#miraculous mild au

[lowkeyclueless5137]

Doodles dump! Digital edition >:3c

Bcs on the sketchbook I did references for my current comic and thus I won't spoil u yet :3

This time is a lot of Jade for sum reason :v

We starting with the new au i didn't explain: the fight club au

The premise is basically MK meets Streetfighter, meets twst, meets real world. With Epel trying to get around New York and attending the prestigious NRC school for mages. He uncovers a secret fight club and gets recruited by a misterious fighter in order to uncover a secret drug ring.

The magical girl au :D

This was more of silly doodle time, but there are a few hints of the au's plot :P

Lowkey I didn't know how Ace was gonna look like at first, but now I know EXACTLY why he turned out like this. Parkour I guess :'3

This is from the lettler exchange p5 x twst au :v

Noting how I confirmed that the velvet room attendees are siblings, I HAD to make a few shenaningans in between them :3

Lavenza and Floyd are the ones who get a new fusion method, thus Igor(the deemed parent), Had to instruct Floyd first so he could tell Lavenza as well. I really like how the uniforms turned out tbh.

And yes, this implies that all the attendees are mers. Lavenza, Theo and Elizabeth are eels, while Margret and Azul are octopuses. Might draw those one day :v

For context, it's this spuerhero au. :'3

Ace is the funny lil guy that has and absolute TRAINWRECK of a backstory. And Riddle as well, but I wanted to practice a bit on backs and side profiles, but I also wanted to add sum context ;3

TWO :D

I tried to get around model references, because GODDAMN some of those peeps look like sum bones are in the wrong place :v

also colored vgs, bcs I saw some using those and I do enjoy sum complementary color sumtimes :'3

And what better au than jjba au? The first one is ur hint at the main plot idea of this au, while the latter is a ref for Azul and his stand: Dark Side Of The Moon. I tried to also see how realistically his stand would resist against things, seeing how it is made out of bulletproof glass, also a lot of Drag inspo for his stand tbh. :'3

You know it, I know it, WE AIN'T ESCAPING THE MLB MILD AU<3

It's a sort of tease of what happens during the mlb specials, which all happen post the main 4 seasons ya'll read and saw me losing my shit abt. :'3

YES, THERE WAS A REASON I TEASED MALLEUS'S FAM DRAMA!

Think that NY and Shangai Specials happen at the same time, but each of the our main 2 heroes go through sum self discovery post all that chaos with Madame Moth. Riddle with accepting the flaws of himself and coming in terms with his new family dynamic, while Malleus comes in terms with the tesnsion and the chaos around himself and the fact that he cannot ignore changes he doesn't like anymore.

And the other miraculous au, this time the maleidiazu hard au version.

Since Jade got the butterfly miraculous, I thought that the twins would be ABSOLUTE MENACES to Azul.

For Jade's design, I saw those very pretty butterfly decorations photos and I fixated on Gabe's butterfly tending hat. I also wanted to allude to his eel form, so I imagined a long, sleek, trein, reminescent of a cocoon, that can flare up and reveal it's true shape of a half wing, the top vest part acting as the 2nd part of the wing. He looks pretty aloof, the kind of person you'd assume would be nice, but the veil is like your warning sign, with the butterflies always sitting on the outside, all alert. I really liked how he turned out and probably is one of my favorite designs in this au tbh.

And again, Jade for the last one: the Jjk mild au. damn, I can't find the post

I knew right off the batch that I wanted this mf to get some inspo from Nobara's uniform, just because I think Floyd-pre curse era would have a more yuji insp uniform and since in cannon jjk these 2 were like besties and up to shenaningans at first, I thought it would be a fun and subtle reference. :3

The reason that yellow overall is shown, is bcs underneath the jacket, Jade has a top of a similar shape, mostly to accomodate his brother.

It's fun to think that Jade's so reserved and acts humble, but in here there's literally the truth. He's thrown in this world with 0 knowledge, trying to gather up the disaster that was left behind his brother and just fix things that he isn't responsible for in the first place, all for his own selfish reasons. It's fun :D

and that would be all for now :3

#twisted wonderland #twst #twst jade #a lot of jade in this one tbh #Treyjade for the jojo au too #miraculous mild au #jjk mild au #p5 x twst au #I ain't tagging the rest #too lazy ;'3

[ichorai]

balance the scales ; aemond targaryen. (m)

alternatively titled soda. track six of BROKEN MACHINE.

pairing ; aemond targaryen x strong!f!reader

synopsis ; he flinched away when your fingers brushed against his eyepatch. despite this, you reached out once more to pull it off, your touch ever so gentle—and this time, he let you. you whispered that he was beautiful as your lips grazed against the marred skin of his cheek. aemond didn’t believe you, but he let you say it nonetheless.

words ; 40.3k (my longest oneshot!)

themes ; heavy angst, action, smut (minors dni!), mild fluff, enemies to lovers back to enemies trope, slowburn, betrothed au

warnings / includes ; violence/war, several character deaths, descriptions of injury/blood, birth scenes, oral (f recieving), unprotected sex, slight breeding kink, hotd s1 spoilers, reader is fiercely team black, implications of rape (aegon), really really heavy angst, harwin is reader's older brother, helaena is the sweetest ever :( jace and luke are reader's best friends, rhaenyra is practically reader's mother, lots of Emotions in this one, asoiaf politics and references for all of you book nerds

main masterlist. read on ao3!

It was said that you came into the world silent. 

A problem with your lungs, the midwives had solemnly told your father, the Hand of the King, proclaiming you dead not three minutes after. Lyonel Strong was grief-stricken at not only having lost his dear wife to the perilous task of childbirth, but you as well. 

But you were a fighter from the very beginning. At least, that’s what Harwin had told you. Once they’d laid you in your eldest brother’s arms, your airway had miraculously cleared up and you’d let out a hoarse, shrill cry—and the rest was history. 

“I was twenty when you were born, you know,” said Harwin, voice rife with affection, reaching out to brush a lock of hair away from your face. “I was so scared that I’d lose you. Now look at you—eight years of age and healthier than ever. Are you excited to meet the new baby?”

“Yes! The babe gets a dragon egg and everything!” 

You beamed up at your eldest brother, batting away his fretful hands and turning to your friends. Though—they’d always felt more like your brothers than merely friends.

Jacaerys and Lucerys, who bore a striking resemblance to Harwin (and you’d keenly noticed that they shared your smile), were playing with a wooden carving of a dragon, blowing raspberries and running around the spacious chamber. The taller of the two, Jace, was only a few moons older than you, whilst Luke was much younger and looked up to you—quite literally and figuratively. The two young boys roped you into their little game as well, screaming with laughter when you began chasing after them with a snarl, arms outstretched. 

With a slight smile, Harwin watched over the three of you, hands comfortably rested against the hilt of his gilded longsword. Even though he was only but your older brother, he always treated you as if you were his own child—after all, you barely saw your father anyway, seeing as he was always busy serving the King as the Hand. The fact that he was a whole two decades older than you only made him all the more protective of his youngest sibling. 

His attention was pulled away from the three kids clambering on top of each other when the doors creaked open. An exhausted Rhaenyra slowly limped in, Laenor Velaryon right behind her, holding a bundle of red and gold fabric. 

“Mother!” exclaimed Jace, getting onto his feet to greet Rhaenyra. “Look!” 

He scuttled away to pull the cover off of the stone incubator, revealing a scaly dragon egg of dark emerald hue. You and Luke were hot on his trail, peering over his shoulder to marvel at the smoking egg. A large part of you was jealous that Jace and Luke and the new babe each got a dragon egg, and you never did, despite having similar physical attributes to the boys. But they were royal Princes, and you were only the youngest child of the Hand, which really meant little to nothing other than fancy titles and polite honorifics.

“We chose an egg for the baby,” Luke excitedly told his mother, who leaned against a chaise tiredly.

Harwin offered his arm to Rhaenyra, helping her slowly ease down onto the seat. 

“Ah,” she said, the beginnings of a smile to her lips. “That looks like the perfect one.”

“I let Luke choose!” chirped Jace, squaring his shoulders proudly. “But Luke couldn’t decide, so I asked Y/N.”

The purple of Rhaenyra’s eyes gleamed with affection when she looked at you, nearly shrouded behind Jace’s taller stature. “Sweet girl,” she hummed, briefly glancing up at Harwin, before returning her gaze to you. “You chose wonderfully. Thank you.”

Luke reached out to graze his fingers over the egg’s ridges, but flinched back from the heat, sticking them into his mouth. You pulled a grimace but laughed anyway, lightly shoving Luke away from the incubator.

“Not every day an egg leaves the Dragonpit, Princess,” said your brother. “I thought it best to escort the lads. They insisted on Y/N coming along, as well.” 

“Laenor and I thank you, Commander,” replied Rhaenyra, dipping her head with gratitude. 

Harwin’s eyes locked on the babe in Laenor’s arms. “Another boy, I heard,” he said. 

The Princess nodded once, the corner of her lips lifting ever so slightly. 

“Might I?” asked the Commander.

“Ser Harwin wishes to be introduced to Joffrey,” Rhaenyra told her husband, who finally ripped his loving gaze from the babe, and handed him over to Harwin.

With flailing hands, Luke reached out to Harwin, eyes trained on Laenor. “Please, father, may I hold Joffrey?”

“Ah, ah, ah, back to the Dragonpit for you two—before they send out a search party!” ushered Laenor as he led the boys out of the chamber. “Come, Y/N, would you like to join the boys?” he asked kindly, clearly wanting to give Harwin and Rhaenyra some well-earned time alone. 

Excited at the prospect of seeing the boys’ dragons again, you scrambled out the doors after them, squeaking out, “Wait! Wait for me!” 

Once the doors were shut and the kids were gone, Rhaenyra looked upon Harwin bouncing the babe fondly.

“You’re asleep in front of the Commander of the City Watch,” he gently scolded the tiny thing. “Terrible lack of respect.”

“A certain insolence runs in the family, I’m afraid,” commented Rhaenyra, subtly hinting to the baby being of Harwin’s blood, rather than Laenor’s. 

Harwin tried his best to suppress his smile, failing miserably. He looked down at the baby once more, noting with pleased fascination that Joffrey had his nose.

The dungeons of the Dragonpit were dimly lit by sparse, flaming torches hanging by the stone walls. It stank of smoke and ash and stale blood, but you didn’t quite mind the smell. You bounced on the balls of your feet behind Jacaerys, eyes wide with anticipation as the dragonkeepers brought out Vermax.

He was a rather tempestuous beast, snarling at the lot of you as he stalked forward. The pale orange of his wings and the green of his scales warbled beneath the fire’s light. The keepers spoke in their lilting Valyrian tongues to command the dragon—foreign to your ears, but no less interesting. 

Aegon seemed not to share your disposition, however, yawning loudly and rolling his eyes to the side, clearly bored with watching Jacaerys bond with Vermax. Ever since Aegon had won mastery over his own dragon, Sunfyre, his head seemed to swell twice its size and he held no interest in anybody else’s dragon but his own. Both you and Luke glanced up at him with a scowl. The younger of the silver-headed boys kept his gaze trained to the ground, used to his brother’s antics.

You’d always been much more fond of Aemond than Aegon anyway—he was far kinder to you than his brother. Though, compared to Aegon, it was barely a competition. 

Watching on in rapt fascination, you turned your head to see one of the keepers bring out a bleating lamb for Vermax to feast upon.

“Can I say it?” asked Jacaerys, equal parts nervous and excited. He glanced at his uncles, before looking back at you, eyes gleaming. You gave him an encouraging smile. At the keepers’ hum of approval, he turned back to his dragon. “Dracarys, Vermax!” 

With a grateful hiss, Vermax turned and blew a long breath of fire straight at his prey, pupils sharpening. Even from afar, you could feel the heat of the flames kiss your skin.

Vermax happily stalked forward and began biting into the charred flesh of the lamb. The keepers clapped Jacaerys on the shoulder proudly, before heading off to round Vermax further into the darkness of the Dragonpit. 

Just as you were about to tell Jace how amazing that was, Aegon interrupted by cuffing his younger brother on the shoulder.

“Aemond, we have a surprise for you,” he glibly said.

The other two boys glanced at each mischievously. You tilted your head, feeling a bit left out. You weren’t aware of any surprises they had planned for the young Prince.

“What is it?” asked Aemond.

“Something very special!” chimed Lucerys, just before he ran off into the darkness.

Clearing his throat, Aegon continued, “You’re the only one of us without a dragon.”

Aemond frowned. “Indeed.”

“And we felt badly about it, so we found one for you!” exclaimed Aegon.

This came as a surprise to you. To your knowledge, none of the dragons had nested as of late, and there were no new eggs for Aemond to take. 

The same skepticism colored Aemond’s tone. “A dragon? How?”

Aegon didn’t even try hiding his snarky smile. “The gods provide, dear brother.”

And out came Luke from the shadows, tugging along a large, oinking pig. Tufts of dried wheat were tied around the pigs back, made to mimic a dragon’s wings. You felt your lips twist into a frown. What a terrible thing to gift Aemond.

The other boys giggled as they announced, “Behold, the Pink Dread!” 

They snickered in amusement at Aemond’s reaction—or lack thereof. 

“Be sure to mount her carefully,” cackled Aegon, prodding his brother’s side. “First flight’s always rough.” He snorted loudly into Aemond’s ear, who stood still and unflinching. 

Jace and Luke followed suit, making obscene pig noises and giggling. They turned to leave the Dragonpit.

“Come on, Y/N, let’s go see if they have any lemon cakes for supper!” said Luke, grabbing your hand. 

You kept your gaze trained on Aemond, shaking the younger boy off. “I’ll be right there… just give me a minute.”

Shrugging, Luke scampered off with Jace and Aegon, still laughing between his pig-reminiscent oinks.

Uncertain, you stood a couple feet away from Aemond, toying with the fabric of your sleeve. You sympathized with him, really. All your life, you had no dragon of your own, despite always having wanted one. You knew it wasn’t the same because it was his birthright as a Prince to have a dragon—but you could still understand the feeling.

“I’m sorry about them,” you said, moving closer. “That’s a terrible thing to gift you.”

The Prince was silent for a few moments, before rotating on his feet to fix his glare on you. You shuffled back a step.

An amalgamation of anger and embarrassment etching crystal clear across his face, he spat out, “Go away! You’re not even of royal Targaryen blood—you don’t belong here!”

It was clear that he was merely projecting his frustrations onto you—after all, he himself was of Targaryen blood and yet he always felt like an outcast in his own family. 

But you were only eight, and such complicated matters were lost to you. 

Lips twisting in a frown, you blinked at the Prince, hands curling into fists by your side. “I just wanted to help,” you quietly mumbled beneath your breath, before promptly turning on your heel and marching out of the Dragonpit.

Aemond had heard your final words before your departure, feeling a twinge of guilt coil within his stomach. But after casting another look at the pig, his thoughts about you disappeared, replaced only with hot fury. 

With a determined set of his jaw, Aemond trudged on further into the darkness of the Dragonpit. 

“Your feet,” said Harwin, tapping the edge of his sword onto your scuffed boots. “Don’t stand like a pin needle. Keep them apart—steady your stance.”

You did as he told, and he nodded in approval. With your dull, wooden practice lance, you dove forward and struck the hay sewn dummy with quick strikes.

“Good,” your older brother commended, patting your shoulder. “Just remember to move with your feet, alright? Come now, drop the sword.”

“What?” you asked, allowing the wood to go limp in your hand. “Why?”

Kneeling down before you, Harwin brushed your sweaty, damp hair away from your burning skin. “Because this world doesn’t give little girls swords when they need it. They must only rely on their wit and their hands if the situation arises. Drop the sword, darling.”

Frowning, you relinquished your hold, waiting for further instructions.

You’d been doing this with Harwin for a long while now. Every other night for the past three years, he’d been teaching you how to fight, and how to defend yourself. 

“Now, I’m going to pretend to hit you, and you have to do everything in your power to stop me. Do anything you must—hit back, bite, kick, run… just don’t give up. You promise?”

“Okay,” you told him, steeling your nerves. 

He began slowly, motioning to strike your stomach and your sides. You managed to evade those easily, moving back or rolling out of his way. The faster he got, however, the more sloppy you were. One particular jab to your shoulder made you bite back a cry of pain, and you glared up at him.

“Must you be so rough?” you growled, to which Harwin only nodded, face stoic.

“In a fight—a real and true one—do you think they’d go easy on you? No. You must be prepared for it, Y/N. I will not always be there to protect you.” 

His words made you pause. “What do you mean? Why wouldn’t you be there?” 

“I’ll always be there for you, little sister,” he said, large hand patting your head. “But if there comes such a time where I won’t be, for some reason unbeknownst to me, you must be ready.”

With a reluctant bob of your head, he commanded you to get into a fighting stance again. 

“Thumb outside the fist,” he gently reminded you. “Feet wider apart, knees bent—yes, that’s it.”

And without warning, he darted forward, using his foot to sweep across your legs, making you stumble back onto your arse, all the breath in your lungs rushing out.

“Harwin!” you yelled out, now fed up with him. “That’s not fair! You’re using your feet!”

“I never said I wasn’t going to use my feet. You will soon come to realize that life is not always fair,” he said, unable to help the small chuckle falling from his lips. “Up you get.”

Rubbing at your sore bottom, you mumbled out, “Why don’t I get to spar with Jace and Luke and Aemond and Aegon? I want to spar with them.” Though, as soon as the words left you, you realized that you’d really rather not spar with Aemond and Aegon. Especially not after that whole pig situation.

Surprised at your question, Harwin halted to lower himself down to your height once again. “Sweet sister… it is safer for me to train you in secret. In a fair and just world, you’d be able to train with whomever you wanted. But you are a young girl, and they are the royal Princes. The court would not find it proper if you were to spar with them.”

Tears welled up in your widened eyes. “But… that’s not fair…”

Harwin thumbed away the wetness on your cheek. “Come now, don’t cry. How about, next time the boys train, you get to watch—and I can teach you the same things they learn later in the evening? How does that sound?”

“O-Okay,” you hiccupped. “Can I have my sword back?”

With a faint smile, Harwin nodded, handing you the wooden stick. 

From the shadows where neither of you could see, Criston Cole watched, eyes narrowed and teeth gritted.

Harwin was a man of his word.

The very next day, you had shot out of your bed like someone had lit a fire beneath you, hurriedly dressing and washing yourself, much to your handmaid's shock, and scampered out to the training yard.

“There you are,” greeted your brother, ruffling your already sleep-mussed hair. “I was afraid you weren’t going to show.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world!” you replied, bouncing on your toes.

Harwin could only grin down at you, before returning his gaze to the four boys dully smacking their wooden practice swords against the dummies.

Aegon twisted and turned and hit with speed rather than precision, grunts of exertion falling from his lips. Lucerys was clumsy and slow, but for the most part, he hit the targeted regions accurately. Jacaerys was nearly the same as his youngest brother, only a tad faster and more agile on his feet. 

Ser Criston Cole was scrutinizing Aemond, despite him seeming to be doing the best out of the four. Fast, accurate, and strong strokes of his wooden blade thudded repeatedly against the hay.

“Soften your knees,” gruffed Criston, face betraying no expression. “Feet light. Light, Aemond.”

Training with the Dornish man seemed much different than training with your older brother. With your brother, as hard as he was on you sometimes, he was still kind and knew your limits. Cole was cold and rigidly strict, and seemed to care naught for the boys’ boundaries.

You glanced up at your brother, who watched on with a mildly distasteful expression.

Observing from the walkways above, you spotted your father with the King. Lyonel eyed you with a questionable gaze, wondering what on earth his youngest daughter was doing on the training grounds, rather than playing with Princess Helaena, whom you’d grown to be rather fond of, or entertaining Rhaenyra and the new babe, Joffrey. 

You tilted your head when Aegon grew bored of smacking his own dummy, wandering over to Jace and knocking the younger Prince’s sword out of his hands. To none of your surprise, Criston chose to turn a blind eye to the eldest boy.

You will soon come to realize that life is not always fair, you could hear your brother’s words echo in your head. Perhaps he was right. Nonetheless, you could feel anger simmer within your stomach.

“Don’t stand too upright, my Prince, you’ll get knocked down,” commanded Cole.

Aegon halted in his terrorizing as two handmaids passed by, openly gawking at the poor girls as they hurried off with baskets of soiled laundry. Only after they were long gone, did Aegon catch sight of you, tilting his head curiously, as if trying to remember your face.

“Aegon,” Criston called out, pulling Aegon’s attention away from you.

“I’ve won my first bout, Ser Criston,” boasted the white-haired Prince. “My opponent sues for mercy.”

A ghost of a smirk graced Criston’s lips. “Then you shall have a new opponent, then. Let’s see if you can touch me. You and your brother.”

With dejected expressions, Luke and Jace slunk off to the side, watching Aemond and Aegon battle against Criston. It was only then that the two boys took notice of you. Luke waved excitedly, and Jace nodded his head with a smile. You grinned back at them, clasping your hands behind your back, itching to have a practice sword gripped between them.

Criston seemed to make a fool of the Princes, easily parrying away their strikes and sending them sprawling onto the ground several times. 

“Weapons up, boys,” Harwin quietly advised Luke and Jace. “Give your enemies no quarter.”

It seemed as though his words were not quiet enough—Criston certainly overheard what he was saying, and didn’t look too pleased with it.

Your brother narrowed his eyes. “It seems the younger boys could do better with a bit of your attention, Ser Criston.”

Jaw squared, Cole bit out, “You question my method of instruction, Ser?”

“I merely suggest that method be applied to all your pupils,” said Harwin. 

“My pupils? And not… your pupil?” 

This made your brother blanche uneasily. 

“Lady Y/N. Come. I want to see what Ser Harwin has taught you.”

Shocked, you looked up at your brother, lips falling open and shut, unsure of what to say or do. 

Not wanting to disobey the tall, scary man, you timidly stepped forward. From above, your father seemed to want to end this nonsense, shifting his weight from foot to foot—but as the King trusted Ser Criston Cole, he had little he could say to put a stop to this.

“Aemond. You shall spar with the Lady Strong.”

The Prince seemed to want to do anything other than that, but reluctantly ambled forward anyway. Criston roughly shoved a wooden sword against your chest, which lacked any armor whatsoever in comparison to Aemond’s full chestplate and protective metal gloves. 

“Engage.”

Desperately trying to recall what your brother had taught you, you spread your feet further apart and bent your knees, leveling your weight in preparation to move around.

Aemond was the first to attack, diving forward to strike your sides. He got one hit in at first, pain blossoming by your ribs. You winced, staggering back slightly.

By the second strike, you were prepared. Though he was half a foot taller than you, you used that to your advantage. It was little effort to duck away from his arc when he was about to repeat the very same maneuver, smacking the flat of your stick to the back of his left knee, sending him buckling forward. In the short time you had to watch him, you’d noticed that he favored his right side, and often left the other side unguarded. 

The Prince was quick to recover, scrambling back up on his feet and glaring at you with the strength of a thousand suns. This time, he was smarter, waiting for you to attack next. You feigned a jab to his neck, forcing him to parry high up, before you used your feet to kick out against his exposed stomach. It was a dirty move—not a proper one in the least, but it was as your brother said the other night—life was not fair.

Aemond fell back with a muffled oomf, expression suspended into one of disbelief. He couldn’t believe he’d just been bested by a girl. Teeth clenched, you placed the tip of your sword against his chest, locking eyes with him. He stared at you with nothing but pure hatred within the deep purple of his irises. After a second, you moved it away, holding out your hand to help him up. You were willing to overlook what happened down at the Dragonpit the other day—after all, you still sympathized with him and didn't hate him in the very least. Especially not compared to his wretched older brother. 

The Prince didn’t take your hand. He shoved it away with a grumble, standing up on his own and slinking off to the side. It was embarrassing. More than that—he was angry at himself, at you, at Cole. Tears pricked the corner of Aemond’s eyes, but he willfully staved them away.

Frowning, you made your way back to Harwin, who fondly cupped your face with one large palm, patting your cheek thrice. “Well done, Y/N. I’m so proud of you.”

You smiled wearily, though it didn’t reach your eyes.

Criston’s nostrils flared as he sucked in a breath, clearly unhappy with Harwin’s pupil beating his own. His gaze flitted downward to lock with yours for a brief moment, before looking at the crown Prince. “Alright. Jacaerys. You spar with Aegon. Eldest son against eldest son.”

Giving the boy no warning, Cole seized the front of Jace’s armor and all but dragged him to the center of the training yard. Helplessly, Jace looked to you and Harwin.

This was by no means a fair fight, but you had to remind yourself—life is not always fair.

As if reading your thoughts, Harwin called out, “It’s hardly a fair match.”

“I know you’ve never seen true battle, Ser, but when steel is drawn, a fair match isn’t something anyone should expect.” Criston’s seething words made you shift uncomfortably. How dare he speak to your brother like that?

You glanced back up at your father and the King, still watching over. You wondered if he could hear what Criston was saying. If he cared.

“Engage,” said Cole.

And with that, Aegon roared, raining down attack after attack upon Jace. He shoved him down onto the ground, dried leaves fluttering upwards with his fall. Satisfied with himself, Aegon turned his back to Jace, bowing to you with a smirk and chuckling at his early win.

Jacaerys, however, was quick to get on his feet and charged forward with a snarl, wildly arcing the practice sword at his uncle.

In an attempt to get him to stop, Aegon shoved a dummy onto Jace, which prompted Harwin to step forward and say, “Foul play!”

“I’ll deal with him,” barked Criston, before stepping towards Aegon. “Plant your feet. You have a height advantage. Use it!”

It was becoming more and more clear that this spar was no longer an eldest son against an eldest son. It was between your brother, Commander of the City Watch, and the Queen’s kingsguard.

Whilst Criston roughly barked instructions to Aegon, Harwin moved to Jace, gripping the young boy’s chin in his palm and gently gave him advice and words of encouragement—not unsimilar to what he did with you during your training.

Once they were done, Aegon furiously stormed back to Jacaerys. “You!” he screamed, red-faced and furious at his nephew for having embarrassed him in such a way. The Prince was not at all used to not winning.

“Close with him!” yelled Criston when Aegon surged forward and hit him repeatedly. “Press him backward! Stay on the attack! Use your feet!” 

With that, Aegon placed his heel squarely against Jace’s chestplate, kicking him back onto the dirt. 

“Don’t let him get up. Stay on the attack!” 

You watched on in concern as Aegon whacked the wooden sword over and over onto Jace—to the point where you panicked and frantically tugged on Harwin’s armor, afraid he was going to do some serious damage on your friend. 

Deciding to put an end to this once and for all, Harwin finally stepped forward and ripped Aegon away from Jace. 

“Enough!” he bellowed, so loud that his voice seemed to echo back against the stone walls. 

This seemed to enrage Aegon all the more as he screeched out, “You dare put your hands on me?”

“Aegon!” yelled the King from above.

Nobody listened. 

“You forget yourself, Strong,” said Cole, voice dripping with venom. It didn’t slip by your notice that he’d dropped the honorifics with your brother. “That is the Prince.”

“This is what you teach, Cole? Cruelty to the weaker opponent?” seethed Harwin. 

Tone eerily level, Cole glibly commented, “Your interest in the princeling’s training is quite unusual, Commander. Most men would only have that kind of devotion toward a cousin… or a brother… or a son.”

With that, Harwin surged forward and planted a clean punch against Criston’s face. 

Criston made no attempts to fight back. Not with the second hit, or the third, or the fourth. By the fifth, he was bleeding from the side of his temple, and red ran down a stream from his split lips.

Your hands had flown over your mouth, and you staggered back, against Jace. Luke’s small hand curled into the fabric of your tunic. A son… Criston had said. And it all made sense to you now—why Harwin loved the boys so dearly, why they looked so much like your brother, why you shared the same smile as them. 

They were your nephews. 

This only had you protectively stepping in front of them, shielding them from the sight of their true father beating up a knight.

Over and over and over again, your eldest brother struck Cole, until his own knuckles glimmered with dark ichor—belonging to both him and the man beneath him. Two gold cloaks had to rush forward and haul Harwin away from Criston.

“Say it again!” bellowed Harwin. “Say it again!”

Despite the beating he’d just undertook, Criston laughed through his blood-saturated spittle. “Thought as much,” he choked out, turning to his side to hack out a wad of red onto the dirt. 

Your father was furious. 

At you, yes, but the anger he felt towards Harwin a thousand times moreso. So much so that he had ordered Harwin be stripped of his title as Commander of the City Watch, and taken back home to Harrenhal as his heir. Though, it wasn’t a home to you, seeing as you’d never even stepped foot in the place.

Your father had also tried to resign as Hand to the King, feeling immense pressure and shame from the court. But the King insisted he stay, and to your relief, that meant that you could stay, as well.

However, that also entailed that you had to say goodbye to your beloved brother. 

When he first told you, you scoffed and retorted, “A funny joke, Harwin, but I’m not in the laughing mood.” And when his expression remained solemnly unchanged, you could feel your heart sinking to your stomach. “No… no, you can’t be serious. Harwin, you can’t leave! No! What am I to do here without you? What of our training?”

The following hour consisted of you crying your little eyes out, sobbing into Harwin’s armor, begging him not to leave. He had little to say, afraid that if he opened his mouth, he’d join you in your crying. But he stroked your hair and assured you that he’d write as often as he could to you.

Father was to be joining him to drop him off at Harrenhal and ensure everything was going smoothly for the first fortnight, before he was due to return to King's Landing. You wouldn’t be missing him too much—at least he was coming back. You hadn’t a clue when the next time you’d see your brother might be.

And there was the other unspoken elephant in the room—Rhaenyra’s sons. Your best friends—and, as you’d recently found out, your nephews.

“Be good to your mother, lads,” said Harwin, kneeling by Luke. “I’ll visit when I can. But that may be some time.”

He turned to Jace, who stood tall beside his mother, rocking Joffrey back and forth in his arms. 

“I will return,” your brother told his eldest son, lifting his chin up with the tips of his fingers. “I promise.”

Harwin and Rhaenyra locked eyes for a brief moment. Hers watered. Harwin’s softened. He bent down to press a loving kiss to the babe’s forehead. 

“I will be a stranger when we meet again,” he whispered to Joffrey, but a part of it was directed to Rhaenyra herself.

You awaited by the door for him, wiping your tears furiously with the back of your hand. 

Harwin’s final goodbye was saved for you. So much to say, with so little time. He cupped your face and kissed your forehead, nose slotted against your hairline. His first and final tear fell from his misty eyes.

“Remember what I told you. I’ll always be there for you, sweet sister. Always. Maybe not physically here,” he said, before pressing a thumb just above your duly beating heart. “But in here.” 

Much to your frustration, you began to cry again, chest thundering with sobs. 

“Goodbye, brother,” you whispered, voice cracking.

“Oh, no, don’t cry over me, darling. I want you to keep your head high, hm? By the time I see you again, you might be even stronger than me.” 

Harwin pressed another kiss to your cheek, before swiping your tears away with the pads of his thumbs, and stood up again. 

You watched as he pushed the door open and strode down the hall, disappearing from your sight. Jacaerys came to your side, threading his hand with yours in an effort to comfort you. You squeezed gratefully, releasing a shuddering breath.

“We will exchange letters by raven,” placated Rhaenyra, trying her best to alleviate both of your sorrows. “Won’t that be fun?”

Bluntly, Jace turned to look at his mother and asked, “Is Harwin Strong my father? Am I a bastard?”

Shock colored Rhaenyra’s expression. 

“You are a Targaryen,” she affirmed after recovering from her initial surprise, stroking Jace’s hair away from his face. “That’s all that matters.”

She hadn’t answered his question, but both you and Jace knew the truth.

News of your brother and father’s death spread like wildfire. It was said to be an accident—a tragic product of Harrenhal’s Curse. There were rumors flying around, however, that it was no accident.

Rumors of Daemon Targaryen wanting to rid his niece of her lover. Rumors of Corlys Velaryon exacting revenge for Harwin cuckolding his son. Rumors of your last remaining brother, Larys Strong, murdering his own blood to claim his inheritance.

You paid no mind to the rumors. It was an accident, and that was that.

Life is not fair, you could hear your brother’s voice say to you. He was right—nothing was fair. 

After their deaths, you spent days weeping in your chambers. Jacaerys and Lucerys often dropped by to check in on you, offering to take you down to the Dragonpits in hopes of cheering you up. You’d sniffled and shook your head, curling up in the center of your bed. Rhaenyra, who saw you more like a daughter than anything, took the liberty of bringing food to your chambers, urging you to eat something.

“It’s okay to cry, sweet girl,” she told you, sitting by the edge of your bed and stroking the hair away from your face. When you began to quietly sob, she wound her arms around your small frame, and held you close to her chest.

The fortnight after their deaths, everyone treated you as if you were hewn from glass. They spoke slowly and cautiously, treading on eggshells around you. Even Jace and Luke seemed hesitant to play with you anymore, afraid you’d burst into hysterical tears any second.

What made it worse was when Rhaenyra announced that she was leaving King’s Landing with her children for Dragonstone. It was devastating news—for she and her sons were the closest thing you had left to a family. 

Jace hugged you goodbye, eyes teary and nose red. Little Luke clung to your legs and begged you to come with them. Even Rhaenyra had offered you a place on the ship to join them on their journey, her voice kind but so very tired.

“You will always have a place with us, sweet girl,” she had told you, lips pressing a gentle kiss to your hairline. The Princess considered you the daughter she never had—always fiercely protective of you. With Harwin gone, that feeling only increased thricefold. You were practically her family by now.

But you couldn’t leave King’s Landing with Rhaenyra and the boys. Not with Larys Strong anchoring you to the Red Keep—and certainly not with Alicent breathing down both of your necks.

And so you watched them sail away, face drenched with your tears and hands clenched into fists by your side.

You abhorred it all, wishing everything could just go back to how they were before.

Out of all the other children at court, Princess Helaena was the only one who treated you the same as she did before, all misty-eyed and odd-of-tongue. Because of this, you found yourself glued to her side, desperate for a sense of normalcy, which you ironically found in the strangest of girls. She was a fascinating person, far more intelligent than first meets the eye—with a peculiar interest in critters and insects lurking in the shadows.

She was rather fond of you as well, though not at all used to having friends, much less other girls who took her fixations seriously and didn’t think her gross for it. Queen Alicent was mortified at having a Strong girl befriend her daughter, and yet was simultaneously relieved that she finally had someone to call a friend. Besides, having you on her side was more of an advantage than anything—especially with Larys Strong backed in her corner, as well.

“The butterfly has two large, black spots on the bottom of its wings,” said Helaena as she crouched down beside you, holding her palms up to brandish the small insect. “They are to trick the larger animals into thinking they are eyes. It is a defense tactic. The butterfly is not who the rest thinks she is.”

You smiled at her, raising a finger to touch the little insect, only for it to flutter away before you could get too close, hurrying back to the gardens. 

“They’re beautiful,” you said, watching it disappear amongst the flowers. “Masters of trickery, though.”

“Yes,” surmised Helaena, though her gaze was fixed on you. “Beautiful. Deceitful. Both equally true.”

It had been three weeks since your brother and father passed.

And yet, here you were, at someone else’s funeral in Driftmark. Laena Velaryon—the late wife to Prince Daemon Targaryen.

You’d pleaded with Larys, begged him to allow you to go back to Harrenhal to mourn your family—but he only supplied you with a crooked smile and told you that you belonged in King’s Landing. With Larys being your only kin left standing, adamant with his refusal to return home to properly grieve over Harwin and Lyonel, it seemed that you were stuck with him.

You were never very fond of Larys to begin with.

At Laena’s funeral, you made it your job to avoid him as much as you could, following behind Jacaerys and Lucerys. It was strange and pleasant under the worst circumstances seeing them again so soon after such an emotional farewell.

Rhaenyra wove through the crowd, bowing her head to you with soft eyes, before fixing her gaze on her eldest son.

“Your little cousins have lost their mother,” she said. “They could use a kind word.”

Jacaerys looked to you, then back up to his mother. “We have an equal claim to sympathy.”

Brows furrowing, Rhaenyra looked around to make sure none of the lords and ladies were listening in. “Jace—”

“We should be at Harrenhal, mourning Lord Lyonel and Ser Harwin. It is not fair to Y/N,” he stressed, jaw clenched. Tears warbled over your irises, but you quickly blinked them away.

“You’re right—it’s not fair. But it would not be appropriate. The Velaryons are our kin and the Strongs are not. Look at me, Jace. Do you understand?”

Bearing a sour face, Jacaerys nodded, before trudging off to give his condolences to his little cousins. 

You watched him go, looking up at Rhaenyra with wide eyes. “Nothing in life is fair.”

The silver-haired Princess shot you a questioning look, but you turned and made your way into the shadows, where you knew her half-sister, Helaena was playing.

“Hand turns loom, spool of green, spool of black, dragons of flesh, weaving dragons of thread,” she chimed, repeating the words over and over again, cradling a spider in her palms. 

When she caught sight of you, she didn’t stop her mantra, but dipped her head in greeting. She offered you the spider, but you shook your head with a kind smile, allowing her to keep playing around with the spindly arachnid. 

From about a meter away, Aemond and Aegon watched the two of you.

“We have nothing in common,” the elder of the two bemoaned, slurping wine from a golden chalice. He was referring to the fact that he was betrothed to his sister now, something that neither of them seemed particularly pleased about.

Aemond pursed his lips. “She’s our sister.”

“You marry her, then,” Aegon shot back.

“I would perform my duty, if mother had only betrothed us.” He watched curiously as you tossed your head back with a laugh when Helaena whispered something about collecting spider webs in a jar. Come to think of it, Aemond couldn’t remember ever hearing you laugh before. Memories of you besting him in combat flashed before his eyes. 

“If only,” snorted Aegon.

“It would strengthen the family. Keep our Valyrian blood pure.” 

Pulling a disgusted face, Aegon looked to his brother. “She’s an idiot!”

“She’s your future queen,” spat Aemond.

“I’d rather take the one beside her,” said Aegon, eyes glued to you. “She is growing to be a fine girl… considering how she beat your arse to the ground.”

Aemond supplied him with no answer. He was no stranger to Aegon’s lustful ramblings.

“Actually, we do have one thing in common—we both fancy creatures with long legs!” chortled the older prince, before sauntering away, off to hunt down a maid for another cup of wine. “Wench! Another!”

This left Aemond to shake his head with revolt, observing his brother go. 

He spotted his nephew, Jacaerys, not too far. A part of him wanted to say something, offer his sympathies or apologies—but when Jace lifted his head and stared straight at him, Aemond could feel the words lodging in his throat, and he turned to walk away.

You observed the interaction from afar. Aemond caught your eye, merely for a brief moment, but it felt like an eternity.

And, much to your surprise, he made his way to you.

“I offer my condolences, Lady Strong,” he said, rigidly formal. “It is tragic what happened to your brother and father.”

You bowed your head, lips trembling. Though the two of you have certainly had your differences, Aemond was not heartless. He knew you were suffering a great loss.

“Thank you, my Prince,” you croaked. 

The two of you stood in silence.

“I… I’m sorry. For snapping at you in the Dragonpit.”

Your head shot up in surprise. There was little you could think of saying, so you gave him a small smile—one that he mirrored after a moment’s hesitation.

Somewhere in the distance, the pained roar of Vhagar echoed over the seas.

It was the dead of night.

You were already sound asleep when Luke burst into your chambers, grabbing your shoulder and shaking you awake.

“Y/N, wake up, wake up!” he whisper-yelled.

Groaning, you peered open an eye and sat up. “What?” you mumbled, voice hoarse with sleep.

“Someone stole Vhagar!” he said, tugging you off the bed and ushering your bleary form along. Jacaerys, Baela, and Rhaena were already rushing out to see who had taken the old beast of a dragon.

Not at all sleepy anymore, your eyes widened upon seeing Aemond clamber off the dragon.

“It’s him!” gasped Baela.

Aemond cocked his head. “It’s me.”

Face contorting with rage, Baela gritted out, “Vhagar is my mother’s dragon!”

“Your mother’s dead,” said Aemond. Briefly, his gaze flicked to you, before looking back at the two Targaryen girls. “Vhagar has a new rider now.”

“She was mine to claim!” Rhaena gruffed.

“Then you should’ve claimed her,” retorted Aemond. “Maybe your cousins can find you a pig to ride. It would suit you.”

A soft gasp lodged in your throat when Rhaena strode forward with a growl, aiming a loose punch at Aemond’s face. He easily dodged, grabbing her shoulders and shoving her off to the side. Baela rushed towards him next, landing a good punch to his face. He yelled out and struck her back, a bilious crack of his fist against her skin ringing out against the stone walls.

“Come at me again and I’ll feed you to my dragon!” threatened Aemond. 

His words made Jace yell out and jump forward, driving Luke to attack, as well. Aemond made quick work of the boys, kicking Jace back and punching Luke so hard in the face that his nose cracked beneath the pressure.

You were hesitant to fight Aemond, you really were—especially when the two of you seemed to have just gotten over your grievances with one another. 

But he’d hurt your friends, and you wouldn’t stand for that. Harwin certainly wouldn’t have.

“Stop this!” you told him, protectively standing between Luke and Aemond. When he only set his jaw, you gave him a hard shove back. The conflict that danced within the purple of his irises was tangible—you could see it.

He didn’t want to fight you.

Your push took him by surprise, sending him sprawling onto the hard ground. Baela, Rhaena, and Jace took advantage of this, jumping forward to rain punch after hit after kick on the young Prince. He was bleeding now—red leaking from his nose, his lips, his fists.

“Stop! Stop!” you screamed at them, grabbing at Rhaena’s hand and trying to pull her back, to no avail. “Jace, stop!”

Luke pushed away from you to join the skirmish. 

To your horror, Aemond grabbed a large rock that had come loose from the cobblestone walls, curling his bloodied fingers around it. The other hand shot out to wrap around Lucerys’ throat.

“You will die screaming in flames, just as your father did! Bastards!” spat Aemond into Luke’s face. The words seemed to have fallen from his lips without thought, as if completely forgetting that you were there.

But what he said had struck a chord within you. How dare he speak of your brother in such a way? You wished to move, to hit Aemond until he was nothing but a bloodied pile of flesh and bone—but he still held Luke in his grasp, and the looming threat of the rock in his other hand. 

Confused, little Luke choked out, “My father’s still alive!”

“He doesn’t know, does he?” Aemond looked to Jace then to you, then back to Jace. “Lord Strong?”

Furious, Jace unsheathed a small dagger. 

No. 

No, if Jace were to kill Aemond… it would only make matters all the worse.

“Jace, no—!” you began, but your warning fell upon deaf ears.

Jacaerys dove forward with the dagger, but Aemond knocked him down with the rock thudding against his cheek, the blade flying. to the other side of the corridor. Aemond let go of the younger Velaryon in his haste. 

This was a mistake.

Luke crawled about in the sand, grabbing the hilt of the dagger Jace had dropped. Working in tandem, the elder brother threw sand in Aemond’s eyes, momentarily blinding him, and Luke stood up, slashing the sharp metal straight across the side of Aemond’s face with a sickening squelch. Blade slicing flesh.

Blood splattered everywhere. All over Luke’s hands, over the dagger, over the sand.

A scream erupted from Aemond’s lungs as he clutched his maimed face with his hands, falling to his knees.

Drip, drip, drip. The blood dripped through the cracks between his fingers.

You rushed forward to the Prince out of pure instinct, grabbing his shoulders and cupping the uninjured side of his face, your breathing staggered and rapid. All the hatred you’d felt for him—all the anger, the rage, the frustration—flew right out the window at the sight of him hurt so badly.

“Aemond!” you cried. The blood was too much—pouring down his tunic, onto your own sleepwear, staining your skin.

“Cease this at once!” bellowed a voice from behind you. “Get away!” 

Criston Cole ripped you away from Aemond, under the impression that you were the one that was hurting him, kneeling beside the Prince.

You began to hyperventilate, scrambling back until you hit the wall. Blood on your hands, under your nails, dampening your clothes—

Someone, you weren’t quite sure who, hauled you up, dragging you through the castle, Jace and Luke in tow.

Everyone was gathered into a large room. A maester was stitching up Aemond’s wound by the fireplace, Alicent knelt by her beloved son’s side. You stood by Jace and Luke, trembling viciously and eyes warbling with unshed tears.

“How could you allow such a thing to happen?” King Viserys asked the guards, voice cross and brows furrowed.

“The princes were supposed to be abed. Prince Aemond was attacked by his own cousins, Your Grace,” replied Criston.

With a snarl, Viserys hobbled onto his feet, leaning his weight onto a cane. “You swore oaths to protect and defend my blood!” 

