthday was coming up and she bought her new clothes, how that bag will stay unopened in her room now.

When she dies on the floor of her high school gymnasium, desperately defending every callous insult she's made with her dying breath, her last moments are spent locking eyes with her best friend, who is looking on in horror. She thinks back to a similar scenario, last year, when that same friend saw her dying and did nothing. She thinks back to them in seventh grade, trading childish insults without any real weight. And then she doesn't think anything at all.

[swordoffrivolousthings]

Thoughts about Heroes of Olympus and how it could have been better.

Sometimes I think about what would have made HOO a better series. And I'm not talking about the obvious 'too much focus on romantic relationships' and the lack of usage of certain characters or the dumb ending.

I mean the little things that would change so much (mainly character dynamics but also worldbuilding i.e. Camp Jupiter and Gaia's reasoning)

Some of the points are inspired by @crisisreading and their posts. They are the first I saw raise some of my own points so! part 2

Make the ages vary more in the main cast, trust me

Let Percy, Annabeth and Grover get older by 4-5 years. Let them become adults and find themselves outside the godly war. Let them even finish college, I wouldn't get mad. Let them do anything beside being teenagers.

I promise this would make the dynamics more interesting. Percy and Annabeth will be more mentor figures, than fellow comrades. This would create some distance between some of the them, but ultimately create something fun. Piper would come to see some aspiring female figure in Annabeth (I think this would ether be positive or negative, depending how Annabeth changed as a character over the years, but I tend towards negative). Leo would potentially have someone older to exchange ideas with. Jason would possibly feel intimidated by Percy's vastly superior age, prowess and experience, instead of being able to clash heads with him.

Hazel would have not one, but two that people that would play parent to the others' reckless behavior. (go snort your harmful stereotypes up your ass, Riordan.) Frank, when telling Percy and Hazel about his stick, would possibly find in Percy a kind hand (not that he wasn't kind already, let me explain) and Percy would probably share with him this feeling of vulnerability - not dump it on Frank - about having your life tied to a specific thing. I mean his Achilles heel, with which he would have lived for far longer.

And a whole lot more.

2. Add Grover into the series as a perspective character

You have a new trio dynamic introduced in the first book of the series. Let the original trio interact as main characters and let us see how their relationship has changed.

Grover's opinion on the conflict between the gods and Gaia would be important. He is the Lord of the Wild, and Gaia is the literal personification of the Earth. Let us see his struggle between the loyalty he has to the gods and his friends and his powerful feelings towards protecting nature.

Also, he would act as a protector for the demigods. Because while I enjoy Hedge, he is not enough to keep them safe.

3. Throw the bullshit about Gaia getting revenge for Kronos' defeat out of the way

Gaia, as mentioned before, if the personification of the Earth. One of the first gods to emerge from Chaos.

Gaia can, of course, keep her resentment for the gods defeating the son that freed her from her pain (caused by Ouranos initially). But she is a mother goddess. She should want obliterate humanity because humans are slowly killing her. Painfully. She wants to survive and the only way she sees how if by killing all the humans. She wants to save her children, aka animals, insects, nature, and the only way she sees is bloodshed. Gods are not rational in their anger, no one is. So let her be angry and vengeful and out for human blood.

DO NOT MAKE HER A FUCKING VILLAIN, MAN! Make her an antagonist, but someone's whose ideals are worth taking in and adapting. Kinda like Luke about the demigod and minor god recognition. Where have the themes of the original series gone? Remember, an important theme in BOTL was protecting the environment. It was one of the most important moments when Pan faded. Do not let that go to fucking waste. Especially not now, in the world we live in.

4. Show the effects the war had on Camp Half-Blood. Hint it at Camp Jupiter, when Percy does not have the memories to corelate it with

We've had years since the end of the Second Titan War. How did the gods change the course of events ? (the victors write the histories) How much of Luke's reasoning for starting the war was erased. (hint, all of it.) Show us how much the perspectives were shifted and how much the people that fought in it were made into martyrs and villain, basically becoming caricatures.

Let us feel how much this hurts Percy, Grover and Annabeth. How it had impacted and impacts their trauma, grief and utter horror. The younger, newer campers see them as wonderful, all-just and loyal heroes of the gods. The way they hate it.

Good moment to implement the new cabins for the gods and let the new ones forget that it wasn't always this way. Let Percy's demand to the gods be forgotten, shoved under the rug. The tragedy unfolds, use it.

Since in Camp Jupiter none of the main characters have fought, let us see the subtility. Let the older legionnaires be ragged, scarred. Older and weary, with eyes glassy and suspicious. Have younger recruits have this heavy air around them. They know what happened, what killed most of the older people in the legion.

Have Jason, Hazel and Frank see these things in Annabeth, Grover and Percy too. They realise that oh. oh. these three have fought in the war, of course they would. Show them gain respect for the trio. The same kind of respect they have for the veterans back home.