“The Kingsguard has never had to defend princes from princes—” began Criston.

“That is no answer!” yelled the King.

Worriedly, Alicent asked, “It will heal, will it not, maester?”

Hesitant, the maester pursed his lips. “The flesh will heal. But the eye is lost, Your Grace.”

Alicent’s expression seemed to fall at his words. She rounded to her eldest son, who stood behind her, not caring nearly enough for his brother who’d just lost his eye.

“And where were you?” screeched Alicent, rising to her feet.

“Me?” said Aegon, flabbergasted at the attention suddenly being on him.

A smack rang loud and true throughout the room as Alicent struck him across the face. 

Crying out, Aegon shrunk away from his mother. “Ow! What was that for?”

“That was nothing compared to the abuse your brother suffered while you were drowning in your cups, you fool!” she hissed. 

Just then, the doors swung open, and Corlys Velaryon strode into the room, his wife Rhaenys just behind him.

“What is the meaning of this?” he asked, voice booming. 

“Baela, Rhaena!” gasped Rhaenys. “What happened?”

The girls rushed to their grandmother.

Rhaenyra hastily came through a different set of doors, Daemon hot on her heels. Upon seeing her sons, she hurried towards them, immediately kneeling down beside Luke.

“Show me,” she told him, gently prying his hand away from his nose to inspect the damage.

A tear slipped down your cheek. The Velaryon girls had their grandparents. Jace and Luke had their mother. Aemond had his mother, as well as his siblings.

You… who did you have to comfort you? Harwin was gone. Your mother was gone. Your father was gone.

Your lips trembled. Never before had you wished to just disappear from the face of the world. 

“Who did this?” barked Rhaenyra. 

“They attacked me!” said Aemond.

“He attacked Baela!”

“He broke Luke’s nose!”

“He stole my mother’s dragon!”

The kids all began throwing accusations, their combined voices drowning each other out. Your head began to throb with their volume. You glanced at your dear friend Helaena, who put her hands over her ears to block out the noise.

“Enough,” ordered the King.

Nobody listened.

“He was gonna kill Jace!”

“I didn’t do anything!”

“Enough!” said the King.

Again, nobody listened.

“It should be my son telling the tale!” Alicent yelled.

“He was choking me!”

“He called us—!”

“SILENCE!” bellowed Viserys, knocking his cane against the ground repeatedly. The crowd fell into a lulled murmur. “Aemond. I will have the truth of what happened. Now.”

Brows furrowed, Alicent shook her head, auburn curls flying every which way. “What else is there to hear? Your son has been maimed. Her son is responsible.”

Rhaenyra’s jaw clenched. “It was a regrettable accident.”

“Accident?” scoffed Alicent. “The Prince Lucerys brought a blade to the ambush. He meant to kill my son!”

Voice raising, Rhaenyra defended, “It was my sons who were attacked and forced to defend themselves. Vile insults were levied against them!” 

Viserys tilted his head. “What insults?”

A beat of silence. 

Rhaenyra gripped Luke’s hand in hers. “The legitimacy of my sons’ birth was put loudly to question.”

“He called us bastards,” Jacaerys said.

“My sons are in line to inherit the Iron Throne, Your Grace,” Rhaenyra told her father. “This is the highest of treasons. Prince Aemond must be sharply questioned so we might learn where he heard such slanders.”

Alicent’s fists clenched by her side. “Over an insult? My son has lost an eye.”

Viserys leaned down closer to Aemond. “You tell me, boy. Where did you hear this lie?” 

Desperate to place the blame away from her son, Alicent cut in, “The insult was training yard bluster, nothing more—”

“Aemond,” Viserys sharply said, ignoring his wife. “I asked you a question.”

Aemond remained silent.

“Where is Ser Laenor, I wonder? The boys’ father?” asked Alicent. “Perhaps he might have something to say in the matter.”

Rhaenyra’s jaw twitched with muted anger. “I do not know, Your Grace. I… could not find sleep. I had gone out to walk.”

Alicent huffed. “Entertaining his young squires, I would venture.”

Criston cracked an amused smile at her words.

“Aemond,” said Viserys. “Look at me. Your King demands an answer. Who spoke these lies to you?”

The young Prince swallowed heavily. “It was Aegon,” he reluctantly said.

“Me?” parroted Aegon.

“Where did you hear such calumnies?” snarled Viserys to his eldest son. When Aegon refused to answer, he yelled out loud enough for you to flinch, “AEGON! Tell me the truth of it!”

The silver-haired prince refused to meet the King’s eyes. 

“We know, father,” he said. “Everyone knows. Just look at them.”

A tense silence folded over the crowd, only stifled by the flames of the hearth crackling. You shifted uncomfortably, stuck in the middle between Rhaenyra’s side—the side that you grew up with, the side you loved so dearly—and Alicent’s side—the side of the sweet Princess Helaena, and the Prince Aemond who’d just lost his eye. The side of your only brother left, Larys Strong. You felt stretched thin—uncertain of what to think of yourself.

“This interminable infighting must cease!” bellowed Viserys. “All of you! We are family! Now make your apologies and show good will to each other. Your father, your grandsire, your king demands it!” 

Thinking the matter over and done with, Viserys began to hobble away.

Alicent’s words stopped him in his tracks.

“That is insufficient,” she said. A thin film of tears reflected the golden light of the torches hanging on the walls. “Aemond has been damaged permanently, My King. Good will cannot make him whole.”

“I know, Alicent,” Viserys placated, “but I cannot restore his eye.”

“No, because it’s been taken!”

Viserys shook his head. “What would you have me do?”

Alicent casted her gaze to Rhaenyra. “There is a debt to be paid. I shall have one of her son’s eyes in return.” 

Gasps murmured through the crowd. You drew in a shaky breath, shuffling closer to Rhaenyra and her sons, until you practically stood in front of Luke. He was your friend—your kin—and you would be damned if you were to let anyone touch him.

“My dear wife…” began Viserys.

“He is your son, Viserys!” Alicent pleaded, her voice thick with emotion. “Your blood.”

“Do not allow your temper to guide your judgement,” he warned. 

Frustrated beyond relief, Alicent gnashed her teeth together and said, “If the King will not see justice, the Queen will. Ser Criston… bring me the eye of Lucerys Velaryon.”

Scared, Luke grabbed onto the back of your sleeping shift, looking up at his mother with frightened eyes.

“He can choose which eye to keep, a privilege he did not grant my son!” she gritted out.

“You will do no such thing!” hissed Rhaenyra.

Turning to Criston, Viserys ordered, “Stay your hand!”

“No, you are sworn to me!” asserted Alicent. 

Cole’s eyes darted from the Queen, to the King, to Rhaenyra. “As your protector, My Queen,” he softly said.

“Alicent, this matter is finished,” Viserys said, voice heavy with finality. “Do you understand?”

A tear fell from Alicent’s cold eyes. 

“Let it be known,” the King began, addressing the entire crowd this time, “anyone whose tongue dares to question the birth of Princess Rhaenyra’s sons should have it removed.”

Blowing out a relieved exhale, Rhaenyra dipped her head. “Thank you, father.”

With sudden movements, Alicent unsheathed Viserys’ dagger from his belt and marched towards Rhaenyra and her sons.

Instinctively, you grabbed Luke and dragged him further back, shielding his body with your own. Luke began screaming out of fear when Alicent brought down the blade onto his mother, only barely held back by Rhaenyra’s hand wrapping around her wrist. 

The crowd erupted in pandemonium, with guards frantically pushing each other back, not knowing who to defend. The king’s wife, or the king’s daughter and heir? Daemon came forward to stop Criston in his tracks. You tightly held onto Luke, eyes wide and heart beating frantically.

“You’ve gone too far!” Rhaenyra told the Queen.

“I?” Alicent’s voice trembled. The blade was held between them, shaking and glowing with the reflections of the hearth’s fire. “What have I done but what was expected of me? Forever upholding the kingdom, the family, the law! While you flout all to do as you please!”

“Alicent, let her go!” commanded Viserys.

They both ignored him. 

“Where is duty? Where is sacrifice?” cried Alicent. “It’s trampled under your pretty foot again!”

For the first time since everyone was gathered, her father, Otto Hightower, the new King’s Hand, said, “Release the blade, Alicent.”

“And now you take my son’s eye, and to even that, you feel entitled!” said Alicent.

“Exhausting, wasn’t it?” replied Rhaenyra. “Hiding beneath the cloak of your own righteousness! But now they see you as you are.” 

With a yell, Alicent brought down her blade and staggered back. Its sharp edge had cut through the fabric of Rhaenyra’s sleeve, carving a deep gash across the inside of her forearm.

Blood. Dripping. Thick. Red.

Luke gripped your hand tightly. The dagger in Alicent’s palm fell to the ground.

Rising from the chair, you got a good look at Aemond's wound for the first time since you entered.

It was swollen and red, the stitches extending from the top of his forehead to the side of his ear. Your heart ached—whether it was for Aemond, for Jace and Luke, or for Rhaenyra, you couldn’t at all tell.

“Do not mourn me, mother,” said Aemond. “It was a fair exchange. I may have lost an eye… but I gained a dragon.”

Viserys blew out a shaking breath. He was tired, and his body grew weary. “This proceeding is at an end.”

With that, the crowd began to disperse. You let Luke go, and he went rushing forth to his mother. 

You watched as Aemond leaned his head on his mother’s chest. 

A guard began ushering you out of the room and back to your chambers before you had the chance to tell him that you were sorry.

Barely a moon after Laena Velaryon’s funeral, Aegon and Helaena were getting married. It was held in haste, most likely to distract the court from the incident at Driftmark—give them something else to talk about for a change.

You sat in Helaena’s chambers as her ladies fussed over her, pulling the strings of her ivory dress, tying her hair into intricate knots, and applying rouge to her cheeks and lips. It was a much more elaborate process than what your own lady-in-waiting had done to you—all you had was a simple, ocean-hued dress with intricate patterns of deep green running down the length of the fabric. Your hair was pinned away from your face and a chain of silver pearls rested against your sternum. Though it was nice to wear such pretty things, you couldn’t help but feel as if you were just playing dress up—as if these clothes didn’t actually belong to you, like you were donning a charade for the night.

Whilst you were only nine, your name day having passed quietly a few moons ago, Helaena was at the ripe age of ten-and-three—she was barely of age to be married off—to her vile older brother, no less, but Alicent had insisted.

The young Princess’ eyes were clouded over, as if her mind was far, far away. She might’ve been here with you physically, but her thoughts were clearly elsewhere.

“Three silver eggs, twisting, twisting, twisting… the blood curdles, the milk dries,” she murmured as the handmaidens finished with their final touches. Once they were done, they bowed their heads and left Helaena’s chambers. 

You moved closer to her, your fingers grazing over her the smooth green-gold cloth on her shoulder. 

“Helaena,” you whispered, heart aching for her. “I’m sorry. I wish I could whisk you away, keep you from the abomination that is your brother. If only I had a large dragon of my own to carry you off onto.”

“You will have a dragon,” she said absentmindedly. It didn’t slip your notice that she had completely disregarded the mention of her wedding, as if pushing it far and distant into the back of her mind. Perhaps if she didn’t think about it, the pain wouldn’t sting as much. 

Helaena was not one to jest, but you waved away her words as if she had.

“If… if you need me to do something—anything, Helaena, I can’t just stand by and watch you suffer. It is not honorable. You deserve someone kind and loving… Aegon is not capable of granting you such luxuries.” It was as if you were pleading with her to say something—to try and stop this accursed union. In truth, you knew that you were powerless against the might of Alicent and her loyal subjects.

You were nobody. You were well aware of that fact.

But as of that very second, you would’ve gone to the ends of the earth for the sweet, cloudy-eyed Princess.

She fixed you with a fond gaze, though still far away. 

“A dragon cannot hide the same way a butterfly can,” she whispered.

The corner of your eyes pricked with tears. “Princess, please—”

Before you could continue, the door to Helaena’s chambers swung open, and Alicent swiftly hurried in. You stepped away from your friend to give the Queen space to fuss over her. 

It was time for the wedding.

The ceremony started with the septon reciting prayers, so lengthy and repetitive that your eyes drooped with the silent threat of sleep. Aegon stood beside the septon, shoulders slumped and muffling yawns every other minute. 

Once the septon had finally wrapped up, the grand doors of the Sept swung open, and King Viserys walked in with Helaena on his left side. He parted with a gentle kiss to his second daughter’s forehead. It was no secret that Viserys very obviously favored his eldest child, Rhaenyra, but out of the four others, he had a certain muted soft spot for Helaena and her strange mysticism. You would’ve been surprised if he even remembered Aemond and Daeron’s names.

“You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection.” The septon’s voice rang clear and true, echoing loudly in your head.

Looking none too pleased, Aegon all but threw the cloak over Helaena’s smaller frame, the Targaryen sigil seeming distorted from where you were standing.

“My lords, my ladies, we stand here in the sight of the gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.”

Now and forever.

Your heart fell lower to your stomach.

The septon tied a knot with red ribbon around their joined hands—Aegon angrily holding onto her palm while hers was limp in his grasp.  

“Let it be known that Aegon Targaryen, second of his name, and Helaena Targaryen, are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder. In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity.”

With one tug, the red ribbon between them unraveled. 

The Princess bore no emotion as she began to speak in unison with Aegon, “Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger… I am his and he is mine. From this day, until the end of my days.”

A lie. Aegon would never be Helaena’s.

You let your gaze travel to Alicent at the side, wiping a tear from her eyes. Anger bubbled within your chest. Right beside her was Aemond, a leather eyepatch fixed over his injury. His face betrayed no expression.

“With this kiss, I pledge my love,” Aegon said emotionlessly, as if he were reading from an invisible script. He held Helaena’s face and planted a quick kiss on her lips. The two turned to the audience, who burst into raucous applause.

You did not clap.

The wedding feast following the ceremony was, expectedly, large and extravagant. Lords and ladies from all over the realm milled about as they ate and chattered and danced to the music. 

Helaena sat beside Aegon on the longtable, refusing to eat any of her pigeon pie, repeatedly poking holes through the chunks of meat with the prongs of the fork. Her brother—now husband—had refused to lead the first dance with her, instead choosing to crossly slump into his chair and knock back chalice after chalice of spiced wine. 

With little appetite to eat, you had taken to ghost around the expansive room, head abuzz with thoughts of Rhaenyra, Jace and Luke. A few lords had halted you in your tracks, asking for a dance, but you’d politely declined them all. You hardly paid attention during dancing lessons with the Septa and you were sure you’d trip over your own feet and make a fool of yourself. That, and you were in no mood to dance with lords thrice your age.

During your fourth cycle around the large room, bored out of your mind, you felt someone’s stare burning a hole into the back of your neck.

Aemond Targaryen. 

He was looking straight at you, unabashedly.

Memories of his blood on your hands flashed through your mind. You ripped your gaze away. 

Suddenly feeling sick, you hurriedly wove through the packed room, murmuring apologies when you accidentally trod over a few unsuspecting feet, and rushed out of the hall, just about fleeing to your chambers.

As soon as you shut the doors behind you, you began to sob uncontrollably, sliding down the wood and burying your tearful face between your knees.

The next morning, you felt terrible for leaving the feast early, and consequently, Helaena alone, as she suffered through the trauma of the bedding ceremony. The ladies of the court gossipped between bouts of laughter as they recounted Helaena’s fearful face when men began tearing at her clothes and carrying her off to Aegon’s chambers.

It was said that Helaena’s pained cries could be heard echoing across the Keep for the first few minutes, until she fell utterly silent. The creaking of the bed, however, didn’t cease for the rest of the night.

The gardens smelled of fresh morning dew and sweet clementines. You walked alongside Helaena, her hand softly resting in the crook of your arm as she dreamily chattered about how she once found a ladybug with no spots eating a small spider in under five minutes. It’d been nearly two weeks since she was wed, and she often hastily changed the subject to something else whenever you tried to bring the matter up.

“The poor spider,” you said, stopping to admire a bush of white roses. “But I suppose a ladybug must eat.”

“Yes,” Helaena hummed in agreement. 

The rest of your walk was comfortably silent when you led her to a shaded spot beneath the fruit trees, where you had a blanket laid out beforehand. 

A small millipede crawled out from the grass onto the blanket, and Helaena smiled at the critter, holding her hands out to let it climb onto her awaiting palms. The princess watched it snake along her skin with her earnest purple eyes.

“People often confuse millipedes with centipedes,” she explained. “Centipedes have one pair of legs for each body segment. Millipedes have two.”

The millipede scuttled down her fingers as she set it back down on the ground.

You blew out a pleased sigh, turning your head up to the sky and shutting your eyes, letting yourself bask in the warmth of the late morning sun. 

“You are a fascinating person indeed, Helaena,” you told her, a laugh to your tone. “No other in the entirety of Westeros can speak of bug legs and make it interesting.”

The princess smiled, all wide and toothy. It fell the next moment when she began speaking again.

“I am with child, I think,” she whispered.

Startled at the sudden confession, you snapped your head her way, eyes wide, searching her face for any sign of insincerity. But again, Helaena was never one to jest.

You gathered her hands between yours. “Are you certain, my Princess?”

Grey seemed to cloud over her vision. “Quite. I saw it in my dreams. Two pairs of legs for each body segment.”

Your brows furrowed. Was she speaking of babies or of millipedes?

Blinking in confusion, you shook your head, allowing for a small, fond smile to replace your miffed expression. “You will make a wonderful mother, Helaena. I’m sure of it. I will be there for you every step of the way.” 

Wary that she wasn’t too keen on prolonged physical touch, you loosely tugged her into an embrace. She smelled of honey cakes and rich soil. Her cheek rested against your shoulder and she shut her eyes, grateful for your friendship. 

“Two pairs of legs for each body segment,” she mumbled again, voice low. “A millipede regrows limbs that are cut off. A dragon cannot.”

Training without Harwin proved to be a challenge on its own—but you were nothing if not determined. 

You often snuck out to a secluded part of the yard when the pale moon was high in the sky and the sun had hours until it was due to rise. At first, you weren’t entirely sure how to go about teaching yourself how to fight. But you worked on honing the same skills Harwin had taught you for three years. Speed, agility, accuracy, strength—all were important. Though, not as important as keeping a sharp mind. 

You frequented the library often, reading voluminous tomes on the history of blades and the art of battle. The faded words on the parchment told you secrets to fighting that you had a feeling not even the most seasoned of knights knew. One that had certainly caught your attention was the fact that there were certain points in a man’s body you could strike that would render them temporarily paralyzed. You wished you had an excess of detestable men lying around to practice your newfound knowledge on.

As Aegon and Aemond continued their sparring with Ser Criston Cole, you watched from the shadows, observing their technique and creating mental notes on their habitual weaknesses. Ever since Aemond had lost his eye, he worked twice as hard to better himself. He wasn’t going to let the loss of an eye hinder him from becoming a warrior.

But that didn’t make him invincible. Aemond was still greatly disadvantaged with such a large part of his peripheral vision gone.

It wasn’t until a few moons later, when you were ten and Aemond was twelve, did he confront you again. 

You were testing the accuracy of your knife-throwing, two small blades you had nicked from the armory gripped in your hands. Pulling your hand back, you narrowed your eyes at the target, and let it fly forward. It sank into the ringed wood with a dull thud, but had veered slightly off course when you released, resulting in a less-than-satisfactory result. 

With a frustrated huff, you tried again, this time changing the way you had thrown it. 

The blade whistled as it carved through the air, but strayed even farther from the center. 

Before you could react to your disappointing performance, a voice resounded from right beside you, making you let out a small shriek and flinch away with surprise.

It was the Prince. 

“You’re holding the knife wrong,” he said, voice not unkind, single eye observing your defensive stance. In three strides, he tugged the blades out of the wood, making his way back to you. “You use your thumb to neutralize the blade’s rotation. Like this.”

He demonstrated, and you watched in silence. 

When he returned the blades back to you, you attempted to mimic what he had shown, glancing up at him for approval.

“Move your grip lower,” he said, lifting his hands to gently shift the knife in your palm. His touch was cold, but you didn’t quite mind. 

“Thank you, my Prince.” Your voice was but a hoarse whisper. Aemond nodded once, stepping back to give you space to try again.

This time, when you flung it to the target, it was far closer to the center, only barely grazing the white marker of the inner circle.

You grinned, proud of the drastic improvement. 

“I’ve seen you sneak out to train nearly every night by now. Why?” the silver-haired boy asked, almost suspiciously. He didn’t forget the way you had shoved him just before he lost his eye. 

The memory of Harwin telling you that you had to be prepared for a real fight briefly flashed in the back of your mind. You swallowed down the lump in your throat.

“I want to be ready,” you replied, pointedly avoiding his burning stare. You thought back to Helaena’s wedding, when he hadn’t taken his gaze off of you the entire night. 

“What are you readying yourself for?”

Squaring your jaw and straightening your posture, you quietly told the one-eyed prince, “Life is unfair, Aemond. I am merely preparing to balance the scales.”

Before he could think of a response to your cryptic words, a rivulet of electrifying pain struck his empty eye socket behind the patch, ricocheting into waves throughout the rest of his skull. Aemond let out a soft cry as he doubled over in agony, hands flying to his face. It reminded you eerily of when Luke had first slashed the eye out, a memory that haunted your nightmares far more often than it should have. 

Panicked, you shuffled closer to him, one of your hands grazing his back, unsure of what to do.

“Aemond! Are you alright? Should I summon the maester?” you hurriedly queried, feet already moving away, getting ready to dash off as you waited for his answer. 

“No,” he gritted out through the pain, glancing up at you with his features twisted with misery. It was humiliating—Aemond felt ashamed of himself for showing his pain, for revealing a crack through his usually stoic demeanor. He felt ugly. He felt vile. He felt weak. 

A restless protest was on the tip of your tongue. “My Prince, you’re clearly hurting, please—”

“No!” he repeated himself, a sharp edge of finality to his tone. “They’ll just give me more milk of the poppy—!” 

Again, he doubled over, a muted roar rumbling within his chest. Not knowing what else to do, you clutched his shoulders, eyes frantically searching his single one. 

After a second, Aemond seemed to snap back into his senses, flinching from your touch and just about ripping himself away from you. Mortification flooded his quickly-paling features. He turned on his heel and ran off without another word.

Plumes of dust flew up from the covers of the heavy book when you set it down on a table. Grimacing and waving a hand in front of your face, you flipped the tome open. It was an old, lengthy volume on medicinal alchemy—a genre that you seldom read and knew little to nothing about. 

But for Aemond, you supposed you’d give it a shot.

The chapter you began to read was on remedies for severe wounds, such as fallen limbs or shattered bones. You were learning far too much about the grotesque nature of the human body than you had initially bargained for. Illustrations of cauterizations, sanitizations, and all sorts of diagrams of nude men filled the large pages. For your young eyes, you couldn’t quite comprehend most of what you were seeing. 

However, once you fell upon the optics chapter, you perked up, reading through the small text word by word. You were hoping that by reading more about problems with the eye, you’d be able to help Aemond out with his pain in some way. If there even was a way.

And as you read on, you found a small section on the near-magical works of a plant native to Dorne—a Sabar root. It was said to be all-curing and was often used to heal outer wounds. The footnote even detailed historical accounts of the root’s juices restoring the vision of those born blind. Though you doubted that to be true, you couldn’t help but hold onto the hope that it could help Aemond with the pain, even just a little bit.

You scampered out of the library with the thick book clutched to your chest, hurrying down the Red Keep’s stairs, scrambling towards the rookery, where they kept the messenger ravens. Beneath the rookery was where the Grand Maester resided.

You were but a small thing compared to the large wooden slab of a door. Knocking thrice, the door creaked open not two seconds later, revealing Maester Mellos, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Lady Strong…? What are you doing here? The hour is late, child, you should be in bed!” he scolded, fixing you with a narrowed gaze.

You shoved the book up into his face, a pleading expression on your face. “Maester Mellos, I have found something that might help Aemond’s condition!”

“Condition…?” he began, looking startled. It was late at night, and a ten year old was at his doorstep proposing a remedy to an issue he hadn’t even known existed. To his knowledge, Prince Aemond was healing just fine and had little to no complications since he had taken the stitches out. “Forgive me, my Lady, but I am rather busy at the moment and would really prefer to have this conversation with you when the sun rises. Sleep well, Lady Strong.”

Before you could get another word in, the large door croaked shut in your face, and you were left staring at the dark wood. With a dejected huff, you turned and marched straight back into the Keep. Up the stairs you climbed, arms growing weary with how long you’d been lugging around the heavy tome. 

You came to a stop in front of Aemond’s chambers, right beside Princess Helaena’s old bedroom from before she was married to Aegon. A room you used to frequent to visit your dear friend, which resulted in several awkward, and silent passes with the Prince.

It didn’t occur to you just how improper this was—knocking on the door of the Prince in the dead of night when you should’ve been in your own chambers, fast asleep. But this was important, and you needed to let Aemond know since the Maester wouldn’t listen to a word you said.

The door barely opened, revealing only a small sliver of space, where Aemond peered through to check who it was. In his hand was a dagger he kept beneath his pillow in case of emergencies. His grip slackened when he saw you behind the door, chest rising and falling rapidly, eyes fiery with determination. He opened the door slightly wider, both curious and confused as to what you were doing in front of his chambers at such a late time.

“Prince Aemond,” you breathlessly said. His gaze drew down to the large book you held, nearly larger than your small, ten-year-old form. “I found something that might help your pain. It’s a plant root that only grows in Dorne, you see, but I’m sure they can have some imported to King’s Landing upon your request. I believe it can be used to relieve you of your suffering.”

Shock dawned upon his features. You’d done all this research… for him? For an issue that he never spoke of to anyone? Even after he had rudely scampered away from you with his tail between his legs like a wounded hound? 

He struggled to find the right words. Should he thank you? Tell you he was sorry?

Instead, Aemond found himself saying, “Why are you doing this?”

A moment of silence. Outside the Keep, the winds howled with the threat of a coming storm.

“I told you,” you whispered to the Prince, features softening. “I’m balancing the scales.”

The months passed by in a blur. You corresponded with Jace and Luke in the form of letters via raven quite often, always visiting the rookery with a bright smile and an excited bounce to your step at the prospect of learning about the boys’ stay at Dragonstone. It seemed that Jacaerys was struggling with learning Valyrian, and little Luke was growing like a beanstalk. Princess Rhaenyra had already birthed two new sons on Dragonstone with her uncle-husband, Daemon—respectively named Aegon the Younger and Viserys, after the King. In his writings, Luke took care to detail that both babes had silver hair and purple eyes, traits that he and his elder brother both lacked. It was his way of saying that he knew you were his kin—his true blood.

They always signed off with a promise of visiting soon. 

Soon truly couldn’t come soon enough.

Your training continued as normal, and more often than not, Aemond would be there with you, offering tips and gentle words of advice. He was not strict in the way that Criston Cole was, leaving you the choice of whether to listen or not, taking no offense if you decided to forgo his teachings. The two of you sparsely spoke outside of that, but you sometimes caught his eye during mealtimes, in which you’d offer him a small, grateful smile. He didn’t return them, but would dip his head in acknowledgement instead.

Helaena’s belly grew large—larger than most pregnancies—and the maesters had concluded that she was bearing twins. It was shocking news, one that elated Alicent and Helaena to no end. This only sent you into a spiral of worry, however, knowing that births were but the gods’ dangerous gambles. Having twins only doubled the risk of complications during the labor.

Thankfully, when the time came around for Helaena to give birth, everything had gone smoothly with very few bumps in the road. She had begged you to stay by her side the entire time, and you were more than happy to comply. It filled you with a sense of pride that she asked you to be there with her over her own Queen mother. 

The first twin to come out was a screaming boy with tufts of silvery hair and large purple eyes. He was the spitting image of his father, and you could only pray that he wouldn’t turn out like him in the future. More interestingly, however, the little boy had six toes on each foot and six fingers on his left hand. The midwives had shrieked in partial-surprise, partial-disgust upon their discovery, but you had swept the boy into your awaiting arms, gently rocking him up and down with a wide grin. 

The second twin, a girl, came out mute. Your heart lurched in your chest—you had come out silent when you were a babe, as well. She was noticeably much smaller, and bore the same hair and eye color as her twin. Her features, however, matched that of Helaena’s, to your delight. The small girl was eased into Helaena’s arms, seeming perfectly healthy, other than the fact that she was strangely quiet. 

“You did so well, Helaena,” you told her, kneeling down by the birthing bed to show her her son. Your dear friend grinned tiredly, murmuring a quiet hello to her eldest child. “They’re beautiful.”

Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, their names were. You could already feel a protective love blossom inside of you, swearing to guard them with every fiber of your being. It occurred to you that this was what Harwin must’ve felt when you were born, though you were far younger than he had been.

The thought only had you clutching the wailing babe closer to your chest.

Helaena’s children grew at an exponential rate. The twins had quickly become your favorite part of the day—it was a rare sight to see you without one of the children clinging to your legs, or you without the Princess by your side. 

Little Jaehaerys was loud and boisterous, being the first to crawl, to speak, and to run. He was a strong little boy, but often cried when not given what he wanted. His sister, on the other hand, was always quiet and much less active. She often took to staring aimlessly at random points of the chambers instead of playing with her brother, purple eyes scarcely blinking. You loved both of them despite their drastically different personalities.

You were well into your eighteenth year when the babes had their eighth nameday. During the later half of those eight years, Helaena had fallen pregnant again, and had a third child—a son named Maelor. He was a large baby, with a head of pale white hair and eyes a darker shade of mauve than his older siblings.

“Jaehaerys, don’t be so rough with your brother!” you lightly scolded when the boy began yanking at his baby brother’s cheeks with no restrain. A laugh slipped past your lips as you held Maelor out of his reach, which made Jaehaerys whine, as if you had taken away his most favorite playtoy. Helaena, sitting on the chaise on the other side of the room, glanced away from her embroidery to smile at her children, before returning her gaze back down to the needle and thread. Jaehaera sat beside her mother, staring into the fire with her lips parted.

Both you and Jaehaerys began playing a game of chase, where he was a fierce and mighty dragon whilst you enacted the role of a helpless knight. You had set down Maelor into his crib, where he suckled on a milk-soaked cloth.

The little boy roared, his face scrunching up with the action, before sprinting after you with outstretched hands. You were fast on your feet as you scampered away from him, but decided to slow down and let the little boy catch up to you, knowing he’d burst into tears if the game had gone on for too long without him winning. You shrieked in surprise when he grabbed at the ends of your tunic, yanking hard and yelling, “Dracarys, dracarys! I got you!”

“Indeed, you have,” you told the little boy, bending down to sweep him up into your arms with a grin.

From afar, Aemond lurked in the shadows, watching you play with his sister’s children. He watched the way you smiled with them, the way you laughed, the way you pressed chaste kisses into their chubby cheeks. It surprised him to find an inkling of jealousy for his nephews—how they had so freely enraptured your affections, whilst he was offered very little of them. No bother—all things came with due time. Besides, Aemond was not yet ready to admit his growing feelings with you.

The two of you had become considerably close over the past few years. You often frequented the library with him, the two of you sitting in comfortable silence as you read together. You trained together, dined together, and took walks together. Hardly a day ever passed by without you spending some time with the young prince.

Aemond would scarcely speak when he was with you, preferring to listen to you instead. The times he did speak, it was quiet and thoughtful and rife with endearment. It was no secret that Aemond was growing quite fond of the youngest Strong. 

A tourney was held in honor of the twins’ eighth nameday.

You sat beside Helaena in the high platforms on the elongated arena, hands twisting in your lap. Tourneys usually bored you to no end—watching men hurt themselves over little else than theatrical show and bragging rights was not something you were very keen on. It felt like a waste of time to you—you’d much rather be reading, or writing to Luke and Jace, or playing with the twins. To your other side was Prince Aemond, looking equally disinterested in the event. You couldn’t help but notice his long fingers tapping impatiently against his knee, as if he were itching to leave. His older brother Aegon was nowhere to be seen, most likely somewhere in the bowels of the Street of Silk. 

Round after round of jousting went by, until Harley Piper—a young, handsome lord with soft ginger curls and bright green eyes and freckled, sun-kissed skin, urged his horse closer to the platform, gaze trained on you. Draped over his armor were the colors of House Piper—gentle pink and silken white against a striking shade of blue.

“Might I be honored with your favor, my lady?” he asked, voice sweet and mellifluous.

At first, you’d thought that he had been speaking to Princess Helaena, finding it rather odd for him to ask a married woman for her favor. But when she made no move to hand him a favor, it dawned on you that he was asking you. Flustered, having never really received any sort of romantic attention before, you rose to your feet and dropped a crown of woven flowers down his long jousting lance.

You noted with muted curiosity that Aemond’s tapping fingers had curled into a tight fist.

Off Harley Piper went with your favor swaying by the lance’s handle, the metal grating of his helmet pulled down over his grinning features. You found yourself holding your breath as his joust began against another knight you couldn’t care to know the name of, eyes intently following his movements. 

The crowd burst into raucous applause when the nameless knight easily unseated the young man—Harley flew off his horse with a grunt. They proceeded into hand-to-hand combat, where the larger knight leapt off his horse, grabbed a mace and swung it straight at Harley. A gasp lodged in your throat when the young man was struck cleanly in the back with a sickening thud, and he crumpled to the ground.

“I yield!” relented Harley, raising a hand.

From beside you, a ghost of a leering smile appeared on Aemond’s lips.

It disappeared when Harley struggled back onto his feet, clapping his opponent on the shoulder good-naturedly, and began limping back to your direction. You subconsciously straightened your spine, which made Helaena hide a knowing grin behind her hand.

“I’ve dishonored you, my lady,” winced the man with a head of flames. “A beauty such as yours deserves much better than I.”

“Nonsense, Lord Piper,” you replied, finding his humility rather endearing. “You are more than enough.”

Aemond’s shoulders tensed and his jaw clenched at your words. You didn’t spare him a glance.

Harley Piper beamed, as bright as the sun, bowing his head before you. “I shall take my leave, Lady Strong. Perhaps I’ll see you at supper?”

Before you could reply, Aemond coldly spat out, “I’m afraid Lady Strong will be dining with me tonight, Lord Piper. Take your leave.”

Shocked at his sudden hostility, you swung an incredulous, confused glare at the prince. Harley, equally bewildered, glanced between the two of you with narrowed lids, before bowing his head and striding away. 

“Aemond, what the seven hells was that about?” you hissed, hand reaching out to grasp his forearm. His one eye darted between your touch and your furious expression—how you managed to become even more beautiful whilst angry was beyond him. “I liked him.”

The prince scoffed. “You have poor taste.”

“I thought he was sweet!”

“He lost his joust in a matter of minutes.”

“Losing a joust is nothing but a temporary blemish to one’s ego. Perhaps you could do with losing something, for a change,” you retorted, nose wrinkling at him.

The purple of his eye seemed to darken. “Mind your tongue, Strong,” he murmured, voice low. It didn’t slip your notice when he briefly glanced at your lips, parted and raw-bitten.

“Or what?” you shot back, leaning closer to him until your nose was but a hair’s breadth from his. “Will you take it from me? Will you take my tongue, My Prince?”

Before he could reply, Helaena cleared her throat, announcing that she would like to retire to her chambers. The noise was starting to get overwhelming for her. You practically ripped yourself out of your chair, eager to put some well-needed distance between yourself and the one-eyed prince. The skin on your cheeks and neck burned with heat—whether it was from Harley’s unadulterated attention, or from Aemond’s prickly behavior, you couldn’t quite tell.

His gaze burned into the back of your head as you left the arena to return into the Red Keep.

Larys Strong’s cane knocked against the uneven stone floor with each lurching step he took. The Master of Whisperers hobbled up to the Queen’s side, where she stood in front of the Weirwood tree, reminiscing her now long-ago childhood with Rhaenyra.

Hearing the echoing stamps of his cane, Alicent dipped her head in acknowledgement. “Lord Strong. Any word of Rhaenyra?”

There was an eerie smile to Larys’ face that didn’t quite reach his dark irises. “My sources tell me she has fallen pregnant again. Her third child with Daemon.”

A scowl flitted across Alicent’s wary features. “Certainly hasn’t wasted any time, I see.”

Larys spared her no response, merely humming thoughtfully.

The Queen gave him a sidelong glance, hastily deciding to change the subject. “Word has it your sister has taken an interest in the young Piper boy during a tourney.”

This time, it was Larys’ turn to frown. “Y/N is young and impressionable. She will take a liking to anyone who spares her an inkling of attention.”

Alicent tilted her head. “My children are rather fond of her—for reasons unbeknownst to me.”

“Hm. Indeed.” The Queen’s words seemed to get the cogs in Larys’ brain churning. “I am the Lord of Harrenhal—and I will sire no children. Harrenhal will go to Y/N once I have passed. Marriages are of political currency, these days, Your Grace.”

Eyebrows cinched, Alicent turned to fully face the man. “What is it you are speaking of, Larys?”

“I am suggesting… a marriage of alliance. Between my young sister and your second son, Aemond. They are already quite fond of each other, as you have mentioned before. This will do good for not only them, but the both of us and our houses, as well. Once I pass, Harrenhal will go to Y/N and Aemond and any of their children they have together. If a civil war breaks out… Harrenhal would be sworn to Aemond—and thereby you, as well, Your Grace. Not Rhaenyra.”

Shock colored the Queen’s expression. For years, she had been trying to figure out the entire picture behind Larys Strong, and his true intentions. He hated Rhaenyra so much for dishonoring his house that he had murdered his own family for it to gain inheritance of Harrenhal. And now he was willing to bargain away his young sister, practically Rhaenyra’s daughter, to Alicent’s son.

A sick feeling twisted within Alicent’s gut.

She considered the thought of Aemond marrying you. The two of you were together more often than not, anyway, and you were her daughter’s best and only friend. Not only that, but the political advantage of having Harrenhal truly backed to her family’s side was something she just couldn’t pass up, no matter how vile it made her feel.

“That is a splendid proposal, Lord Strong. I shall inform the King and my son with haste,” she told him, lips pursed.

A twisted grin etched into the corner of his mouth. “And I will break the wonderful news to my sweet sister. Good night, My Queen. I shall see you on the morrow.”

Alicent watched as Larys began limping away. It was only until his figure disappeared into the Keep’s walls that she buried her tired face into her hands.

When you were younger, Larys was but a scarce figure in your life. You practically only knew of him by word of mouth—he was only your family in blood and name—he certainly didn’t feel like your brother. Not in the same way that Harwin did, at least. 

As you grew older, however, you began to notice Larys always lurking in the shadows, watching your every move like a vulture would a rotting carcass. Your second brother bore no love for you, that was glaringly obvious. Instead, he saw you as a pawn in his little game of thrones—a piece of the board he owned and was free to move around as he wished.

The Clubfoot leaned his weight on his cane as he studied you reshelving around half a dozen books you had borrowed from the library.

“Sweet sister,” he crooned, roping your attention away from the fraying spines of the tomes.

A disgusted shiver spidered down your form.

“What is it, Larys?” you sighed, already wanting the conversation to be over and done with. Later that night, you had planned to take the twins stargazing from the Keep's highest tower with Helaena, and you were hoping to squeeze in a quick bath before doing so. “I’m busy.”

“As you often are,” your older brother glibly murmured. “Forgive me for being so brazen… I couldn’t help but notice how close you and the young Prince Aemond have become.”

You blinked, the sudden mention of Aemond taking you by surprise. A pregnant silence fell over the both of you, heavy and tense. You were stiff as you waited for him to continue, but Larys was as relaxed as ever, a coy grin playing at the corner of his lips.

“You are ten-and-eight years old. Prince Aemond is twenty. Both of you have been of age to marry for quite some time. I have arranged a betrothal for you, Y/N.”

Your heart dropped to your stomach.

“What?” you whispered, taking half a step back. “Larys… what did you do?”

The shelves seemed too close together, and you found the air within your throat thinning away. You fixed your brother with an incredulous glare, heated with the fire of a thousand summers. 

“The Queen has agreed to this—you will be wed to Aemond Targaryen. The Strong bloodline will continue on through you and the Prince.”

“No…” you whispered, a sharp, betrayed edge to your tone. “How dare you? How dare you do this to me?” 

The calm, nonchalant expression on your brother’s features remained unchanged. “I am helping you, dear sister. You are fond of Aemond—you cannot deny this, for it would be a plain lie. He is a prince—this is the best sort of marriage you can possibly get.”

“I am no sister of yours,” you spat, lurching forward to shove him back, caught up in a fit of rage. All you could see was red. Larys stumbled into a bookshelf, yet still appeared unfazed. “You took away my choice to marry whomever I wished. My freedom. When I asked—no, I begged—to return to Harrenhal to mourn Harwin and father, you simply brushed me to the side as if I were dirt on your shoe! All these years, and you’ve hardly acknowledged me as a person, much less your family! And now you… you use me for your political gain—to appease the Queen you are so desperate for, to further drive me away from Rhaenyra… you are vile, Larys. You are everything Harwin is not. Your very existence is a filthy stain on the memory of our family… of House Strong!”

The space between the two of you crackled as you stared at him, chest rising and falling in staggered motions from your anger-fueled tirade. 

“Aemond will treat you well,” was all Larys said, completely disregarding your harsh words with not a care in the world. “The Queen has informed him of the arrangement… along with the King. There is no going back now, sister-mine.”

Rage clawed through your chest, scratching down your ribs and twisting within your lungs. With not another word, you stormed past him, your shoulder roughly knocking into his on your way out of the library.

You had been so angry that night, you completely forgot about your promise to Helaena and the twins, and they were left waiting in the towers for you for hours on end. Little Jaehaerys didn’t mind, occupying his time by chasing a moth and tripping over the edges of carpets, with his little sister staring at him with her large, unblinking gaze. 

The sky was starless that night.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

You spun around the hay-sewn dummy, driving your sword into its motionless form over and over again in rapid succession, until the dried wheat began to cave in beneath the force of your hits. The poor dummy was taking the brunt of your frustrations—with Larys, with the arranged marriage, with Aemond. Grunts of exertion rumbled from your lungs and cold beads of sweat dotted your hairline.

Sure, it could be worse, you had initially thought, trying your best to see the silver linings. But the more you thought about it—the idea of being tied down against your will to a Prince, almost permanently anchoring you to your wretched brother’s side…

That was no future for you. You deserved better than that.

Just as you lifted your sword to strike the dummy again, you could feel a familiar, infuriating stare burn into your skin. With precise movements, you pivoted on your heel and swung your sword around, slanting the sharp blade right up against Aemond’s throat. The cold metal kissed his skin, but didn’t press deep enough to draw blood. It was a threat of sorts. You’d been training for more than a decade of your life by now—and you were more than capable of knocking him onto his arse, just as you had all those years ago during your first spar with him.

The silver-haired prince cocked his head, single purple eye blazing with an unreadable intensity you couldn’t exactly place. Ever so slow, he raised both hands. 

A beat of silence. Somewhere in the distance, a raven cawed.

You lowered your sword. 

“Go away, Aemond,” you spat, tone heavy with betrayal.

Sensing this, he stayed rooted to his spot. “It is not I who arranged the marriage,” he whispered, in an almost conciliating manner. It hadn’t yet occurred to you that Aemond might’ve been just as upset as you were—after all, the choice had been taken away from him, as well.

You spared him no response, turning your back to him and raising your sword to stab the dummy once more.

His next words made you freeze. “I know not why you are so upset about this. Am I that detestable, Lady Strong? Or is it because you’ve already fallen in love with that oaf from House Piper? You do know that their sigil is one of a naked maiden, do you not? It is no wonder he lost his tourney so quickly.” 

With a choked yell, you rounded to face him again, lifting your sword and bringing it down with staggering speed. Aemond, however, had anticipated this, easily rolling to the side and grabbing a discarded sword from the yard’s ground, parrying away with ease. Unrelenting, you pulled back to land another blow on him. His sword met yours halfway, the blades singing against one another. You gritted your teeth, practically snarling at your betrothed. 

The hostility was quick to wane away the longer you stared at him. He was your friend—the boy you had grown so fond of over the course of the last half a decade. Your vision began to blur with unshed tears as you started to physically shake. A hot droplet meandered down your cheek. You let the sword fall limp in your grasp. 

Furious with yourself and embarrassed beyond relief, you swiped away the tears with the back of your palm, lifting your gaze to meet Aemond’s.

Something had changed within his features. It had softened considerably, pale and glowing beneath the moonlight. His lips were parted, as if deliberating between words and action.

He chose action.

With no warning, Prince Aemond surged forward, sword clattering to his feet as his hands came forth to cradle your face within his palms. His fingers were cold against the sweltering skin of your face, but neither of you cared. His nose bumped against yours, foreheads knocking into one another. Your eyes locked with his, intense and tumultuous and molten with yearning. His lips were but a hair’s breadth from yours—tantalizingly close. 

When you made no move to pull away, he kissed you. 

It was a desperate embrace, needy and clawing and furious. It made your heart lurch within your chest, your breath crystallized to the sides of your throat, your eyes wrenching shut. Aemond stepped even closer, chest pressed up against yours, his knee slotting between your legs in a way that made your neck flush with heat. The grip he had on your face tightened, as if he were ensuring that you were real.

This was real.

You just about melted into his touch, one of your hands lifting to hold onto his bicep, the other still clutching onto your sword, not daring to let go. 

It was only when his lips left yours for a second of air, did your eyes snap open, and the trance you had so easily fallen into began to thin away. 

You placed both palms on his chest and shoved the prince away, breathing heavily and eyes wild. Frustrated and so very conflicted about how you felt for him, you wiped the back of your mouth with your hand and shot him an offended look, before storming away angrily.

The sword clattered to the ground with your departure. Aemond found himself staring at his own warped reflection within the blade. He loathed what stared back at him—a taunting of his own tarnished image, and wrenched his gaze away.

He would talk to you on the morrow, he decided. For now, he would let you go, knowing full and well that he would not be able to find you even if he tried.

After all, a dragon cannot hide the same way a butterfly can.

Aemond didn’t talk to you the next day, or the day after that. The two of you didn’t speak to one another for weeks on end. You were quite good at hiding from him, always turning the corner and hurrying away when you could feel his attentive stare begin to blaze into you, or relocating your training to the darkest nooks and crannies of the Keep just so he wouldn’t be able to find you. Even Helaena and her three lovely children you adored so much had barely seen you as of late, because you knew that being around her would make it easier for Aemond to come and speak to you.

You hadn’t meant to avoid him for this long, you really hadn’t. By now, you’d expected the two of you to talk things out, clear the air between you, and return back to how the way things were before. But the more you waited, the more conflicted you became about the kiss and your own feelings for him, thus prolonging your inevitable confrontation with the Prince. 

The two of you had keenly noticed that the longer this game of silence had drawn out, the less it became one of true avoidance, and the more it grew to be like a round of cat-and-mouse. Sometimes, you’d even find yourself waiting in places you knew the prince would pass by, only to scurry away just as soon as he came. Aemond himself was enjoying watching you dance away from his grasp, just as much as he was frustrated with it. He’d get you eventually, he oft told himself. You’d come around.

Alicent had pushed back anything related to their wedding the sicker King Viserys grew—wanting to prioritize her husband’s health first and foremost above all else. It was yet another example of Aemond being pushed to the side in favor of another. 

Around you, however, he never felt second. Sure, you also loved Helaena and her children, but he did not feel as if they were competition for your affections. It was why he enjoyed drawing out this game of chase with you so much—having your attention constantly devoted entirely to him made his pride swell and a fire kindle within his lower abdomen. He wanted you more than ever before.

It was why the news of his nephews and his half-sister returning to King’s Landing to rebuttal the challenge to the heir of Driftmark soured his mood so badly. 

Upon their arrival, your game of chase had come to an end—effectively stealing away any and all of your addictive attention. He saw you far more often than before, but you hardly ever paid any mind to him, instead focusing on the plain-featured boys. 

It’d been nearly a decade since you last saw them. 

You were the only one to greet them when they arrived at King's Landing. It was a rather sad affair, with no one to welcome Rhaenyra and her sons but a young Strong—practically a nobody in a den of dragons. It was an insult on Alicent’s part—as if she were indirectly saying she had more important matters to attend to than Rhaenyra.

You didn’t quite care for their little rivalry—all you really wanted was to see your nephews. 

The boys had grown so big. It startled you to see that Jace was practically a man grown now, with a sharp face and eyes exactly the same as your late older brother, brown hair straight and neatly groomed. Luke, on the other hand, had softer features like that of Rhaenyra, but bore his true father’s nose and mouth, with a head of dark, messy curls. 

You ran forward to greet them, excitedly shouting their names with a permanent smile etched over your lips. Little Luke—you made a mental note not to call him that anymore, seeing as he was no longer little—was the first to embrace you, yelling your name and barreling forward to squeeze you into a hug so tight that all the air was pushed from your lungs. Jace was gentler with his approach, but you gripped onto him tightly all the same, pressing kisses to both of your nephew’s foreheads. Then, you kneeled down and took little Joffrey’s hand within yours, kissing his palm, and his chubby little cheeks. The little boy looked mildly confused as to who you were, since they’d left for Dragonstone when he was only but a tiny little baby. You stood back up to face the three of them.

“My, how you’ve grown,” you told the boys, patting Jace and Luke’s cheeks affectionately. “Feels like just yesterday we were little children together. I haven’t seen you since…”

Since Aemond lost his eye.

“You haven’t changed one bit,” commented Luke, a wide smile to his face. “It’s nice to see you, Y/N. We’ve missed you dearly on Dragonstone. Exchanging letters just isn’t the same.”

“It really isn’t,” you hummed in agreement. “But you’re here now—and I couldn’t be more happy.”

It was then that Rhaenyra and Daemon joined you, each holding a white-haired babe in their arms. They must’ve been Aegon and Viserys. Lips parting, you dipped your head in greeting, a bright, watery smile painting your complexion golden.

“Princess Rhaenyra,” you said.

“Oh, sweet girl,” she murmured, shaking her head and using her free hand to rope you into an embrace. “You’ve grown into a beautiful woman. My only regret is that I wasn’t able to watch you flourish into one.” Tears welled up in your eyes when she leaned forward and whispered into your ear, “Your brother Harwin would be so very proud of you.”

Your breath caught within your throat. “Thank you,” you told her, voice cracking with emotion. The purple of her eyes gleamed with gentle affection. You glanced, down eyes widening upon seeing her swollen belly. “Congratulations, Your Grace. Let’s hope the next one is a girl. You’ve had enough sons as it is.”

Your words made Rhaenyra huff out an amused laugh. “Yes, a daughter would be lovely. Though, you’ve filled that position for long enough, I would be happy with yet another son.”

A bright beam pulled your lips impossibly wider. After a few more minutes of exchanging pleasantries and catching up, you said hello to little Aegon and Viserys, before urging them into the Keep, not wanting to keep them waiting after such a long journey. Luke had talked your ear off about how he had puked thrice over the side of the ship from his relentless seasickness. 

The entire time, you pointedly avoided making any mention of your betrothal to Aemond, wanting to remain in blissful ignorance for just a bit longer.

The Red Keep was almost unrecognizable to the young boys. As the years passed without Rhaenyra there to watch over the kingdom in Viserys’ stead, the Targaryen heraldry was taken down, slowly replaced by symbols of the Seven in the form of erected stone statues and carvings of seven-pointed stars. The change had been so gradual that you’d barely noticed, but to Jace and Luke, it was a shock to see their home completely different to how it used to be.

You took them on a guide throughout the expansive castle, exchanging stories of their times throughout the years. They asked you how you’ve fared here, and you hesitated to tell them about everything going on with Larys, with Harley Piper, with… with Aemond…

Instead, you chirped on about Helaena and her children, and how they were always the brightest part of your day. 

“Have you still been training on your own?” Jacaerys asked just as you rounded the corner to lead them to the training yard. 

You paused, thinking back to all the late nights you spent clashing swords with Aemond.

“Yes,” you replied cautiously. “My brother Harwin would’ve wanted me to keep honing my skills, even after he’s passed.”

A grim look passed over the two boys’ faces.

Once they began descending the stone stairwell to the yard, Luke’s nose wrinkled in disdain. The court was full of training men, a cacophony of steel against steel, of thuds against dummies, and exerted grunts all echoing across the expansive grounds.

“It’s much smaller than I remember,” said Luke.

You spared the younger Velaryon a sweet smile. “Perhaps that’s only because you’ve grown much larger since last you were here.”

“It looks exactly the same to me,” Jace said, bounding down the last few steps to hurry to the rack of weapons. “Come on!” 

Though Jace was willfully oblivious to the stares of the guards and the handmaids and all the rest that were in the yard, keeping his head held up high, Luke was aware of everybody’s eyes on him. Glaring, judging, and piercing every which way. He shifted uncomfortably beside you.

Jacaerys patted one of the large dents in a while, a wide grin to his handsome features. “See? I told you this would still be here! And you thought you could swing Criston’s morningstar. You almost took your own head off!”

Luke gave him a half-hearted grin, but it was quick to melt away when he whispered beneath his breath, “Everyone’s staring at us.”

The older brother pulled a sword from the rack and playfully lowered down into an attack position, Lucerys’ words largely going ignored.

“Of course they’re staring,” you stated matter-of-factly. “You are the Princess’ sons.”

Luke shook his head, dark curls flying about his forehead. “That is not why they’re staring, and you know it. No one would question me being heir to Driftmark if… if I looked more like Ser Laenor Velaryon than Ser Harwin Strong.”

Releasing a deep sigh, Jacaerys hung his head. “It doesn’t matter what they think, little brother,” he asserted. 

You watched as Luke turned to you, as if silently asking you to back him. “Oh, Luke,” you murmured, unsure of what to say. “As I said before, you are Rhaenyra’s son, first and foremost—”

Before you could finish your sentence, a crowd from across the yard burst into raucous applause. Curious, Jace grabbed your hand, dragging you along to see what was going on.

It was Aemond—sparring against Criston.

Your heart sunk into your stomach. You hadn’t prepared yourself nearly enough to face him just yet.

At the sight of their uncle, Luke and Jace visibly tensed beside you.

He was beautiful—spinning around with ease and grace. Criston swung his morningstar at the prince, only for Aemond to duck, blocking the heavy weapon with a wooden shield. It splintered beneath the force, and he shirked it away to the side. Aemond used his speed to his advantage, dancing away from each of Criston’s swings, tactfully tiring him out. Seeing his opportunity when Criston’s arm dropped for but a millisecond, Aemond skidded around the ball-and-chain, pointing the tip of his sword right at his mentor’s throat.

A breath you hadn’t realized you were holding slowly slipped from your lungs just as the audience began clapping again. 

“Well done, my Prince,” said Criston, setting down his weapon to yield. “You’ll be winning tourneys in no time.”

The purple of Aemond’s eye blazed as he turned his head away from Cole to face you. “I don’t give a shit about tourneys,” he murmured, taking great pleasure in the way you physically stepped back. “Lady Strong, my sweet betrothed… have you come to train?”

Heat snaked up the skin of your neck and seeped into your cheeks at his words. My sweet betrothed. Jace and Luke both sent you deeply puzzled, almost affronted looks.

“Aemond, no, I—” you began, but he strode forward in no more than three steps, grabbing your forearm and pulling you to the center of the circle, much to Jace and Luke’s dismay.

The Prince paid no mind to your protests. “Criston. Give her a sword.”

The knight, none too fond of you ever since the first incident when you were only a child, thrusted a dull blade into your arms. 

With your jaw set, you huffed out a curse beneath your breath, and stabilized yourself into a defensive position. If a fight was what Aemond wanted, then a fight was what he was going to get.

He struck first, darting forward to arc his sword into your side. You took half a step back and parried, guiding his arm up over your head and ducking beneath his swing. Using this to your advantage, you kicked at the back of his knee, sending him buckling down to the ground. A growl rumbled within his chest. Aemond was quick to react, twisting around to sweep his sword between your legs, knocking you back as well.

Winded and caught off guard, you desperately parried away his continuous strikes, the tip of his sword getting closer and closer and closer to your face. You scrambled to get back up on your feet, but Aemond was unrelenting, pressing on with no restraint. Aemond was practically on top of you at this point, his knee pressing nearly painfully into your thigh. 

“Yield,” he hissed, breath hot against your ear.

You glared up at him. Briefly, you allowed your eyes to slip past Aemond, to the two young boys behind him, worryingly watching you.

Humiliated, you huffed out a shaking breath, wishing to just end this here and now. “I yield.”

The crowd began clapping for Aemond again, though, this time much more hesitant and sparse. Scandalous murmurs rippled through the audience. From the side, Criston smirked at your defeat.

Satisfied, Aemond stepped back, offering you his hand. You let him help you up, dusting your trousers off with a huff. 

He briefly let go of your hand to wind his arm about your waist, tugging you closer. An internal part of you screamed in embarrassment, not wanting him to behave in such a way when Jace and Luke were right there—watching the two of you with bewilderment. He smelled of smoke and steel and leather, and you couldn’t bring it in yourself to push away. “You are skilled, Lady Strong—but your arrogance betrays you.”

“Arrogance?” you whispered back, eyes roaming over his expressionless features, your brows knitting together. “I let you win. Release me, Aemond. People are watching.”

The prince’s eye momentarily flitted down to your parted lips, then back up to meet your tumultuous gaze. He hummed in thought, before relinquishing his hold on you completely, swiftly turning to Jace and Luke.

“Nephews… have you come to train, as well?” he asked them, straightening himself, practically oozing with intimidation.

Jace’s mouth parted, still stupefied. 

Before anyone could utter another word, a guard bellowed out, “Open the gates!”

The large metal gratings groaned as they were pulled open. Velaryon banners filled the training yard—and in the center of all of them, stood Vaemond Velaryon. Corlys’ brother, and, according to him, the rightful heir to Driftmark.

You swallowed down the bile that rose in your throat.

Fear splattered clear as day over Luke’s features. Aemond only grinned at that.

The gardens were much more intimidating in the nighttime. Large statues of the Seven hid behind the rose bushes in a menacing fashion, and the fountain bore a seven-pointed star in the center that looked sharp enough to cut. You never frequented the place after sunset, deliberately taking Helaena and the children out on walks when it was still light out.

Nonetheless, it was one of the only few quiet places in the Keep where you could be sure curious ears wouldn’t be able to hear your whispers over the gushing of the water fountain. Though, you couldn’t be too certain that your brother wasn’t lurking somewhere in the shadows. 

Jace and Luke were standing across from you, both of their arms crossed expectedly.

The older of the two seemed disappointed, as if he’d expected better from you. Luke, on the other hand, looked crestfallen, feeling as if you’d betrayed him.

“I’m sorry for not telling the two of you earlier,” you quietly said. “I couldn’t find a way to break the news.” 

The silence stretched thin between the three of you.

“I don’t want it,” you said, wringing your hands nervously. “My brother, Larys, and the Queen are forcing this upon me. I had no choice in the matter. Aemond is my friend, as much as I know you two mislike him… he’s my friend. He had no say in the matter, either. I don’t know—perhaps I should just be grateful I’m betrothed to him rather than a pure stranger. He would not hurt me, I’m sure of it.”

Jacaerys’ expression seemed to soften upon your confession. It was no wonder you were so afraid to tell them. You must’ve been so confused and scared. Silent, the taller boy reached out to pull you into a hug, gently patting your back. Tears of relief began to well in your eyes—you’d truly been expecting them to turn their back on you.

“I… I feel as though my control of my own life is slipping right through the cracks between my fingers,” you whispered, voice crumbling with emotion. 

You began to softly cry into Jacaerys’ shoulder. Luke joined in the embrace, wrapping his arms around you from behind. 

The three of you stood in the eerie garden, each of you equally upset and uncertain for the future to come.

“Though it is the great hope of this court that Lord Corlys Velaryon survive his wounds…” Otto Hightower began, descending an instantaneous hush upon the throng of lords and ladies in front of the Iron Throne, “we gather here with the grim task of dealing with the succession of Driftmark. As Hand, I speak with the King’s voice in this—and all other matters.”

Otto’s last sentence made bile climb up your throat. Not too long ago, your own father held the position as Hand, and held it in a just, and unbiased manner. You were afraid you couldn’t say the same for Otto Hightower.

You stood a couple steps away from Rhaenyra and her sons, hands tightly clasped behind your back. To the right of the Iron Throne was Alicent and her children—Aegon with rumpled hair as if he had just rolled out of bed, Aemond with his gaze flickering back and forth between his nephew and his betrothed, and Helaena, who was staring at the warbling light of the torches on the wall. All you wanted to do was get this over and done with—the succession of Driftmark was not a subject you cared for, seeing as you strongly believed it should go to Luke. Bastard or not, it mattered little to you—he was Laenor’s son regardless of blood and deserved his own inheritance. 

“The crown will now hear the petitions. Ser Vaemond of House Velaryon.”

The man stepped forward, head held high. 

“My Queen. My Lord Hand. The history of our noble houses extends beyond the Seven Kingdoms to the days of Old Valyria. For as long as House Targaryen has ruled the skies… House Velaryon has ruled the seas. When the Doom fell on Valyria, our houses became the last of their kind. Our forebears came to this new land, knowing that were they to fail, it would mean the end to their bloodlines and their name. I have spent my entire life on Driftmark defending my brother’s seat. I am Lord Corlys’ closest kin—his own blood. The true, unimpeachable blood of House Velaryon runs through my veins.”

Tongue as sharp as ever, Rhaenyra interjected, “As it does in my sons, the offspring of Laenor Velaryon. If you cared so much about your house’s blood, Ser Vaemond, you would not be so bold as to supplant its rightful heir. No—you only speak for yourself and for your own ambition.”

Looking down at the Princess, Alicent raised her brows. “You will have a chance to make your own petition, Princess Rhaenyra. Do Ser Vaemond the courtesy of allowing him to be heard.”

From the side, Aegon hid a snicker behind his palm.

Vaemond turned to Rhaenyra. “What do you know of Velaryon blood, Princess? I could cut my veins and show it to you—and you still wouldn’t recognize it. This is about the future and survival of my house, not yours.” Luke took a small shuffle back when Vaemond rounded his scalding glare on the younger boy. “My Queen, Lord Hand. This is a matter of blood. Not ambition. I place the continuation of the survival of my house and my line above it all. I humbly put myself before you as my brother’s successor—the Lord of Driftmark, and Lord of the Tides.”

Satisfied, Otto nodded once. “Thank you, Ser Vaemond.”

Smug and confident he had swayed the decision in his favor, Vaemond stepped back to his respective side.

“Princess Rhaenyra, you may now speak for your son, Lucerys Velaryon.”

The white-haired woman took three steps to the center, one hand holding her large, pregnant belly. 

“If I am to grace this farce with some sort of answer,” she began, already exhausted of the entire ordeal, “I will start by reminding the court that nearly twenty years ago, in this very—”

Before she could finish, the doors swung open. Everybody turned their heads back. Your breath caught in your throat.

It was King Viserys. 

The last time you’d seen him… was most probably longer than a year ago. 

And how the tall and mighty fall from such grace. He was practically rotting away, skin patched and peeling, teeth gnarled and black, figure fragile and bent. The white of his hair fell in but sparse strands from his scalp where the crown sat, lopsided but gleaming nonetheless. A gilded mask was placed on one half of his face, hiding the decaying flesh on right cheek, and the pulsing cavern where his eye used to be. He hobbled forth on his cane, one of his feet dragging along behind him, not unlike your brother Larys, shoulders heavy with his cloak. He was in a great deal of pain—that was made abundantly clear with his wincing and groaning. But he pushed forth nonetheless, determined to voice his support for his daughter, Rhaenyra.

The guard by the door announced his presence: “King Viserys of House Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.”

Shock fell upon the court at the sight of the King up and out of his chambers, much less walking on his own. It did not slip past you when Vaemond and Otto exchanged concerned looks. You bowed your head as Viserys passed by, biting down on your tongue. 

The royal family seemed to have different reactions to the King’s presence. Rhaenyra was stunned into silence, which was quick to meld into one of subtle gratitude. Rhaenys turned her head away at the sight of her brother in such a pained state. Helaena smiled faintly, though you weren’t quite sure what she was smiling for. And Alicent appeared the most conflicted out of all.

“I will sit the throne today,” he told his Hand. Otto looked none too pleased, but dipped his head, stepping away to the side for Viserys to pass.

He began to lose his breath as he climbed up the steps, leaning forth on his cane. The crown slid from his head and clattered onto the stone floor. Prince Daemon—his brother—was the one to pick it up for him, and patiently helped him up the rest of the steps to his seat. He gently placed the crown back on Viserys’ head, before stepping back down to stand beside his wife.

“I must… admit… my confusion,” said Viserys, breathless. “I do not understand why petitions are being heard over a settled succession. The only one present who might offer keener insight into Lord Corlys’ wishes, is the Princess Rhaenys.”

His older sister lifted her head. “Indeed, Your Grace.” With cautious strides, she made her way forward. “It was ever my husband’s will that Driftmark pass through Ser Laenor to his trueborn son… Lucerys Velaryon. His mind never changed, nor did my support of him. As a matter of fact, the Princess Rhaenyra has just informed me of her desire to marry her sons Jace and Luke to Lord Corlys’ granddaughters, Baela and Rhaena. A proposal to which I heartily agree.”

Your lips parted in surprise. The two boys… betrothed? Just two minutes ago they were both barely tall enough to reach for supper in the middle of the dining table, and now they were already going to get married? Though, you supposed you were speaking rather hypocritical, as you had just gotten betrothed not too long ago yourself.

Muted frustration befell Alicent’s expression.

“Well… the matter is settled. Again.” The King blew out a sigh. “I hereby reaffirm Prince Lucerys of House Velaryon as heir to Driftmark, the Driftwood Throne, and the next Lord of the Tides.”

Clear disdain painted itself green across Vaemond’s face. 

“You break law… and centuries of tradition to install your daughter as heir. Yet you dare tell me who deserves to inherit the name Velaryon. No. I will not allow it.”

Confused, Viserys’ brows drew together. “Allow it?” he echoed. “Do not forget yourself, Vaemond.”

Suddenly raising his voice, Vaemond turned and jabbed a finger straight in Luke’s direction. “That is no true Velaryon! And certainly no nephew of mine.”

Desperate to keep the accusations at bay, Rhaenyra pushed Luke behind her. “Go to your chambers, boys. Vaemond, you have said enough!”

Taking great offense to his words, the King said, “Lucerys is my true-born grandson. And you… are no more than the second son of Driftmark.”

The man shook his head. “You… may run your house as you see fit… but you will not decide the future of mine.”

Gasps rang out across the court. What Vaemond had just said to the King was treason.

Despite this, on Vaemond continued, “My house survived the Doom—and a thousand tribulations more! And gods be damned… I will not see it ended on the account of this…”

Prince Daemon cocked his head, challenging, “Say it.”

“Her children… are…” said Vaemond. “BASTARDS!”

The audience murmured scandalously. Your brows raised in shock, gaze wildly swinging from Luke to the King.

Vaemond was not yet done, having one final blow to serve. “And she… is… a whore.”

Disgust coiled within your stomach. It made you even angrier to see a smirk toy with the corners of Aemond’s lips.

Viserys angrily limped onto his feet, unsheathing his dagger. “I… will have your tongue for that!”

In a blur of black and red, Daemon swung his sword as quick as a bolt of lightning, cleaving it clean through Vaemond’s head. A sick squelch of flesh and blood and steel rang across the court, quickly blending into the startled shrieks of Lords and Ladies. You had flinched back, hands raising to cover your mouth. 

Helaena had gasped the loudest, her hands flying to rest over her ears and hurriedly turning her face away from the grotesque sight. From all the years you had been her dearest friend, you knew blood was one of the few things she could not handle.

Right beside her, Aemond had stepped back, hand defensively falling to his sword. His purple eye was wide and trained onto the body, but quickly flicked up to look at you, as if ensuring that you were alright. 

Though you couldn’t see Luke’s expression, you could see the way his shoulders flinched and his feet began to panickedly shuffle away.

Vaemond’s body fell to the ground, dark red blood dripping over the stones and meandering into the cracks and crevices. 

Satisfied, Daemon observed the blood begin to graze the bottom of his shoe. “He can keep his tongue,” he commented nonchalantly.

“DISARM HIM!” screamed Otto. Half a dozen guards drew out their swords, pointing it straight at Daemon.

“No need,” said the Prince, cleaning his sword with the bottom of his shirt, uncaring of Vaemond’s blood getting all over him. He sheathed the steel and backed away with a small, victorious grin.

It was then that Viserys collapsed back onto the throne, groaning in pain.

“Call the maesters!” Alicent yelled, rushing up the steps to her husband. “Please, my love, you must take something for the pain!”

“I will not cloud my mind…” said the King. “I must… put things right…”

The King commanded a supper—with all of his family to attend, as this was the first time they were all gathered in the Keep since nearly a decade ago. Seeing as you were now betrothed to his second son, you supposed you were officially considered part of the family now. Though, you had considered yourself one of Rhaenyra’s daughters ever since childhood. 

Your handmaidens had washed you in a tub full of flower petals, the warm water heaven to your tense muscles. They scrubbed you with soap that smelled of honey and milk, a sweet scent that pleasantly burrowed beneath your skin. 

Afterwards, they laid out a dress for you. It was a beautiful, dark green garment with golden linings, no doubt a gift from Queen Alicent. The dress fit you perfectly, falling over your form like a stream of water over a stony bank. The collar was modest enough, but dipped down just beneath your clavicle bone, where a necklace of gleaming silver pearls rested against your sternum. As you stared at your reflection in the mirror, you couldn’t help but notice that the dress looked nearly black in certain lighting.

It was strange to be so dressed up—you weren’t quite fond of skirts and dresses in the first place, finding it much easier and practical to don trousers for everyday use, uncaring of its impropriety. People of the court often joked that House Strong no longer had a Lady, as you were often seen doing traditionally male activities, such as sparring and educating yourself. You paid them no mind—fighting and reading made you no less of a Lady than all the other women in court. 

There was a knock to your door just as the handmaidens finished with pinning up your hair. They rushed to swing it open, Princess Helaena stepping in with a mild grin to her lips, though it was not enough to mask the sadness in her face.

“Helaena,” you said, surprised at her sudden visit, grasping her hands within yours. “It’s lovely to see you. It feels as if we’ve hardly spoken as of late.”

The memory of Vaemond’s blood and Helaena’s distraught flashed at the forefront of your mind. If only you had the chance to speak with her afterwards—but Alicent was adamant on sending her daughter straight to her chambers that instant.

“Are you… are you alright?” you gently asked, not wanting to pry. “After all that happened earlier today… I know how much you mislike blood.”

“I’ll be fine,” the Princess wispily replied, carefully sidestepping the subject that made her queasy. “I miss you. The children miss you.”

A lump formed in your throat. “Oh, how are the little terrors? I promise to take them out on a promenade soon.”

“They are well. Jaehaerys never ceases asking about you,” she replied, before allowing her gaze to roam over your attire. “You look wonderful, Y/N. It is surely a rare sight to see you so dressed up.”

A laugh bubbled in your throat. “Well, I’ve certainly never had to go to a supper as important as this one. I’ve hardly ever had a reason to dress up in such a way before. Thank you, though. You’re looking radiant as ever, as well.”

Helaena smiled at you, wide and genuine. It disappeared after a brief moment, and her plum-hued eyes seemed to mist over.

“A storm is on the horizon,” she murmured. “A dance of dragons. They will keep dancing, even once the music has stopped. They care naught for when their feet begin to bleed.”

The Princess’ strange words echoed in your head for the next few hours. What had she meant by that? Before you had the chance to ask her what she was talking about, Helaena had excused herself to go check on the kids before dinnertime, floating out of your room as if she hadn’t just spoken the most mystifying words to you.

Overwhelmed and desperate for fresh air, you made your way back out into the gardens. The sun was just barely beginning to set, spilling soft clementine and dark tangerine hues across the canvas of the sky. 

You stood in front of the water fountain, watching the clear water burble over the stone and fall into the pool below. 

It was not long until your betrothed came to join you, his hands neatly clasped behind his back. 

“Lady Strong,” he greeted with a dip of his head. “You are more beautiful than ever before, which says much as you were already beguiling enough to begin with.”

Firmly, you shook your head. You were still angry at him for humiliating you in front of Jace and Luke earlier that day. “Stop it, Aemond. Do not speak your sweet lies to me. I have no taste for your saccharine words.”

“Tis not a lie, Y/N,” he whispered your name, all soft and heavenly on his tongue. “You are beautiful.”

You blew out a frustrated breath. The two of you stood in a precarious silence for a moment longer.

The muttering of your question shattered the quiet between you. “Are you not upset, Aemond? About the betrothal?”

The Prince hummed, and took a few seconds to consider what you were asking. Finally, he replied, keeping his eye trained on the fountain. “I’m glad it’s you,” he simply said.

Your breath hitched within your throat.

Rotating on his heel, Aemond was now fully facing you, lifting his hands up. Cold fingers grazed over your jaw, before he cradled your face in its entirety, the pads of his thumbs smoothing over your flushed cheekbones. It was not unlike the first time he had kissed you—but there was something softer about this atmosphere.

Acceptance. Affection. Yearning.

His purple iris darkened, the orange light of the setting sun bathing him in a warm glow. Shadows arched over his face, only highlighting his most handsome, sharp features. You couldn’t help but let your eyes wander to his lips, curled with fondness, lax with temptation.

Aemond could see the conflict dance about your visage. 

He dipped forward to press a kiss to your forehead, lips grazing against your hairline. 

“I shall see you at supper,” he whispered into your skin.

With that, he stepped back, dipping his head respectfully, and left you in the garden, completely alone with only your tumultuous thoughts to accompany you.

Candles were lit everywhere, the flames warbling in the air, melted wax dripping down the sides. The servants were still placing down dozens upon dozens of dishes—ranging from grilled cod, to seared mutton chops, to creamed potatoes, to various platters of fresh fruits and cheeses. Chalices of wine and honeyed cider were passed around, all full to the brim.

You were seated with Helaena to your right, and Aemond to your left, at the end of the table. From across the room, Rhaenyra had flickered her gaze from you to your betrothed. She had only received the news from her sons moments ago, and was still processing the shock of it all.

From the center of the expansive feast, Viserys began to speak. “How good it is… to see you all tonight… together.”

“Prayer before we begin?” asked Alicent, ever the religious figure.

Viserys agreed, nodding his head weakly.

“May the Mother smile down on this gathering with love. May the Smith mend the bonds that have been broken for far too long. And to Vaemond Velaryon, may the gods give him rest.”

Daemon rolled his eyes in exasperation at the Queen’s last sentence. You clasped your hands together as she prayed, but kept your eyes open. Luke mirrored you, shooting you a look as if to say, “Do you do this every day?” 

With small movements you shook your head, and the younger boy could only suppress a smile in response. Aemond kept his head down and his eyes closed as he listened to his mother’s prayers. He’d always been the more devoted out of the two of you.

Once Alicent was done, Viserys said, “This is an occasion for celebration, it seems. My grandsons… Jace and Luke, will marry their cousins, Baela and Rhaena. The daughter of my former Hand, Y/N Strong… will marry my second son, Aemond. These marriages will further strengthen the bond between our great houses. A toast to the young princes… and their betrothed.”

Chalices raised, everybody took a sip. You exchanged a look with Aemond, offering him a small smile as you drank from your cup. Tentative, you reached beneath the table to take his hand—a truce of sorts. It was your silent way of telling him that you were willing to move forth with the marriage—that you were glad it was him, as well. Aemond showed little reaction, other than a small twitch of the corner of his lips, nearly reminiscent to that of a grin. 

“Well done, Jace. You’ll finally get to lie with a woman,” said Aegon to the dark-haired prince, somehow already quite drunk. Jacaerys set his jaw but paid him no mind other than that.

Again, King Viserys spoke, “Let us toast as well Prince Lucerys. The future Lord of the Tides.”

Luke’s betrothed, Rhaena, clinked her cup against his. “You’ll be great,” she told him kindly, eyes gleaming with warmth.

Unrelenting, Aegon bent to the side to lean closer to Jacaerys. “You do know how the act is done, I assume? At least in principle? Where to put your cock and all that…”

With a sharp tongue, Baela whispered, “Let it be, cousin.”

Jace scowled. “You can play the jester if you wish, but hold your tongue before my betrothed.”

Aegon rolled his eyes, grabbing another cup of wine and knocking it back in no less than a few seconds. “Aemond is well versed in the art of bedding—are you not, brother?” Before giving him a chance to respond, Aegon continued on with his rambling. “I took him to the Streets of Silk when he came of age. Didn’t even see him come out! Must have been enjoying himself. At least Y/N will be in good hands… though I am always willing to show him the ropes lest he forgets how to man the ship.”

The eldest prince’s words made your skin flare with heat. Aemond’s grip grew tighter around his own cup, but he remained silent as ever. You were only grateful that the adults at the other side of the table were too busy chattering amongst themselves to hear the obscenities the children were speaking of.

With great difficulty, Viserys made to stand up. He nearly buckled under his own weight, but a gnarled hand shot out to rest against the table, steadying himself before he could fall forward into a bowl of soup. The mask that was tied to the rotten side of his face gleamed with the warped reflections of the candlelight.

“It both gladdens my heart and fills me with sorrow to see these faces around the table. The faces most dear to me in all the world… yet grown so distant from each other in the years past.” With trembling fingers, the King began to untie his mask, revealing the decaying flesh in all its glory for everyone to see. His empty eye socket was sunken and dry. “My own face… is no longer a handsome one—if indeed it ever was. But tonight, I wish you to see me as I am. Not just a King, but your father. Your brother. Your husband. And your grandsire. Who may not, it seems… walk for much longer amongst you. Let us no longer hold ill feelings in our hearts. The crown cannot stand strong if the House of the Dragon remains divided. Set aside your grievances. If not for the sake of the crown… then for the sake of this old man, who loves you all so dearly.”

Tired, the King settled back down into his seat with the help of his wife. Alicent’s eyes were pained and misted over with unshed tears.

With pursed lips, Rhaenyra suddenly stood up, holding her chalice up high. “I wish to raise my cup to Her Grace, the Queen. I love my father. But I must admit that no one has stood more loyally by his side than his good wife. She has tended to him with unfailing devotion, love, and honor. And for that, she has my gratitude… and my apology.”

As if wounded, Alicent reared back slightly and blinked away her tears. She refused to meet Rhaenyra’s eyes. “Your graciousness moves me deeply, Princess. We are both mothers… and we love our children. We have more in common than we sometimes allow.” Surprising you, Alicent stood up, holding her goblet in her hand. “I raise my cup to you and to your house. You will make a fine Queen.”

The rest of you drank to the toasts, an amicable atmosphere settling over the family. 

Always one to ruin the mood, Aegon stood up, making his way over to Baela, pouring himself another glass of wine. He leaned down close to her, murmuring, “I, uhm… I regret the disappointment you are soon to suffer. But if you ever wish to know what it is to be well satisfied, all you have to do is ask.”

At his limit, Jacaerys slammed his fists against the table, rising to his feet and glaring at Aegon. The white-haired Prince slunk back to his seat, a salacious grin toying at his mouth. Startled by the sudden noise, Alicent and Rhaenyra looked to Jace, who was now awkwardly standing up. 

It surprised you when Aemond let go of your hand to stand up himself, as if challenging Jace, his single eye blazing with an unreadable expression. Your gaze bounced back and forth between the two, unsure of what was going to transpire between them.

Jacaerys pursed his lips, patting Aegon on the shoulder, with a bit more force than necessary. “To Princes Aegon and Aemond, and the Lady Strong. We have not seen each other in years, but I have fond memories of our shared youth. To my uncles, as men, I hope we may yet be friends and allies. To you and your family’s good health, dear uncles.” 

Aegon cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with the formalities thrust upon him. “To you as well,” he begrudgingly grunted out once his mother shot him a warning glare.

Reluctant, Aemond sat back down, and reached underneath the table to take your hand once again. He sought your touch to console the bitter green wildfire that roared within his chest. 

“Beware the beast beneath the boards,” muttered Helaena as she fidgeted with a wooden carving of a cockroach. Suddenly, the Princess stood up, a dazed glimmer to her expression. “I would like to toast Baela and Rhaena. They’ll be married soon. It isn’t so bad… mostly, he just ignores you. Except sometimes when he’s drunk.” With a sweet smile, she sank back down into her seat. The rest of the table glanced at each other awkwardly, whilst Aegon just pulled at his face in exasperation.

In an effort to save the atmosphere, you stood up with your chalice in hand. “There have been many toasts this evening,” you murmured, a bit intimidated. It suddenly occurred to you that this was the first time you had the King’s undivided attention. “But I’d like to direct one to Princesses Rhaenyra and Helaena. The former, I owe the deepest of my gratitudes for treating me with kindness throughout my childhood, and taking me in as if I were her own. The latter, sweet Helaena, for being my dearest friend for years, and hopefully for many more to come. As I am to be married to Aemond soon, I look forward to being both of your sister-by-laws.”

Rhaenyra smiled at you kindly, raising her glass to drink to your toast. Helaena did the same, beaming into the rim of her chalice. The Queen, however, was far more reluctant to touch her goblet at your toast—which had pointedly avoided any mention of her. 

“Good,” said the King, weakly nodding at you. “Let us have some music. Please, eat, everyone.”

A soft symphony of strings and bells and drums began chiming away, and you contentedly began digging into your food, nearly ravenous after all that waiting.

A few minutes into the feast, Jacaerys bent towards his betrothed, murmuring a polite, “Excuse me.”

He then made his way around Aegon, to Helaena, offering his hand for a dance. Surprised, the Princess took his arm and Jace led her away to the dance floor. You watched with a warm smile gracing your expression, happy that your friends from opposite sides seemed to be mending bridges together. 

The table began engaging in amicable chatter—Luke and Rhaena were excitedly speaking about dragons and their eating habits, Rhaenyra and her husband began quietly laughing at how he already managed to splatter crab sauce all over his tunic, and Alicent spoke with her father about the gradual changes in weather. 

“You and my brother will make a fine pair,” slurred Aegon, his eyes fixed on you as he lounged back on his chair. “He’s had his gaze set on you ever since childhood.”

“Is that so?” you responded, casting a fond gaze to Aemond, who only shook his head with amusement. “I can’t say I wasn’t the same. After all, how could I take my eyes off the handsome Prince who rode the largest dragon in the world?” 

A ghost of a smile graced Aemond’s face. He was never one to take compliments well—for they were sparsely ever given to him.

Aegon, always one to spoil the mood, quipped, “I heard rumors that red-headed Piper idiot stole your maidenhood.”

Aemond’s head snapped towards his brother. You gritted your teeth, narrowing your eyes at him. “Lord Harley Piper was a friend. There was no romance between us, sexual or otherwise,” you hissed, lowering your voice to a whisper.

“Really? And here I thought my brother was marrying a whore,” snorted Aegon. 

Before either you or Aemond could react, Helaena flounced back to the table with a joyful beam, taking your arm. “Come dance with us, Y/N!” she exclaimed, breathless and bouncing on the balls of her feet.

Jace stood behind her, grin equally wide and hands clasped behind his back.

You shot a look at Aemond, as if telling him not to lash out at his brother during such an important supper, and stood up to join Helaena and Jace in their dance.

None of you were really that good—you hadn’t danced in years—but it was great fun, nonetheless. You twirled Helaena in your arms until she grew delightfully dizzy, and Jacaerys accidentally trod on your feet thrice, but you only laughed harder each time, cuffing his shoulder affectionately.

Amidst your dance, Alicent called for the guards to take the King away, for he was tired and aching. He departed the room with one last look to his family—all united, together as one. 

It was surely a beautiful, rare sight to behold.

One that was destined not to last.

The dance came to an abrupt halt when Aemond suddenly slammed his fists against the table, so hard that the platters of food clattered with the sudden force. The music suddenly stopped, and all the conversations ceased. You turned your head away from your dance partners to see what was going on.

Oh. 

In front of Aemond was a roasted pig, still sizzling with oil. And all the way across the table, Luke was not-so-discreetly hiding a laugh behind his palm.

Oh, no.

“Final tribute,” said your betrothed, lifting his glass. There was a dangerous fire to his eye. “To the health of my nephews. Jace… Luke… and Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise…”

No, Aemond, you silently begged. The Prince kept his gaze trained on Luke, refusing to meet your desperate stare.

“... Strong,” he finished, after an extensive pause.

“Aemond—” Alicent began.

“Come,” her son quickly said, cutting her off. “Let us drain our cups to these three Strong boys.”

From right next to you, Jace gnashed his teeth together. “I dare you to say that again.”

“Why?” asked Aemond, feigning innocence, pushing away from the table to step closer to Jace. “‘Twas only a compliment. Do you not think yourself strong?”

A gasp lodged in your throat when Jacaerys dove forward, landing a punch right into Aemond’s face. 

“Jace!” yelled Rhaenyra.

It did little effect on the taller man, and Aemond’s head merely snapped to the side but his body remained rooted to the same position. A smug smile etched across his features. Simultaneously, Aegon rose to his feet and grabbed Luke by the scruff of his collar, shoving his face straight into a searing hot platter of fish. 

“A gift for the new Lord of the Tides!” Aegon cackled with glee, indulging in the chaos.

“THAT IS ENOUGH!” commanded Alicent to her sons, but neither of them listened to her.

Scrambling forward, you tried to stop Aemond from retaliating, but he shoved Jace so hard the younger boy went sprawling against the dance floor. Jace was quick to get back up on his feet, an angry growl erupting from his throat. Before he could reach Aemond, two guards sprung forward and held him back, another pulling Luke away from Aegon as well.

You found yourself torn between the two sides, resulting in an indecisive dance between Jace and Luke struggling against the guards, and your betrothed smiling into his cups.

Queen Alicent got to him before you could, grabbing her son’s arms roughly. “Why would you say such a thing before these people?” she hissed.

“I was merely expressing how proud I am of my family, Mother. Mmh, though it seems my nephews aren’t quite as proud of theirs. It wounds me so, seeing as my sweet betrothed is soon to be my family, as well,” said Aemond, ripping his hand away from Alicent. 

Breaking free of the guard’s hold, Jace made a charge at Aemond again.

“Wait,” Daemon ordered his stepson, striding in between the two boys before they could bash heads with one another once again. Jacaerys immediately halted in his motions, though not without great restraint. 

Stern, Rhaenyra turned to her sons. “Go to your quarters. All of you, go. Now.”

The two boys were reluctantly led away by the guards, shoulders drooping with both embarrassment and anger.

Daemon released a sigh, fixing his gaze upon Aemond. They stared at each other for a moment longer, before Aemond huffed out a small, discontented hum, and began walking away.

“I’m sorry, Rhaenyra,” you told the Princess, so very tired of the ceaseless fighting and the constant torn feeling within you. 

The stern expression she held softened when she looked at you. Her hand came away from her pregnant belly to rest gentle upon your cheek. “It is not your fault, sweet girl. Go on… get some rest. I shall have the servants send up food to your chambers since you didn’t get to finish your supper.”

With a grateful bow of your head, you took your leave, bidding Helaena and the Queen a quiet good night, before hastening out of the dining hall, and up the stairs to your chambers.

Your feet ached and your head pounded with stress. What a day it’s been.

Imagine your utter shock when you gently opened the doors to your bedroom, and slowly shut them behind you—only to turn and see your betrothed standing by your desk, scattered with quills and stained bottles of charcoal ink and stacks upon stacks of unopened letters you had yet to read or send off.

“Aemond,” you whispered, brows furrowing. “What are you doing here?” 

The Prince remained silent, watching you keenly as you strode forward, until you were nearly nose-to-nose with him.

“What is wrong with you?” you murmured. Just moments ago, you were ready to forgive him, move on with all your grievances and accept your betrothal with not another thought. And he went and ruined it—all because his hatred for Jace and Luke were greater than his affections for you. “Are Rhaenyra’s sons that much of a bane that you must go out of your way to insult them?”

“And why do you care so much for them? For two little boys that you knew a lifetime ago? It is I who stayed by your side your entire life. It is my sister Helaena who never strayed from you. They have done nothing but leave you in their dust, retreating to Dragonstone with their tails tucked between their legs at the first sign of danger,” murmured Aemond, hands coming forth to grip your forearms, drawing you nearer to him. 

“Because they are family,” you choked out. “And I love them. They are like brothers to me.”

A tantalizing hum fell from Aemond’s lips. He dipped forward, running the tip of his nose along the curve of your exposed neck, inhaling the addictive honey-lavender scent wafting from your skin. “Oh, but they are not your brothers, are they? Say it, my love. They are not only my nephews… they are yours, as well.”

“No…” you said, breathless when he began laying kisses along your heated skin. You couldn’t resist his deliberately light touches, melting against him for more. It was humiliating, how easily you caved for him. “What you are saying is treason, my Prince. Please, just think about what you—”

“There is no one else in the room but us,” he murmured, gently biting into the junction between your shoulder and neck. “Just us, jorrāelagon. You need not hide your true thoughts from me.”