5. Cut one of the Seven from the prophecy.

I know this seems radical, but it is a symbolism thing, which I think would be more interesting in a world based on Greek mythology.

It is established in PJO that three (3) is an important number: 3 Olympian sisters (Hera, Demeter, Hestia), 3 Olympian brothers (Hades, Poseidon, Zeus), 3 Fates, 3 quest members, 3 Furies, 3 godly realms (the Underworld, Olympus + the sky, the seas). Use this.

Give us six (6) prophesized heroes. It is, after all, the second most used number in the series and a multiple of 3.

I suggest Annabeth. Why? because she has her quest from Athena. Let that be her top priority, while hanging out on the Argo II to get to Rome. Let her bond with the younger demigods and have her possible death be always on her mind. Bring her hubris into play and she would think herself the chosen one, the one demigod child of Athena to survive. This would make her falling into Tartarus with Percy not letting her go more taxing on her psyche.

Show us how she hates herself because she took one of the principal quest members to certain death. She feels like she'd jeopardized the whole saving the world thing.

Cut the Seven to Six and let Annabeth die in Tartarus. Show us why a single-man quest is a death sentence. Why three (3) is such a valuable number.

6. CONSEQUENCES!!!

Jumping straight off the last point.

Change why Annabeth would end up in Tartarus. Make her ignore the string around her ankle because she thing that nothing bad can happen to her now. After all, Arachne is gone, right.

Let this be her undoing. I do not care how she dies, but make her choices, her hubris, be her undoing. Do not let her death up to a chance, a mistake or miscalculation. Show how toxic Tartarus is, because we do not see it enough, but make it Annabeth's idea, the plan by which she dies.

Do not make it Percy's fault. Let him try to do everything to keep her alive, but still failing. Attack his sense of loyalty, his self-esteem. Show how the experiences and her death affect him.

Bring the trauma from the last war back in those chapters, in a place where demigods leave something behind.

To less drastic things - let the others get hurt. Permanently. Show how this life affects and damages people physically, too.

Have one lose an eye, another get horrific scars. Lose a limb, a part of themselves. Do not make it seem like any other could have gotten the same wound.

Tailor them to their character, their pride and their skill. Hit them where it hurts most and let us see how it changes them.

Also, about Leo. Kill him too. The fact that he ended up alive is a deux ex machina. He should have suffered the consequences.

Also also, bring back the fatal flaws. They are missing from the series. Play with them, show why they are important parts of their characters. Bring back ancient Greek fatal flaws, and new ones that make sense in a modern world.

Hurt them because what hurts them is part of who they are. Show us why the Greeks invented tragedy.

7. Age up the target age. Go more young/new adult

I understand that PJO was made for middle schoolers. But the target audience had grown up alongside the characters, and as such they have matured.

This is why I said to age Percy, Grover and Annabeth up further. Leave some distance for the old and new readers to get up and personal with the new main characters. Have them find common ground with the new demigods but have their anchor in the old ones.

Make the readers work to understand and refamiliarize themselves wit the older demigods. Because they've changed.

Targeting a more mature audience allows exploring n. 6. The realistic consequences of living with the fear that something will come and eat you. How just a little mishap could change you for life. (or what has been left of it)

Please do not go grim dark. Show that despite this all, their purpose has not stopped existing. A life exists outside of your appearance or disability still exist, and while it would be hard, do not lose hope.

8. Hope, or lack of its importance in the Heroes of Olympus series

Alongside other callbacks and reinforcements of PJO's lore, where is Elpis (hope)? Why doesn't she appear as a larger theme in the books? I don't know.

Elpis is still in the jar, having been used as a threat of defeat. But now Kronos is gone. Have Gaia use it as s symbol for her own cause.

Make hope Gaia's argument. The most important part of why her cause stands. Gaia is waking now because there is no hope for the betterment of the planet while in human - and therefore godly - grasp. She wants to save the planet, but they, the destroyers, are opposing her.

Hope is what she wants to bring back. The hope that death will not be the end of life, but further evolvement and betterment of all species.

This argument is what the counterargument should unravel. All species? Why are humans considered irredeemable, unworthy of becoming something greater?

Why can't they not coexist and why can't humans learn how to care about the world surrounding them.

Make hope for humanity and for the environment not a question of if they are capable to coexist, but how we can manage that. Humanity and nature are not mutually exclusive, but two halves of the same whole that need each other to sustain their longevity. Yes, nature can exist without humans, but humans can't.

This does not mean that the best way forward is to kill all humans.

There is no need for hope in HOO because there are no greater questions being asked about topics that require hope, because otherwise we would descend into nihilism and fatalism.

9. Give the gods reason to act the way they act, or a look at a greater narrative problem in the series

I may be generalizing, but the gods act erratically and make choices convenient for the plot, as it is, to happen.