Tears welled up in your eyes, and you shook your head. “I can’t. I just can’t. Aemond, please… put this to rest. They are Rhaenyra’s sons, without question. That is all that matters.” You lifted a hand to grip his chin, forcing him to look straight at you. “If you have but a shred of affection for me… you will stop this relentless fighting. Do it for me, Aemond. It pains me that the most important people in my life are constantly at odds with one another.”

A beat of silence stretched thin between you. He dipped his head once more.

“Yes, my love,” he whispered, leaning forward until his nose was slotted against yours. “For you.”

For that moment, you let yourself believe him. And you allowed yourself to love him, unconditionally and without restraint—for it was only you and him in your chambers, and no other was there to waver your opinion.

You released your hold on his chin to wind your arms around his neck instead, tugging him close and melding his lips over yours. A soft sigh fell from your lungs. He tasted of fresh fruit and earthy smoke, something you wished to drown yourself into. 

You began blindly walking in the general direction of your bed with Aemond’s guidance, falling against the feather-stuffed mattress once it hit the back of your knees. The entire time, you refused to separate from his kiss, willing to suffocate from lack of air if it meant you got to continue kissing him.

It briefly occurred to you how improper this was—you were not yet married to Aemond, after all. But you couldn’t find it within yourself to care, and neither did Aemond. He wanted you now—and judging by the look in your eye, he knew you craved him equally so.

He began reaching behind you, unlacing your dress and yanking the dark green fabric off your shoulders, shoving it down your chest and abdomen and hips, kicking the nuisance material away once it bunched to the bottom of your legs. As he began to expertly undo your shift beneath it, you hurriedly tugged his tunic off, a button ripping loose in your haste. Aemond could only smile at your desperation. You swallowed heavily upon seeing his toned chest, seasoned with training.

“It is a shame,” he gruffed once he finally got your thin shift off, admiring you in all of your nude glory, shamelessly allowing his eyes to roam over your breasts and arched back. “The dress looks so much prettier on your floor.”

You groaned at his words, yanking him back down to meet him for another kiss. It grew more frantic as more time lapsed—all tongue and teeth and bites and moans. A throbbing ache flowered between your legs—not a foreign sensation, but certainly the first time it was to be vanquished by something other than your own hand.

“Aemond, please,” you pleaded, unsure of what you were asking for. “I need you, please.”

“My sweet betrothed,” said the Prince, hands wandering up and down your sides, occasionally moving to squeeze your breasts and pinch your stiffened nipples, before moving further down, purposefully avoiding the sensitive parts between your thighs. “I’ll give you everything.”

With one final kiss to your lips, Aemond shifted himself further down your body, trailing his hot tongue along your skin in his wake. He met your gaze once he gently pried your legs open, his pretty hands gripping your thighs tightly. 

The sight he was met with made his cock twitch angrily within his briefs. Your cunt was drenched and glistening with your arousal—and it was all for him. A greedy sense of possessiveness consumed him whole. You were his, and his alone.

He blew a stream of cold air right against your clit, which made you suck in a sharp breath, unconsciously bucking your hips closer to his face in a desperate seek for relief.

A pleasured cry—verging on a sob—tumbled from your lungs when Aemond surged forward, lips wrapping around your sensitive button, his tongue curling in the most devilish of ways over the bundle of nerves. Wailing his name, you fisted the sheets beneath you, unsure of what to do with yourself. Aemond just about moaned into you, one hand letting go of your thigh to prod your slick hole, slowly pushing in two fingers.

“Oh, please—Aemond!” you groaned, simultaneously trying to pull away from his touch and pushing yourself closer to his face. 

“My good girl,” he praised, the vibrations of his words against your cunt making you keen with undulated pleasure, as he began pumping his fingers in and out of you. “You taste heavenly, jorrāelagon.”

A gasp hitched within your throat once Aemond yanked your hips closer, practically burying himself within your thighs. 

“Aemond, my darling,” you sobbed, one hand falling into his hair, tugging at the long, pale strands, and the other squeezing your breast. “I’m going to…”

“Cum for me,” your betrothed said, unrelenting as he circled his wicked tongue along your clit.

And who were you to disobey the Prince?

With a breathy shout, you were pushed over the edge, clenching viciously around his still-thrusting fingers. Your orgasm slammed into you like a tidal wave, leaving you winded with green stars dancing about your vision. 

“That’s it,” murmured Aemond, gently pulling away once you came down from your high, the lower half of his face gleaming with your arousal. He crawled back up your form, shirking his trousers off, leaving him just as nude as you, save for his leather eyepatch still fixed over his scar. His cock—long and hard and angrily weeping with pearly beads of precum, slapped against his lower abdomen.

You pulled him down again, kissing him with wild abandon, sighing when you realized that you were tasting yourself on his tongue.

He flinched away when your fingers brushed against his eyepatch. Despite this, you reached out once more to pull it off, your touch ever so gentle—and this time, he let you. You whispered that he was beautiful as your lips grazed against the marred skin of his cheek. Aemond didn’t believe you, but he let you say it nonetheless.

He was a monster—and no amount of sweet talk would be able to change his mind from such a cemented fact. Not even from you, whose opinion he valued the most in the world.

“I love you,” he whispered, nose brushing down your jaw, still appreciative of your efforts nonetheless. “You are my everything. My heart, my soul, my life. I only wish for nothing but your happiness.”

You wrapped your legs around him, his throbbing cock pressed right against your fluttering cunt, clenching around nothing in anticipation. Lowering your voice to a whisper, you gently bit at the outer shell of his ear. “And I love you, my darling Aemond. All I wish for right now… is your cock inside me.”

Your lewd words made his length throb impossibly harder. “Your wish is my command,” he softly replied.

And with that, he eased himself inside of you. Your warm, pulsating cunt was gripping him like a vice, a shuddering groan choked out from his lungs. You mirrored his reaction, squeezing your eyes shut and holding onto him for dear life as he began to rock into you. 

With each snap of his hips into yours, you found yourself murmuring his name like a mantra, pressing sloppy kisses to his bare shoulder. One particularly hard thrust had you scratching angry red lines down the expanse of his back. Aemond didn’t seem to mind—in fact, this only seemed to spur him on further, as he growled an obscenity, grabbing your ankle to throw over his shoulder and slamming his length back into you with no abandon.

Your eyes rolled in the back of your head once he snaked one of hands down to thumb at your clit, eliciting a lewd moan from your kiss-swollen lips.

“So good, Aemond,” you cried, cunt spasming around his cock once the beginnings of your second orgasm began creeping up on you. “Cum inside… oh—make me yours, darling, please!”

A near animalistic noise tore through Aemond’s chest and he began to pound his cock deeper into you, the thought of you growing round with his child filling his thoughts as he desperately sought his own release. You tightened around him one last time when your orgasm surged forth, so hard that it had Aemond’s quick rhythm faltering. With a broken groan and a mutter of your name, he spilled his seed into you, thick spurts of white coating your slick walls.

A content hum danced between you once you kissed him again, easing into a wince when he slowly pulled out of your overstimulated cunt. He drew back to watch his seed drip out of you, hot and thick and so very arousing, it nearly made his cock hard all over again.

“You did so well for me,” Aemond murmured into your sweaty skin, freckling kisses over the bridge of your nose and over your eyelids, hooded with exhaust. “Are you alright?”

“Quite,” you replied, smiling at him kindly. “I suppose Aegon was right. I certainly am in good hands.”

The Prince hung his head, shaking it fondly, mildly embarrassed by your praise. “Do not speak of my brother while we are in bed, dear betrothed. It is unseemly,” he said, though his words lacked any true bite.

“Forgive me, Aemond. I seem to forget my manners when I am with you,” you said, a laugh dancing alongside your words. “You make for a grand distraction.”

“Mmh, do I, now? I am glad to be of service.” Your betrothed gathered you in his arms, easing you down amongst your pillows and brushing away loose strands of hair that stuck to your damp skin. “Rest, my love.”

You let yourself acquiesce to his words, sinking into the comfort of your bed. 

“Stay,” you whispered sleepily, pressing a light kiss to the back of his palm. “Stay with me.”

And Aemond did so, with little protest. His eye was soft and his touch was loving as he laid down beside you, holding you close to his chest, nose buried within your hair.

You fell asleep hopeful that night. Hopeful that your soon-to-be husband loved you more than he hated your nephews. Hopeful that perhaps marrying Aemond was the best thing for you. Hopeful that things would be alright, eventually.

Hopeful that a war was not on the horizon.

There was a cold stillness to the air the next day. Jace and Luke left early in the morning back to Dragonstone before the sun had a chance to rise, with solemn goodbyes and grim faces. You knew not when you were going to see them again.

It weighed heavy on your shoulders as you sat beside Helaena, sharpening one of your daggers with a small whetstone. There was a certain uncomfortable feeling twisting about your stomach—but you couldn’t quite tell what was wrong.

You had tried distracting yourself by playing with the twins, gifting them new wooden dragons you had bought from a carver in town, but it was not enough to take your mind off of the unsettled feeling within you. When the twins hadn’t worked, you thought about Aemond, and the time you shared last night… along with the early morning following, with his touch sweltering and his voice gruff from slumber.

It still didn’t work. Perhaps you were just having an off day.

“It is our fate, I think, to crave always what is given to another,” said Helaena, working on her embroidery of a spindly black spider with a red abdomen, seeming impervious to your nervous state. “If one possesses a thing, the other will take it away.”

“Balancing the scales,” you murmured. The princess hummed in agreement. 

All of a sudden, Alicent burst into the room, strides quick and fists clenched into the fabric of her emerald-hued dress. Otto was hot on her heels, though his expression did not betray nearly as much as that of his daughter’s. 

“Where is Aegon?” she asked, eyes wild. 

The two of you exchanged worried, yet curious glances. Lifting her shoulders, Helaena stoically replied, “Not here.”

“He’s not in his room?” clarified Otto, as if angry at the two of you for not having kept an eye on the Prince.

You had to fight the scowl threatening to make an appearance across your face. Helaena dipped her head to avoid eye contact with her grandfather, but you held his gaze with a squared jaw. 

Gnashing his teeth together, Otto turned on his heel and marched right out of the room. 

“Father—” Alicent said, but he was already long gone.

The Queen glanced at the twins—Jaehaerys, babbling his father’s name and clapping his hands together, whilst Jaehaera only tightened her small grip around the wooden dragon you gave her. 

“What has happened?” whispered Helaena, addressing her mother directly, something she sparsely ever did.

A morose expression folded over her features. Alicent sat beside Helaena, a film of tears misting over her eyes.

“Your father…”

Helaena’s usually calm features twisted into one of anger. Viserys was hardly a father to her. “There is a beast beneath the boards,” she hissed, repeating her whispered words from yesterday’s dinner. 

Alicent’s conflicted eyes searched her daughter’s distraught form. “Oh, my dearest love…” She reached out to hold Helaena, but the Princess frantically flinched closer to you, smacking the Queen’s palms away.

“No, no,” she whispered, crossing her arms across her chest, as if to shield herself from her mother. 

Crestfallen, the Queen shifted her stare onto you, her fists clenching even harder around her dress. It did not escape your notice when her pupils darted down to glance at the freshly-sharpened dagger in your lap.

“What has happened to the King, Your Grace?” you asked, tone cautious and wary not to overstep any bounds.

Before she could reply, Aemond stepped from the shadows out of seemingly nowhere, a jaded, nearly haunted look of realization befalling his features.

The King was dead.

Aemond’s hand tightly clasped yours as you sat in front of the crackling fire pit. The dagger you had sharpened was clutched in your other palm, having not left your side for even a second. These were dangerous times—the scales had never been this lopsided before.

Alicent paced in front of the chairs a few feet away, murmuring incoherently under her breath at the puzzling disappearance of her eldest son.

Not too long after, Ser Criston Cole made his way into the chambers, shutting the door behind him. “Prince Aegon is not to be found within the castle walls, Your Grace. Your father has sent Ser Erryk into the city to find him.”

The Queen hung her head. “Ser Erryk knows Aegon… he has the advantage.”

Both your and Aemond’s heads turned at her words. There were treasonous schemes brewing within the Keep, that was made abundantly clear. If Alicent was not the one who sent Erryk after Aegon… it must’ve been Otto Hightower. Known to show little remorse, you could only guess that the Hand wanted his own grandson on the Iron Throne rather than Princess Rhaenyra. A sinking feeling twisted your guts upon realizing that he not only intended to usurp Rhaenyra with Aegon, but to be rid of her entirely, knowing full and well the Princess would never bend the knee to her younger brother. 

Criston glanced at you with an obvious disdainful suspicion painted crystal clear over his face. For once, however, you were on Alicent’s side on finding Aegon before Ser Erryk did. You would rather Aegon be crowned King than Rhaenyra be executed.

“I trust again to you, Ser Criston, and to your loyalty. Aegon must be found, and he must be brought to me. The very fate of the Seven Kingdoms depends on it.” She stepped closer to the knight, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Everything you feel for me… as your Queen.” 

The Dornish man bowed his head. “I will not fail you.”

Surprising you, Aemond declared, “We shall come with you.”

Head snapping towards the two of you, Alicent strode away from Criston to her son. Aemond’s hand fell away from yours to hold his mother’s forearms in a placating fashion. 

“That would not be my desire, Aemond. If anything has happened—”

“Cole needs us, Mother. Ser Erryk isn’t the only one who knows Aegon’s doings. Y/N has spent many a night prowling the streets outside the Keep. She knows much about the nooks and crannies Aegon might be hiding within.”

It was no secret that you often used to sneak out of the castle during your childhood, eager to see King’s Landing outside of the Red Keep. The habit continued on during your teenage years, where you would often explore trade markets and smithies. By now, you knew the town as if it were the back of your hand. 

Though reluctant, Criston bobbed his head in agreement. A quiet sigh slipped past Alicent’s lips, and she let go of her son. You brushed past her, following after your betrothed straight out the door.

You may have hated Aegon, but you’d do anything to keep him away from Otto and his treasonous hands. 

As Helaena had mystically informed you yesterday—a storm was on the horizon. A dance of dragons.

“Aegon brought me to the Street of Silk on my thirteenth name day,” said the Prince, dark grey cowl pulled over his long, silver hair. You and Criston both had matching cloaks draped over your shoulders. The cobbled steps of King’s Landing were uneven and often damp with an unknown substance. People milled about, chattering loudly and without care. None of them had a clue that war was upon them. “It was his duty as my brother, he said, to ensure I was as educated as he was. At least that’s what I understood him to mean.”

“How pleasant,” you replied, voice dripping with contempt for his older brother, and your soon to be brother-in-law.

“I don’t follow,” Criston said, brows furrowing.

The Prince leaned forward. “He said, time to get it wet.”

Criston recoiled ever so slightly in disgust. “Every woman is an image of the Mother, to be spoken of with reverence.”

You scoffed at that, rolling your eyes to the side. 

Humming, Aemond tilted his head. “He paid half a dozen whores and thrust them upon me, then left the room. Two of the girls there were younger than I, barely ten years of age and trembling like leaves… never before had I been more revolted by my brother. I crawled out of the window and ran back to the Keep.”

You glanced appreciatively to your betrothed, finding yourself once again glad that it was him you were to be married to. 

Leading the two men in front of a wooden door, you gestured for them to knock, stepping back to give them space. It was a pleasure house—one of the most popular in all of King’s Landing. Aemond’s single eye roamed the building, a spark of recognition dancing within the mauve of his iris. This was where Aegon had taken him all those years ago.

The door creaked open, revealing a woman draped in a sheer assortment of yellow silks and dozens upon dozens of golden jewelry littered across her skin. She narrowed her kohl-lined eyes at Ser Criston, glancing at you and Aemond right behind him.

“Sometime last night, we… misplaced our drinking companion,” said the knight. “Knowing that he has been, in the past, a patron of your fine establishment, we thought to inquire here as to his whereabouts.”

“Describe him,” replied the woman, bracelets clinking loudly against one another with every small movement. 

Cole shifted his weight from foot to foot, before quieting his voice to a mere whisper, nearly lost to the crowd. “That is… a delicate matter. You see, the man we seek is the young Prince Aegon. I may trust, I hope, in the discretion of your trade.”

The woman let out an amused chuckle. “The Prince is not here,” she told him. 

“Has he been here as of late?” you asked.

Curious, she laid her eyes upon you, roaming over your cloaked form. “Not as of late. Years ago, yes.”

“But more recently?” pressed Criston.

She shook her head. “He does not frequent the Street of Silk any longer. His tastes are known to be… less discriminating.”

“Meaning what?” Criston queried.

The woman smiled, wisely keeping her cards close to her chest. “I wish you luck, good Ser. And my best to your friend.” She swiveled her intense gaze to Aemond, who had bowed his head. “How you’ve grown,” she told him.

Aemond’s jaw clenched. With a hum, he took your hand, and began leading you away from the whorehouse, Criston in tow.

“It seems you were mistaken to Aegon’s habits,” said the knight. 

“He could be in the hands of mercenaries, on a ship to Yi Ti. He could be dead, for all we know,” Aemond replied, nonchalantly speaking of his brother’s death as if he were discussing tomorrow’s dinner. 

You allowed a hollow, humorless laugh to bubble within your throat. “It would be a cause for celebration, would it not?”

Criston sent you a sharp glare. “Let us hope, for your Queen mother’s sake, that is not the case.”

On you strode, twisting and turning through the narrow streets. The further into King’s Landing you walked, the dirtier the roads became, and the more poor, homeless folk were seen scrounging through trash for food and drinking out of barrels of muddy water. The air was humid and stank of rotten flesh. 

“Here I am, trawling the city, ever the good soldier in search of a wastrel who’s never taken half an interest in his birthright,” spat Aemond, growing frustrated at the fruitless search for his wretched brother. “‘Tis I, the younger brother who studies history and philosophy, it is I who trains with the sword, and I who rides the largest dragon in the world. It is I who should be…”

Aemond bit down on the inside of his cheek, effectively stopping himself from continuing his sentence. 

It upset you that he was behaving this way—just yesterday he had whispered his promise into your ear that he would halt his treacherous tongue. Had his words meant nothing to him? The death of his father had surely spun his mind into one of frantic chaos, despite his calm outer demeanor.

Pursing your lips, you could only gently reply, “There is no doubt that you are the better brother, Aemond. It does not deter the fact that we have to find him—lest your half-sister, Princess Rhaenyra, be murdered by his command under the influence of the Hand.” 

Your betrothed parted his lips, as if he wanted to say something, but wisely kept his thoughts to himself. 

“I know what it is to toil for what others are freely given,” Criston told Aemond, stepping closer to the younger man.

Aemond quietly grunted in frustration. “We can’t find him, Cole. You are a decent man with no taste for depravity. His secrets are his own, and he’s welcome to them. I’m next in line to the throne—should they come looking for me… I intend to be found.”

Your lips trembled as you staved away the burning within your nose, threatening tears pricking the corners of your eyes. It seemed that Aemond was truly far gone in his thirst for revenge, for power—you were a fool to believe his promise, even for a short second. 

It was growing more and more dangerous for you to stay in King’s Landing, surrounded by venomous Greens. You had to hold your Black-biased tongue, for it could now result in treason of the highest orders, and, consequently, your death. You were to pose as a Green now, for the sake of your own safety.

Helaena’s words from all those years ago rang in your head. “They are to trick the larger animals into thinking they are eyes. It is a defense tactic. The butterfly is not who the rest thinks she is.” Masters of trickery—beautiful and deceitful, both equally true.

The Prince could feel the slightest of regrets once you pulled away from him, surging several feet ahead with angry steps. Your loyalty to Rhaenyra and her sons knew no bounds, and Aemond was well aware that if it came down to it, you would've chosen them over him. He loved you, truly, more than anything in the world—but his deep-rooted hatred for the Blacks had festered strong for the majority of his life. That was something that not even you could remedy, no matter how much you tried.

It was by pure luck the three of you happened upon Sers Erryk and Arryk, along with Otto Hightower, speaking to the infamous White Worm by a spice market. You followed the twins in front of a great Sept—where Mysaria had hidden away Aegon for safekeeping. 

Not five minutes later, a familiar voice began shouting out obscenities and colorful curses to his captor, Ser Arryk. Criston brandished his sword, and you unsheathed your dagger beneath the protection of your cloak.

“I do regret this, friend,” said Cole, blocking their path. 

Seeing this as a chance to flee, Aegon kicked at Arryk’s foot and sprinted away, down the Sept’s wide stairwell. Criston engaged Arryk in combat while you and Aemond darted away to chase after Aegon.

Quick on your feet, you were the first to tackle Aegon to the ground, shoving the Prince’s face into the uneven stone of the ground. He choked out a yell, flailing about beneath you like a fish out of water. 

“No! Stop, you wretched woman! Stop!” he cried once you grabbed his arm to yank him up. Aemond came to the other side of his brother, helping you drag him up. The older Prince began to laugh maniacally when he punched you across the face, sending you reeling back with stars dancing about your vision.

A growl caught in Aemond’s throat and he grabbed at the lapels of his brother’s tunic, hauling him closer. “I was hoping you disappeared,” he said, voice dripping with venom.

Purple eyes gleaming, Aegon asked, “Is our father truly dead?”

“Yes,” replied Aemond, “and they’re going to make you King.”

A sick feeling twisted within your stomach. 

Equally angry at his brother’s words, Aegon spat a thick glob of saliva right into Aemond’s only eye, trying his best to escape the two of you, to no avail.

“Let me go!” he screamed when the both of you grabbed his arms. “Let me go! Brother! I have no wish to rule! No taste for duty—I’m not suited!”

Aemond barked out a dry laugh. “You’ll get no argument from me.”

With surprising strength, Aegon shoved you away, gripping his brother’s face in his filthy hands. “You let me go—and I will find a ship and sail away.”

His proposal was most certainly a tempting one—even Aemond had given pause to his words, freezing in place. If Aegon were to be presumed dead… he would be crowned King, and you would be his Queen.

“The Queen awaits,” said Criston, pulling Aegon away from Aemond, having bested Ser Arryk in combat. 

You let out a soft sigh of relief. At least, with Aegon by his mother’s side, there was no way he would order the execution of Rhaenyra. The battle has been won, but the war was still lost. 

Aegon was still to be crowned King.

Once you returned to the Keep, you had locked yourself in your chambers, refusing supper. You had little appetite, and hadn’t the heart to face any of the Greens. Aemond had stopped by to check on you, knocking on your door.

You opened it reluctantly, face streaked with reflective tear tracks and eyes red-rimmed. 

“Aemond, my love,” you whispered, allowing him to step into your chambers. “I fear I am no longer safe in King’s Landing.”

It broke your heart when your betrothed had no words of comfort to spare you—for you were right to worry. As a supporter of Rhaenyra, you weren’t safe here. 

The Prince remained silent, cupping your cheeks in his hands, and pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

And though the two of you were enemies on rival sides of the war—you still loved him for the man underneath all that. And Aemond would never stop loving you, no matter how much he hated his nephews, and his half-sister.

For just a couple hours, the two of you allowed yourselves to be free of thought. No Blacks and Greens, no Princes and Ladies, no violence and hatred. 

Only you and him.

The butterfly and the dragon.

Aegon’s crowning was witnessed by thousands, if not hundreds of thousands of people. You were forced into a bright green dress by Alicent’s ladies-in-waiting, your hair done up and silver jewelry pinned around your neck, and to your ears. You stood beside Aemond, playing your role as the faithful wife-to-be. On your other side was Helaena, in a dress of sweet blue, and her watering eyes trained to the ground. In front of you was Alicent, in a dark dress of viridescent hue, a golden seven-pointed star resting on her chest, her face grim.

“People of King’s Landing!” announced Otto Hightower. “Today is the saddest of days. Our beloved King, Viserys the Peaceful… is dead.”

The crowd murmured in surprise upon the announcement.

“But it is also the most joyous of days! For as his spirit left us, he whispered his final wish: that his firstborn son, Aegon, should succeed him.”

Shock spread across the audience. After a few moments, they began to cheer and clap. Your insides roiled with disgust at their blatant disregard for Princess—now rightfully Queen Rhaenyra.

Not too long after, trumpets were sounding, and Aegon began walking down a pathway cleared for him by Goldcloaks. His silver-white hair shone, standing out starkly from the crowd. His expression was stony, and the corners of his eyes were red with unshed tears.

“It is your good fortune and privilege to be here to witness this! A new day for this city—a new day for our realm! A new King to lead us!” announced Otto.

Queen Alicent pressed a kiss to her eldest child’s head and led him forward to the Septon. Aegon knelt down before him. Helaena stared at her brother-husband, purple eyes misting over.

“May the Warrior give him courage. May the Smith lend strength to his sword and shield. May the Father defend him in his need. May the Crone lift her shining lamp and light his way to wisdom.” With each sentence, the Septon dipped his thumb in blessed water and dragged the finger across Aegon’s brow.

The crown was then given to Ser Criston Cole, to place upon Aegon’s head.

“The crown of the Conqueror, passed down through generations,” he proclaimed, resting the heavy silver ring against Aegon’s silver locks. “Let the Seven bear witness: Aegon Targaryen is the true heir to the Iron Throne.”

Aegon rose to his feet. Criston and Alicent bowed their heads before their new King. Helaena set her jaw, looking none too pleased that her monster of a husband was now the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, but bowed slightly nonetheless. You were next, dipping your head ever so slightly—a deceitful butterfly. 

“All hail his Grace, Aegon, Second of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm!” said the Septon.

“Aegon the King!” bellowed Criston.

The crowd burst into raucous applause.

The newly crowned Targaryen let his eyes roam over the audience. They were all cheering… for him. All his life he’d been searching for praise, for validation, and now they were all giving to him on a silver platter. 

“Aegon the King!” they all screamed. “Long live Aegon!”

He unsheathed his Valyrian steel longsword, Blackfyre, and held it up with a victorious smile. The crowd cheered loudly with every thrust of his sword into the air, and he spread his arms out, feeling powerful for once in his life. A ghost of a smile crossed Alicent’s lips. Helaena shut her eyes tightly.

A beast beneath the boards.

The ground shook as the stone of the floor gave way. Plumes of dust and smoke filled the air. Screams of terror erupted from the throng of common folk and they scattered every which way.

The shrill roar of a dragon echoed loud and true. It was Meleys, the Red Queen of dragons, her scarlet scales rippling with each movement, having burst out from the Dragonpit below. Dozens of onlookers were trampled beneath her large copper-hued claws as she snarled out an ear-splitting screech. 

Out of pure instinct, Aemond had grabbed your arm, pushing you behind him protectively, placing himself in between you and the large dragon. You gripped his shoulder tightly.

Once the smoke and debris had vaguely settled, you could start to make out her rider—Rhaenys Targaryen. The Queen who never was.

Alicent grabbed her eldest son, standing in front of him, terror painted across her features. She shoved Criston towards Helaena, ordering him to protect her.

The large dragon growled as she prowled closer to the royal family—smoke falling from behind her bared teeth and golden eyes blazing. Rhaenys watched you from above, eyes narrowed. For a moment, she caught your stare, bowing her head ever so slightly in your direction. 

It was as if she were offering you a way out. She was well aware of your strong allegiance to Rhaenyra, and your fondness for her granddaughters’ betrotheds.

You glanced at Helaena, then to Aemond, and swallowed the lump in your throat. How could you find it in yourself to leave them both?

The Princess met your eyes, her purple ones softening ever so slightly. “Go,” she mouthed silently, nodding once. Tears blurred your gaze.

Ever so slow and trembling slightly, you stepped out from behind Aemond, much to the rest of the family’s shock. Aemond held onto your wrist, unwilling to let you go—how could he? How could he let go of you, the person he was meant to marry? The woman he loved with the entirety of his being? 

You turned to your betrothed just as a hot tear slipped down your cheek.

“Goodbye, my love,” you murmured, voice cracking with emotion as your free hand lifted to cradle his cheek. You surged forward to kiss him, one last time, uncaring of the onlookers. It was quick and chaste and you could only wish for it to last longer. Raw despair and anguish and muted fury flickered across his pale visage all at once. “Let me go, Aemond. I love you, darling, please, let me go.”

Not so long ago, you were begging him to stay. And now you were asking him to let you go.

You were the only thing he had left to himself—for everything else in his life was not truly his. The two of you belonged to each other, Aemond knew this to be true… and yet you were still leaving. He refused to cry, but could feel his throat burning with restraint. If he didn’t let you go, he feared the dragon would burn his entire family alive. His wretched brother, he would’ve been alright with, but his sweet sister and mother deserved a better fate. Aemond set his jaw, and loosened his grip on you.

You rotated away just as the second tear fell, and strode towards the terrifying creature that was Meleys. The rest of the Greens remained rooted in their spots, deathly afraid of the beast in front of them. She lowered herself for you to climb on behind Rhaenys—your green dress ripped loudly in your haste. The dragon’s scales were warm, nearly burning to the touch.

Alicent shut her eyes, accepting what she thought to be her fiery death.

No dracarys ever came.

Instead, the dragon only planted her feet and bellowed out another loud, ear-splitting shriek—a warning of sorts. 

With that, Rhaenys urged her dragon to turn and fly over the terrified citizens, away from King’s Landing. Cold wind blew against your face, drying your tears, and undid the intricate hairstyle your ladies-in-waiting had worked so hard on. The two of you were going to Dragonstone, where Rhaenys was to inform Princess Rhaenyra that her father passed away and her half-brother had just been crowned King. 

A clashing symphony of sorrow and relief buried deep within your chest.

You craned your head back as Meleys soared away, hoping to look upon Aemond and Helaena one last time—but they were too small to see, growing into blurred figures in the distance.

Lucerys could not take his eyes off of the map of Westeros, intricately carved into stone. His hand reached out to graze over that of Driftmark—which was to be his, when Lord Corlys Velaryon passed away. It felt as if there was a heavy stone sinking within his stomach.

“There you are,” said his mother, which made Luke’s gaze snap upwards.

Rhaenyra strode towards her son, both her hands rested on her pregnant belly.

“The Sea Snake is going to die, isn’t he?” asked Luke.

Shocked at his sudden words, Rhaenyra began to say, “Luke—”

“I can’t be Lord of the Tides! Grandsire was the greatest sailor who ever lived. I get greensick before the ship even leaves the harbor! I’ll just ruin everything, mother. I don’t want Driftmark. It should’ve passed on to Ser Vaemond,” the young boy said, brows furrowed.

Rhaenyra shook her head, long silver hair swaying over her shoulder. “We don’t choose our destiny, Luke. It chooses us.”

“Grandsire let you choose whether you’d be his heir. You told us so, Mother. Grant me the same mercy—I do not want Driftmark.”

Her features softened, understanding her son’s turmoil. 

“Do you want to know the truth of it?” she asked, voice quieter. “I was frightened. I was four-and-ten… same as you are now. I wasn’t ready to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms—but it was my duty nonetheless. And, in time, I came to understand I had to earn my inheritance.”

Luke swallowed the lump in his throat, casting his gaze to the side. “I’m not like you,” he murmured.

His mother tilted her head. “In what way, sweet boy?”

“I’m not so… perfect.” 

Rhaenyra could only smile at that, stepping closer to her second son and cupping his face, kissing the skin right beside his dark brown eyes. “I am anything but,” she whispered. “My father looked after me and helped to prepare me for my duties. Your mother will do the same for you.”

A small, accepting smile danced over Lucerys’ expression. He nodded, before noticing the guard approaching the two of them from behind.

“Good morrow, Princess,” said the guard, making his mother turn to face him. “Princess Rhaenys has just arrived on dragonback, with Lady Y/N Strong accompanying her. She urgently requests an audience with you and Prince Daemon.”

Shock flashed across Luke and Rhaenyra’s features. They hadn’t received any news of either of your plans to visit. Though he had just seen you a few days ago, Luke was excited to see you once again—you had never been to Dragonstone before.

“She urgently requests an audience with you and Prince Daemon,” the guard added. 

Luke’s shoulders slumped. It seemed he’d have to wait a bit longer before he could greet you.

Your legs were sore from the long ride, and wobbled as you began walking into the large castle, hot on Rhaenys’ heels. It was not long until the guards led you into a large, expansive room, where Rhaenyra and Daemon awaited the two of you.

“Princess Rhaenys. Might we hope for news of Lord Corlys’ recovery?” she acknowledged as soon as she spotted the older woman, with not a clue about her father’s passing. Her purple eyes lit up when she saw you, but her expression quickly melded into one of unfiltered concern. You were a mess—dress ripped, cheeks still-damp with tears, lips bleeding with how hard you’ve bitten them in the midst of your anxiety. “Y/N, sweet girl, what is the matter? Are you alright—?”

Princess Rhaenys’ sharp words cut Rhaenyra off, loud and echoing. “Viserys is dead.”

There was a long moment of silence.

Daemon turned upon the unexpected news, eyes wide.

“I grieve this loss with you, Rhaenyra. My cousin… your father, possessed a kind heart.”

Rhaenyra’s expression faltered.

“There is more,” continued Rhaenys. “Aegon has been crowned as his successor.”

A sudden jolt of pain struck within Rhaenyra’s belly. “They crowned him?” she murmured, eyes darting between you and Rhaenys in disbelief. The green dress you were wearing finally made sense.

“How did Viserys die?” asked Daemon, heartbroken over his lost brother.

“I could not say,” said Rhaenys. You remained silent, hands clenching and unclenching into fists.

Pain lacing her tone, Rhaenyra asked, “How long ago?”

“A day ago, perhaps two,” said the older woman. “I was made a prisoner in my quarters while the Queen made her preparations. Y/N tracked down Aegon in an effort to keep him away from Otto Hightower, so as to not order your execution.”

If it were under any other circumstance, Rhaenyra would have smiled at you gratefully. But she couldn’t, doubling over in agony as more rivulets of pain struck her stomach.

“Viserys has been slain,” said Daemon, anger rising within his voice. 

Affronted, Rhaenyra spat out, “Alicent demanded you declare for Aegon?”

“She did. I refused her,” replied Rhaenys.

“And yet you are still alive,” hissed Daemon, gaze suspicious and sharp.

Rhaenys cocked her head. “The High Septon crowned Aegon in the Dragonpit. I witnessed it myself just before I fled on Meleys.”

For the first time you arrived, you spoke, voice hoarse. “There were thousands of people there, all bearing witness to Aegon’s coronation.”

“They crowned him before the masses,” Rhaenyra said, horrified at the news.

Rhaenys nodded. “They will see him as their rightful king.” 

Accusingly, Daemon gritted out, “That whore of a Queen murdered my brother and stole his throne and you could have burned them all for it.”

Rhaenys stood her ground, remaining endlessly calm and patient. “A war is likely to be fought over this treachery—but that war is not mine to begin. I only rushed this warning to you out of loyalty to my husband and to my house. The Greens are coming for you, Rhaenyra. And for your children. You should leave Dragonstone at once.”

Tears glossed over Rhaenyra’s eyes. She glanced at you, practically her daughter in every way but blood and name—aware that your life was in danger now that you had run away from the Greens. 

Another wave of pain. She cried out, hands splaying out over the table in front of her. With frantic motions, Rhaenyra reached under her dress.

Her hand came out from beneath the fabric bloody.

“The babe is coming.”

Rhaenyra had stripped down to her shift, walking around her chambers with her hands on her hips and breathing irregularly. She was sweating profusely, skin a blistering shade of red and silver hair sticking to her sticky flesh.

The midwives were all murmuring to themselves, unsure of what to do and how to help her, especially when Rhaenyra kept waving them away, telling them, “Just fuck off!”

Even the maester appeared worried, murmuring low beneath his breath to the eldest midwife, “Her term is far from complete… this should not be happening.”

Rhaenyra had stormed up to them, growling out behind gritted teeth, “It is fucking happening!” 

“Keep your head about you, Princess,” the midwife crooned. “We’ve done this five times before—just keep your spirit and the sixth will be no different.”

“Get off, get off, get off me!” Rhaenyra hissed, yanking herself away from the fussing midwives. “Ow, ow, oh…”

Salt pricked the corners of her eyes when she turned her head in a frustrated manner, gaze landing on you. You were in the corner of the room, having been the one who ushered her here, hands shaking and cheeks damp with a constant stream of worried tears. Your mother had died giving birth to you—and you couldn’t imagine what it would be like if Rhaenyra died in front of your eyes, as well.

“Sweet girl, darling, fetch me some water, please,” she gasped, breathless, reaching out to you with a wince. 

With a frantic nod, you scrambled to the bedside table to pour Rhaenyra a cold cup, rushing to the woman who had taken to leaning against a stone pillar, chest heaving. A cry left her throat as she felt another wave of pain overtake her body.

She collapsed into you as she screamed through the pain, and you braced yourself with her weight, clutching her close to your chest.

“Drink, Princess,” you urged her, holding the rim of the cup to her chapped lips. Rhaenyra tipped her head back and swallowed a few mouthfuls to quench her dry throat, nearly choking as agony struck her belly once more.

Ten minutes later, Jacaerys and Lucerys were summoned, descending down the stairs to their mother’s chambers with confused and concerned expressions.

“Mother?” asked Jace, mouth parting upon seeing you by Rhaenyra’s side. 

“Fuck!” groaned Rhaenyra, huffing out a warbling breath. She turned to look at her two boys, both their brows furrowed and worry splayed plainly over both their faces. “Your grandsire, King Viserys, has passed.” 

Both the boys straightened at the news, their eyes widening with shock.

“The Greens have repudiated the succession and claimed the Iron Throne. Aegon has been crowned King,” Rhaenyra said, through bouts of intense pain.

Jacaerys’ jaw set. “What is to be done about it?”

“Nothing yet,” she replied. 

“Where is Daemon?” asked her eldest son.

“I don’t know. Gone to madness—gone to plot his war,” she bit out, lips trembling.

Furious that his stepfather wasn’t by his mother’s side, Jacaerys turned and began striding back up the stairs. “Leave Daemon with me,” he said.

“Jace!” called Rhaenyra. “Jacaerys!”

Jace halted in his strides.

“Whatever claim remains to me, you are now its heir. Naught is to be done but by my command. Do you understand?”

The young man dipped his head in a nod, and he disappeared out of the room.

Her purple eyes landed on Luke, appearing frightened beyond belief. 

“Are you going to be alright, mother?” he whispered.

“Yes, sweet boy,” she replied, the lie falling off her tongue easy. “Go. You mustn’t see this.”

Hesitating once more, Luke caught your eye, and you gestured for him to leave, a reassuring warmth to your gaze. The boy scampered away, leaving you to Rhaenyra once more. 

As soon as her boys left, she bent at the waist and began screaming again, nails digging into her thighs. You were the only one she allowed close to her, barking at the midwives to stay away anytime one of them tried to get near her. But there was little you could do, and so you just pressed a cold, soaked cloth to her head, wiping away her sweat and drew her hair away from her face. 

The seconds blurred into minutes.

Blood stained her shift.

The minutes blurred into hours.

 “Get out, get out!” she screamed at the babe within her, voice breaking, teeth clenched so hard it was a wonder they didn’t crack beneath the pressure.

The hours blurred into half a day.

Her agonized yells rang so loud it echoed across the entirety of Dragonstone. After a long while of strenuous pushing, blood pooled out from beneath her shift—and a minute later, a sick squelch befell the chambers as the stillborn baby came out of her. Its small, undeveloped body fell to the stone floors.

The babe was a girl.

And she was silent. Unmoving.

The midwives all turned away with tears in their eyes. 

With tired, shaking, bloodied hands, Rhaenyra fell to her knees and picked up her baby, wrapping her shift around its tiny form. Red soaked through the fabric, drenching her skin, her hair, her face.

You wanted to cry some more—but you forced the burning urge away, steeling yourself to stay strong for Rhaenyra. And so you sat beside her, with a hand resting upon her shoulder, face stoically set.

The two of you stayed that way for the rest of the day, long after the sun had set, with Rhaenyra rocking her dead daughter in her arms and her other daughter dutifully by her side, swallowing down her tears.

Sparse few attended the funeral.

Visenya, the babe’s name was. Rhaenyra had whispered it to you right before she had gotten up to wrap up her daughter in linens for the burning.

It was a dreary event, the sky covered with grey clouds and the oceans quietly lapping at the shores of Dragonstone. You stood beside Luke, his hand held tightly within yours. Rhaenyra did not cry, for she had done so for hours on end and had no tears left to spare.

A familiar figure passing through the thin crowd made your brows raise in surprise.

“I mean no harm, brothers,” Ser Erryk Cargyll said when two guards drew their swords upon him. The man took off his helmet, kneeling down before Rhaenyra and Daemon. He then pulled out a golden crown from his satchel, presenting it to the two. “I swear to ward the Queen with all my strength and give my blood for hers. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall guard her secrets, obey her commands, ride at her side, and defend her name and honor.”

It was, by no means, a lavish coronation. After all, it was unexpected and sudden, and took place during the funeral of her stillborn daughter.

But it was better than any amount of gold could ever buy for Aegon.

Daemon took the crown from Erryk and placed it upon Rhaenyra’s head. He was the first to kneel. “My Queen.”

The rest of her people followed suit, bending the knee towards the true Queen.

“Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm,” announced Daemon, standing at the head of the stone-carved table of Westeros. “Your Grace.”

Rhaena Velaryon offered the Queen wine, and Rhaenyra graciously took the chalice, beckoning for her to come closer to the war table, along with her sister Baela.

You stood beside Jacaerys, staring at the glowing markers on the table, eyes fixed upon King’s Landing—where Helaena and her darling children were. Where Aemond was.

“What is our standing?” asked Rhaenyra.

Swiftly, Daemon replied, “We have thirty knights, a hundred crossbowmen, and three hundred men-at-arms. Dragonstone is relatively easy to defend, but as an instrument of conquest, our army leaves a lot to be desired. We have sent word to my loyal men in the City Watch—I’ll have some support there, but I cannot speak to the numbers.”

A maester chimed in, “We already have declarations from Celtigar and Staunton, along with Massey, Darklyn, and Bar Emmon.”

Rhaenyra nodded. “My lady mother was an Arryn. The Vale will not turn cloak against their own kin.”

“Riverrun was always a close friend to your father, Your Grace,” said the maester. “With Prince Daemon’s acquiescence, I’ve already sent ravens to Lord Grover.”

“Lord Grover is fickle and easily swayed,” Rhaenyra said. “He will need to be convinced of the strength of our position, and that we will support him, should it come to war.”

Seeing as Grover was the head of the overlord house of Harrenhal, you knew much about the man, and were also aware that he was not one to put trust in. Feeling the need to speak up, you cleared your throat. “If I may, Your Grace—Lord Grover is old and sickly. He is bedridden, and far too aged to act with haste. It would do us well to address his grandson and heir, Elmo Tully, instead. Ser Elmo is sensible and loyal to a fault. He would surely support your cause.”

A ghost of a proud smile traced Rhaenyra’s expression. “That would be wise, Lady Strong. Maester, see to it that you do as she says.”

“What of Storm’s End and Winterfell?” asked Ser Erryk.

“There has never lived a Stark who forgot an oath,” said the maester. “With House Stark, the entirety of the North will follow.”

Rhaenyra toyed with the ring about her finger. “We cannot speak to Storm’s End with surety—Lord Borros Baratheon will have to be reminded of his father’s promises first.”

Finally, the Queen turned to face Rhaenys. “What news from Driftmark?”

“Lord Corlys sails for Dragonstone,” said Rhaenys.

Still ever so suspicious of her, Daemon narrowed his eyes. “To declare for his Queen?”

Rhaenys did not wither beneath his glare. “The Velaryon fleet is in my husband’s yoke. He decides where they sail.”

“We shall pray for both you and your husband’s support, then,” said Rhaenyra, “just as we prayed nightly for the Sea Snake’s return to good health. There’s no port on the Narrow Sea that would dare to make an enemy of the Velaryon fleet. What of our enemies?”

Fingers flexing against the hilt of his sword, Daemon replied with a venomous tongue, “We have no friends amongst the Lannisters. Tyland has served Otto Hightower too long to turn against him… and he needs the Lannister fleet.”

“Without the Lannisters, we are not likely to find any allies west of the Golden Tooth,” said Rhaenyra.

Daemon huffed out a breath. “The Riverlands are essential, Your Grace.”

One of the lords began speaking from the other end of the table. “Pray forgive my bluntness, Your Grace, but talk of men is moot. Your cause owns a power that has not been seen in this world since the days of Old Valyria. Dragons.”

Rhaenyra’s mouth slackened. “The Greens have dragons as well—”

“They have three adults, by my count. We have Syrax, Caraxes, and Meleys. Your sons have Vermax, Arrax, and Tyraxes. Baela has Moondancer,” said Daemon, counting off on his fingers.

“Daemon, none of our dragons have been to war,” replied Rhaenyra, tone sharpening. 

Unrelenting, Daemon pressed on, “There are also unclaimed dragons. Seasmoke still resides on Driftmark. Vermithor and Silverwing dwell on the Dragonmont, still riderless. Then there are the three wild dragons, all of whom nest here.”

“And who is to ride them?” asked Rhaenyra, baffled. 

“It does not matter. A dragon needs no rider to be an asset. We have thirteen to their four. I have another score of eggs incubating in the Dragonmont. Now, we need a place to gather—a toehold large enough to house a sizable host.” Daemon stepped around the table to place a marker on the map. “Here, at Harrenhal. And Lady Strong is our key to that—she is its rightful heir, after her older brother Larys Strong—and he is not a favorable man. The people there are more likely to bend the knee if they know we have their Lady’s support. We’d cut off the west, surround King’s Landing with the dragons, and we could have every Green head mounted on spikes before the fucking moon turns.”

Surprise filled your expression at the mention of your hometown. Though you’d never been to Harrenhal, you knew Harwin and your father were well-liked. Perhaps they could be swayed in your favor instead of slimy old Larys, as well.

Before anyone could respond to Daemon’s hot tongue, a guard ran up to Rhaenyra. “Your Grace, a ship has been sighted offshore. A lone galleon, flying a banner of a three-headed green dragon.”

Your heart leapt to your throat. Could it possibly be Aemond?

“Alert the watchtowers. Sight the skies,” said Daemon, already making his way out of the room. 

Fully expecting to be sent to your private quarters, you were shocked when Rhaenyra laid a hand on your forearm. “Y/N, my sweet girl, you are of great value in this war. You are quick-witted in the political tongues of battle and a good fighter. You shall come with me.”

You blinked in surprise, before bowing your head. “Yes, My Queen.”

Otto Hightower was most certainly not a sight for sore eyes. His face was set in stone, powerful and commanding and pretentious all at once. This was the most power he’s held in his entire life, and he was relishing in it.

“I come at the behest of the Dowager Queen Alicent, mother of King Aegon, Second of his Name, Lord and Protector of the Seven Kingdoms,” he uttered, somehow managing to look down upon Daemon despite him being taller than Otto. “Where is the Princess?”

From the skies, Syrax’s roar rumbled the very clouds with its piercing volume. She descended upon the bridge you were standing on, yellow scales rippling as she lowered herself for Rhaenyra to climb down.

The knights Otto had come with cowered at the sight of the golden beast.

“Princess Rhaenyra,” Otto greeted, not even bothering to bow in the slightest.

“I’m Queen Rhaenyra now,” she coldly replied. “And you all are traitors to the realm.”

The older man narrowed his eyes. “King Aegon Targaryen, Second of his Name… in his wisdom and desire for peace, is offering terms.” After a beat of silence, Otto took it as his cue to continue talking, despite Daemon’s restless fiddling with his sword. “Acknowledge Aegon as King and swear obeisance before the Iron Throne. Return Lady Y/N Strong to her husband-to-be, the King’s younger brother, Aemond. In exchange, His Grace will confirm your possession of Dragonstone. It will pass to your trueborn son, Jacaerys, upon your death. Lucerys will be reaffirmed as the legitimate heir to Driftmark, and all the lands and holdings of House Velaryon. Your sons by Prince Daemon will also be given places of high honor at court—Aegon the Younger as the King’s squire, and Viserys as his cupbearer. Y/N will be treated well and married to Prince Aemond, after which she can choose to live with you on Dragonstone if she so pleases, until it is time for her to collect her inheritance of Harrenhal with Aemond. Finally, the King, in his good grace, will pardon any knight or lord who conspired against his ascent.”

Otto Hightower was a clever man, with a sharp tongue of persuasive influence. 

But Daemon saw right through him, scowling deeply. “I would rather feed my sons to the dragons than have them carry shields and cups for your drunken, usurper cunt of a King.”

“Aegon Targaryen sits the Iron Throne,” Otto reaffirmed. “He wears the Conqueror's crown, wields the Conqueror's sword, and has the Conqueror's name. He was anointed by a septon of the Faith before the eyes of thousands. Every symbol of legitimacy belongs to him. And then there is Stark, Tully, Baratheon—houses that have also received and are at present, considering generous terms from their King.”

Rhaenyra clasped her hands together. “Stark, Tully, and Baratheon all swore to me, when King Viserys named me his heir. Has that perhaps slipped from your mind, Lord Hightower?”

“Stale oaths will not put you on the Iron Throne, Princess,” reminded Otto. “The succession changed the day your father sired a son. I only regret that you and he were the last to see the truth of it.”

With deliberate steps forward, Rhaenyra marched towards Otto, grabbing the Hand of the King’s pin on the front of his coat, tossing it somewhere over the stone bridge. “You are no more Hand than Aegon is King. Fucking traitor.”

Otto seemed unmoved by this.

“Grand maester,” he said, holding out an awaiting hand.

“What the fuck is this?” Daemon muttered under his breath from beside you, fingers clenching and unclenching around the hilt of his sword.

The maester gave Otto a worn piece of paper—one that Rhaenyra seemed to recognize from her childhood growing up with Alicent.

“Queen Alicent has not forgotten the love you once had for each other,” he said. “No blood need be spilled, so the realm can carry on in peace. Queen Alicent eagerly awaits your answer.”

“She can have her answer now, stuffed in her father’s mouth, along with his withered cock!” spat Daemon. “Let’s end this mummer’s farce.”

With that, he drew his shield, prompting every knight present to also pull out their swords. You wrapped your hand around the hilt of your dagger, hidden within your cloak, but you made no move to unsheath it just yet.

“Ser Erryk, bring me Lord Hightower so I may take the pleasure myself,”  growled the white-haired Prince, ever the impulsive hothead. 

A tear slipped down Rhaenyra’s cheek as she stared down at the page. From behind Otto, Syrax gave an outraged growl upon seeing her rider upset.

“No,” Rhaenyra said, glancing back at her husband with a warning stare. Daemon put his sword down and hung his head with a sigh, deeply frustrated he was denied the pleasure of cutting off Otto’s head. “King’s Landing will have my answer on the morrow.” 

With that, Rhaenyra turned to leave. Daemon followed close behind.

“Lord Hightower,” you said, drawing his attention to you. “Tell Prince Aemond he is on the wrong end of the scales. Tell him I will be forced to balance them, whether or not he is on my side. He will understand what this means.”

With not another word further, you turned on your heel, striding away from the former Hand, hurrying to catch up to Rhaenyra.

The next morning was much busier than last night. More lords had keener insight to offer, and plans were starting to roll into place. 

“The Lord of the Tides,” announced Erryk Cargyll, “and his wife, the Princess Rhaenys Targaryen.”

You paused in your conversation with Jacaerys to watch the Velaryons descend the staircase. Baela came to Jacaerys’ side, the two of them nodding at each other stoutly. Rhaena strode over to Luke, a bright smile to her face, which was equally mirrored by the young boy.

Corlys’ cane echoed loudly as it stamped against the floor. There was a slight limp to his step, but there seemed to be nothing else dire in terms of his condition. 

“Lord Corlys,” greeted Rhaenyra. “It brings much relief to see you hale and healthy again.”

The Sea Snake leveled her with a calculating gaze. “I’m very sorry about your father, Princess. He was a good man.” He hobbled closer to the stone-carved map. “Your declared allies?” he asked, glancing at the markers strewn across the table.

“Yes,” Rhaenyra said.

“Too few to win a war for the throne,” surmised Corlys.

Rhaenyra hesitated, before saying, “Well, we would also hope to have the support of Houses Arryn, Baratheon, and Stark.”

“Hope is the fools’ ally,” the Sea Snake said.

The Queen drew herself to her full height. “Both Arryn and Baratheon share blood with my house. But all of them swore oaths to me.”

Corlys cocked his head. “As did House Hightower, if I can recall correctly.”

Tone sharp, Rhaenyra responded, “As did you, Lord Corlys.”

The Lord of the Tides found himself at an impasse for a reply. He glanced back at his grandchildren—Jace and Baela, along with Luke and Rhaena. 

“Your father’s realm was one of justice and honor,” said Corlys. “Our houses are bound by common blood and common cause. This Hightower treason cannot stand. You have the full support of our fleet and house, Your Grace.” He bowed his head low to his Queen.

Gratitude shone through Rhaenyra’s expression. “You honor me, Lord Corlys. Princess Rhaenys. But, as I said to my bannermen, I made a promise to my father to hold the realm strong and united. If war’s first stroke is to fall, it shall not be by my hand.”

Surprised, Corlys’ brows shot up. “You do not mean to act?”

“Taking caution does not mean standing fast,” said Rhaenyra. “I wish to know who my allies are before I send them to war.”

Allowing yourself to play the fool for once, hope clutched at your ribcage. Rhaenyra would make for a good Queen.

“The consequence of my near-demise in the Stepstones is that we now control them. I took care to fully garrison the territory, this time. A total blockade of the shipping lanes will be in place in days, if not already,” Corlys told Rhaenyra with a firm nod. “The triarchy has been routed. The Narrow Sea is ours. If we further seal the gullet, we can cut off all seaborne travel and trade to King’s Landing.”

Stepping forward, Rhaenys offered, “I shall take Meleys and patrol the Gullet myself.”

You studied the positions of the Blacks on the map before voicing your input, “With the Narrow Sea obstructed by the Velaryon fleet, King’s Landing can be easily surrounded, and a bloodless siege could be levied onto the Red Keep. It is a strong castle, but more than vulnerable, given the right number of knights and extensive knowledge of the inside. I know the castle like it’s the back of my hand—along with the secret tunnels to smuggle people in and out unseen. Once the Keep is impregnated, the Greens’ would be forced to surrender.”

Rhaenyra smiled at you, perhaps the first time she’s genuinely smiled since the death of her daughter. “If we are to have enough swords to surround King’s Landing, we must first secure the support of Winterfell, the Eyrie, and Storm’s End.”

The maester bowed his head. “I’ll prepare the ravens, Your Grace.”

From beside you, Jacaerys spoke, “We should bear those messages. Dragons can fly faster than ravens—and they’re more convincing. Send us.”

Corlys regarded his grandson with an impressed look. “The Prince is right, Your Grace.”

Rhaenyra nodded her head once after a moment of thought. “Very well. Prince Jacaerys will fly north—first to the Eyrie to see my mother’s cousin, Lady Jeyne Arryn, and then to Winterfell to treat with Lord Cregan Stark for the support of the North. Prince Lucerys will fly south to Storm’s End to treat with Lord Borros Baratheon. Lady Y/N will go with you, Luke. She is quick-of-tongue, has been trained in the art of combat, can bargain against Lord Borros’ temper if need be, and is around the same age as his four daughters. Hopefully that will make for some common interest.”

Surprise rippled around the room, but you determinedly bobbed your head once.

“I’ll do my best, Your Grace,” you said, earning you a warm dip of her head.

“We must remind these lords of the oaths they swore,” Rhaenyra proclaimed. “And… the cost of breaking them.”

The waters lapped voraciously against the tall, stony cliffs, the sea’s waves crashing loudly against them. You turned your gaze up to the sky, watching the dark, heavy clouds slowly shift with the whistling winds. 

There was a storm on the horizon.

And it’d be your second time mounting a dragon.

“It’s been said that as Targaryens, we are closer to gods than to men,” Rhaenyra said to her sons. “And the Iron Throne puts us a touch closer, perhaps. But, if we are to serve the Seven Kingdoms… we must answer to their gods. If you take this errand, you go as messengers—not as warriors.”

Luke sent a worried gaze to his brother and then to you. He was frightened and terribly nervous, of course he was—this was the first time he’s been sent off for something this high of importance—but he was immensely relieved that you were to go with him. He knew you were a formidable fighter, even if they were avoiding violence, it was comforting to know that he wasn’t going to be alone.

“You must take no part in any fighting,” Rhaenyra told them, expression solemn. “Swear it to me now, under the eyes of the Seven.”

“I swear it,” said Luke without hesitation.

Jacaerys took a moment longer to follow after his brother. “I swear it,” he parroted.

“You as well, sweet girl,” Rhaenyra said, turning her dark purple gaze to you. “I need this ordeal to be bloodless.”

“I swear it, Your Grace,” you whispered, bowing your head. “I’m honored you trust me with such a task.”

A smile traced Rhaenyra’s lips. The rolled up pieces of parchment in her hands shifted as she held one out to Jace. “Cregan Stark is closer to your age than is mine. I would hope that as young men, the two of you can take a mutual liking to one another.”

Jacaerys nodded determinedly. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Rhaenyra regarded her eldest son fondly, before turning to the younger boy. She noted the unadulterated worry in his eyes.

“Storm’s End is a short flight from here. You have Baratheon blood from your grandmother, Rhaenys. And… Lord Borros is an eternally proud man. He will be honored to host a prince of the realm—and his dragon. I expect the both of you will receive a very warm welcome.” The Queen smoothed down his cloak, and brushed his curls away from his face. 

“Yes, Mother. I mean, Your Grace.”

Rhaenyra shook her head, an affection glint to her eyes. Her sweet boy… grown far too quickly.

Finally, she turned to you, handing you the parchment. “Lord Borros is a temperamental man, but you are smart—smarter than most your age—I have faith you will easily persuade him for support. Let us hope he will see his daughters within you… you and his eldest, Cassandra, are of the same age.”

“I will not fail you, Your Grace,” you said.

Rhaenyra cupped your face, dipping forward to slant a chaste kiss upon your temples. “I will see you soon, daughter. Get to it, then.”

A warm smile brushed across your features. You pulled away, bidding Jacaerys a warm goodbye, before walking away with Luke.

“Are you ready?” he asked you.

“No. Are you?”

“No.”

The two of you grinned at each other, nervous.

You placed a comforting hand on his shoulder before he could mount his pearlescent dragon, Arrax. “Luke… everything’s going to be okay. I promise. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

The younger boy rolled his eyes. “I should be the one saying that to you—I’m the one with a dragon.”

With that, he mounted the small beast, commanding Arrax to bend down so you could climb on, as well. The dragon seemed to purr contentedly when you stroked his pale scales.

And to the dark skies the both of you took, the howling warnings of the wind falling upon deaf ears.

Storm’s End was cold and dreary and grey all over. Pinpricks of frigid rain stung your skin.

The flight was short but uncomfortable, as the winds made for a difficult journey and the saddle was really only made for one person, since Arrax was still a young dragon. Nonetheless, Luke helped you down, and the two of you made for the castle. 

A shrill roar in the distance made the two of you flinch, looking west to see Vhagar in the distance, shrouded with cold fog and smoke, more than five times the size of Arrax. The two of you exchanged worried glances.

Aemond was here.

Fear clutched at your chest.

Determined, Luke stepped forward to the guards manning the castle doors.

“I am Prince Lucerys Velaryon. I bring a message to Lord Borros from the Queen.”

The guards nodded, turning to lead him through the massive stone archway.

Thunder rumbled angrily through the sky, rivulets of white lightning carving pathways between clouds.

Somehow colder inside than out, you drew your blue cloak closer to you, sticking close behind Luke.

The guards brought the two of you into the castle’s great hall, where Lord Borros was seated upon a stone throne. He was a burly man, with a mane of black curls and a thick beard shadowing his jaw. To his left were his four daughters, each tall and dark-haired and fair of skin.

To his right was your betrothed.

He was calm as ever, hands clasped behind his back, foot tapping rhythmically against the ground. His purple eye was fixed on you, expression unreadable. You could feel your heart stutter within your chest—despite everything, you missed him terribly.

“Prince Lucerys Velaryon, son of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen,” announced the guard. “Lady Y/N, of House Strong.”

Luke shifted uncomfortably at the sight of his uncle.

“Lord Borros,” he started, voice trembling. “I brought you a message from my mother, the Queen.”

The Baratheon lord showed little interest in the young princeling. “Yet earlier this day, I received an envoy from the King. Which is it? King or Queen? The House of the Dragon does not seem to know who rules it.” He began laughing to himself, loud and hollow, bouncing off the cold stone walls of the castle. “What’s your mother’s message?”

With your head held up high, you stepped forward to hand the Lord the bound scroll. He eyed you with disdain, a sigh falling from his lips.

“Where’s the bloody maester?!” he yelled, his patience growing thin. Borros was not a man of words, and could not read for himself.

Aemond’s stare pierced into Luke, nearly scalding. Subconsciously, Luke rested his hand on the hilt of his sword.

The maester stepped forward to read for him, before bending down to whisper the message into Borros’ ear.

Fury painted itself golden across his grizzled features.

“Remind me of my father’s oath?” he echoed, voice booming with anger. “King Aegon at least came with an offer! My swords and banners in exchange for a marriage pact!”

Your eyes widened, and you chanced a glance to Aemond. Had he offered his hand to one of the Baratheon girls? Had he already cast you to the side as if you were nothing?

“Aegon’s youngest brother, Daeron, is to wed one of my daughters. Prince Aemond was just negotiating dates and dowries,” said Borros in a boastful manner.

A strange sense of relief befell you, one that you didn’t quite understand.

“If I do as your mother bids… which one of my daughters will you wed, boy?”

Voice quaking, Luke shook his head. “My lord… I am not free to marry. I’m already betrothed.”

“So you come with empty hands,” said Borros, an incredulous scoff following his words.

A slight smile crossed Aemond’s features. You gritted your teeth.

“My Lord, if I may,” you began, holding the Baratheon’s graze strongly. “It matters not what we offer. This is a warning to you, from the Queen. The might of the Velaryon fleet has already sworn fealty to Queen Rhaenyra’s cause. Winterfell has never forgotten their oaths and will support Her claim, along with the entirety of the North. The Tullys and the Arryns and dozens more great houses are also to be loyal to the Queen’s cause. Will you be willing to risk your own noble house against the strength of the Blacks if war is to come?”

Borros Baratheon was stunned into silence. He wasn’t a man easily swayed, stubborn to a fault—but your words had struck a chord within him. The threat of the entirety of the North was not one he could hold defense against, not to mention the Velaryon fleet, the Vale, and the Riverlands.

A grumble resounded in his chest. Borros was not one to back down. “Rhaenyra has taken House Baratheon for granted far too long. A son—a male heir—is of higher order than a daughter. Aegon is the true King.”

You pressed forth, “Lord Borros, I beg you to think about the future of your house—”

“NOT ANOTHER WORD FROM YOU!” he shouted, effectively cutting you off, thick brows drawing together. You fell silent, angrily biting down on your tongue. The burly man drew out a heavy sigh, addressing Prince Lucerys once more. “Go home, pup. Tell your bitch of a mother that the Lord of Storm’s End is not a dog she can whistle up at need to set against her foes.”

The both of you stiffened at his blatant disrespect.

“I shall take your answer to the Queen, my lord,” said Luke.

The two of you turned to take your leave of the blasted place. 

“Wait.”

You froze in place, turning only your head to see Aemond staring straight at his nephew.

“Did you really think that you could just fly about the realm with my dear betrothed… trying to steal my brother’s throne at no cost?” he said, words as sharp as knives. 

Luke straightened himself, remembering what he swore to his mother. “I will not fight you,” he told his uncle. “I came as a messenger, not a warrior.”

“A fight would be little challenge,” said the one-eyed prince. You protectively moved to stand in front of Luke. Aemond hummed at this, regarding you with a heated stare. He reached behind his head to pull off his leather eyepatch—where a gleaming sapphire was placed within the scarred socket. Memories of when he had bared himself to you fully and wholly that one fateful night flashed across the forefront of your mind. You yearned for that time back. “No… I want you to put out your eye. As payment for mine. Just one will serve. I would not blind you. Hm… I plan to make a gift of it to my mother.”

With that, he reached down into his coat, brandishing a curved dagger. He tossed it down to the ground in between you, the blade glowing with the light of the torches lining the walls.

Revenge was consuming him. He was angry—infuriated that the Blacks had stolen his wife-to-be, and now they were parading about the realm, falsely claiming Rhaenyra to be the rightful Queen.

“Aemond, stop this madness,” you hissed, stepping closer to him, your hand resting over your own dagger hidden within your cloak. “He will do no such thing.”

“Mmh, then he is craven as well as a traitor,” said Aemond.

“Not here!” bellowed Borros.

The prince paid him no mind, surging forward with quick steps. “Give me your eye, or I will take it, bastard!” 

You met him halfway, just as he scooped up the dagger he had tossed. One of your hands found his chest and you shoved him back, the other coming forth to slant your dagger right against Aemond’s stomach. The prince met your eyes briefly, and for a moment, you could’ve sworn you saw regret dancing amongst the mauve of his iris. But it was gone just as quickly as it came.

“Touch my nephew and I will cut you open from head to toe,” you threatened in a hushed whisper, lips grazing his ear.

Aemond found himself chuckling lowly at your slip up. “So you finally admit it, my love. He is a Strong, just as you are, hm? Look at this sad creature, my sweet betrothed… little Luke Strong, the bastard. He is drenched. Is it raining outside or has he pissed himself in fear?”

With a growl, you shoved at him again, which only barely made him take a step back.

Luke had drawn his sword, hands trembling around the hilt.

“NOT IN MY HALL!” yelled Borros. “The boy came as an envoy. I’ll not have bloodshed beneath my roof! Escort Prince Lucerys and Lady Y/N back to his dragon. Now.”

Luke sheathed his sword, and Aemond twirled the dagger in his grasp, before doing the same. You were the last to put your weapon away, glaring at your betrothed with the might of a thousand suns.

“For what it’s worth, Aemond,” you told him as a lump formed in your throat, “I’ve missed you. Or, at least—I miss the man you used to be.”

You did not wait to see his reaction. 

Instead, you turned to tell Lucerys, “Go, Luke. I will stay and try to barter with Lord Borros. With time, I think I can convince him.”

The princeling shook his head, wet curls flying. “No, Y/N, you must come home with me. We can tell mother together!”

You brushed his damp hair away from his face. “I can do this, Luke. Go. I will see you at Dragonstone—I shall take a ship back.”

Reluctant, Luke nodded once, before rotating on his heel and heading out the door. 

When you looked back, Aemond was already gone. Unease settled within your chest.

The storm seemed to have worsened—the rains were far heavier and the gusts of wind were stronger. You made your way out of the castle to watch Luke go on his young dragon.

Vhagar was nowhere to be seen.

Your eyes widened. Aemond must have already taken her to the skies—no doubt to torment his nephew further.

Or… or worse than torment…

You ran out into the muddy clearing, screaming Luke’s name. Your voice was lost to the storm. Frantic, you made your way out of Storm End’s walls, desperately trying to see through the thick fog.

“LUKE!” you screamed. “AEMOND! No, no, no…”

Vhagar’s rumbling roars echoed loud and true over the stormy seas of Shipbreaker’s Bay. 

Raw terror sank its dark hands around your ribcage, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing—

In the faint distance, you could see parts of a pale dragon streak from the sky.

A fluttering wing membrane.

A spined tail.

A gnarled talon.

A dragon head.

And along with it, the corpse of your nephew, falling down, down, down, into the waters below…

You screamed your throat bloody until your voice gave out. 

In three days' time, you would find yourself back in Dragonstone, and be the one to tell Rhaenyra that her son was dead. You were weathered and broken, and had to write the words out for your own voice had failed you.

Daemon was enraged upon hearing the news.

“An eye for an eye, a son for a son,” he had said. “Lucerys shall be avenged.”

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen angst #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond fluff #aemond smut #aemond targaryen x you #hotd fanfiction #hotd angst #rhaenyra targaryen x reader #jacaerys velaryon x reader #lucerys velaryon x reader #helaena targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen fluff #aemond targaryen e2l #aemond targaryen x strong!reader

[little-mouse-gardens]

Yandere outlaw turtles and sheriff reader au

Another rottmnt au that popped up in my head (romantic)

Warning: Mentions of violence, blood, murder, weapons, alcohol unhealthy relationships, manipulation, kidnapping (do not condone this behavior in real life. this is only for entertainment purposes only)

I don’t normally do character x reader writing (mostly because I’m not great at it) I mostly do character x oc stuff.

Gonna say, thanks @lexiechr for inspiring some of my ideas!

So…I rewatched the movie rango….and I’ve been seeing the cowboy turtles au going around and rattlesnake jake, one of the Antagonists in rango, is feeding into my brainrot

Yan outlaw turtles with a newly appointed sheriff reader after they defeat some criminal and are made sheriff.

Basically reader lives out in the old west, on a nice ranch with their cattle surrounded by the wide open spaces alongside their trusted steed and two loyal canine companions.

After catching a well known criminal for the town, albeit by accident, they are appointed as the new Sheriff of the town.

Slowly, reader begins Learning the ropes along the way. From tracking crooks down to learning a variety of methods like archery and even some tricks with herbs to catch and bring back criminals.

As they continue their duties as protector of the town, they start to hear rumors about a band of out laws known as the hamato brothers. Turtle mutants that are deadly criminals with an extensive record of robberies, murders, arsons, tortures etc. you name it.

Reader, in over their head and with no other options, ends up being thrown into conflict when the turtles (separately) end up coming into town to cause chaos. Stealing, scaring and harassing everyone ect. And reader is doing their best to stop them.

When the person who raised reader gets hurt by one of the turtles, reader. Just goes quiet. No more mild panic, just silence.

Slowly turning their head to look directly at the turtles. Everything seems to fall silent as they slowly walk towards them. Boots jingling and pistol, containing the last bullet, clutched tightly in their hand.

Reader just Calmly walks up to them. All the while the turtles are mocking them, basically saying ‘you ain’t got the nerve to shoot’ and reader just stares them down keeps the gun pointed at them with their figure apply the tiniest amount of pressure as a silent warning and says ‘try me’ with zero hesitation.

In that moment, seeing the sheer bravery of this new sheriff, the turtles (separately) fell head over heels for reader. Reader forces these guys to get out of town and a celebration is held In readers honor.

However for weeks after, reader notices odd things. All of the sudden, other crooks they’re supposed to bring back to town comply instantly. no chasing, no gun fights, no cursing. Hell one of the guys even confessed to everything. When reader would press them as to why they were going so easy on them…they just say because there are some more powerful criminals out there who promised not to chop them up if they did.

Whenever reader does see the turtles. They never get the chance to fight, or at least can’t due to doing the right thing if no crimes are being committed. Reader is given dozens of gifts (most defiantly stolen off someone or a lot of people), flirted with and promised a life of love, luxury and adventure if they’ll ride off into the sunset with them. Gifts and letters left on the doorstep of her ranch and some of her ranch chores already miraculously done before they wake.

Reader notices a lot of the people who would talk with them, or are close to her suddenly go missing or come up dead. All with the same calling card, a note written in blood stating ‘for those who try and take whats mine’

To say the least, reader is terrified, but determined as hell to protect their town.

So, reader makes sure to get as much information as possible. Especially after they nearly get kidnapped by the turtles (once again, separately) one evening after patrolling the outskirts of town.

They question everyone they can, from the mayor to the arsonist awaiting trial. And they accumulate a good catalogue of knowledge on the turtles.

They live out near the forested mountain area where the plains fade into pine forests and rocky cliffs inside of an old ranch that they conned a wealthy rancher into giving them. Acres for them to hide stolen goods, cattle and hell even bodies they don’t want found.

Raphael - most notorious from town to town. Victims of his crime sprees are always found beaten to a pulp. Bones broken, face unrecognizable. Primary and expert cattle thief. Herds of cattle missing, wrestles bulls albeit tenderly with zero effort to get them to go where he wants them to. No criminal or person wants piss him off, out fear for their lives.

Leonardo - a true manipulator. A con artist with deadly accuracy. There is no situation he can’t weasel himself out in and out of. However if manipulating the smuggler or bank teller into giving him what he wants, he can always just portal them into a bears den or pit of rattlesnakes if they prefer not to cooperate? Or he’ll just have to start chopping off limbs if- oh? They want to talk now? Well that’s just peachy~

Donatello - a doctor with a level of knowledge and skill that no one wants to mess with. Torture and experimentation can and will be on his list of options when it comes to getting what he wants. An expert in trade and all things related to chemicals, machinery that can be sold and traded in. Plus he knows everything there is to know about banks and how they work, plus he will test if the moonshine they stole or were ‘generously granted’ is worth the price. If it isn’t well….run for the hills

Michelangelo - expert thief. No roads, bakery’s, art museums or galleries are safe from him. Most of his victims get strung up, left for buzzards to pick at with At with taunting messages. Bakeries and the craft store give him things for free, no charge in bundles or hell, even the all the stock if it means they get to go on another day unscathed. Another expert in manipulation, he’ll be sweet until he decides other methods will have to be used, he thinks often times poisoning food is a good method to get someone to do as he says.

Reader keeps this information in the back of their mind at all times. Making sure to exploit their weakness in an effort to make sure nothing happens to anyone in their town. Up until the point the turtles literally threaten to blow the town up into dust unless reader agrees to come live with them and agree to be their spouse in nine month time. Which leaves reader with only two options.

Take the risk. Call their bluff and tell them no or…agree and save the town from destruction and doom

Reader, after careful contemplation and realizing that The turtles aren’t really bluffing, decides to sacrifice themselves for the safety of the townsfolk.

Another thing reader notes is that, even if they manage to disarm the explosives, they are screwed anyways. The turtles know where they live, sleep, and who they care about the most.

Reader knows Kidnapping is not above the turtles and if reader rides out save their loved one, how will they know if it’s a trap and their loved one is dead?

The risk is just to great.

So, much to readers dismay, they are forced to go with them.

Dread in their eyes standing next to their trusty horse carrying their belongings. their two trusty canine companions at their side. Slowly showing the turtles their silver engraved gun and badge before dropping both to the ground as way of saying ‘fine. You win. But don’t you dare hurt these people’

When reader gets back to the turtles ranch, they just go off into the guest room to cry. But still, there’s still an ounce of determination in the sheriff. If they have to act like a doting partner who accepts the turtles for their diabolical crimes then so be it. But they won’t break readers spirit.

If that means letting raph cuddle them and sit with him while he tends to the dozens of cattle they have stolen from other farmers? then reader will sit there and bottle feed a lamb, calf or foal and let him gush over how cute they are.

If that means allowing leo to give them dresses and jewels while settled across his lap while he brags about the jeweler he killed and whispers sweet affectionate words to them? then reader will just settle there quietly. Occasionally complimenting his confidence and strength.

Sitting out back in the shed with donnie while he works on different types of poisons, gadgets and maps for the next wave of crimes that they could commit. Complimenting his genius and the gifts he makes for reader while he absentmindedly pressed kisses to their temple and bragged about his invention

Willing to Riding out with Mikey to let him paint reader and painting with him under the stars with a picnic of food if it means preventing him from running another wagon off the paths.

All the while reader just sit backs and plots. Plots and awaits the right opportunity, maybe a month or two before the wedding to escape.

With the outlaw au turtles, when reader tried to escape at first. It was in the middle of the night, takes their dogs and their horse and just rides off into the hills towards the nearest settlement through the woods. Sending the turtles (separately) into a panic when they realize their beloved fiancé is not in bed.

and Literally from night to the early hours of the morning is all chaos for everyone around until reader is eventually caught and brought back to them. Burning buildings, civilian casualties, ect.

And when reader is brought back, the turtles (separately) decide it bust to make the wedding date sooner rather than later. Keeping their beloved under watchful eyes so they can keep them safe and closebye. Making sure to do everything possible to coax reader to love them back and accept their new life.

#yandere rottmnt au #yandere rottmnt #yandere michelangelo #yandere donatello #yandere raphael #yandere leonardo #yandere tmnt x reader #rottmnt #rottmnt au #rottmnt x reader #headcanon #tcest dni

[wongyuseokie]

Neural Networks | l.s.m

Summary:  The Escape allowed Dokyeom to gain a new life, one full of feelings. When he meets you when you save him, he experiences all of them - but did you? Strange things start happening once Dokyeom meets you. You embrace him, love him, and protect him. But when the dust from the chaos settles, Dokyeom can't help but doubt you. You have needs different from his. It's almost as if you're not like him at all. ☆ 18+ minors dni |☀︎fluff | ♕ smut |  ☁︎ angst | ♥ completed works Word Count:  9165 words Pairings: AI/Robot!Lee Seokmin x Cyborg!Female Reader Genre/Trope(s)/AUs: Angst, Smut, Fluff, Sci-Fi AU! Content Warnings: Main character death, torture (nothing graphic but mentions), fighting, mentions of injuries, arguing, yelling, talks of betrayal, lots of deception and betrayal. Heavy angst, very mild fluff. Alternate universes. Smut Warnings: Unprotected sex? But they are bots, so idk, oral sex (m & f receiving), and multiple orgasms. Water sex. Kissing. Authors Note 1: Here it is my fic for the Seventeen sci-fi fic collab hosted by the wonderful @idyllic-ghost, check out all the other amazing fics here, this is my first time writing something in this genre, like it's a whole new world. So I hope y'all enjoy. ❤️ Authors Note 2: Thank you so much to the following @savventeen, @strawberryya @the-boy-meets-evil @idyllic-ghost @here4kpopfics @onlymingyus for listening to me go on and on about this and being so patient about this entire story. ❤️ Authors Note 3: Extra special thank you to @idyllic-ghost for being so patient and kind and wonderful, giving me so many hits and tips and ideas with this fic, you've been so lovely and wonderful and I adore you dearly ❤️. Thank you also to @here4kpopfics for beta'ing this fic for me, ilysm my soulmate. ❤️ © wongyuseokie 2023. All rights reserved.

Prologue

“100 years ago, it was thought that the Earth, as we know it, would disintegrate. That the sun would implode and leave everything in darkness. Miraculously, it didn’t. Due to some external force, human scientists still haven’t agreed upon what it exactly was. None of the planets in our former solar system was ever destroyed. The Earth and the other planets were pushed away from each other and ended up in different parts of the universe. Earth just happened to come to a solar system with alien life. At first, we were cautious, and people were prepared to fight. However, the aliens were welcoming to our planet. Those who didn’t die from ‘The Great Journey’ or from trying to fight the aliens were welcomed into the new solar system. Soon enough, we had integrated completely, and we received materials and assistance from our sister planets in exchange for human labour. What humans knew of technology was very limited, but with the resources of the aliens, we created artificial life forms. We named these robots Automaton, and they served as workers when humans couldn’t. Eventually, there was no need for human labour at all. To pay back for the help the aliens gave us, we used Automatons. With the extensive development of these robots, we eventually managed to create artificial sentient life. These Automatons were human-like in looks and had human consciousness, but they could not bleed and were stronger than we ever could be. At present, there are even different levels of Automatons. Level 3 robots are the workers, level 2 robots are the caretakers, and level 1 robots are the celebrities. The Automaton music group 53V3NT33N (SEVENTEEN) comprises 13 members, all very talented, and all representing two human states of mind.”

Dokyeom ran as fast as his legs would allow him. He had long legs, which often aided him when trying to run, but tonight? The escape tested his stamina and strength, and he was failing. He was close to escaping; he just had a couple more steps, but a tug on his leg stopped him. 

Dokeyom sighed. He didn’t want to help. He knew he would have to move to make it out. Now, this individual was going to hinder him. 

“Please,” the voice spoke again, and Dokyeom let out a pained sigh as he kneeled to help the injured being. 

“What happened?” Dokyeom asked, and a pained expression greeted him; you welcomed him. 

“I fell, and it’s bad, and I can’t get up. If I can’t escape, they’ll kill me!” You cried out, and Dokyeom let out a breath. You weren’t his problem, but if Dokyeom left you, you’d die alone here. 

Dokyeom, deep down, wanted to help. Something told him that he was kind before everything. Dokyeom often had dreams that told him he was kind, loving, warm, and always had a big smile instead of the permanent scowl he wears nowadays. He wasn’t too sure if the dream meant anything, but sometimes he wondered if that dream was ever once his reality. His memories were always fuzzy, but this dream was always a constant. He recalls being told he was sunshine, and something about your pain triggered that faint memory for him. 

“Okay, I’ll pick you up and run for it. No funny business, or I’ll let you go and let you be killed, understood?” Dokyeom warned. 

“Understood.” 

Dokyeom took a deep breath before leaning forward, picking you up, and throwing you onto his shoulder. “Hold tight; don’t let go until we escape,” Dokyeom instructed. You mumbled a ‘yes,’ and that’s all it took for Dokyeom to start running. 

Dokyeom wasn’t sure how long he was running for; all he knew was that he ran as fast as his legs allowed him, and now that he had you to take care of as well, he had to run faster than ever. 

“Ow!” You yelped when Dokyeom dropped you on the ground suddenly. 

“I just saved your life. I think you can handle being dropped on your ass,” Dokyeom sassed. 

“Wait, we escaped?” You asked, sitting up and looking around. “Where are we?”

“I’m not entirely sure, but we’re safe for now,” Dokyeom answered as he sat beside you. 

“What’s your name?” You asked. 

“Dokyeom, what about you?” He asked. 

“Uh, um, Y/N,” you mumbled. 

“Why’d you hesitate?” Dokyeom questioned, eyeing you suspiciously. 

“I’m tired from the escape,” you lied, and Dokyeom scoffed. 

“I carried you the entire way, and you’re tired?” Dokyeom hissed. 

“Thank you for carrying me,” you answered sheepishly. 

“Why don’t you rest for a bit? I’ll look around for some food?” You offered. 

“You need to eat?” Dokyeom asked, and you paused. 

“Just a bit of fuel, do you not?” You asked, hoping your question would distract him. 

“I don’t. I do have dreams sometimes where I eat. Maybe it’s from a past life or just a dumb dream,” Dokyeom rambled. He wasn’t sure why he suddenly needed to confide in you. He just did. Something about your presence made him want to tell you all his secrets. Something about you felt safe. 

“Well, I’ll wander for a second if that’s okay?” You said, and Dokyeom nodded. 

“Yeah, I’ll lay down here for a bit,” Dokyeom replied, feigning a yawn to pretend he was tired. 

“Alright. I’ll be back.” 

“Hey, Y/N?” Dokyeom called out. 

“Yeah?” 

“I meant what I said, by the way. No funny business, or I will kill you.” 

“Ow, what the fuck is wrong with you!” Dokyeom barked when he felt a burning sensation on his throat.  

“Well, you have a wound here, and I’m just helping you,” you mumbled as you pressed another piece of gauze to his shoulder. 

“What happened?” Dokyeom asked, wincing slightly. 

“I think something got ripped? I don’t know,” you mumbled, and Dokyeom sat up hastily. 

“My tag?” Dokyeom panicked. 

“Your what?” You asked. 

“My tag, the thing that they use to monitor me,” Dokyeom explained hurriedly, patting himself. 

“What the fuck did you do to me?” Dokyeom hissed, grabbing you harshly.

“What are you on about?” You questioned.

“When I saved your ass, did you, for funsies, rip the tag out of my shoulder?” Dokyeom accused. 

“No, what the hell? Why would I do that to you?” You fired back. 

“Don’t know, fuck, do you know what could happen?” Dokyeom spat. 

“I don’t know. The ones who have been trying to control you get pissed, but without your tracker, they can’t do much, so maybe you can finally live a normal life?” You fumed, your words making Dokyeom pause. 

“Normal life?” Dokyeom repeated slowly. 

“Yes, Dokyeom, normal,” you stuttered. 

“Look, I’m grateful you saved me, but you’ve been hostile otherwise,” you ranted, hoping it’d help to distract Dokyeom. 

“You’re right. I have been hostile, but can you blame me? I don’t think anyone who is my kind is anything but hostile. We’ve been through hell,” Dokyeom countered. 

“Fair enough, we’ve both been screwed over. Instead of taking it out on each other, what if we work on helping each other instead? We can, I don’t know, be each other’s friends. Or even acquaintances?” You offered. 

“Fine, but one wrong move, and I’ll kill you, so tread lightly.” 

“Where were you?” Dokyeom questioned the second you entered the little hiding spot you both found after escaping. It had been evening time, and Dokyeom was distracted and drifted off, so you took a moment to leave the cave and contact your bosses at SALAX. You were able to do so thanks to the fancy watch strapped to your wrist. You had let them know that you had managed to lure Dokyeom into ‘rescuing’ you, and now, over the course of the next two weeks, you would try to lure him back to SALAX. You had also let your superiors know that you had managed to yank out Dokyeom’s tracker, and it was safe and on you.

There were some concerns coming from SALAX that hiding Dokyeom’s tracker on yourself was risky because if he saw the chip, he’d kill you in a heartbeat. But you assured them that he wouldn’t, and with that, the call ended, and you retreated back to the cave to find Dokyeom standing up and glaring at you.

“Where were you?” Dokyeom questioned.

“Uh, just stepped out to get some air and find something to eat,” you lied smoothly. 

“Right…” Dokyeom trailed off. “I meant to ask you about this yesterday. What the hell are you? Why do you need to eat? I don’t, so what the hell are you?” Dokyeom snarled. 

“I thought we were trying to be friends? Why the aggression?” You deflected. 

“You know I can kill you in seconds and leave you here, so instead of avoiding the question, tell me,” Dokyeom threatened as he stepped closer. 

You would be lying if you said that Dokyeom didn’t intimidate you. He was a tall individual with a very strong build. He could easily crush you. 

“I guess one would say I’m a malevolent being,” you explained as you sat down, and Dokyeom followed suit, sitting across from you. 

“Malevolent doesn’t mean kind. It means evil,” Dokyeom mumbled. 

“Oh wow, you’re so smart!” You quipped sarcastically, making him glare at you. 

“I’m a cyborg, so I need to eat, sleep, and do some-what human functions,” you admitted. 

“Like fart?” Dokyeom joked, making you crack a smile. 

“Shut up.” 

“So why were you running? Same as me? Escaping?” Dokyeom asked, and you shrugged. 

“How’s this? We ask each other one question a day. You already asked me something today, so it’s my turn?” You suggested. 

“What do you want to know?” Dokyeom asks. 

“What do you dream about?” You asked, leaving Dokyeom stunned. 

“Dream?” Dokyeom repeated. 

“Yes, dream.” 

“I guess a place where I don’t need to be so on guard all the time or so aware of everything at once. A place where hypervigilance isn’t a constant state of mind,” Dokyeom articulated. 

“I guess you’re right to call it a dream,” you mumbled. 

“Because it’s an ideal state and not our reality?” Dokyeom offered. 

“Fine, we can be friends, a question a day, and I won’t step out of line, and I hope you don’t either,” Dokyeom added. 

“I won’t.” 

Day 1: Cold as Ice

The next day, you awoke naturally and found Dokyeom standing at the entrance of the cave, and you decided to get up and join him.

“What are you thinking about?” You asked with a friendly smile as you approached Dokyeom.

Dokyeom turned to look at you, his eyes narrow and guarded. “How long do we need to keep hiding out here,” he replied curtly, his tone cold.

Undeterred, you placed a hand on his shoulder. “We can find a way out. I know it!” You offered enthusiastically.

Dokyeom simply rolled his eyes, and shrugged your hand off his shoulder, and walked off and back into the cave, where he sat and ignored you for the rest of the day.

Day 2: Thawing

The next day, you tried to engage Dokyeom in conversation, sharing stories, as well as your optimism that you two would be able to find your way out of your wreckage. But Dokyeom barely engaged in the conversation, mainly responding with a few grunts and hums.

But you weren’t easily discouraged. You saw something beneath the surface of Dokyeom’s stoic exterior, a flicker of curiosity and maybe even a hint of loneliness. You believed everyone had a story, and you were determined to uncover his.

As the days passed, you learned more about some of Dokyeom’s habits, habits that you noticed when he thought you weren’t looking. You noticed how his eyes crinkled when he smiled. You also noticed he had a beautiful smile, one that made you feel incredibly warm.

Day 3: Cracks in the façade

“Penny for your thoughts?” You asked one evening, and Dokyeom gave you a small smile.

“We’ll make it out of this mess, right?” Dokyeom asked, and you nodded.

“Yeah, we will.”

Day 4: Melting

As the days continued, you continued to engage Dokyeom in conversation. You spoke with an infectious enthusiasm that was hard to resist, and while Dokyeom remained guarded initially, your presence of unwavering warmth began to chip away at the walls he had built around himself. Slowly, he started to open up, revealing glimpses of his past and the reasons for his uninviting nature.

Day 5: Flux

“I’ve been burned before,” Dokyeom admitted one night, his eyes distant as if reliving painful memories. “Those I’ve trusted, they let me down.” 

You reached out and placed a hand over his, letting him know it was okay to continue, and he paused, taking a deep breath.

Dokyeom unravelled to you, a tale of loss and betrayal unfolds; he had once been surrounded by love and trust, only to see it all crumble into dust.

As Dokyeom’s world around him began to change, so did those around him. Those he trusted, in turn, betrayed, hurt and lied to him. Slowly, one by one, the ones he loved and depended on were taken from him. Eventually, Dokyeom found himself alone, a solitary figure in a world that had become cold and unforgiving.