Hera: how, specifically, does she know that Gaia is rising and what her plans are. Why is she against Gaia, when the older goddess has a track record of helping the Olympians on different occasions in the myths. Why does she decide to act when she does, how she knows that the king of the giants (whatever his name may be) is coming after her right then.

We don't know.

Athena: we understand why she wants the Athena Parthenos back. Why not force the Romans to give it back. After all, she is a goddess, even if the Romans don't respect her as the Greeks did, she has power and sway over them. Why send her children, a supposedly important part of what brings her glory, to a near-certain death. Is it misguided vengeance, an obsession to get the statue back at all cost, or simple cruelty. These reasons could apply very well to sending the Romans, yet she doesn't.

Zeus: why lock down Olympus? Paranoia, which fair, but you are a King, why wouldn't you look after your subjects? (bc Riordan chose to ignore part of his characterization in the myths and part of his godly domain) (I know kings aren't perfect, but after the last war, one would think he would do everything in his power to stop another one before it begins) Why not seek justice for Octavian's lies, that affect their ability to win the war, and kill/imprison him? Justice is part of his domain, as Zeus Nomius.

I know that we wouldn't necessarily need these answers, but without some of them, some choices left hanging seem to be there only to add to the drama and danger of it all.

All in all, I have many problems with the 'Heroes of Olympus' series. Some of them are nitpicks and personal preference as a high fantasy reader in my free time. Some of them would really add to the story and continue the themes of PJO.

Please ask me if something wasn't clear to you. I'll happily explain further.

If you find something you don't agree with, let's discuss. I'm open to changing my opinions.

[sp4rklyr0t]

Hey Aster! Could we get a guide on Ares please?

Ares, Greek God of Everything Kind and Sweet: A Guide

Just kidding, of course.

Hi! I'm Astin/Aster and this is my guide to Ares. A disclaimer before we begin, this is going to be bare-bones basic. I will not be going over any specific myths in the post. Hope this is helpful!

Ares is the god of war and thus peace, as appeasing him would thus prevent war, bloodshed and bloodlust, violence, anger/rage, manliness, rebellion. Something to note is that Ares is less of the strategy involved in war, and more of the actuality of it. He is not only a god of war but the personification of it.

His parents are Zeus and Hera, and his lover was Aphrodite. With Aphrodite, according to Hesiod's theogony, he has three children, Phobos (Terror), Deimos (Fear), and Harmonia (Harmony).

Sacred Symbols, Animals, and Epithets

His symbols are the spear, as well as armor, particularly the helm and shield.

His sacred animals were:

Serpents- he is frequently depicted with one and has myths regarding serpents.

Barn owl, eagle owl, and woodpecker, as shown:

Antoninus Liberalis, Metamorphoses 21 (trans. Celoria) (Greek mythographer C2nd A.D.) :

"Zeus loathed them [the giants Agrios and Oreios] and sent Hermes to punish them . . . But Ares, since the family of Polyphonte [mother of the giants] descended from him, snatched her sons from this fate. With the help of Hermes he changed them into birds. Polyphonte became a small owl whose voice is heard at night. She does not eat or drink and keeps her head turned down and the tips of her feet turned up. She is a portent of war and sedition for mankind. Oreios became an eagle owl, a bird that presages little good to anyone when it appears. Argios was changed into a vulture, the bird most detested by gods and men. These gods gave him an utter craving for human flesh and blood. Their female servant was changed into a woodpecker. As she was changing her shape she prayed to the gods not to become a bird evil for mankind. Hermes and Ares heard her prayer because she had by necessity done what her masters had ordered. This a bird of good omen for someone going hunting or to feasts."

He is also associated with horses, as his chariot is pulled by them.

Another notable animal are the bronze bulls, depicted as so:

Ovid, Heroides 12.39 ff : "The condition is imposed [by King Aeetes] that you [Jason] press the hard necks of the fierce bulls at the unaccustomed plow. To Mars [Ares] the bulls belonged, raging with more than mere horns, for their breathing was of terrible fire; of solid bronze were their feet, wrought round with bronze their nostrils, made black, too, by the blasts of their own breath."

Notable Epithets:

Thêritas - Beastly, brutish

Gynaikothoinas - Feasted by women

Enyalios - Warlike

Khrysopêlêx - Of the golden helm

Obrimos - Strong, mighty

Worship

His This section is going to be mainly UPG, so if you think of something else you'd like to do or give, please do so, as long as it is respectful.

Sacred Day:

Tuesday

Offerings:

Snake symbolism

Symbolism of His sacred birds

Spicy food 

Feathers from His sacred birds (sourced ethically)

Self defense weapons

Imagery of Him

Devotional Activities:

Workout or do physical activity

Go to a protest

Stand up for yourself and what you believe in 

Work on anger management 

Honor Aphrodite and their children together

Do something you're really passionate about