Soon enough, Dokyeom learned a harsh lesson—that trust could be a double-edged sword, capable of bringing individuals together and tearing them apart, and as a result, Dokyeom retreated into himself, becoming stoic and unapproachable, a protective shell forged by the scars of his past.

Dokyeom has learnt to trust no one, not even himself. The walls he has built around his heart are formidable, a defence mechanism against the pain of betrayal and loss.

But amid the chaos and uncertainty surrounding him. He finds a glimmer of hope, you. From there, a connection begins to form, a bond that defies the mistrust that defines Dokyeom’s existence. It’s a fragile thread that you must tread carefully to nurture, knowing that the wounds of his past are still raw and that his ability to trust has been shattered.

You listened attentively, offering empathy and understanding, and shared your struggles and fears, creating a safe space where Dokyeom could reveal his vulnerabilities without judgment.

All the while, guilt gnawed at you, knowing that you, too, were about to betray Dokyeom the way so many others had done. You, too, were about to hurt him. But you needed him to trust you in order to betray him. But you couldn’t help that with each day, feel more guilty, and start second guessing your mission because you weren’t sure if you could hurt someone you wanted to protect.

One day, you find Dokyeom pacing around the cave anxiously, his stoic façade cracking for the first time. He looks at you, a glimmer of vulnerability in his eyes, and admits.“I don’t know what we’re going to do.”

At that moment, you realise that Dokyeom is not as unapproachable as he first seemed. You reach out, reassuringly touching his shoulder, and say. “We’ll figure it out together. We’ve come this far and won’t give up now.”

For the first time, Dokyeom smiles, a small but genuine one. It’s a turning point in your friendship, a moment of trust and connection that grows stronger daily.

As you continue to navigate the challenges of your hidden existence, you and Dokyeom find solace in each other’s company. The once stoic and unapproachable man has become a friend, someone you can rely on and confide in. You face the unknown together, knowing that as long as you have each other, you can conquer whatever challenges lie ahead.

That night, you started shifting in your sleep, mumbling nonsense, when, suddenly, you found yourself in a cavernous nightmare, the cave walls closing around you like vengeful spectres. The air is thick with unease, and your heart races as you try to escape the suffocating darkness. But the cave seems to have no end, and you’re trapped in a terrifying labyrinth of your fears.

Suddenly, a beam of light pierces the darkness, and you hear the sound of footsteps echoing in the cave. A figure emerges from the shadows, and it’s Dokyeom. His presence alone is a lifeline in this nightmarish abyss.

“Dokyeom!” You cry out, relief flooding over you as he draws near. His familiar face is a beacon of hope in this terrifying dream.

He reaches out, his touch reassuring as he says,.“I’ve got you. You’re safe now.”

His voice, filled with warmth and strength, calms your racing heart. With his guidance, you navigate the treacherous terrain of the cave, finally escaping the nightmare’s clutches.

As you emerge into the open, the nightmare fades away like a distant memory. You turn to Dokyeom with gratitude and something more in your eyes. He gazes back at you, his usual reserve momentarily giving way to vulnerability.

“You saved me, Dokyeom,” you say softly, your heart pounding.

Dokyeom hesitates, his eyes locked onto yours, and then, in a moment of unspoken connection, you lean in, and your lips meet in a tender kiss. It’s a kiss that carries the weight of the unspoken, the shared relief of escaping the nightmare together, and the growing feelings brewing between you.

For a heartbeat, Dokyeom hesitates, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. But then, as if surrendering to the undeniable pull between you, he reciprocates your kiss, his lips meeting yours with a newfound intensity. Once a place of nightmares, the cave has become the backdrop to a moment of unexpected passion and connection.

As you both break the kiss, the world around you seems to shift, and you realise this dream has taken an unexpected turn. But in the wake of your shared moment, you know that something has changed between you and Dokyeom, and you can’t help but smile, grateful for the bond that has deepened in the darkness of this surreal nightmare.

The next day, you and Dokyeom wandered out of the little cave and found yourselves standing amidst a scene of utter devastation, a future marred by damage and chaos that stretches as far as the eye can see. The landscape was a haunting testament to the havoc that had been unleashed upon this once-thriving world. Buildings, once towering symbols of human achievement, now lie in ruins, their skeletal frames jutting out of the shattered concrete like the bones of a long-forgotten civilization. The acrid stench of smoke and burning debris fills the air, choking your senses as you survey the destruction.

The sky above is a sickly hue, darkened by the ominous clouds of billowing smoke that obscures the sun, casting an eerie, blood-red glow over the desolation below. The air crackles with an unsettling energy, a lingering sense of impending doom.

Amidst the wreckage, remnants of what was once a bustling metropolis now lie scattered like discarded toys. Abandoned vehicles, their tires deflated and windows shattered, stand as silent witnesses to the chaos that unfolded here.

As you move further into this grim future scene, you can't help but feel a profound sense of loss and despair. The world as you knew it has been forever altered, transformed into a nightmarish landscape of destruction and ruin.

In the distance, faint echoes of distant sirens and the low rumble of collapsing structures serve as a grim reminder that the chaos is far from over. The damage inflicted upon this world runs deep, and the path to recovery seems uncertain and fraught with challenges.

Yet, amidst the devastation, there is a glimmer of hope, a resilience that refuses to be extinguished. It's a reminder that even in the face of chaos and destruction, humanity's spirit endures, and the struggle for survival continues.

“You can relax a bit. I don’t really think anyone is here,” you whispered to Dokyeom as you cautiously walked around, noticing how almost everything was burned, destroyed and damaged. 

“Look at the damage,” Dokyeom mumbled back. 

“I know, it’s so awful. I hope those who wanted to escape managed to do so,” you admitted. 

“Why didn’t you?” Dokyeom asked. 

“What?” 

“Didn’t escape? Why didn’t you?” Dokyeom asked, eyeing you suspiciously. 

“I was hurt,” you muttered. 

“I didn’t know cyborgs could feel pain?” Dokyeom challenged, and you averted your gaze away from him. 

“Did you do it to trap me?” Dokyeom challenged. 

“No? What would I gain from doing that to you?” You retorted, and Dokyeom shrugged. 

“Fuck knows, you told me you’ve done things you’re not proud of. Maybe I’m just another thing you’ll do that you’re not proud of.” 

“Trust me, Dokyeom, if I wanted to do you, I would have a long time ago,” you huffed out as you stormed off, making Dokyeom sigh as he followed you. 

“We need to steal a spacecraft,” you whispered to Dokyeom.

“Are you insane? How?” Dokyeom whispered back, and you shrugged. 

“Look,” you said, motioning to where you were looking. 

Amidst a desolate and haunting scene of wreckage, a solitary spacecraft stood as a lone survivor of a cataclysmic event. It appeared as a beacon of hope amidst the debris-strewn wasteland.

The spacecraft’s once-pristine exterior, now scarred and battered, stands defiantly among the twisted metal and shattered remnants of other vessels. Its hull, once gleaming, bears the scars of cosmic collisions and the ravages of time. A faint, eerie light from malfunctioning control panels cast shadows across its battered form.

Around the spacecraft, a field of wreckage stretches into the horizon, a haunting testament to the harshness of space. Broken pieces of machinery and torn metal fragments drift through the void like lost souls. The eerie silence of the scene is punctuated only by the occasional creaking of damaged hulls.

Inside the spacecraft, signs of struggle and survival are evident. Emergency lights flicker, and a faint hum of life support systems resonates through the corridors. It stands as a testament to the resilience of those who once staffed it, their spirit unbroken despite the chaos surrounding them.

In this place of wreckage, the spacecraft is a symbol of endurance and perseverance, a lone sentinel refusing to succumb to the unforgiving cosmos. Its presence amid the ruins speaks of the human spirit’s unyielding determination to press on, even in the face of overwhelming adversity.

“You can’t be serious,” Dokyeom mumbled. 

“You want freedom? Escape? This is our only solution. You can be free again.” 

You and your partner in crime stand in the dimly lit hangar, eyes fixed on the sleek spacecraft that gleams like a jewel in the shadows. The ship, an advanced model with a reputation for speed and agility, holds the key to your daring escape plan. 

You both approach the spacecraft with a shared nod and a sense of exhilaration. Your partner, a master of hacking, quickly accesses the control panel, fingers dancing across the holographic interface. The ship’s security systems fall like dominos, leaving you unfettered access.

The boarding ramp lowers smoothly, revealing the spacecraft’s luxurious interior. You and your partner slip inside, feeling the cool, synthetic leather seats beneath you. As the canopy seals shut with a soft hiss, you exchange a glance filled with determination.

Dokyeom took the pilot’s seat, fingers caressing the controls with a practised ease. The spacecraft’s engines hum to life, vibrating beneath you as they prepare to defy gravity. You both brace yourselves with a final glance out of the transparent canopy.

The spacecraft lifts off, rising gracefully from the hangar floor. You feel the G-forces press you into your seat as you hurtle towards the heavens. The hangar doors open, revealing the starry expanse of space beyond.

You know you’ve left it all behind at that moment—your past, troubles, and the pursuit of those seeking to capture you. You and Dokyeom have stolen not just a spacecraft but a chance at freedom, and together, you soar into the unknown, leaving a trail of stardust in your wake.

“Where are we going?” Dokyeom asked as the spacecraft hovered and slowly moved along.

“AECOR” you replied.

“Why?” Dokyeom asked.

“To relax, to breathe, and to regroup,” you answered with a smile, and that was enough Dokyeom needed to know.

~~ “Wow,” Dokyeom breathed out as he disembarked from the spacecraft and set foot into AECOR.

“This is incredible.” 

You find yourself standing at the edge of a breathtaking rainforest, enveloped by the magical allure of the night. The moonlight filters through the dense canopy above, casting a gentle, silver glow upon the lush foliage below. Tall trees adorned with vibrant, bioluminescent flowers seem to dance in the faint shimmer of light, their leaves rustling in a gentle, nocturnal breeze.

As you venture deeper into the rainforest, the symphony of nighttime creatures serenades your senses. Frogs and crickets play a melodic chorus while fireflies flicker like tiny stars, illuminating your path. The air is thick with the heady scent of damp earth, moss, and exotic blooms, creating an intoxicating fragrance that lingers around you.

But the true marvel of this rainforest night unfolds before you as you stumble upon a hidden gem—the waterfall. It glistens under the moon’s enchanting gaze, cascading waters a ribbon of liquid crystal tumbling from the heights above into a pristine, moonlit pool below.

The waterfall’s roar is a soothing lullaby, a constant reminder of nature’s grandeur and eternal rhythm. The moonlight dances upon the water’s surface, creating a sparkling, silvery tapestry that seems to stretch forever. Each droplet from above catches the moon’s radiance, forming a trail of liquid stardust.

You approach the pool’s edge, feeling the cool mist kiss your skin as the waterfall’s spray gently caresses your face. The night sounds intensify around you, the rainforest coming alive with its secrets and wonders. It’s a world of enchantment, where the rainforest’s beauty is magnified by the veil of night, and the waterfall stands as a shimmering testament to the timeless allure of nature.

“Isn’t it? I thought we could take a break here, considering all we’ve been doing is running and hiding. We’re safe here,” you mumble. 

“Are we?” Dokyeom asks. 

“Would I lead you astray?” You ask, inching closer to him. 

“I don’t think you would. You wouldn’t just kiss me to manipulate me later, right?” Dokyeom asks as he wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you into him. You smile at him. This was the first time the kiss from the night before was brought up.

“I’m sorry if I overstepped,” you mumble. 

“I didn’t say I minded. I did kiss back,” Dokyeom adds, making you melt into his touch, guilt plaguing you, knowing that you would soon cause this incredible individual’s demise. 

“Shall we?” You ask, motioning to the bodies of water, looking around for one slightly more private, where you both wouldn’t be recognised and could spend time with him, alone, uninterrupted, before you betray him.

Dokyeom takes your hand, guides you to a more secluded plunge pool, and stops at the edge of the water. With a soft smile, he removes your clothing piece by piece, every movement charged with an undeniable urgency. As he finishes, his eyes scan your body with fierce hunger, and his hands wander over your curves with possessiveness.

You shiver as you feel his hands slide around your waist from the back, the warmth of his touch sending shivers up and down your spine. You can feel the barely restrained desire emanating from his body.

Dokyeom pulls you closer, and you can feel his hardness against your back as he presses against you. His lips trail down to your shoulder, his breath heating your skin as his gaze travels up your neck.

Dokyeom turns you to face him, cupping your face in his hands as he trails down to your lips. His tongue probes at the corner of your mouth before sliding in, the wetness and warmth as you open your mouth to him sending you into a passionate frenzy.

Dokyeom takes your hand and leads you to the pool. As the warm water envelops you, Dokyeom slides in behind you, his chest against your back as his arms wrap around you. His hands move over your body with increasing passion as his lips go up and down your neck.

Your back arches, trying to move even closer to him. You moan in pleasure as his hardness presses against your skin, the sensation of him filled with anticipation. You can’t help but feel like you want him to take you in the water.

You and Dokyeom are both submerged in the shallow waters of the pool, your hands trailing along the smooth surface of the tiled edges. You look up at Dokyeom, a smirk on your lips as you start to move, your body drawn closer to his as your hands move expertly to his hips and you bring yourself just under the water. You feel the anticipation running through both of you as you wrap your arms around his waist and pull yourself tight against him.

You can feel Dokyeom’s breaths coming faster as he looks down at you, anticipation radiating from his eyes as you start to explore. You run your hands through his hair, feeling your tension quickly mixed with pleasure as you tilt your head back. The sensation of his skin against yours is heightened in the water, and you quicken your pace, carefully trailing your lips and tongue along his chest and stomach. His skin feels like butter beneath your mouth, begging for more attention.

You let out a soft moan as you bring your mouth up to his, your tongue tracing along his lower lip as you press against Dokyeom. He responds with a groan, his mouth eagerly meeting yours as you wrap your arms around his neck and deepen the kiss. You feel your way down from his mouth, your tongue gliding along his neck and shoulders as your hands trace his contours.

You pull away from him, an inviting smile on your lips before you go down his torso. With each movement, your mouth is greeted with eager sighs and gasps of pleasure from Dokyeom. As you reach the bottom of his stomach, you look up, the look in his eyes telling you it’s time for something different. You gaze at him momentarily, his eyes pleading, before you dip your tongue into the shallow pools of water between his legs.

Dokyeom lets out an animalistic groan as you move your mouth along his member, lapping up the waves of pleasure each stroke gives him. His body arches into you as your tongue swirls around in circles, his hands grasping your hair as you work your way up and down. You can’t help but smile against him as you hear tiny, breathy moans with each flick of your tongue, revealing that you’ve brought him to this point.

You can feel your arousal growing, and you know you’ve done the same to Dokyeom as you reach the climax together, him calling out your name as the waves of pleasure ensnare you both and pull you gently into a blissfully calm state.

You feel the heat rising as you climb out of the plunge pool and lay on the edge, reclining on your elbows, and you feel your breath hitch in anticipation and your breaths coming in shallow gasps.

Then you feel Dokyeom’s hand touching you, tracing a path from your abdomen to your chest and neck. His fingertips leave a trail of blissful heat on your skin, and you let out a contented sigh.

Dokyeom slides lower, his hand running across your inner thigh. His fingers work their way up your legs, sending sparks of pleasure shooting right to your core.

When Dokyeom finally reaches your most intimate area, you can’t help but gasp as you feel his tongue exploring you. His soft, lapping motions send waves of pleasure rippling through your body, and you find yourself pushing against his face, wanting more and more from him.

Dokyeom responds to the pressure of your body, deepening the stress and increasing the intensity of his movements. His tongue circles around your clit, sending more delightful feelings coursing through you until you feel like you’re about to combust.

And then it’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before. Your body suddenly gives way as an explosion of pleasure ripples through you, and you think your entire body is trembling with delight. You’ve just experienced the most intense and pleasurable orgasm, thanks to Dokyeom.

He stares deeply into your eyes, the look telling you he craves you just as much as you desire him.

You don’t have to wait any longer. He plunges deep inside you, his hips moving skillfully as his groans mix with yours. Your body tightens around him as he rocks into you so intensely that it sends waves of pleasure shooting through your body.

The intensity builds up until a wave of pleasure engulfs both of you. You collapse into each other, exhausted but electrified.

The afterglow slowly takes over as you lay in each other’s arms, enjoying the comfort of being surrounded by each other’s warmth.

You and Dokyeom found refuge in a small corner of AECOR, where you both held each other. It was a beautiful and peaceful moment, and you wished that you could stay in this moment forever.

“Y/N, I want you to know something. I feel safe with you for the first time in my life,” Dokyeom admitted, making you smile and guilt engulf you.

His words hung in the air, carrying the weight of his vulnerability. You look into his eyes, the depth of his emotions mirrored in his gaze. The rainforest seems to hold its breath as if nature is listening to this profound declaration.

You reach out, your hand finding his, fingers entwined.  

“Dokyeom,” you reply with a voice filled with warmth and understanding.

 “I’m grateful to have you in my life. We’re safe together.”

The next day, Dokyeom felt a slight throbbing pain in his head, and when he woke up, you were nowhere to be found. He wasn’t even sure how he woke up or, more importantly, how he was unconscious. Had you hurt him? Where were you? Had he been brave, he would have gone out to search, but he knew not to because he too was a target.

You find yourself in the heart of SALAX, a planet shrouded in shadows and ruled by fear. As you navigate the dimly lit paths, a chilling encounter awaits you. A mysterious figure approaches, cloaked in darkness, and with a low, ominous voice, they ask.

“Have you managed to ensnare Dokyeom yet?”

You hesitate, your mind racing as you weigh your options. You’ve infiltrated this grim city for a specific purpose, a mission that demands subtlety and caution. But the pressure to fulfil your promise hangs heavily over you, and the consequences of failure are dire.

You felt immense guilt the night before, right after Dokyeom confessed to you that he felt safe with you, when he wasn’t looking, decided to hit him hard enough to cause a slight snag in his system, which would make him shut down for a few hours. Which gave you enough time to go SALAX and see if you could get out of your deal. You couldn’t hurt Dokyeom anymore. You couldn’t hurt someone you were falling in love with.

Before you can respond, the enigmatic figure steps closer, their face concealed by shadows. “Time is running out, Y/N,” they hiss, their tone dripping with menace.

“We cannot afford delays. Alastor is growing impatient.”

The name sends a shiver down your spine—Alastor, the ruler of SALAX, a malevolent force you’ve heard whispered about in hushed tones. He is a figure of terror, and the urgency in the stranger’s voice underscores the gravity of your mission.

As you stand there, torn between your mission’s demands and the mounting pressure from Alastor’s emissary, you know that your choices in this treacherous city will have far-reaching consequences. The web of intrigue and danger in SALAX tightens around you, and you must decide whether to continue down this perilous path, knowing that failure could mean a fate worse than death.

As you leave the oppressive city of SALAX behind, the weight of guilt and conflict presses heavily upon your heart. The memories of your time in SALAX, the choices you made, and the person you had to become weigh on your conscience, and there’s no escaping the tangled web of emotions.

In the solitude of your departure, you find yourself grappling with the harsh reality of having betrayed Dokyeom, the man you had come to care for deeply. Your love for him is undeniable, a powerful force that has drawn you together in a world fraught with danger and uncertainty.

With each step away from SALAX, you replay the moments when you had to deceive him, the lies you had to tell, and the promises you couldn’t keep. The pain of knowing that you’ve broken his trust is like a dagger in your chest, and it gnaws at your soul.

But you also remember the pressure from Alastor, the ruler of SALAX, and the dire consequences that would have occurred had you not complied with his demands. It was a choice between betraying Dokyeom and facing the wrath of Alastor, and in the end, you had to prioritise your survival.

As you journey further away from SALAX, you yearn for a solution, a way to make amends for the betrayal and deception that have torn your heart in two. You know that you can’t change the past, but you’re determined to find a way to set things right.

The conflict within you rages on, tearing at your conscience and leaving you in turmoil. You find solace in the quiet moments of reflection, searching for a path forward that will allow you to reconcile your love for Dokyeom with the choices you were forced to make.

In the distance, a glimmer of hope emerges—a plan, a way to mend the trust you’ve shattered. It won’t be easy, and the road ahead is uncertain, but you’re resolved to find a solution that will bring redemption and forgiveness for yourself and the love you hold for Dokyeom.

As the spacecraft landed back in AECOR, you noticed Dokyeom standing outside the place where you last left him, and even though the space craft, you could sense the tension.

As you got off the spacecraft, you noticed that Dokyeom’s once-warm demeanour had cooled, replaced by a distant and suspicious gaze. The weight of your mission and the secrets you carry are like a boulder on your shoulders as you stand before him.

Dokyeom’s words, when they finally come, are laced with an undercurrent of passive aggression.

“Where were you?”

You can feel his scrutiny, his unspoken doubts hanging heavy in the air. The unease in your chest tightens, and you know the time has come to confront the truth.

“SALAX”

“What?”

Taking a deep breath, you decide to be honest. “Dokyeom, there are things I need to tell you,” you begin, your voice quivering with the weight of your confession.

He raises an eyebrow, his suspicion growing. “Go on.”

You recount the events of your mission in SALAX, the pressure from Alastor’s emissary, and the choices you were forced to make. You can see the anger and disappointment flicker in Dokyeom’s eyes as you speak.

When you finally finish, there’s a heavy silence between you. Dokyeom’s expression is inscrutable, and you can’t tell if he’s processing your confession or formulating his response.

After an eternity, he finally speaks, his voice cold and measured. “Y/N, I need you to understand the gravity of your actions. Trust is not something to be taken lightly. Your secrecy puts us all at risk.”

Your heart sinks as you realise the consequences of your choices. You had expected Dokyeom’s anger, but what comes next surprises you.

He leans in closer, his gaze unwavering. “Here’s your ultimatum Y/N. If you want to continue being with me, you must prove you can be trusted. No more secrets, no more hidden agendas. From now on, complete transparency. Can you do that?”

The ultimatum hangs in the air like a heavy storm cloud, and you understand the weight of his words. The trust eroded by your actions is at stake, and it’s up to you to rebuild it, one honest step at a time.

“Dokyeom, I need to confess to you,” your voice trembles slightly, but you push on, knowing that honesty is the only path forward.

His brow furrows in concern as he listens attentively, encouraging you to continue. “I... I was supposed to betray you,” you admit, the words heavy on your conscience. “There was a plan, a scheme I was involved in, but I can’t do it anymore.”

Dokyeom’s eyes widen in surprise, and he reaches out to gently hold your hand, a silent gesture of support. “What do you mean?” he asks, his voice soft and understanding.

Tears gather in your eyes as you elaborate. “I was meant to deceive you, hurt you, but I’ve realised that what we share is more important to me than anything else. I can’t go through with it, Dokyeom. I can’t betray you after everything we’ve been through.”

Silence hangs in the air, the weight of your confession palpable. You search his eyes for a sign, praying he’ll understand your turmoil and forgive your past intentions. With your heart in your throat, you wait for his response, hoping your honesty will be the bridge to mend any potential rift between you.

As you sit across from Dokyeom, the weight of your past and the secrets you’ve harboured for so long pressing heavily upon your shoulders, you take a deep breath, trying to find the courage to reveal your darkest truths.

As the realisation dawns upon Dokyeom, a heavy silence settles over the room. He stands there, his thoughts racing, trying to face the betrayal that has unfolded before him. The one person he had trusted implicitly, you, had been attempting to deceive him all along.

Dokyeom’s heart feels like it’s been gripped by an icy vice, and he struggles to find words to express the tumultuous emotions surging within him. He had opened himself up and allowed you into the innermost chambers of his life, and now he feels like a fool.

You stood before him, your eyes filled with regret and uncertainty.

Finally, Dokyeom’s voice breaks through the silence, but it’s laced with a mixture of hurt and anger. “Y/N, how could you?” His words are filled with a sense of betrayal that cuts deep.

You took a step forward, her voice trembling as you tried to explain. “Dokyeom, I... I never meant for things to get this far. It started as something I thought I had to do, but along the way, I realised...”

Dokyeom cuts you off, his anger boiling over. “Realised what? That you could play with my trust and feelings and throw it all away when it suited you?”

The room feels tense, the air heavy with the moment’s weight. Dokyeom’s trust, once unshakable, has been shattered, and he’s left to grapple with the aftermath of the betrayal.

Your eyes fill with tears as you struggle to find the right words to make amends for your actions. “Dokyeom, please, just hear me out. I never wanted to hurt you. I never thought I would care this much.”

He turns away from you, unable to bear the sight of the person who had manipulated his trust. “Y/N, I need time,” he says, his voice weary and defeated. “I need time to process this, to understand what just happened.”

“Dokyeom,” you begin, your voice quivering, “there’s something I need to tell you. Something I’ve kept hidden for far too long.”

Once warm and trusting, his eyes now hold a mix of curiosity and concern as he nods, encouraging you to continue.

“I come from a past that I’m not proud of,” you admit, gazing at the table before you. “I used to be involved in criminal activities that hurt people and went against everything I now stand for.”

Dokyeom remains silent, his expression a mixture of surprise and a hint of sadness.

Tears well up in your eyes as you recount the horrors of your past the choices you made that left scars on others and yourself. “I’ve hurt people, stolen, lied, and deceived. I could escape my past, but it’s been haunting me, and I can’t bear to keep it hidden any longer.”

Dokyeom’s gaze remains locked on you. His silence speaks volumes.

“I joined this SALAX, this mission, in the hope that I could make amends for my past,” you continue, your voice trembling with emotion. “I wanted to change, become a better person, and do something meaningful. But I understand if you can’t trust me now.”

“If I could give them you, then I would not be punished for my past,” you admit.

The room seems to close in on you as you await his response, the weight of your confession hanging heavily in the air. You fear that your past actions have damaged the trust Dokyeom once had in you.

After what feels like an eternity, Dokyeom finally speaks, his voice measured and compassionate.

“Y/N, what matters is not the person you used to be but who you’ve become. You’ve taken a courageous step by facing your past and sharing it with me.”

Dokyeom's hand finds yours, a gesture of understanding and support.

“We all have our demons, Y/N, and we all make mistakes. What’s important is that you’re trying to make amends and move forward. I believe in the person you are now, and I trust that you’ll continue to work towards the better future you’ve set your sights on.”

Tears of relief well up in your eyes as you squeeze his hand, grateful for his understanding and forgiveness. In that moment, you realise that by sharing your darkest truths, you’ve not only unburdened yourself but also strengthened the trust between you and Dokyeom. It’s a crucial step toward redemption and a brighter future where your past no longer defines who you are.

“We’ll fight it together.”

“We’ll make it out alive, Y/N,” Dokyeom promised. However, as the words left Dokyeom’s mouth, you heard a loud noise, and suddenly, you were both enveloped in a cloud of darkness. 

As the darkness of night envelopes you and Dokyeom, you find yourselves ensnared in a dire predicament. Captured by unknown assailants, you're bound and blindfolded, completely at their mercy. The journey is disorienting, filled with abrupt turns and jolts, leaving you with no sense of direction.

After what feels like an eternity, the vehicle comes to a halt, and you're roughly pulled from your seats. The sound of heavy metal doors creaking open echoes in the air, and you're guided out, stumbling on unfamiliar terrain.

The blindfold is removed, and as your eyes adjust to the dim light, you realize that you're in the heart of SALAX. The planet’s cold and oppressive atmosphere is suffocating, and a sense of foreboding washes over you.

Dokyeom, still bound and disoriented, is by your side, and you exchange a glance that speaks volumes—fear, uncertainty, and the grim realization that you've been brought into the heart of a malevolent force.

Gathered around you are a group of armed figures, their faces obscured by masks and shadows. They remain silent, their intentions unclear, as they usher you both forward, deeper into the labyrinthine alleys of SALAX.

The city's eerie ambience intensifies, and you can't help but wonder what fate awaits you and Dokyeom in this dystopian realm. As you're led further into the heart of the unknown, the sense of peril deepens, and the need for a plan to escape this grim fate becomes all-consuming. 

In the distant, dystopian future, amidst the cold and unforgiving landscape of a city known as SALAX, there exists a name that strikes fear into the hearts of all who dare to speak it—Alastor, the malevolent ruler of this desolate realm.

With a visage shrouded in shadows and a presence that radiates malevolence, Alastor is a figure cloaked in mystery and darkness. His iron grip on SALAX is unyielding, and his dominion extends far beyond the city’s crumbling walls. He is a tyrant of unparalleled cruelty, ruling through fear, manipulation, and an insatiable thirst for power.

The tales of Alastor’s ruthless reign are whispered in hushed tones, passed down from generation to generation. His rule is marked by oppression, surveillance, and merciless enforcers who carry out his every command without question. In his quest for dominance, he has left a trail of broken lives and shattered dreams in his wake.

Alastor’s origins remain closely guarded, hidden behind lies and deception. Some say he was once a brilliant scientist, while others claim he emerged from the depths of the city’s darkest nightmares. Regardless of his past, his present is a reign of terror that leaves no room for hope or resistance.

As the ruler of SALAX, Alastor commands a vast network of spies, informants, and ruthless enforcers, all dedicated to maintaining his oppressive regime. His fortress-like palace, situated at the city’s heart, symbolises his absolute authority. In this place, he broods over his dark ambitions and plots his next move to tighten his grip on the city’s inhabitants.

Alastor’s name is synonymous with cruelty and malevolence, a name that sends shivers down the spines of those who dare utter it. In the grim, futuristic world of SALAX, he is the embodiment of evil, a shadowy figure who rules with an iron fist and whose presence casts a long, foreboding shadow over all who dwell within his domain.

You stand before a council of stern-faced individuals, their collective disapproval palpable. The room is tense, and your heart beats heavily as you confront the consequences of your failure. The weight of their anger bears down on you, and you know that there is no escaping the harsh judgment about to be passed.

One of the council members opens his mouth to address you, his expression a mask of disappointment and anger and addresses you with a voice that cuts through the silence like a blade. “Y/N, you were entrusted with a vital task and failed us miserably.”

Your voice quivers as you attempt to offer an apology. “I... I didn’t mean for this to happen. It was an honest mistake.”

But the council members are unforgiving, their faces etched with anger and frustration. One of them, an imposing figure with a voice like thunder, bellows.

“Honest mistake or not, your failure has put us all at risk. We can’t afford such incompetence.”

The atmosphere in the room grows more hostile with each passing moment. Accusations fly, and your attempts at explaining the circumstances of your failure fall on deaf ears. The decision is made swiftly and decisively.

One of the council members, their voice filled with righteous anger, proclaims.

“Y/N, you have betrayed our trust and jeopardised our mission. You are hereby banished from our ranks.”

The words hang in the air like a death sentence, and you feel a profound sense of despair wash over you. The consequences of your actions have led to your expulsion, and there is no way to argue your way out of it.

Alastor, his gaze filled with disappointment, approaches you with a heavy heart.

“Y/N,” he says, his voice laced with regret. “I never thought I would see this day. You were once a valued team member, but your failure has left us no choice.”

“Please let me do anything else. Please spare him,” you begged. 

“Oh, you still don’t understand, do you? You fell in love with him, gave him your body and love, and as a result, you are no longer of any use to us. You are done,” Alastar spoke, his words terrifying you further. 

“Don’t hurt him,” you whimpered. 

“He’ll be hurt, don’t you worry. He can watch the life be taken out of you. That will be his punishment.”

Tears well up in your eyes as you realise the gravity of your mistake. You had let down not only those who had trusted you but also yourself. The sense of shame and regret is overwhelming.

As you are escorted out of the room, the weight of your banishment settles upon you like a heavy shroud. You are left to face the consequences of your failure alone, the anger and disappointment of those you once considered allies echoing in your ears.

In the days that follow, you wander, a sense of purposelessness consuming you. The world outside is harsh and unforgiving, and you are left to bear the burden of your mistakes.

As you reflect on the consequences of your actions, you can’t help but wonder if there will ever be a way to make amends for your failure. The road ahead is uncertain, and the path to redemption, if it exists at all, seems long and arduous.

But one thing is clear—you must carry the weight of your punishment and learn from your failure, for it is only through facing the consequences of your actions that you can hope to find a way to redeem yourself in the eyes of those you have let down.

In the dimly lit room, the air felt heavy with anguish and despair. You and Dokyeom, bound and helpless, found yourselves in a nightmarish scenario you could never have imagined. A sinister figure, cloaked in shadows, loomed over you both, his intentions cruel and heartless.

Dokyeom watched you helplessly as you lay on the cold, unforgiving floor, your breaths shallow and laboured. The faint flicker of a dying candle cast eerie, shifting shadows on your face, emphasising the pallor of your skin.

Tears welled in your eyes as you whispered words of comfort, your voice trembling with grief. Dokyeom’s eyes met yours, filled with profound sadness and an unspoken understanding of the impending tragedy.

“Any final words?” The sinister figure asked mockingly.

“In another universe, we’ll find each other again,” you breathed out, and Dokyeom let out a string of pleas, begging for mercy.

The sinister figure, unmoved by Dokyeom’s pleas, revealed a cruel smile as he continued his evil act. Time seemed to slow as Dokyeom was forced to witness life slowly ebb away from you–the person he cherished most. Every passing moment felt like an eternity of heartache.

The room seemed to close in around you as the final breaths escaped your lover’s lips, leaving a haunting silence in their wake. Once filled with love and life, their eyes stared vacantly into the abyss.

In that agonising moment, part of you died with them, and the world became darker and colder. The anguish and helplessness etched into your memory would forever haunt your soul, a scar that time could never fully heal.

The End

Earth: Present Day 

“New here, huh?” The man before you asked, and you smiled at him. 

“Uh, yeah. I just moved to this town for a fresh start,” you replied unsurely, making the man smile at you. 

“Why don’t you sit next to that gentleman over there? You both look rather lost. Let me grab a few things, and I’ll sort you both out,” he instructed, and you mumbled a ‘yes’ and made your way to another lost-looking soul. 

“Sorry, is this seat taken?” You asked the stranger. He looked up at you. He had a kind face, warm eyes, and a loving smile. But something about this man was familiar like you had met him once in a dream, in a different life. It makes your heart race and mind run wild with possibilities. You knew him. You just didn’t know how. 

“Nope, have a seat,” he offered kindly. 

“So you’re also lost in a new town, huh?” He asked, and you nodded. 

“Yeah, just, I guess, sorted landed on my ass,” you joked, making him laugh and clap his hands. 

“Same, hey, we’re both lost. I guess we could be friends? I promise you, I won’t bite,” 

“I don’t see why not,” you responded. 

“I’m Y/N,” you introduced, holding your hand to him. 

“Sounds familiar for some reason,” the stranger responded. 

“Funny, I wanted to say the same to you,” you admitted. 

“I’m Seokmin,” he said, shaking your hand. 

“I wish the name rang a bell, but maybe I’m going crazy,” you added, making him smile. 

“Maybe in another universe, we once knew each other?” Seokmin offered. 

#seventeen #dokyeom #seventeen fic #svthub #indigo writes: seokmin #kvanity #svt sci-fi collab

[simplisticmythos]

CW// Mild Gore

Miraculous Vascular Syndrome My MLP Infection AU [ Simplistic Mythos ] 18+

#mlp infection au #mlp infected au #mlp fim #mlp oc #mlp art

[sehtoast]

Yearning (Homelander x OC)

18+ | 4.5k, yearning, slow-ish burn, spidersona oc, conqueror!au homelander, description of a corpse, pre-relationship pining, shared shower, first kiss, mild-ish smut, thigh riding, web-hole oral, finger sucking, 'i love you's, hurt/comfort | Fic Directory

gif by @blindmagdalena

He is the one who makes Homelander want to change everything. He is the one who brings warmth to these cold ruins, who smiles sunshine over this ashen world. He, who captured the heart of the god of death and destruction, is life and rejuvenation. 

He is kindness. Light. Peace.

He is the god of love, and he is everything to the god of death. 

He is the calming stillness that greets bloodied, shaking hands. He is the balm that soothes the ache, the water that quenches the agonizing thirst. He is the hand that pulls souls from the rubble of fury and pain and breathes relief into their lungs. 

He is simply Benjamin, and Homelander has no idea how he ever survived without him. 

Who would he be if those eyes hadn't cried on him the first time he delivered death in their presence? Who would he be without the hand that holds his while he judges the unworthy? How many lives have been spared simply because Benjamin was in the room? 

Too many. Far, far too many. God has softened his grip on his kingdom. 

And yet, they've not even shared their first kiss. Since his adventure in the other world, Homelander has always known they were destined to be together. They were a force transcending their own universe. He just had to wait. 

And wait. 

And wait. 

He had to show Benjamin that there was something inside of him worth loving. That he was more than a reaper, more than pain. 

There was love inside, buried so very deep– but it was there. 

It is there. 

He demands only the best for his Benjamin.  The best food, the best drinks, the best clothing and bedsheets.  He even has his own room in the tower.  A new, special super suit tailored to compliment his own.  The boy didn’t understand at first.  Why in the world would he lavish such things upon his assistant?  

Because he was more than that, obviously.  He was more than a footstool, more than a blood bag, more than meat meant to do his bidding.  Benjamin had heard the rumors surrounding the comings and goings of those who came before him, but the position paid exceptionally well and he was drowning in a world of financial misery.  He was prepared to be a doormat for the rest of his days just to get by, but he was surprised one day to find his debts wiped away.  Student loans settled, transition related surgeries paid off– his fucking credit score at a perfect 850 all within one week’s time of starting his new job.

When he expressed his glee about such an odd and godsent occurrence, Homelander simply winked at him.

By all means, he could quit this daunting job and focus on his heroics, but something stops him.  Not the material things, not the gifts or the rush of power when he realizes that the god of this world has chosen him as his favorite– no, none of that.

It’s when that god looks at him with big, doe-like eyes that he feels something telling him to stick around.  The first time Homelander ever took his hand, Ben knew something in that man needed him.  Maybe it was the tremble in his touch, or the overwhelmingly sad look in his eyes, but Ben decided to stay for Homelander.

Every day, they grew closer.  Every day, Benjamin chipped away at an exterior made of steel, revealing bits and pieces of a scared, lonely, pained man underneath.  God may rule his kingdom, but he is alone.  

Well, he was alone.

He’s not anymore.  When it all hurts too much, he knows where to go.  He doesn’t have to turn a town into a crater or eviscerate a gaggle of non-believers; he can go to Benjamin.  He can float down to that window and find a warm heart that will shield him from the pain.  He’ll find a shoulder to lay his head on and a hand to hold.

The next day, he’ll realize he’d miraculously fallen asleep, and the boy did everything possible to make him comfortable. Removed his boots, detached his eagle epaulets, tucked a blanket around him.  Then, beside him on the floor, he’ll peer down and find Benjamin sleeping peacefully.

He’ll feel something akin to pain tugging at his heart, but it’s more than that.  It’s so much more.

He’ll wake the boy with a thumb stroking at his cheek and a smile fit to melt glaciers. 

“Wake up, little spider…”

 He feels privileged to lay beside him in any capacity, though he wishes his lovely Benjamin hadn’t slept on the floor.  Homelander realizes that he wants to see those beautiful brown eyes flutter open every morning for the rest of his life.

Sometimes they would run around the city together.  Ben would swing while he followed closely behind.  They would make it a game of chase, or sometimes just a simple race.  They liked to hang out on top of the Queensboro Bridge, on the tower overlooking the decimated ruins of Rikers.  Mostly, though, they enjoyed the perches of the Chrysler Building at night time.  Sometimes they talked about everything.  Other times, they just enjoyed the silence and each other.

Regardless of location, Benjamin would hold his hand.  He never mentions the tremble, never laughs at how nervous it all makes him.  Instead, he asks–

“Are you cold?”

He snorts a laugh.  He’s full of padding and has enough V pumping hot through his veins to kill most supes.  Is he cold?  

What a beautiful thing to be asked.

“Are you?” He counters.  He’s thrilled when the bug nods.  Thrilled to pull him closer, arm around his shoulder, eyes cooking up a faint glow. 

“Trust me?”  He asks.  

Benjamin looks at him with raised brows, clearly a little nervous at the idea.  

“I– Yeah.  Yeah, I trust you.”

He has the bug tilt his head back and he flickers the weakest beam of heat he’s ever conjured over various parts of his body. The moan of contentment sends a shiver down his spine and it took a titanic level of self control not to focus that beam of heat right between his legs.  It’s the first time he’s ever used his powers for something so… gentle.

 Ben ends up in his lap before long.  He’s thankful for the cup in his suit. 

He wakes the next day in Benjamin’s room.

In his bed.

Beside him.

Clad in only his briefs, he slides a leg through their shared warmth beneath the blankets until he can hook it around one of Ben’s.  They did nothing more than sleep beside each other, but it’s the most intimate feeling in the world to him.

He’s never slept better before in his entire life.

A lopsided grin spreads across his face and he snuggles up close to his little spider.  An arm around his waist confirms he, too, is only in his underwear.  He dances a thumb in circles over a hipbone.  It’s the most he dares to do.  

Ben is a heavy sleeper and a late riser.  Even the sun blasting through the curtains isn’t enough to rouse him.

He dozes off once more.

There comes a day when he finally snaps.  Some nuisance in the staffing department combined with too many unwanted, painful flashbacks in one day, and it leads to a bloody mess painting an office.

He wants to eviscerate whoever called Benjamin in to fucking handle it.  

He’d lingered too long, remained at the scene– but what other choice did he have?  Run the risk of his little spider seeing him like this?

As fate would have it, neither choice would spare him the shame.

Benjamin walks in and his eyes go wide.  Homelander swears he sees fear, horror, disappointment, disgust– everything he’s never wanted to see reflected in those precious brown eyes.

He tries to speak, reach out a hand, anything– but he doesn’t want to scare him.

The body on the floor is torn in two.  The head of it is a pulpy pile of muck just mere feet away.

What were they thinking, sending Benjamin in here?  Worse yet, what is he thinking when he takes a step inside?  There’s blood everywhere.  It stains the white soles of his shoes the second he comes closer.

And closer.

Closer.

Homelander steps back with each of Ben’s movements.  His chest heaves with frantic breaths.

It’s not supposed to be like this!  He’s good!  He’s good, he’s good, he’s good– he’s not bad!  He’s– He’s tried so fucking hard to be good!

His back presses against a bookshelf.  He can feel the heat radiating from his own eyes and it must feel so hot as Ben comes even closer.

“It’s okay,” he reassures.  “It’s just us.  It’ll be alright, Johnny.”

Johnny. 

Oh, how he loves that name.  Loves to hear it, loves to be called it, loves to know he’s still worth being called something so wonderful.

When his little spider slips his stained gloves off and grasps his bare hands, he crumbles.  It’s the first time he’s ever cried in front of him.

“Please don’t hate me…”

He even falls to his fucking knees.  It’s so much worse when Ben follows him down.

He hides his face against Ben’s neck.  He remembers the day he dematerialized in the other world.  How the Benjamin there hugged him through the panic, through the fear.  Told him what he needed to hear.

Just like his Ben is doing now.

“I could never hate you.”

He hates himself for crying harder.

There is no lecture for what he’s done.  There’s tears– his own and Ben’s– but the bug doesn’t torture him with talk of why he was wrong, why he shouldn’t have done it, nothing.

Ben leads him out into the hallway.  Has Homelander keep his eyes locked on him as they make their way to the elevator.  They ascend higher and higher.  Ben keeps his hand pressed to the back of Homelander’s neck.  Comforting and grounding.  The fingers that dance through the bloody, sticky nape of his neck are even more so.

It’s not the penthouse that Benjamin brings him to, but rather his own apartment.

“Let’s get you out of that, okay?” 

His pride goes up in flames when Ben sees his body for the first time.  

His totally unsculpted, normal body.  A far shot from what the suit makes him look like.

But the bug doesn’t say anything about it.  Doesn't make any faces. Just collects the soiled material and tosses it into a laundry basket.

Homelander sits nearly naked and vulnerable on the seat of the toilet.

Ben turns the shower on and offers him privacy, but he’s so quick to snag him by the wrist and wordlessly beg him to stay.

There’s still a light tremble in Ben’s hand.  He hates himself for causing it.

“How do you wanna do this?”  Ben asks him. 

He chews his lower lip and casts his gaze down to the floor.  Curse him and all of his stupid fucking inhibitions; he always goes quiet when the bad things happen.

“Do you want me to just sit in here?”  Ben gives him a moment to nod.  

He doesn’t. 

 “Do you want me to– I mean, I can get in and help if that’s what you need.”

He gives the weakest confirmation.

“Please…” 

Homelander has peeked under Ben’s clothes countless times– seen him naked and writhing in the other world– but the sight of him so close is… He’s breathtaking.  Homelander’s praying he doesn’t end up hard from the sight of him stripped down to his underwear.  

Benjamin offers for him to keep his briefs on, but he takes them off before stepping in.  Might as well.

The bug keeps his underwear on, but little is left to the imagination when the water soaks the fabric.  Homelander shuts his eyes to keep himself under control.

His mind runs with the image anyway.  With the touches to his bloodied face and neck, the scratches to his scalp.

Benjamin washes him with such care.  He tries to return the favor and he’s so damn clumsy about it that he’d kick his own ass if he could.

Just the same as the bug did for him, he lathers a soft cleanser over his face and neck.  Rubs it in little circles, thumbs it over his cheekbones, into his brows and onto his forehead.  Ben’s eyes are closed.

He still trusts him even after what he saw.

Washing his hair is a joy in and of itself.  Sudsing up those brown locks, combing through them with his fingers, shaping them into weird styles.  The giggle from his little spider brought the first smile to his face since Ben had found him.

He cleans Ben’s hands of dried blood, too.  Even tries his best to get it all out from underneath his nails.  Benjamin doesn’t deserve to be stained with his sins.  The god of death should never tarnish the god of love.

The god of death should never tarnish the god of love.

And yet, he’s leaning in anyway.  Some flicker of confidence, some bubble of courage to do it– but he can’t.

He can’t ruin this sweet boy with his love.

He rests their foreheads together instead.  Shuts his eyes and lets the water flow over them.  It won’t run cold– Vought Tower has tons of hot water– but they stay there long enough that it should’ve.

Ben dries him.  Dresses him in his own clothes.  They’re so soft… They smell so nice– like him.  The shirt is a little tight, but he doesn’t mind.  Not when it’s Ben’s.  

They lay on the bed together.  Neither says a word.  Neither needs to.

Ben ends up ordering food from the staff chefs.

“You gotta eat something, pumpkin.”  He tells him.

Pumpkin.

That’s what the other Ben always called his Homelander.

“Here,”  the bug holds up a fork wound tight with pasta.  Somehow it looks more appetizing than the identical bowl Homelander had been reluctantly poking at.  Probably had more to do with the person offering it than anything else.  “It won’t bite.  Promise. That's your job.”

He leans in and takes the bite with downcast eyes.  

“Attaboy!”

But that… That makes his eyes go wide and his cheeks flush.  Maybe he should eat his food after all.  

Their conversations lead into an explanation of what happened earlier.  He tells it as simply as he can.

He got overwhelmed.  A bad, bad day.  A horrible day.  And then some fucking meeting happened and he saw red when the employee made an offhand, snarky comment.

Ben nods along until the end.  He doesn’t interrupt Homelander.  Doesn’t critique or shun him.  He just listens.

Nobody’s ever done that before.  Nobody but him.  Madelyn would have put her foot up his ass in some form or another.  Same with Maeve.  Stan would’ve torn him down bit by bit.  Vogelbaum would’ve ordered corrective measures…

Ben just listens.

“Next time,” his little spider takes his hand.  “Just find me instead.”

What?

“We can handle it together, y’know?”

He doesn’t know what to do with that at all.

A week later, he's lounging in Benjamin's room while the web-head practices playing his guitar. He's never been one for music, but Ben's playing is incredibly soothing. 

“Any words to that one?” He asks out of the blue. 

“Yeah, but I can't sing for shit.” Ben hums a laugh. 

“Doubt that,” Homelander sighs. “You're you. You can do anything.”

Ben looks at him with a bashful grin, but Homelander's eyes are shut and he doesn't see. 

“Alright, you asked for it.” He strums a slow chord progression.

“I thought that I had everybody by my side.” 

“Then I went and blew it, all sky high.” 

“And now she won't even spare a passing glance.”

Homelander peeked over in excited anticipation. 

“All because I… RIPPED MY PANTS!” 

Ben breaks out into giggles over a joke Homelander's certainly not in on, but strums away nonetheless. He doesn't sing along, but his laughter was music enough. 

“I don't get it,” he deadpans when the playing stops. 

“Ehh, after your time.” Ben winks. “Not that you're old or anything. It's from SpongeBob. It's funny, trust me.” 

“Christ.” John groans. “If you say so.”

Ben sets the instrument down with a wide smile on his face and plops onto the bed by Homelander. 

“Cute when you're confused.” Ben says casually, but his eyes widen and his cheeks flush the second he realizes what he said. “S-Sorry, I mean–” 

“Oh, really?” Homelander props himself on his elbow to look directly at his little spider. His grin cuts from ear to ear, thrilled beyond measure at such a slip up. “What's cute about me, huh?” 

Ben shakes his head and giggles bashfully. “It's– I meant–” 

“Ben, Ben, Benny, Ben, Ben,” he sing-songs. “C'monnnnn, make me feel as cute as you say I am!”

Benjamin's blush grows deeper, turning his cheeks a beautiful crimson. 

“I dunno, you just– you get a cute little half smile but you hide it quickly. But it’s always so genuine and I just think it’s cute.”

“Mmm, tell me more.” He teases.  Truth is, he fucking loves hearing this from Ben.  Cute is a good thing.  He’d rather hear sexy or handsome, of course, but this is still a fucking amazing sign.  And that blush?  Now that was cute.  “When else am I cute?”

He cages Ben on the bed with his arm when the bug tries to wiggle free.  He grins at the bubbly laughter from his little spider.  Homelander could hold him in place like this all day and never tire.  He’d have to fess up.  

“C’mon, Benjamin!  Earn your freedom.”

“I– Johnny!”  He whines.  “Fiiiiine.”  Ben stills himself with a deep breath.  He tries to ignore how close they are.  “You just are, y’know?  You have cute eyes and a cute nose.  Your hair is really nice and you have a pretty smile– when you’re smiling for real.”

“Oh, you flatter me!” Homelander lilts.  There’s a part of him– same as the day Benjamin cleaned him of blood– that feels guilty for what he’s pushing for, but he can’t stop.  He’s practically hovering over Ben at this point.  Faces mere inches apart.

He could kiss him right now and–

The bug’s phone goes off loudly in his pocket.  Normally it’s muted, but…

“Sorry, I gotta–  I was expecting this.  Sorry.”

Homelander leans back and gives him space to answer.  From the sound of it, it’s that nephew of his asking for advice for something that could’ve fucking waited until literally any other time.

He rolls onto his back and huffs in disappointment.  Homelander listens loosely to the conversation.  Homework help.

He has half a mind to ban homework.

Maybe he made too loud of a sound, because Ben reaches back and ruffles his hair and shoots him an apologetic smile.

Seems like every time he thinks they might finally seal everything with a kiss, something stupid happens.  It’s like fate, no matter how clear it seems that they should be together, demanded that they wait.  If it’s not interruptions, it’s his inhibitions.  A fear that one wrong move would undo months of… god, could he even call this work?

Some time passes, with Ben droning on about some weird literary rule, and then it’s silent.

“Sorry,” Ben tells him once again. “Kid took an honors class but he’s kind of terrible at the subject.”

He knew a little about Ben’s family.  Not much, but enough.

“No, that’s– you’re fine.”  He sputters.  God, did he act too mad about it? 

“Thanks, but still.  Now, where was I?”  Ben huffs a laugh and assumes the same position as before, only this time he’s the one leaning over Homelander.  Not as close as before, but it’s…

The fact he went back for it drives Homelander mad.

“Cute things, cute things…” he muses as he scans Homelander's face.  “Here,” he taps his index finger to Homelander’s upper lip, tracing over the length of it.  “The right side flares up just a liiiittle bit more than the left.  That’s cute, t–”

Oh, fuck– fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!

He did it without even thinking.  Without a fucking second of hesitation, no– god, no he shouldn’t have.  But it was right fucking there and his body just did it.

He’d taken the tip of Ben’s finger in his mouth.  Laved his tongue over it and suckled firm just once before realizing what he’d done.

His lips are locked tight against Ben’s knuckle, but he dares not move an inch.

“That’s… huh.”  

At least he doesn’t sound mad.

“Is this your way of showing off to me?”

And that sounded like a fucking flirt.

Does that mean… does that mean he should keep it in there?  Does that mean it’s okay?  His eyes flutter open just the tiniest bit to find a warm, fascinated smile.  

He tastes so good.  So, so fucking good.  Every taste of stolen underwear in the world paled in comparison to him here, now, like this.  There’s something about his… his skin.  The taste of it.  The scent.  The slightest flare of his nostrils and he picks up something… something amazing.

He grasps Ben’s wrist and his thumb rolls over that spinneret and he knows exactly what that scent is, that taste…

There’s fucking pheromone glands in there.

Among other things, as indicated by Ben's reaction… 

He realizes it's a fucking erogenous zone, too.

“O-Oh,” the web-head gasps.  His mouth is agape with heavy breaths, his eyes are dilating.  All that from one touch of Homelander’s thumb.  “Y-You– Ah!”

He has every opportunity to pull away, to rip that finger from Homelander’s mouth and jump right off the bed.  Hell, he could even cling to the ceiling for distance– but he doesn’t.

Homelander sucks his finger in just a little deeper, presses the pad of his thumb just a little harder.  Ben’s noises make him harden in his suit.

Their eyes lock and he knows.

Over the intense pheromone release of the spinneret, he can smell it.  Benjamin is wet– no. 

He's fucking drenched. 

Homelander can practically hear each little throb of his pussy, each near-silent squelch of slick between his ravenous walls.

“Johnny…”

The way Ben whispers his name with such a shaky breath sends a jolt right between his legs.  He wants to return the feeling tenfold.  Wants to see Ben feel just as fucking good as his mere presence makes him feel.

He slips the finger free and pulls Ben’s spinneret flush to his lips.  He pecks sweet little kisses at the edge of it, watching the smaller openings flare around the larger slit.  His arm has found its way around Ben’s waist to keep him close– a nice little way to realize his hips have started to grind against the bed.  He shuffles Ben’s body just enough to wedge a thigh between his legs.

“O-oh my god…”  Ben’s face falls to hide against his neck and Homelander's pleased as can be at the pitchy moan sung in his ear at the first swipe of his tongue.  “That’s– k-keep going…”

He tastes so, so fucking good.

It should be a crime for something so sweet to have been kept from him.

Homelander’s hips raise to meet the minuscule press of his cup and, in doing so, he pushes his thigh against Ben’s heat.

Ben keens weakly and starts to grind against him.  The bug’s fingers seek to stroke his cheek, stuttering with every swipe, every dip of that tongue into that sweet little opening.

It’s everything– everything Homelander needs to get closer to his own release.  Not even a touch to his cock, just the knowledge, the fucking feeling of Ben getting off on him.

Because of him.

The god of death has tainted the god of love.

He gasps sharply against Ben’s wrist.  Lips have pressed to the exposed part of his neck and he’s out of his fucking mind.

Ben is kissing him.

Benjamin is fucking kissing him.

His tongue juts out and he wriggles the tip deeper into that delicious slit.  He rocks his leg up against Ben, squeezes around his waist, helps direct him to ride it out.

Drool trails down his chin, but he can’t possibly care about that.  Why in the world would he ever focus on himself when his little spider was right there?

Is this what the fates wanted?  That he should have such an enrapturing taste before their lips could meet for the first time?  Were they meant to fall into one another before such a simple act?

But he could change this!  He could.

 He could and he fucking should.

If he could stop being so fucking selfish and demanding more and more of that sugary sweet flavor, he could break away and kiss his little spider for the first time.  He could lock lips with him, savor the most simple act of love, if he could just–

The taste is torn from his mouth, leaving behind only tiny wisps of webbing.

A hand tangles in his hair and Ben’s forehead presses to his.

That hand he’s been suckling on falls to cup him through the suit and he sees stars.  His breath catches, his eyes roll back, he’s so close, he–

“Be–”

The press of softness and warmth cuts him off.  Moving against him, breaths panting between pecks, Ben kisses him with a tenderness unlike anything he’s ever known.  He’s mewling and it’s downright pitiful, but he feels everything.

He cries out open mouthed against his little spider when his orgasm hits.  His cock weeps in the confines of his suit, relieved only by the press of the hand between his legs.  Ben pants against him until a shaky moan rips from him to signal his own undoing.  Each thrusts against the other, clinging, grasping, needing.

“Johnny– oh god!” 

Homelander’s too far gone to do more than moan through his gaping mouth.  He’s ascended from hell to heaven.  

This is…

He feels so…

So warm.  So peaceful.

Where is the shame?  Where is the anticipation of being told to go?  Why hasn’t Ben rolled off of him yet?

Is this how it was always meant to feel?

Like basking in the sun, floating above the clouds, but… so much better.  He, who has graced what humanity’s ancestors believed to be the heavens, knows no height above this world could feel like this.

No solar glow nor moonlight breeze could tingle the way Benjamin’s peppered kisses do.  No sound more melodious than that huff of joyful laughter.

“I think I’m in love with you.”

And nothing in the world more powerful than those seven little words.

It takes a concentrated effort to reply through the torrent of emotion he feels.  The words come out shaky and tearful, but they come out all the same.

He’s safe enough to say it.

He can let those words fly free without fear.

“I know I’m in love with you.”

The kiss that follows is even better than the first.

#homelander #homelander x oc #homelander smut #homelander fanfiction #the boys #antony starr #spidersona oc #spidersona #the benlander agenda #loved writing this one actually

[viv-weylin]

TF2 Frostpunk AU/Coldfront AU, this is basicslly just a rough fic outline LMAO

The Mercs were transferred to Coldfront and midway through, the 18 (red and blu) ended up stranded in a coldstorm without warning. The communication ceased between Red, Blu and their employers. Red and Blu send out their most reasonable on each team to negotiate a treaty. This led to Red Engineer and Blu Sniper talking.

They decided on a temporary treaty in RED base due to the better insulation. The soldiers were hesitant at first but eventually agreed due to the rest of the teams arguing that theres strength in numbers, and the coldstorm was going to get far far worse (according to the two engies' calculations)

During this, Pauling was on her way to Visit BLU base but got stranded in the storm. No one is aware of this yet.

Red and Blu are separate and full people in this, albeit very similar in personality.

The au revolves around the two teams navigsting the best way to fight the cold. At first. It was just blankets and huddling for warmth, drinking hot soup. Stuff like that. Eventually, electricity goes out and the engies are able to make a coal powdered generator, however it meant they'd need a steady supply of coal.

The soldiers and demos decide they'd start collecting coal during the day while the engies work on trying to create automatons to make the coal mining automated.

The pyros tend to the main fire. Making sure theres a steady supply of warmth somewhere in the base. They scrap having seperate bedrooms, 18 people all sleeping in the living room for warmth as it gets as cold as -30 c

The snipers focus on hunting food, the spies helping with their invisibility, making direct kills far easier. With 4 people cooking and hunting, food isnt too much of a problem.

The scouts leave pretty early on to try and find pauling once they get her alert. The two teams find out thet work for the same woman and decide to put that on the backburner as survival is their number one goal.

The heavies focus on gathering supplies from wherever they can find, if it is crashed trains or abandoned houses, so be it. They occasionally find survivors and point them to the nearest town, the mercs cant handle more people at this point.

The medics spend their time gathering as much medicine as humanly possible and tending to their sick.

A few weeks after the whole situation happens, Pauling is found huddling in a cave, suffering from mild frostbite but staying alive miraculously due to her top tier mann co technology she had on her.

Her leg is amputated however, and the mediguns are both out of juice. They are in -40°c at this point and its only getting colder.

In the coal mines, blu demo gets gravely sick and blu sniper decides to help him 24/7, one less person hunting food. Food is getting harder and harder to come by due to how little animals are around.

A month or two later, things are going decent until they begin to starve. They consider eating each other, specifically a heavy or the sick blu demo, but fight against their instinct and hold onto their morals.

In a moment of rage, red engie cuts off his arm and replaces it with a metal arm due to his normal arm not "being strong enough" as he continues to build automatons, trying to make one that works. Pyro comforts him while Blu engie works on the new arm (installing a prosthetic with one arm isnt easy)

Electricity is shut down so the coal can go to the heat generator that the engies built.

The frost falls to -50°c and the first death occurs. The blu scout. The boy was outside scavenging when all of a sudden, the wind got stronger and he died not far from the base. Red and Blu argue, saying that Red doesnt care they lost a member. Red says they do, but theyre so busy they dont have time to have a full burial. Some even bring up eating the corpse.

Blu argue they can just bury him outside with nothing more but Medic wants to harvest his organs.

Red Spy reveals he's scout's father- and he'd like to have a real burial. Red Scout realizes that spy is also his father- and he breaks.

Their morality does not yet falter.

-60°c

Red Scout and Spy argue one day when the argument turns violent, leading to Red Spy being pushed out and window. Spy loses his arm from frostbite and they avoid each other, fearing the fallout.

-100°c

For some reason the cold got nearly unbearable, and as the group huddles for 7 days without enough food, water or heat, a few pass in this storm.

Blu Pyro, Red Spy, Blu Demo and Red Soldier all die from how cold it has become. Blu Demo and Red Spy were already sick. Blu Pyro died of starvation, giving up their rations for everyone else. Red Soldier volunteered to leave, to try and find food. Everyone else begged him not to go, but he marched into the frozen hell without a second thought. He never returned.

The group buries all the passed without even a thought of eating the corpses passing their mind. The amount of death has kept their morality alive.

Pauling gets a radio transmission from the Administrator, news from the outside world. The entire world is frozen over due to a volcanic winter, explaining why coldfront was nearly hell. The Administrator explains that she could not get any connection into Coldfront, the world isnt nearly as bad as coldfront and the world outside are building massive heat generators similar to what the engies are doing. They need to survive for just 10 more days in the extreme cold- the Administrator has sent a rescue group.

Red engie cuts off his leg, as he wanted to be able to work for longer hours without his leg hurting. He dies of an infection as he hides this from Medic.

Red Scout struggles with immense Guilt

Red Sniper, Blu Engineer, Red Scout, Blu Soldier, and Red Pyro deal with the mourning the most due to their closeness to the passed. Blu Spy mourns the death of his brother, Red Spy.

Red Pyro becomes hopeless and leaves in the midst of the night to try and find food.

They do not come back.

7 days pass, and they are rescued after nearly 8 months of extreme cold.

Deaths:

Red: Spy, Soldier, Pyro, Engineer

Blu: Demo, Pyro, Scout

7/19 are dead.

The Majority Survived.

#tf2 #team fortress 2 #frostpunk #spy tf2 #soldier tf2 #scout tf2 #sniper tf2 #pyro tf2 #medic tf2 #demoman tf2 #demo tf2 #engineer tf2 #ms pauling

[erisluna35ocblog]

Last one for this set! It's my OC Keagan! Now this guy presented another challenge: hands. Because this style is supposed to keep line art to a minimum, I had to rely on shading to get his fingers detailed out. And of course, that spiky hair. It was tricky to figure out how it works. I need to map out his hair flow before I could render uuuugh.

Introducing the reverse world's closest thing to a Ladyblogger, Keagan Gerald Aurelio-Ashworth! Much like Reverse!Alya, he gets an undershave... and that's pretty much it. I guess the gold accessories and the sunglasses could be taken as a stronger referrence to Chloe as being the rich mayor's son has more emphasis in this AU. He's not exactly based on anyone from canon when he's like this, his design is based on making him as opposite to his og design as possible with very mild referrences to akumas and his og akuma form, Scorch, embracing the power the butterfly grants him rather than being averse to it. He's not exactly a reporter, he hangs around the upper echelons of society hence the semi-formal design instead of his og counterpart's more down to earth casual wear. Next to Fiona, he's like the second most altered compared to how he normally looks.

Why is he like this?

The short answer, it's cause the Supreme has his family under their thumb.

It started with a bad deal, his uncle died trying to dig their family out of it, his aunt Lorelei and cousin Leo ran off, and being overprotective with what family he had left, Mayor Julio Aurelio had Keagan locked up in their castle for his safety... And now what's left of the Aurelio-Ashworth Family are stuck under the Supreme's thumb. They're a political puppet and a goldmine rolled into one.

Keagan is not the sort to keep his head down. He's aware of what's happening, try as his family might to hide it from him. He still developed his hacking skills and had eyes and ears everywhere. He knows how fucked they are. For the longest time, Keagan felt so untrusting of everyone new... Never know if one of those people are under the Supreme's influence. He's heard they're eyeing him and his elder sister for their potential in wielding a Miraculous, and he's seen what happens to underage wielders after a while. Their life expectancies aren't that great, but that's why they use kids for it. They're easier to control. Sooner or later, it'll be Keagan's turn. Try as he might to find a way out, he couldn't find any. The most he could do was disrupt whatever dealings he could find - honestly, he doesn't want the same thing that happened to his family happen to anyone else. He was a minor annoyance at best. For the longest time, he felt trapped.

Then one day, his cousin reached out to him through a butterfly that landed on his watch. He wants him to join the Resistance as an insider. Through butterflies, Keagan can relay what he learns of the Supreme and in emergencies, they can either give him the power to transform or call out for a hero to save him. All he has to do is continue to play the fool and keep his ears up. His cousin heard his rep, the hedonistic party prince. While it wasn't a complete lie, he fools around to forget he's in deep shit, it wasn't the quite true either. It was the easiest way for him to be as disruptive as possible. But now, with his cousin as his life line, Keagan went from a minor annoyance to a potential back door for the Resistance. There's finally some hope he can pull him and his family out from under the Supreme's thumb.

Eventually, he met her.

He didn't think much of her at first, just another rich girl from new money. She's pretty fairy tale princess cute, he'd give her that. Her father was desperately trying to climb the social ladder... And was gonna fall for the Supreme's scam. As expected, they were hella annoyed with his interruptions but what else could he do to save them? Keagan knows this isn't necessary, when there's more effective ways to put a middle finger up at the Supreme, but he can't help it. Keagan just had to save them, even if neither of them would see it that way.

The girl was persistent. To Keagan's genuine surprise, she wasn't chasing him cause she's mad at him, she was following him to warn him that the Supreme goons are gonna mess with him for disrupting one too many deals that night. Aww. He's touched. Really. That's why he was covering her head with his jacket so the Supreme wouldn't target her too. He hopes his cousin heard all that and sends someone to save their butts.

That night was also the first night he properly met the Resistance. To his surprise, his aunt Lorelei decided to let the girl be the new Ladybug. If anyone asked him, he wasn't too thrilled about it. This girl had nothing to do with the Supreme nor the Resistance. She could've been free... much like he wished he was. Yet she chose to wear the earrings.

Contrary to his expectations, this is where the girl truly blossomed. The pretty princess turned out to be more of a knight in shining armor. Maybe she could save him.

#ml au #ml oc #mlb oc #reverse au #kaji aurelio ashworth #this is how kaji would be without shizu as his impulse control #and fuyu being his rock #he's rebelling in any way he could #even without a miraculous #crazy guy got nothing to lose

[lowkeyclueless5137]

More MLB screenshots redraws!

Season 4 and last season of the series! With my fav designs and the most fun swap in the series :3

But since those were the only ones I had left in the gallery :'3

I added these 2 original scenes :3

#twisted wonderland #miraculous mild au #screenshots redraws #plus some extra scenes #:3

[princess-of-the-corner]

I was just thinking of the interesting AU idea of Chloe not revealing her identity (or trying to cause a disaster so she can stop it) on finding the Bee Miraculous and just being a hero. Like, the entire Queen Wasp episode doesn't happen, though Maledictator does, and Ladybug is surprised when Queen Bee arrives because this means someone found it. She's mainly just relieved the finder is being a hero, but she was asked to return it to the Guardian, so she's having a mild crisis over that.

I will not mind if people give me suggestions for good fics with a similar premise.

Yeah it's!

I think I have an old post somewhere about the idea of just. Chloé using Queen Bee as a fresh start and just showing up and being a Hero and even interacting with the media with LB and CN trying to get the Miraculous back but she just nopes out and disappears every time.

[ilikeyoualive]

Been fighting with the first fic in the 'Primeval' series, so I figured that I could post a bit of what my co-author and I have so far in order to hopefully create some hype for it. And if you happen to be interested in looking into this AU, here's a link to my Main Masterlist!

Warnings: Canon-Typical Violence, Missions Gone Wrong

Word Count: 905

Sneak Peek Below The Cut:

Because the universe seemed to have one hell of a bone to pick with Soap lately, the 141’s current mission had gone to shit almost immediately after they had reached the landing zone and disembarked the heli. Price had exited first followed by Gaz and Ghost with the Scot taking up the rear, Soap getting maybe a total of three steps away from the heli when there was a sudden flash of light in the distance closely followed by the deafening boom of an anti-aircraft weapon being fired.

The Scot didn’t have time to do much else other than tense before a stinger missile erupted from the treeline directly ahead of them, flying across the small clearing to hit the heli dead on in a matter of seconds. The resulting explosion knocked the Scot clear off his feet, heat licking at his back as he was propelled forward. Soap was airborne for a breathless moment before the ground rushed up to meet him and a low, pained grunt was forced out of him when he met the ground in a violent collision.

He was laid out on the ground face-down in a disoriented state long enough that it had apparently become a cause for concern because he suddenly felt hands on him, roughly rolling him onto his back and making the injuries he no doubt acquired during the explosion twinge and throb. He blinked up at the blurry figure hovering above him, the hand that had involuntarily reached for his sidearm going limp when his vision cleared enough for him to recognize Ghost’s signature skull-themed balaclava.

“Sergeant, on your feet!” Ghost had to yell to be heard over the nearly deafening cacophony of gunfire as gloved hands with a familiar skeletal pattern printed on them suddenly grabbed the shoulder strap of Soap’s vest to bodily haul the Scot up to his unsteady feet like he was nothing more than a wee lad as opposed to a muscular full grown man. Steaming Jesus, he had forgotten how inhumanly strong Shifters were. “C'mon Soap! Up!”

“G’st…?” Soap slurred, his mind fuzzy and his body aching something fierce, but his side was screaming the loudest. The fogginess implied that he had hit his head when he’d landed on the ground, which might have given him a mild concussion. Then, suddenly, Ghost gave him a little shake —since the man still had yet to let go of the Scot even though he was more or less upright— as if to try and jostle Soap’s brain back into working order. Surprisingly, it seemed to do the trick because the Scot was able to regain his bearings with some effort.

“Run, Johnny! I’ll cover you!” Ghost shouted, his fingers uncurling from Soap’s vest strap in favor of using that same hand to firmly and pointedly shove the Scot away from him and toward the treeline a few feet to their left. Soap stumbled from the unexpected push but miraculously managed to keep his footing despite the fact that his legs were being uncooperative at the moment, the Scot lurching into an awkward jog in order to enter the forest.

He felt the occasional branch catch on his gear as he ran, the sounds of gunfire and screaming gradually fading to just an ominous echo in the distance the deeper into the woodland that Soap went. Though, sooner than he would’ve liked, Soap was forced to stop because his side was burning, the bright and nearly crippling shock of pain each time he took a step slowing his pace from a run to something more akin to hobbling. The Scot knew that something was wrong, that the pain radiating from a very specific point in his side most likely meant that he had sustained a wound when the heli exploded.

Soap stumbled into a nearby tree, grunting when his shoulder rammed into the thick trunk, sweat beading on his forehead as he breathed heavily, far too labored considering that he had only ran maybe a half mile from the landing zone. The Scot grit his teeth as he gingerly turned so that his back was leaned against the rough bark, pausing in order to blink the black spots out of his vision. It took a few seconds, but the threat of falling unconscious eventually passed.

Soap’s hand reached down to prod at his side, frowning when he found nothing and even looked down to confirm that his front was completely fine. Though, with growing trepidation, Soap’s hands adjusted to reach behind his back, grinding his teeth together as he carefully felt around the massive rip in his shirt, his fingers coming away wet. He slammed his head back into the tree when his searching hand hit something solid, the object shifting inside of him and causing his nervous system to light up like a fucking firework.

“Shite.” Soap hissed, immediately snatching his hand away from the shrapnel currently buried deep in his side. He resisted the rising urge to throw caution to the wind and just yank the chunk of metal out despite the fact that he was horribly ill-equipped to deal with the fallout of such an impulsive action. Though, he didn’t find the alternative to be very appealing either, just the mere thought that he was most likely going to have to make for exfil with a foreign object embedded inside him had him swallowing down the urge to vomit.

#cod shifter au #shifter tf 141 #shifter 141 #modern warfare ii #modern warfare 2022 #modern warfare #cod modern warfare #call of duty modern warfare #cod mwii #cod mw 2022 #call of duty mwii #cod mw2 #simon riley #john mactavish #ghost #soap call of duty #soap cod #ghostsoap #ghost x soap

[miraculousstories]

List of my fav mlb fanfics no one asked for:

(this is a very long list btw, and all links are to ao3. I try to include as many warnings as possible, but I may forget some so please read the tags before reading the fic.)

Baby Boom by ShawnaCanon

It’s about an akuma that causes everyone in Paris to… do the deed… (not graphic) and every woman to get pregnant. It somehow evolves into a timetravel fic-

400,000 words- def recommend for readers who are okay with vague references to sex.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23034028/chapters/55083382

Dearly Despised (I Love You) by snacc-noir

Lovely fic. A nice take on the adrienette enemies to lovers trope, and it adds in some fake dating. Cn and Lb start out as (more or less) lovers in the beginning, and it evolves from there. It’s not a finished fic, but still, if you’re willing to wait then read.

73,000 words so far (I’ll update as time goes on) and 33 chapters- totally clean fic, I recommend if you love enemies to lovers trope.

(Last update on the fic was 10/20/2023)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/28711611/chapters/70393941

Turn Loose the Mermaids by bookskitten

WONDERFUL. That is all I have to say about this. One of my personal favorites for sure- it’s a mermaid au where Marinette is a siren hellbent on dragging the captain of a ship (who just so happens to be Adrien- aka Captain Noir)down to the depths of the ocean… but you know it won’t end that simply.

64,000 words- WARNING- GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF SEX. I do not recommend for anyone not comfortable with that sort of thing. But if you are, go read! I promise it’ll be worth your time.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/8238214/chapters/18879793

Cut My Life into Pieces, This is My Last Resort by Silver_fox_fyre

This was… an interesting one to say the least. In this, Marinette is at the end of the rope- struggling with being both Marinette and Ladybug. So, of course the logical decision would be to fake her own death. Well, Marinette’s death, that is. Be warned, some of the excuses are kind of a long shot (for instance, she fakes her own death by using the mouse miraculous- only she doesn’t actually have the costume, she just looks normal.)

114,000 words- completely clean- characters do fall asleep on each other like…once, but nothing happens. Some passionate kisses, but that’s all. Lots of violence though, and blood and gore are a given. Character death is included as well. I recommend for braver readers.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/44353420/chapters/111546223

In Case You Don’t Know Me Tomorrow by thelibraryloser

This one is… an interesting one at best, a strange one at worst. The idea itself is that this is a universe where you can pay to have your memories erased. (No plot spoilers there) everyone is aged up in this, maybe around 20, 25. Non-magical universe as well.

56,000 words- a good fic, I’ll say, but it is a bit weird and I got bored of it at times. But stick around to the end and you’ll be rewarded, I promise. Clean as well, don’t worry.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/41522079/chapters/104136594

Miraculous Magic: First Year by spetember

*gasp* Is this- it is! The mlb/Harry Potter crossover you’ve all been waiting for!! Marinette and Adrien are 11 year olds who have just received their Hogwarts acceptance letters. They receive magical artifacts- and are told by Headmaster Fu that they must strive to defeat the Dark Lord Hawkmoth. They are 11, so while Mari does develop a crush for Adrien near the end of the fic, there isn’t much love. But honestly? I didn’t miss it. There’s so much action- I loved it. I’m thinking of writing spin-off fics about the other years, so if I do I’ll post the link in the reblogs.

58,000 words- wonderful. Simply wonderful. Mild violence, but no worse than the actual Harry Potter. Nothing related to love, as I mentioned. They are 11 after all. If you are in both the hp and mlb fandoms, I def recommend.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/11558436/chapters/25960689

Longest Night by P_Artsypants

Whump fic. Must I go on? Jokes aside, this fic is amazing. Marinette and Adrien are captured by some psychopath, and are tortured. I mean really tortured. Like I had to walk away at times it was so much- and this is coming from the person who regularly reads violence and smut. But if you can make it through, it’s a wonderful story. I don’t wanna spoil anything… but they do make it out alive. Well… kinda. I’ll let you read to find out.

210,000 words- Okay, I know I like to joke around a lot, but this time I’m serious. This is a very graphic fic which includes torture, and I mean real torture- not just the stuff you see on TV, but the stuff you see in R- rated horror movies. The fic actually references that the plot is similar to a horror film that actually got banned from almost every country in the world because it was so horrible. (The fic isn’t as bad as the film, but it is kinda horrifying.) Just for reference, here’s some torture tactics they use: Forced piercings, locked in a closet for a month, food loafs (a bunch of leftover food that’s baked with poison that makes you hallucinate) and.. well, there’s blood. I’ll just say that much. PLEASE use caution when reading, I will not say that again. For extremely brave readers only. Oh, and a side not- not completely clean. There is a sex scene at the end, which is skippable but if you are comfortable I would read it.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/19855210/chapters/47019550

The Strings of Fate by sailortwilightt

OKAY BACK TO THE NICE FICS. This is actually a two-parter, and it’s nail-biting good. It’s a soulmate AU, naturally, where an invisible red string takes you to your soulmate. Please note that this is an older fic written before the more recent seasons, so Emilie, for example, is not dead. This also evolves into an alternate dimension AU, and it has a great plot.

120,000 words- counting both fics. As warnings go, there isn’t much to warn. It’s clean as far as smut goes, and, while there is definitely some graphic violence scenes, nothing too bad. I recommend for the reader who isn’t too bothered by the canon-fanon differences.

https://archiveofourown.org/series/919836

Miraculous Moves Underground by LadyDi1980

Okay, so I’m sure you’ve seen the post about this fic floating around. It’s a dancing au, which features the clashing worlds of ballet and hip-hop. Non-magical, but I didn’t miss it. Wonderful au, really, and I def recommend.

104,000 words- clean fic. No violence (except for a few slaps initiated and recieved by none other than Gabriel Agreste) and no smut. There are some songs and images that don’t work attached to the fox. So be prepared for some disappointment in that department. Also, the music is mostly BTS.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/7203476/chapters/16346582

Blanks by DipStick45

For those of you who stayed around until the end, you’re amazing. This is my favorite fox by far, and it’s absolutely incredible. It’s a zombie apocalypse au, but it’s much more sophisticated than the usual zombies one. The actual word zombie isn’t used once in the fic. Oh and by the way, this fic made me cry. I have never cried from any book, tv show, or other fic in my life, but I cried in this one. Why? You’ll just have to find out!! Oh and also, this is only 2 chapters. Apparently they were doing a one-chapter challenge, but ao3 has a word limit for chapters. READ. I WILL PERSONALLY FORCE YOU.

103,000 words- okay so despite what I said- here are the warnings: major character death. I won’t say more for now. Violence. As expected, only times 10. Someone gets beheaded, another gets themselves split in half. The actual zombie bite’s effects are also quite graphic. There IS one smut scene, but it’s not detailed. And Adrien was high anyways. Oh yeah, alcohol use, and… I mean… they do describe the human body in some detail, but it’s not that bad. Chloe is insane, by the way, so there’s that. I think that’s it. If you’re okay with that, then read. I beg of you.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/43755576/chapters/110030079

And that’s it! I hope you enjoyed this very long list of fics! Lemme know what you think of them!

#miraculous ladybug #ml ladybug #adrien agreste #miraculous #miraculous marinette #chat noir #marinette dupain cheng #miraculous fanfic #miraculous au #fanfic #ao3 fanfic #fanfiction #ao3 #ao3fic #fanfic suggestions #you wont regret it #read the warnings #i beg of you #I don’t want anything to happen to you guys because you ignored my warnings

[coolcattime]

Ambulance Chaser [OC AU Snippet]

Hi hi!

This is a little snippet from an OC AU that me and my friend @theiratlas brainstorm about. We have quite a few AUs that we discuss a lot, but I've always felt a little nervous about sharing cause like sharing my OCs is a little bit anxiety inducing, but I wrote this scene and I felt very proud of it and wanted to share it!

This is an scene from a JoJo's Bizarre Adventure AU we've been discussing where this particular scene just got stuck in my head. It's meant to be the intro scene of kind of the 2nd act of the story but I hope it's still enjoyable to read out of context! (Also big thank to Atlas for editting and their little additions)

If you have any questions, I'm super happy to answer cause I always love rambling about OCs ^-^

Content warning for description of injuries and mild body horror.

He felt like he was going insane. Maybe he was, honestly at this point it would make more sense than what was in front of him. The doctor was scrambling to make sense of anything really, trying to give what little explanation he had to the person on the other end of the phone, hoping they could be of any kind of assistance. He couldn't believe it himself, that he, Rhys Mourningdove, hadn't come up with any information in weeks. What was particularly frustrating to him however was that he knew there must be some obvious explanation he was just missing.

He hadn't exactly been asked to do any kind of investigation, to look into the odd happenings at the hospital. It was more that he just couldn't stop thinking about it so took it upon himself to look. What was he meant to do when apparent miracle cures kept happening and no one had any sort of documentation, let alone explanations for how they had treated the patients. Rapid miracle cures that left patients not only better but as if they'd never been sick in the first place, completely ready to leave in a matter of hours, did not exist. If they did, Rhys is sure he would know about them, the world would know about them and be using them. It was infuriating that no one seemed to care just how weird it was, but him. 

As long as the press was good, he supposed, but he couldn't believe that no one found this suspicious but him.

"So your problem is that patients are being cured at the hospital?" The sceptical voice of the man Rhys had been connected with tinnily echoed through his office. He was really from the Speedwagon Foundation? He must be an idiot, Rhys thought. 

The voice on the phone introduced himself as Isaac Sharp, an accountant or an archivist or just someone who supposedly has a vested interest in making sure there wasn't anything suspicious going on at the hospital. Yet even as he had explained his findings, explained that people were getting cured with no logical explanation, the voice seemed to have absolutely no qualms with how things were going. 

"No, my problem isn't the recoveries, it's that no one seems to know how the patients are recovering, there's not even treatment plans for them, it's impossible," Rhys explained this for what felt like the hundredth time, resisting the expletive on the tip of his tongue. It was as if Isaac wasn't even listening or maybe he just didn't care. 

Rhys pushed his glasses up to briefly pinch the bridge of his nose. This wasn't how medicine worked. Someone on the medical teams treating the patients should be able to tell him the method that had been used. The handful of patients he'd managed to talk to before they'd been discharged had all recalled some kind of sting they described as being like an injection or a blood draw, usually within the hour before their miraculous recovery, but nothing of the sort had been documented even if a single miracle injection was any sort solution.

"Nothing's been documented, no aftercare has been scheduled or prescriptions written. This isn't like patients recovering, it's like they suddenly were never sick in the first place."

"Rhys."

"..." Rhys’s silence was pointed and chosen. 

"Doctor Mourningdove," Isaac said, more than a little exasperated by this phone call. His job was meant to be easy, he wasn't meant to get phone calls complaining that the hospital was working too well because that was a ridiculous thing to complain about. Yet here he was, dealing with a man that was beyond simple academic concerns, obsessed with the fact that patients were leaving a hospital happy and healthy. How had his life come to this? "I understand that it must be hard to see another doctor come into a similar position as you and get all the accolades you're used to receiving--"

"No!” He snapped down immediately “No, this isn't an ego thing."

It was a little bit of an ego thing. Rhys was a good doctor, most would describe him as a great one, but he certainly was not a person who did the job out of the goodness of his heart. He liked the praise he'd gotten, obviously he did, who wouldn't? Maybe someone new and apparently more brilliant coming onto the scene was the original reason he had begun looking into the so-called miracle recoveries, but that didn't change the facts of what he had discovered. 

"Logan Charles is a fraud! I don't know what he's doing to cure these patients, but he doesn't know a thing about medicine and I sincerely question whether he even has the credentials needed to call oneself a doctor!"

"Doctor Charles is successfully treating patients. He certainly isn't calling me to spread crackpot-nonsense conspiracy theories about a peer. Maybe you could learn something from him," He didn't sound nearly as forceful as he wanted to. Rhys certainly wasn't intimidated. But fine. Maybe he'd need to jump through a few more hoops to get the Speedwagon Foundation to actually listen to him even if Rhys still hadn't found any proof that their brand new miracle doctor had even attended medical school. He'd do this by himself.

"Fine, I'll go treat some patients right now."

"Why do you sound so aggressive?"

"..."

"Doct--" Rhys hung up the phone cutting Isaac off numbly, he had another led to follow who also happened to be a patient, which was good, he was pretty sure his break was over.

He wasn't sure if anyone praising the apparent miracle doctor had noticed, in fact he was pretty sure just that they hadn't, but at the same time as the last "incurable" patient was somehow magically cured, a young woman had fallen suddenly ill with the exact same illness despite having been completely healthy days beforehand. There was no way she wasn't somehow connected to this, even if he currently didn't have any idea how. Thankfully she was responding well to treatment, he just hoped that she would recover soon enough. Both for his own investigations, and the fact he'd been specially requested to be in charge of her care by the hospital's key donor not named Speedwagon. At least that meant no one was attempting to put any frauds on her medical team.

He turned to leave his office only to startle and stumble backwards as stood leaning against the doorframe of his office was “Dr.” Logan Charles, a shit-eating grin plastered on his dumb face. Rhys panicked. How much had he heard? The mass of muscle and ill fitting scrubs took a few steps inside, the door closing behind him. Rhys probably would have noted the door closing as if by a person despite there being no one around to do so but he was preoccupied by the cheap aftershave on legs swagging toward him. 

Logan finally stopped less than a step’s distance in front of Rhys’ thankfully wide desk, though it definitely didn't provide nearly enough of a barrier.

"So, I'm a fraud huh?" He said with far too wide a smile. His voice was low and far too calm. Before this moment, Rhys had assumed he could never be scared by Logan; irritated and frustrated certainly, he never exactly wanted to be near him, but fear was definitely a surprise. "Lot of pretty serious claims you have there, I mean how would I have even gotten a job here if I'm not a doctor?"

Rhys considered his options and chose to provoke the protein powder-keg in front of him. The reasons why still escape Rhys even now.

"I'm not sure you do have a job here actually. You just showed up one day as if you were meant to be here and everyone went along with it," It was not the most sound argument, but he couldn't figure out the trick. He knew that Logan must've been hired, but he couldn't imagine the man making it through any sort of vetting process without his glaring lack of medical knowledge rearing its ugly head. 

There was a single moment where Logan's smile dropped, it may have only been half a second, but it felt like an absolutely terrifying gotcha moment. But then that terrible feeling got worse. It was as if the “something” that had been clouding Rhys’s mind was suddenly lifted and now the starkly terrifying reality had set in.

Rhys stumbled back as the pieces connected in his head. Logan Charles didn't work here. Logan Charles probably wasn't even a doctor. Logan Charles had just appeared one day as if he was meant to be there after she…! He needed to get out of there. 

The realisation dawning on his face was not well hidden and the other man saw it.

Rhys took off in a sprint. Logan tried to grab him only to be met with a sharp pain in his right cheek. Stumbling back as Rhys fled into the common areas, Logan tore out a fountain pen from his cheek. So that's how it was? Sure, he'd come to put an end to the man, but he wasn't meant to realise anything. Stupid damn memory stand, never should've trusted anything he didn't set up himself. Well, the annoying doctor shouldn't be too hard to track down.

Clutching his new face hole, he walked down the corridor, spotting the door to the stairwell open.

“Probably headed for the fire exit, but there was no way he'd’ve made it out yet” Logan found himself narrating. Entering the stairs he could hear someone hurriedly heading down, and looking down the middle, there he was, Rhys attempting to make his escape. Logan smiled.

"Ambulance Chaser. Total Recovery."

Rhys didn't hear those words, nor did he see the stand summoned by Logan. All he felt was a stinging pain in his back and then the most overwhelming pain in every nerve ending in his central nervous system from his spine and his toes, to his gums and ear drums. It was a kind of terrible that's hard to describe especially when internally all he could do was scream. 

Rhys dropped immediately, falling down the flight of stairs he was currently running down, the pain of which he didn't notice, too overwhelmed by the ever-multiplying number of injuries spontaneously appearing with each second.

Doctor Rhys Mourningdove would be found less than a minute later barely conscious and be rushed to the hospital's emergency care. His wounds were more akin to that of a vehicular accident than anything that logically could've ended with a man being found on the hospital’s second floor stairwell. No one had any idea what could've caused such terrible injuries to appear, and it wasn’t certain that he’d even make a full recovery. 

Although Doctor Charles had volunteered to lead his care, clearly he would be in good hands. 

Unnoticed in all the chaos, a young man that had been admitted to the ER after a motorcycle accident was discharged in what could only be described as a miracle or a bizarre shared hallucination from the patient and paramedics alike. Despite the crash seeming severe, he walked away with no injuries, only a few cuts and bruises, his only memory between the crash and being wheeled out of the ambulance being that of a sharp pain akin to an injection.

#cat's writing #cat's oc #rhys mourningdove #logan charles #isaac sharp #oc jojo's au #i really just enjoyed writing this and wanted to share ^-^ #cat's fanfiction

[awholelotofladybug]

Fabricator: A Stammering Adrien AU Story

Based on This AU

Disclaimer: The only characters or locations I own are the ones I make up.  All other fictional characters and locations about Miraculous: Tales of Ladybug and Cat Noir are the property of Thomas Astruc and Zag. Please support the official release.

Credit for the plot and new characters in this story goes to @shadowlorddemon

“That’s it, Marinette. Nice and steady,” said the mayor. “Keep your back straight. You’re doing just fine.”

Marinette gulped as she walked forward. Anyone who knew Marinette could tell you that she was a klutz. She was dreading the potential disaster awaiting her if she took a bad step. Every inch forward felt like a risk as the stack of books on her head tilted back and forth like a looming pendulum. 

“Mr. Mayor, not that I don’t trust you, but what does balancing books have to do with party etiquette?” Marinette asked.

“You’re the one who said you wanted to be proper and sophisticated for this party,” said Chloé, her eyes not leaving her magazine. “A big part of that is having good posture.”

The mayor gave a proud nod. “And this is one of the best ways to practice. Now come along, Marinette. Just a few more steps.”

Marinette made her next step, then another, and another, each step made as if there were landmines on the floor. Finally, she made it over to Mayor Bourgeois, who gave her applause.

“Well done, Marinette. You did it.”

“I did it?” she asked with a smile. “I did it! Yes!”

Marinette raised her fist to the air, but sudden movements, gravity, and heavy books do not mix well, and the poor girl toppled backward with the books landing on her head. The mayor and his daughter rushed to help her.

“Mama, is that you?” asked a dizzy Marinette. “I’m all ready for beddy-bye.”

“Well,” said the mayor, “At least she obtained a new skill.”

“Plus some mild head trauma,” Chloé teased.

About twenty minutes and an ice pack later, Marinette was sitting with Chloé and the mayor at a hotel restaurant table with a pot of tea.

“Now, to continue,” said the mayor. “Despite what you have seen in movies and television, one should not extend one’s pinkie finger when drinking tea.”

“Really? Why?” Marinette asked.

“It’s rude and connotes elitism,” said Chloé. “It’s one of the first things I had to “unlearn.”

Marinette’s eyes widened. “Wow. You learn something new every day.”

“You’ve done wonderfully so far,” said the mayor. “You even managed the cutlery lesson in record time. Only four tries.”

Marinette rubbed her hands. “Don’t remind me. My hands are still sore from all the slapping.”

“Hey, it’s how I learned, so it’s how you learned,” said Chloé.

Marinette sighed. These lessons were about as pleasant as cuddling a porcupine. But then she remembered why she was doing it. She took out a picture of her and Adrien from their last date, and gave a longing sigh.

“It’s all for you, my buttercup. I just hope I don’t blow it.”

Chloé laughed “Honey, please, you could set the place on fire, and Adrien wouldn’t regret it.”

“You think so?” Marinette asked.

“Are you kidding? He’s crazy about you.”

Marinette smiled. “Thanks, Chloé. And thanks for helping me with this.”

Chloé rubbed the back of her head and blushed. “Honestly, after all the awful things I did, it’s the least I can do.”

The two friends, once mortal enemies, smiled at each other as the lessons continued. 

The night of the party had finally arrived. Adrien was ready to burst with excitement as Gorilla drove him up to Marinette’s house. This was his first big party with Marinette. Once they stopped, Adrien got out of the car and rushed into the bakery. The first thing he saw was the warm, smiling faces of Marinette’s parents

“Ah, there he is,” said Tom. “My little girl’s Prince Charming, come to take her to the ball.”

Adrien blushed. “Hi, M-M-M-Mister Dupain, Mrs. Cheng. Is Marinette r-r-r-ready?”

“Tom, go get her,” said Sabine. “I’ll keep “Prince Charming” company.”

Tom smiled and went up the stairs. Meanwhile, Sabine saw Adrien tugging at his necktie. She shook her head as she gave him a hand redoing the knot.

“Look at you,” she said. “All dapper and debonair. Excited about tonight?”

“I sure am, Mrs. Cheng. Tonight is g-g-going to be great. I’m... I’m going to make Marinette feel like a p-p-princess”

Sabine chuckled. “Honey, when she’s around you, she always feels like a princess.”

“Did somebody ask for a princess?” said Tom’s voice. 

The two of them looked to see Tom, who moved to the side to present Marinette in a short, white dress with decorative white roses on the left shoulder. Her face was painted with tasteful makeup, and her hair was up in a bun. Adrien could feel his heart pounding as he saw this approaching vision of beauty.

“Adrien?” said Marinette. “Adrien, can you hear me?”

Adrien snapped back to reality, cleared his throat, and offered his hand. 

“Shall we?”

Marinette giggled. “Let’s.”

Marinette looked around the ballroom. The room abounded with the rich and famous. There were the Agrestes and the Bourgeois’, of course, as well as the Blanchets and the Tsurugis. There were celebrities like Jagged Stone and Clara Nightingale, as well as businessmen like Emil Dupre and Mortimer Hugo. Marinette’s head spun a little. She felt like a mouse in a lion’s den. But as nervous as she was, she was not nearly as nervous as Adrien, who was shaking like a leaf.

“You too, huh?” Marinette asked.

Adrien gulped. “Yeah. It’s b-b-b-been a while since I've been to one of these.”

“Okay… Okay, this isn’t a problem,” said Marinette, trying to work things out. “Let’s just stay close together and look for people we know.”

“Yeah, good idea,” said Adrien, trying to ignore the beat of sweat on his brow.

The  couple made their way through the room, holding hands. Every once in a while, they caught a pair of eyes following them. Many seemed friendly enough, but others showed disdain at the sight of a wealthy young man dating a “commoner,” no doubt. Still, Marinette and Adrien ignored them as best they could. That’s they heard a familiar voice.

“Marinette! Adrien! Over here!”

A sight for sore eyes if ever there was one. Chloé and Sabrina were waving at them and standing with Emilie and Nathalie. With a quick sigh of relief, the young couple made their way toward them.

“Hi guys,” said Marinette. “So good to see familiar faces.”

Chloé chuckled a bit. “Yeah… You know, a year ago, I would have fumed at the idea of you being here. Probably would’ve thrown a huge tantrum.”

“Yeah. You were pretty awful back then.”

“Yeah,” said Chloé. “But now, honestly, I’m really glad to see you.”

Marinette’s eyes became as big as dinner plates. “Wow.”

“What? Did I say something wrong?” Chloé asked.

“No, no, it’s fine,” said Marinette. “In fact, that was the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me… Thank you.”

Chloé’s cheeks turned pink. Hearing that “thank you” sparked a warm, comforting feeling in her chest. A small smile made its way across her face as she decided to be playful.

“Well, now that we’re friends, I guess you better get used to it, Dupain-Cheng,” she teased.

Marinette smiled as they found a table. She loved this new side of Chloé. Sure, she still seemed a little spoiled, but at least now she was spoiled sweet instead of spoiled rotten.

The night marched on, and so did the party. The lessons Marinette had taken with Chloé and the mayor had paid off, from walking with proper posture to the proper utensil usage. Though she and Adrien spent more time flirting than they did eating. However, those who were focused on eating did work up a thirst, and Chloé decided to quench hers with a glass of punch. While at the bowl, she suddenly got the feeling that she was being watched.

“Chloé Bourgeois. What a surprise.”

Chloé turned to see Mason Edmund, the fashion designer. The thin man had salt-and-pepper hair and a scruffy beard surrounding a semi-permanent scowl. He wore a charcoal gray suit, grey dress-gloves, oxblood shoes, and carried a black walking stick with a golden lion head handle. Chloé felt her skin crawl a little. She had heard about Mason Edmund. Her mother called him “Dream Killer.” He had a talent for destroying the confidence of aspiring young designers, making them give up before they even start.

“Always a pleasure to meet Audrey Bourgeois’ youngest ankle-biter,” he said with an Eastern Finnish accent. “And how are we tonight?”

Chloé gulped. “Bonsoir, Monsieur Edmund. I’m doing alright. Just here with a few friends.”

“You actually made some friends? How cute,” he said snobbishly.

Chloé growled under her breath. Keeping her temper in check was hard enough without this know-it-all chumming the waters.

“So, who are these friends of yours, Miss Chloé?”

“Well, you already know Adrien Agreste and Sabrina Raincomprix,” said Chloé. “But the one with the bun is Marinette Dupain-Cheng.”

“Cute as a button, that one,” said Edmund. “So what is she? Teen model? Child TV star?”

"No, nothing like that. She's a baker's daughter," said Chloé.

"Quaint."

Chloé cleared her throat. "Yeah, but she is an aspiring fashion designer. It's her lifelong dream."

"Lifelong dream, you say?" Edmund said as his lips curled.

Chloé's blood ran cold at the tone in his voice. "W-Wait! Monsieur Edmund! I didn't..."

"Run along, child," said Edmund. "I'm off to have a chat with our little dreamer.~"

The villain adjusted the silver crown lion pin on his floral-print tie, and walked away.

Chloé facepalmed. "Me and my big mouth.”

Marinette poured herself a glass of punch. So far, the night was going smoothly. No words had been fumbled, no glasses had been broken, no utensil was misused, and despite a few glares from the higher-ups, she felt surprisingly confident.. That soon changed, however, when she felt a pair of eyes fall upon her. She turned around and nearly jumped out of her skin at the sight of the thin old man looming over her..

“Oh! Uh, M-Monsieur Edmund. B-Bonsoir.”

“Bonsoir, Ms. Dupain-Cheng,” said Edmund. “Charmed, I’m sure.”

Marinette smiled as best she could. “So, uh, how’s the fashion industry?”

“As cutthroat as ever,” he said. “Speaking of which, a little blonde birdie told me you were an aspiring designer yourself.”

“Uh, yeah. I’d like to start my own fashion line.”

“Yes, it’s nice to have dreams, isn’t it?” Edmund continued. “Just by looking at you, I can tell a good deal of your designs include floral patterns. With plenty of pastel colors, am I right?”

Suddenly, Marinette felt uneasy. “Y-Yeah?”

“Oh, how precious. And bold. Not everyone in the fashion world is bold enough to use colors and imagery often reserved for toddlers. Perhaps you could add some cute little bumblebees and butterflies into your designs. Maybe a princess and a unicorn as well.”

Edmund’s words cut like a knife, Marinette’s confidence began to crumble and she felt herself shaking and spilling punch onto her dress.

“Oh my,” said Edmund. “How very clumsy of you. Well, perhaps this can inspire you to design yourself a bib.”

Marinette felt like she was two inches tall. She could hear a few people laughing at her. She was ready to start crying. but just before she could...

“You leave her alone!” said Chloé.

Adrien held Marinette close. “Don’t t-t-t-talk to my girlfriend like that, you b-b-big bully!”

“What’s this? Audrey’s little shrew shows compassion, and Gabriel’s little mouse shows some backbone. Tonight is full of surprises,” said Edmund. “But come now, if anything, I’m doing Ms. Dupain-Cheng a favor. The fashion world is incredibly cutthroat, after all.”

That is when Emilie and Nathalie walked up.

“Whether or not it’s “cutthroat” is irrelevant,” said Nathalie.

“You, Monsieur Edmund, are just a bully,” said Emilie. “You’ve always been a bully.”

Edmund scoffed. “If you and your little friends can’t handle a few harsh words, that’s not my problem.”

“A few harsh words?!” said Adrien. “You... You insulted her t-t-t-to her face!”

 “Yeah! And you’re one to talk!” said Chloé. “You went on a month-long tirade after my mom gave you a bad review!”

“There is an elegance to be found in simplicity! Something your tasteless hack of a mother wouldn’t know!” Edmund exclaimed.

That is Chloé snapped. “Marinette’s designs are leagues ahead of yours! At least they have some color! Yours look like something out of a bad Halloween movie! People would rather wear old potato sacks over your depressing rags!”

Edmund snarled. “I have half a mind, you little blonde brat!”

Just then, Edmund heard chatter off to the side.

“Arguing with children. Pathetic,” said Mortimer Hugo.

“Indeed. Such insecurity,” said Pierre De Leon. “And the Bourgeois girl isn’t even wrong.”

“Quite. His last fashion line was about as dull as dishwater,” said Emil Dupre. “Honestly, from what I’ve heard, that Dupain-Cheng girl could design circles around him.”

Edmund shot Marinette a glare and stormed off, not noticing the following gaze and insidious half-smile of Emil Dupre. 

Marinette and her friends stood by the punch bowl. That ordeal had felt like an emotional 4k run, and this was a chance to catch their breath.

“I lost my temper again, didn’t I?” Chloé asked.

“Yeah,” said Sabrina. “But to be fair, Monsieur Edmund started it.”

“Chloé, I have to ask,” said Marinette. “Did you mean what you said about my designs?”

Chloé blushed. “Yeah. The truth is I’ve always liked your work, even if I never admitted it.”

Marinette’s eyes widened. “You did? Really?”

“Of course she did,” said Adrien. “That j-j-j-just goes to show how talented you are, princess.”

Marinette blushed. “Oh, Adrien, you big smoothie.”

“Not to... Not to mention smart, funny, pretty, and w-w-way too kissable.”

Before Marinette could respond, she felt a barrage of what she liked to call “Adrien smooches.” Each peck from his lips tickled her cheek.

“Adrien,” she said with a giggle. “Control yourself.”

Chloé shook her head. Watching these two was like reading a cringy romantic fanfiction. Still, it was pretty cute. However, just as things were starting to calm down, there was a loud slam as the front door swung open. As the crowd looked toward it, they saw what looked like a living mannequin with blank eyes and a big ear-to-ear smile. He wore a white top hat and tailcoat tuxedo with glitch distortion patchwork, and he carried a walking stick in his right hand made to look like a red-headed sewing pin.

“Attention, distinguished members of Paris’ Elite!” the villain proclaimed. “I am the Fabricator, the first, last, and only word on the world in haute couture! And I am here to show all of you what a REAL fashion designer can do!”

The crowd trembled as Fabricator searched the room. He slowly shifted his gaze back and forth until his eyes 

“Starting with you, little dreamer,” he said with a smirk. “You like pink and flowers so much? Let’s see what I can stitch together for you.”

Marinette froze as she saw the villain’s attack fly her way, only to be snapped out of it after hearing Chloé shout “Marinette! Look out!” and being shoved to the floor. As Adrien helped her up, what Marinette witnessed would plague her memories. Poor Chloé had become a lifeless mannequin in an unflattering, hot pink flower gown. Gasps and murmurs escaped the crowd while Fabricator chuckled. 

“Hmm,” he said. “A member of the Bourgeois clan sticking her neck out for someone else? How surprising... How noble... How nauseating.”

Sabrina’s eyes welled up with tears as she looked at her petrified friend. However, sadness gave way to rage as she tackled Fabricator, and fought him for his walking stick.

“You MONSTER! You SICK, TWISTED...”

She was suddenly silenced as she became a mannequin, one wearing a purple and green superhero costume.

“Poor child, but that’s what you get for trying to play the hero,” said Fabricator. “Now where was I? Huh?”

Marinette and Adrien were gone, but Fabricator could only laugh at this.

“Run and hide all you like!” he proclaimed. “But I will find you, and you will suffer!”

Outside the building, Marinette and Adrien gasped for breath as they found a brief bit of safety. Each one knew what they had to do next as they looked at each other. 

“Find somewhere safe to hide,” they said in unison.

“Huh? Oh, okay. Love you,” they responded in unison.

The two youngsters turned away and ran off. Marinette found herself a dark alley. Once she knew she was alone, she let Tikki out of hiding and put the earrings on in a huff.

“Ugh! I knew this would happen,” said Marinette. “Nights like this just scream “akuma attack.”

“Sorry, Marinette,” said Tikki. “But as the Ladybug, you have your duty.”

Marinette sighed. “I know, I know. It’s just... Ugh!” Marinette stopped herself. “No. No griping. This isn’t about me. Tikki, spots on.”

Meanwhile, back in the ballroom, Fabricator was giggling and grinning as he put his mannequins up in ridiculous poses, laughing to himself.

“My latest line is underway,” he said, “I’ll call it “Tasteless Fools.”

“Since you’re the one who m-m-made the outfits, would that make you the tasteless one?”

Fabricator turned his gaze towards this new critic, and much to his delight, there was Ladybug and Chat Noir.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the Miraculous Misfits in their playsuits,” he said with a scoff. “You saved me the trouble of tracking you down. Now it’s time to add your Miraculouses to Hawkmoth’s wardrobe.”

Ladybug took a fighting stance. “Not gonna happen, Fabricator.”

“Yeah, and what m-m-makes you think Hawkmoth can pull off this look?” said Chat as he struck a pose that made Ladybug giggle.

“Give it up, Fabricator,” said Ladybug. “Your freaky fashion show is over.”

“We’ll see about that, Ladybrat,” said the villain as he blasted aimed at the duo.

Ladybug and Chat dodged each blast as best they could, dodging each beam. Anything the beam touched found itself in one bizarre outfit or another. One chair was now dressed as a clown, and another was dressed like a chicken. Each outfit was a clear attempt to make Ladybug and Chat look ridiculous, but thankfully, they hadn’t been hit yet. Chat Noir, growing impatient, rushed over and fought the villain face-to-face, followed by Ladybug

“Time to s-s-s-send you and your designs to the cleaners, Fabricator!” said Chat with a confident smirk.

Fabricator snarled. “Not before I have you de-clawed, kitty boy!” 

While her partner distracted Fabricator, Ladybug snuck up behind the villain, and swept his legs.

“ARRGH!”

The villain did not stay down for long, though, springing back onto his feet, he swung at the heroes, only for them to dodge his blows. After that, Ladybug jumped away from the action, and took out her yoyo.

“Now’s as good a time as any,” she said. “LUCKY CHARM!”

The Lucky Charm appeared, and as usual, it only served to baffle the spotted heroine.

“A jar?” she said aloud. “What can I do with a jar?”

Ladybug looked around the room, trying to think about how she could use her seemingly useless weapon. That’s when her Lady-Vision kicked in, and spotted Fabricator’s walking stick.

“Okay, it’s a long shot, but here we go,” she said.

Ladybug rushed the villain, and placed the jar onto the handle of the walking stick. As soon as he tried to blast them again, the blast was stopped and redirected onto the stick, making it hot and causing the villain to drop it.

“AUGH! HOT! HOT!” he screamed.

“CHAT! NOW!” Ladybug called. “DESTROY THE STICK!”

Chat rushed over, and grabbed it. “CATACLYSM!”

As the stick turned to ash, the Akuma appeared, flying toward the window. Now was Ladybug’s chance.

“No more evil doing for you, little Akuma,” she said as she activated her yo-yo. “TIME TO DE-EVILIZE!”

The Akuma was caught, purified in a flash of light, then released.

“Bye-bye, little butterfly,” said Ladybug before tossing the Lucky Charm in the air. “MIRACULOUS LADYBUG!”

Things were settling down as things went back to normal. The villain was defeated, all of the damage was undone, and all of the petrified victims were flesh and blood again. As the evening came to a close, Marinette and her friends regrouped outside.

“So where did Mason Edmund go?” Adrien asked. “I haven’t s-s-s-seen him since before the attack.”

“He left,” said Chloé, rubbing her arm. “I tried apologizing, but he just laughed said that I’ve gone soft.”

Sabrina put a hand on Chloé’s shoulder. “Don’t feel bad, Chloé. At least you tried.”

“Did he apologize for what he said about Marinette?” Adrien asked.

“Not even a little,” said Sabrina.

Adrien growled a little before feeling Marinette’s hand take his.

“I’m okay, you guys, really,” said Marinette. “This night wasn’t all bad anyway.

“What do you mean?” Sabrina asked.

“I got to be with my buttercup. That’s always a plus,”

Adrien blushed as the two of them hugged.

“And not only that, I now know, without a doubt, that Chloé cares about me,” said Marinette.

Chloé blushed. “I mean, I couldn’t just let the Akuma hurt you...”

“Come on, Chloé, don’t be modest,” said Marinette. “You kept me from being a mannequin tonight. You saved my life.” 

Chloé cleared her throat. “Well, yeah, why wouldn’t I?” she asked. “We’re friends now, and that’s what friends do, right?”

“Without a d-d-doubt,” said Adrien as he pulled them all in. “Group hug!”

Marinette smiled as she embraced her boyfriend and her former enemies. The night had been far from perfect, but at least it ended on a happy note.

#miraculous ladybug #marinette dupain cheng #adrien agreste #chloe bourgeois #sabrina raincomprix #chloe bourgeois redemption #post redemption chloe #stammering adrien au #miraculous ladybug fanfiction

[messyhairdiaz]

Fuck It Friday!

Tagged by @sibylsleaves and @rewritetheending ☺️

Continuing my fuck it Friday tradition of sharing something I started and then more or less abandoned. I’ve posted pieces of this before, early last year I think? For various seven sentence sundays, but I figured I may as well post the whole 4.7k I have. This is an au for the show From, and who knows, it comes back for season 2 in April so maybe my interest in it will return

Tagging! @elvensorceress @fiona-fififi @gayhoediaz if you feel like sharing something

It says a lot about the last few hours that Eddie’s day is already well and truly fucked even before the car crash.

The accident is just the cherry on top, really, the pièce de résistance to this shit-tacular day.

The tree across the road should’ve been his first sign that things were about to go south, but he brushed it off. Trees fall. It happens.

The black birds filling the sky didn’t exactly set him at ease, but they’re birds. Birds fly around.

“Did you know a group of crows is called a murder?” Christopher had helpfully supplied from the passenger seat of the RV Eddie had spent a stupid amount of money renting for the Diaz Boys’ Great Summer Adventure.

“I did not. But hey, maybe they were ravens,” Eddie had said as he’d carefully turned the RV around to find a detour.

“An unkindness then.”

“What?” He’d asked, distracted as he tried to get the stupid vehicle turned around on the narrow road without getting stuck in a ditch, but he got it done, and had looked at his son, the seven year old’s face uncharacteristically serious.

“A group of ravens is called an unkindness.”

And Eddie didn’t know then, why that had unsettled him worse than a murder, but by the time they’d driven through the same tiny town for the third time, passing by the same unsmiling faces, it starts to make a little more sense.

The near collision with a speeding Mercedes stops them from driving through a fourth time, as does the tree that spears through the windshield and traps Eddie in his seat, clipping so close to his ribs on the left side that it tears his shirt and probably takes some skin with it, but miraculously doesn't impale him.

He’s disoriented, a warm trickle of blood on his brow reminding him that he smacked his head on the steering wheel on impact. He blinks, the medic skills ingrained in him already running a checklist over his body. Possible concussion, likely mild, superficial cuts and scrapes from broken glass and the tree, his right wrist hurts like it might be sprained, possibly fractured, and there’s the matter of the RV being on its side, but he’s otherwise unharmed.

But very, very stuck.

He jerks his head to the side, panic rearing when Christopher isn’t in the seat next to him. His brain catches up, and he remembers sending Christopher to sit at the dinner table the second time around, when he’d stopped and asked a man for directions, only receiving a blank look in return.

“Christopher,” he gasps, voice breathy and weak with fear. How could he be so stupid as to send his son into the back of a moving RV, where there are no seatbelts. He hadn’t allowed it the whole trip, so of course the moment he does they’re in an accident.

“Christopher!” He tries again when he gets no answer. He takes a couple of breaths, forcing himself to remain calm. He stayed calm on the ground in Afghanistan, he can stay calm here.

He tries to twist in his seat to look into the back, but the tree hasn’t left him a lot of room to work with, and gravity in a sideways RV isn’t helping him either. He draws in a deep breath and shouts, “Christopher!”

There’s a moan, and the sound terrifies him and electrifies him in equal measure. “Daddy?” Christopher asks, sounding so small.

“Hey, hey, I’m here, buddy. Are you hurt?”

“My—my leg hurts, and I can’t move it.”

“That’s ok, if you can’t, don’t try to. Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“My head hurts a little. I think I hit the table, but it’s not bad.”

“Ok, that’s good, Christopher. Can you see what’s wrong with your leg?”

There‘s a pause, and Eddie has to fight down the instinct to start throwing himself against the tree to try to get back there, but then Christopher answers him. “I can’t see. I’m on my belly, and when I try to look it hurts,” he says, and Eddie can hear the tears and pain in his voice.

“Ok, don’t try to look anymore, I’m gonna call for help.” Eddie’s phone is clipped to the dashboard, easily within reach when there’s not a tree pinning him to his seat, but achingly far now. He curses himself for never enabling hands free mode when he last upgraded. He strains against the tree, reaching as far as he can, wrist flaring with pain, and his fingers brush the corner of the phone, but he needs another inch to grab it. He stretches harder, grimacing at the pressure on his ribs, but he manages to push himself up just enough that he’s able to snag it and pull the phone out of the clip, ignoring the burst of pain in his wrist. He leans back, ignoring the dull ache in his chest that’s sure to be a hell of a bruise tomorrow and unlocks his phone.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. No signal. It doesn’t even say emergency calls only. He tries anyway, punching in 911 and holding it to his ear, but there’s just silence as the phone attempts and fails to dial out, connecting to nothing. “Fuck,” he says louder, and it speaks to Christopher’s state that he doesn’t tease his dad for swearing.

He pulls up the phone’s camera and switches to selfie mode, wincing when he gets a look at his face, more blood than he’d realized caked down the side. He allows himself one quick look at the cut above his eyebrow, deems it nothing pressing, and then holds the phone up, angling it this way and that, searching for his son on the screen.

It takes a moment, but when he finds him he sucks in a breath.

There’s a piece of debris jutting out the back of Christopher’s thigh, a dark ring of blood circling it.

——

Buck’s heart had sank when the RV had rolled through town the first time, but he hadn’t been able to stop himself from sending up a prayer to any god that will listen that he wouldn’t see it come through again.

It did, of course. And he’d watched as it stopped, and the window had rolled down, revealing an absolutely gorgeous man. He’d listened as the man had asked the closest person how to get back on the highway, and his heart had sunk further, remembering just two years ago when he’d leaned out the window of his jeep and asked the same question.

He’d watched as the RV had come through a third time, turning around at the diner and going back the way he’d come, just like they all try at some point.

The RV doesn’t come back immediately this time, and Buck doesn’t think a lot of it because that too, is par for the course. The man is probably pulled over on the side of the road, consulting a map, or trying to get a signal. If he doesn’t come back before long someone will be sent after him, probably Buck, and that’ll be that.

But then he sees the bloody woman.

“Oh fuck,” Albert says, sitting up straighter on the porch steps they’d been lounging on, and Buck’s up like a shot.

“Go get your brother, or Hen,” Buck demands, and Albert takes off, heading for the small clinic. Buck goes the opposite direction and intercepts the woman. Her knees buckle just as he reaches her, and he’s barely able to morph her collapse into a slow sit down.

“Miss, can you tell me what happened?” He asks, brushing her long red hair out of her face to try to find the source of all the blood. It’s almost funny how quickly he falls back on his firefighter training despite rarely having cause to use it in the past two years.

“RV,” she manages, her eyelids fluttering.

“Did your RV crash?” He asks, looking back down the road where she’d come from.

“Almost hit the RV. Both of us crashed,” she answers, and then passes out.

Buck’s hands go numb. She can’t possibly mean that she wasn’t in the RV. Two cars on the same day? It’s never happened before. He’s not sure there’s ever even been two in the same week. In the two years he’s been here only five cars have come before today, and the last one was months ago.

“What’ve we got, Buckaroo. Did that RV crash?” Chimney asks, dropping to his knees next to Buck and the woman, Albert right on his heels with a backboard.

“Yeah,” Buck answers in a daze. “But she wasn’t in it.”

Chimney and Albert’s attention snaps to him in unison. “What?” Chim asks disbelievingly.

“Before she passed out she said she almost hit the RV, and they both crashed. Fuck.” He shoots to his feet, his brain finally catching up with him. “There’s just a couple hours til sundown.” Buck looks at the sun and grimaces. They’ll be lucky if it’s even two full hours. “Albert, help Chim get her to the clinic and then get Athena and a med bag and come find me.”

“Where are you going?”

“To find that RV.”

——

It’s not hard, thankfully. The stretch of road doesn’t go very far in either direction outside of the town proper before you’re looped back in on the other side, and the woman’s Mercedes isn’t hard to spot wrapped around a tree. Buck checks it to make sure no one is inside, taking a moment to pop the trunk and grab a small first aid kit and roadside toolset before taking off again. Not much further he finds dirt kicked up in deep tire tracks, and if he peers through the trees he can see the back end of an RV on its side.

He slides down an embankment and runs towards the front of the RV.

“Hello?” He calls.

“Oh thank god,” someone says, and Buck recognizes the voice as the man who’d been driving. Buck’s got a half-formed thought that he hopes the man is the only person inside when the man dashes that by saying, “Please, can you help my son?”

Buck stops in his tracks and closes his eyes. The guy hadn’t looked much older than Buck, so his son must be a child. Buck wouldn’t wish this town on anyone, but a child? Fuck. He won’t be the first, and almost certainly not the last, but it aches to think about regardless.

Buck takes a steadying breath. “Yeah, I just gotta figure out how to get in there.”

Buck tosses the first aid kit and tool kit onto the side of the RV now serving as the roof, backs up a few steps, and then runs at the RV, jumping and grabbing anything he can hold onto to pull himself up. He looks around, but there’s just the driver’s door, the camper door presumably now on the ground. He carefully makes his way to the driver’s door, grimacing when he sees the tree speared through the windshield, sure he’s about to get a gory eyeful, but he’s thankful when he looks in the window and finds the tree has just trapped the driver and not run him through.

His eyes find the man’s face, sees the gash above his eyebrow, and the blood, but it doesn’t look too bad, and the man is lucid, his eyes clear and bright.

“Hey, my name is Buck. Are you hurt?”

The man shakes his head. “Not really, just fucking stuck. My son though…” he trails off, and he gets the sense that the man doesn’t want to say it aloud, whether he feels like that makes it real or if he doesn’t want his son to hear, he doesn’t know. “I’m Eddie. My son’s name is Christopher.”

“Ok, Eddie, I’m gonna get you guys out of here.”

——

Buck does not get them out of there. He climbs over Eddie and checks on Christopher, and Eddie hears him talking soothingly to his son, returning to the cab after a couple of minutes.

“How bad is it?” Eddie asks quietly, cutting right to the chase.

“It’s not great, but it could be a lot worse. I’m confident the debris missed the femoral, and I don’t think it hit bone either. But it’s all the way through and embedded in the RV. It’s going to have to be removed before we can get him out.”

Eddie won’t be truly satisfied until he’s out of this fucking seat and checking on Christopher himself. He eyes Buck, really taking him in for the first time, and his eyes narrow when he reads Buck’s t-shirt. “You seem to know what you’re talking about. Guess I’m lucky to be run off the road by LAFD. Awfully far from home though, huh?”

Buck looks puzzled for a second before glancing down at LAFD emblazoned in large letters on his chest, and then his eyes widen as he catches up with the rest of Eddie’s statement.

“Ah, no, I wasn’t driving the other car. A woman was, she managed to walk back into town.”

“Is she ok?”

“I don’t know. I left her in the care of one of our doctors, so hopefully. She told me the RV crashed, so I came running.”

Eddie’s brow furrows, and he feels a fresh round of blood squeeze out of his cut. “You live in this place, but you’re wearing an LAFD t-shirt. Are you even a firefighter?”

Buck shrugs and starts testing the tree for weakness. “As in, am I certified? Yes. Am I currently employed by a fire station? No, because we don’t actually have one. It’s—complicated,” he finishes, finding a weak spot where the tree forks. He pulls a small crowbar from the toolkit and goes to work, and after a few minutes of both of them pulling and pushing and levering, the smaller portion of the tree cracks loose and falls against the passenger side window, allowing Eddie to get free of the driver’s seat. He’s barely got both feet planted before he’s rushing to his son’s side.

“Hey, buddy, I’m here now.”

“Dad,” Christopher breathes, relief coloring his tone. “It hurts,” he adds, turning his little head to the side to look beseechingly at Eddie.

“I know, honey. We’re going to make it better as soon as we can.” Eddie feels Buck’s eyes on him as he carefully checks Christopher’s neck and spine.

“You a doctor?”

“Former army medic,” he answers, moving down to Christopher’s leg now that he’s satisfied he doesn’t have a spinal injury. The debris appears to be a twisted piece of metal, maybe part of the table, Eddie’s not sure, but it’s like Buck says, it’s embedded all the way through Christopher’s leg clear through to the wall of the RV beneath him.

The blood soaking into Christopher’s jeans has barely expanded since Eddie first saw it, and that’s good. Buck seems to be right about the femoral artery not being hit, and he’s pretty confident it hasn’t hit bone either. But getting it out is going to suck, and they’re going to need more than the little first aid kit Buck has.

“I couldn’t get a signal to call 911, can you go back to town to call for help?” He asks as he takes Christopher’s hand and runs his fingers through his hair, his heart aching as he takes in the tear tracks on his face.

“Albert should be here any minute with a med bag,” Buck says, as if that’s reassuring or a response to what he’d said..

Eddie blinks at him. “A med bag? That’s—no, we need to call an ambulance, get rescue out here with equipment, and an ambulance to get him to the hospital.”

Buck grimaces. “Yeah, so, that’s not really possible.”

Eddie shakes his head. “I know this is in the middle of nowhere, but someone will come. We can keep him comfortable until then.”

“No, Eddie, you don’t understand, I can’t go call for help. You had to have noticed you drove through town three times while driving in a straight line.”

Eddie snaps his mouth shut, because, yeah. But that’s not how the world works, that’s the stuff of cheap horror novels. “I just kept missing the turn is all. Must’ve been a switchback road, and the curve was so gradual I didn’t notice I was circling back around.”

Buck’s eyes crinkle with so much compassion that Eddie wants to puke. “Yeah, that’s what I figured too.”

“What the fuck are you saying?” Eddie demands, but before Buck can answer there’s the sound of someone coming through the woods.

“Buck?” A voice calls, and Buck stands, moving back into the cab.

“We’re in here, Albert!” Buck calls.

There’s the sound of someone climbing up on the side of the RV, and then Buck steps back for a young Korean man to climb down, a med bag thrown over his shoulder.

“Where’s Athena?” Buck asks, taking the med bag and dropping to his knees on Christopher’s other side.

“She’s coming, she said she had to get something. Buck—” Albert cuts himself off and both Eddie and Buck look up at him expectantly and he sighs. “It’s going to be dark soon.”

Eddie doesn’t miss the way Buck pointedly doesn’t look at him when he answers, “I know, Albert.”

Buck digs through the med bag and produces a small pouch. He pulls out a syringe and a vial, holding it up so Eddie can see that it’s a sedative. Eddie nods, and Buck fills the syringe with the appropriate amount.

“Hey, buddy, I’m going to give you a little shot that’s going to help you feel better, ok?”

Christopher’s face screws up, unhappy, but u fortunately the kid is already far too accustomed to needles for someone so young. “Ok,” he answers, and squeezes Eddie’s hand as Buck administers the shot.

There’s the sound of someone else approaching, and Albert scrambles up out of the RV to help a small but imposing Black woman climb down. He assumes she must be Athena.

“It’s getting dark, Buck,” she says, and Eddie watches as his shoulders tighten.

“Why does everyone keep saying that?” he asks, but that just makes Buck’s shoulders tighten further.

“These woods get dangerous at night,” Athena says, but Eddie knows they’re all hiding something, and although he’d found himself wanting to trust Buck from the moment he saw him, he feels like he’s on the defensive now.

But he buttons down his distrust. These people are clearly hiding something, but they do seem like they want to help. And he’s currently in desperate need of it.

“Can we move him? Get him to the clinic and deal with his leg there?” Athena asks, observing the scene.

Buck shakes his head. “No. The debris is pinning him to the wall of the RV, and it’s not as simple as just lifting him off it and carrying him out. Even without femoral damage we don’t want to risk that kind of bleeding.”

Athena nods. “Alright. What’s the timeframe then?”

“It won’t be done until well after dark,” he says, and Eddie watches as he and Athena seem to exchange some sort of silent communication. Athena sighs, and digs something out of her pocket.

“Guess you’ll be needing this then,” she says, letting the item drop from her hand. It’s a talisman of some sort, and it hangs by a piece of string from her middle finger.

Albert’s eye widen. “Will that work here?”

Buck grimaces, but accepts the charm from Athena. “No way to know but to do it. You two better go home.” Buck finally looks at Eddie again, meeting his gaze head on. “You need to go with them.”

Eddie can’t help it, he laughs. “Yeah, like hell.”

“Eddie, Athena’s serious. You don’t want to be out here at night if you can help it.”

Eddie raises his eyebrows. “You think hearing that will make me be willing to leave my injured son? With a stranger? Over my dead body.”

Buck looks like he wants to argue but Athena just says, “Buck,” and shakes her head when he cuts a look at her.

“I’ll stay too,” Albert says, and Athena barely gets out a snort before Buck’s arguing.

“No, you absolutely are not.”

“What if the talisman doesn’t work, Buck? I could help.”

“No you can’t, and you know it. Chimney’s probably going to be at the clinic tonight with the woman from the Mercedes, so you can help by staying with Maddie. But do not tell her where I am. The last thing we need is her storming off in the middle of the night to try to drag me home.”

Albert scoffs. “Like she won’t figure it out when I show up instead of you.”

“Then you’ll just have to make sure she stays put, won’t you?”

Albert looks like he wants to keep fighting, but it’s clear even to Eddie that it’s a lost battle, and Albert’s shoulders slump in defeat. “Fine.”

“Glad that’s settled,” Athena says. “But let’s get the windows covered before we go.”

“Good plan. Eddie, do you have any camping lanterns?”

——

Buck can read the helplessness written all over Eddie’s face. He’d told Buck where to find the lanterns and had sat, silent and stony faced, holding Christopher’s hand as Albert and Athena had stripped the bed for sheets and blankets to cover the windows with. He’d remained quiet as Albert had climbed out, as Athena had pulled him aside in the cab to squeeze his shoulder and mutter a quiet be careful, Buckaroo, and make sure he is too before hanging the talisman on the tree and accepting Albert’s hand to climb out.

It’s only once they’re gone, and Buck has returned to kneel at Christopher’s side, that Eddie speaks again.

“We have to focus on getting this thing out of my son’s leg. But once we have, you’re going to talk, and you’re going to tell me what the fuck is going on in this place.”

Buck meets his eyes, reads the determination there and knows there’s no getting out of it. Besides, Eddie probably hasn’t caught on yet, but they’re not leaving this RV until morning. There will be plenty of time to talk.

“Let’s get to work then,” Buck says, so they do.

It’s rough, and time consuming. The sedative Buck gave Christopher isn’t anesthesia, so he isn’t saved from the worst of the pain. More than once he sees Eddie wiping his own tears away seconds after wiping away Christopher’s.

Buck can tell it’s killing Eddie that he can’t be much help, but Buck takes on look at Eddie’s purpling wrist, on his dominant hand, of course, because why wouldn’t it be, and vetoes Eddie providing much more than moral support and occasional instruction.

It’s unfortunate, because as a former army medic Eddie most likely has experience with injuries like this, and while Buck did have to have emt certification to be a firefighter in Los Angeles, he’d only been on the job for two weeks before he’d gotten a call from Pennsylvania that had culminated in being stuck here.

But, eventually, it’s done. It’ll most likely need to be cleaned again in the morning when they can get to the clinic, and he’ll need antibiotics, but the obstruction is removed and the wound closed and wrapped. Buck sits back and wipes the sweat off his brow, glancing at the tiny gap in the sheets where the tree made it impossible to block the windshield entirely and is met with pitch black darkness.

“We’re not leaving until daylight, are we?” Eddie asks as he carefully arranges Christopher in his lap, the boy curling against his dad’s chest.

“We wouldn’t make it ten feet out of this RV,” Buck answers, gaze automatically finding the talisman. He hasn’t heard them yet, but he knows they’re out there. They’re always out there, once it’s dark.

“What is it? Bears? Wolves?”

Buck can’t help the bitter laugh. “Bears and wolves are survivable. No, this is something–something else,” he shrugs. “I know you want answers, and I’ll tell you what I know, but the first thing you need to understand is there are no answers. Least not any we know.”

Eddie’s jaw works for a moment. “Ok. Tell me what you know then.”

So Buck talks. He starts with his own story, how two years ago he’d just started as a firefighter in Los Angeles when his sister had called him from Pennsylvania, needing help. He leaves out the details of that, but he talks about how he went, loaded her up in his Jeep, and set out for California, when maybe twenty miles past the Pennsylvania state line, there had been a tree in the road.

“We detoured because of a downed tree too,” Eddie says, and Buck nods.

“We all did. Did you see the crows too?” Eddie hesitates, and then gives a jerky nod. “We all saw those too. And we all turn around, and we all drive through this tiny town. And then we all drive through it again.”

“When you say all…”

“I mean all. No one is from here, we’re all from somewhere else.”

“None of this is possible. You said you were just outside of Pennsylvania? I was in Colorado.”

“And Albert and his brother Chimney were in Oregon. Athena and her family were in Arizona. Everyone here was somewhere different when we drove into this town and never left.”

Eddie shakes his head. “That’s impossible,” he repeats.

Buck shrugs. “Yes, it is. But it’s also true.”

“Say I believe you about that. What’s with the talisman? What’s in the woods?”

Buck takes a deep breath. This is the hard part. If Eddie’s having a hard enough time believing him about the town at large, he’s not going to believe this next part at all. But he’ll have proof soon enough, because Buck knows it’s just a matter of time until they start circling the RV, it’s a wonder they haven’t already.

“There are things out there that only come out at night. We don’t know for sure what they are, only that they look like us, but they aren’t. These talismans keep us safe, keep them from coming into our homes unless we open the door for them.”

“Why would anyone do that?”

“Because they talk, Eddie, and they ask us to. And it can be pretty fucking hard not to listen.”

“You know what you’re describing sounds an awful lot like vampires.”

Buck nods. “Don’t say that in town though, makes people jumpy. I don’t know if that’s what they are, but they’re definitely similar. But if they catch you out after dark you’re not going to have two little mosquito bites on the side of your neck. They’ll tear your ribcage open and eat your heart.”

“Jesus.”

“I’m not saying any of this to scare you. You need to know, because you’re stuck here like the rest of us now.”

Eddie looks down at the child sleeping on his chest. “I don’t believe in shit like this.”

“I didn’t either, not really. You learn to adapt.”

Eddie looks past Buck at the talisman. “What happens if it doesn’t work for an RV?”

Buck doesn’t respond for a moment, weighing the repercussions of honesty here. But he can tell Eddie needs the truth, and can handle it, so he says, “We pray it’s quick.”

——

Eddie is awoken by the sound of nails scraping against metal. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but the crick in his neck tells him it’s been a while.

He sits up, careful to not dislodge Christopher. Buck had turned off all the lights but one, but it’s enough light to see Buck standing a few feet away, crowbar clutched in a white knuckle grip.

“Is it—” he cuts himself off when Buck holds a finger up to his lips and nods.

The scratching moves along the side of the RV, and Eddie is all too aware that he can’t hear the sound of footsteps on the dry leaves, despite everyone else’s approach being announced by the crunch.

“Eddie.”

He jumps, because that wasn’t Buck’s voice.

#fuck it Friday

[sternschauer-detektiv]

Did you hear about the miraculous Big Bang 2022?

A friend of mine (@writerriderdirtythirties) wrote "Can Life Be Beautiful (Instead of Big Fun)" - a Heathers AU - and though we didn't collaborate in the event, I couldn't stop my fingers from drawing after reading.

So here you a have a mild spoiler for chapter 3 under the cut!

CW: mild injuries

Credits to me

Please, reblog, don't repost.

#miraculous ladybug #marinette dupain cheng #les aventures de ladybug et chat noir #tales of ladybug and cat noir #miraculous tales of ladybug and chat noir #ml big bang #artist alley #artists on tumblr #digital art