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harrysfolklore · 5 months

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I SAY YES TO ERAS DANCER!YN

i thought about this concept when i watched the eras tour film and you guys encouraged me to write it so here it is ! i enjoyed it a lot so i really hope you like it

ps. the usernames on the comments are taylor’s dancers ! (they’re all so cool i’m obsessed with them)

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON

liked by audreydouglass, kamnsaunders and 11,927 others

yourinstagram ready for hotel rooms to be my new home now 🕺

view all 638 comments

audreydouglass ❤️

taylorfan1 she’s one of the eras tour dancers ! make sure to follow them all

gemmastyles Best of lucks !

janravanik Let’s go !

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harrystyles Love On Tour. Manila. March, 2023.

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harryfan1 BABYYYY

yourinstagram miss you 🤍

harryfan2 he’s pocket size

alessandro_michele ❤️

harryfan3 i love singlerry

liked by annetwist, janravanik and 17,927 others

yourinstagram 2023 had a blank space, and i wrote @taylorswift in it. let the games begin, the era’s tour !

to the cast… i can’t wait to spend this season of life with you.

🫶✨💜🧣💃🖤🐍💘💋🪩🥂💛⏱️🍾🌃

view all 701 comments

yourbestie Wishing you the best 💘💘

taylorfan1 YOU KILLED IT

nat_b_peterson A true star love you ❤️let’s do this

taylorfan2 my dream job

annetwist ❤️

liked by harryfan1, harryfan2 and 19,927 others

harryupdates HARRY ATTENDED OPENING NIGHT OF THE ERAS TOUR LAST NIGHT !!!!

view all 989 comments

harryfan1 WTF???

harryfan2 NO WAY

taylorfan1 is that really him ??

taylorfan2 HUH?

harryfan3 OMFGGGGG THE IMPLICATIONS

taylorfan3 taylor’s best ex

liked by janravanik, gemmastyles and 20,016 comments

yourinstagram who’s coming to tampa night two?? let the games begin ⚡️

view all 907 comments

taylorfan1 obsessed with them

gracieabrams Best one out there 🕺

taylorfan2 i love the tour dancers soooo much

taylorfan3 MY SHOWWW

gemmastyles I cannot wait to see this show

↳ harryfan1 gemma hello ???

FANS VIA TWITTER

liked by taylorfan1, annetwist and 22,827 others

yourinstagram when your boy couldn’t make it to nashville but he’s a hopeless romantic lol

view all 913 comments

taylorfan1 aweee

kamnsaunders That boy is head over heels !

taylorfan2 she has a boyfriend nooo :( she’s my crush

annetwist ❤️

↳ harryfan1 i think she’s a family friend or something, anne and gemma always comment on her posts lol

nat_b_peterson This relationship gives me life

liked by harryfan1, taylorfan1 and 297,894 others

tmz_tv Looks like #TaylorSwift & #HarryStyles really never go out of Style. Tap the link in our bio to see what we know about their recent rekindle!

view all 1,109 comments

harryfan1 huh?

taylorfan1 SOMEBODY CALL TREE PAINE

↳ harryfan1 AND JEFF AZOFF

harryfan2 man i hate tmz with a passion

taylorfan2 y’all is this true?

harryfan3 you guys are better than believing TMZ

taylorfan3 IT COUPLE IS BACK

yourinstagram 😂😂😂😂

↳ janravanik I was about to send you this !

↳ taylorfan4 taylor’s dancers are laughing its FAKE

TMZ ARTICLE

Harry Styles and Taylor Swift have their fans buzzing with excitement at the possibility that they’re back together.. and based on the many sightings of him at Taylor’s concerts.. they may be on to something.

The former flames, who had a brief but memorable relationship back in the day, have sent the internet into a frenzy with speculations about a possible rekindling of their romance.

The' As it Was' singer was seen sneaking into the opening night of Taylor Swift's tour in Arizona, catching the attention of eagle-eyed fans who couldn't believe their luck witnessing both pop icons under one roof. But that wasn't all – Styles continued his tour attendance, popping up at shows in Tampa and Atlanta, adding fuel to the already rumors of a reconnection.

A source has also provided us pictures of Harry pulling up at Gillette Stadium in Foxborough, Massachusetts, where Taylor’s show took place this weekend.

Their history is no secret – Taylor Swift and Harry Styles' romance made headlines years ago, with their short-lived yet highly publicized relationship making fans go crazy. From romantic strolls in Central Park to cozying up at award shows, their time together never goes out of style.

But what does Harry's sudden appearance at Taylor's tour mean? Could it just be a friendly show of support between two mega-stars, or is there something more happening behind the scenes?

Fans have taken to social media, discussing every moment of their recent encounters, analyzing their body language, and even coming up with conspiracy theories about secret messages hidden in their song lyrics. Some die-hard 'Haylor' shippers are convinced this could be the moment they've been waiting for – the reunion of one of pop culture's most talked-about couples.

Both Styles and Swift have remained notoriously private about their personal lives, keeping fans guessing and rumors going around. Neither camp has confirmed or denied the speculations, leaving the world to wonder if there's a romantic renaissance on the horizon.

As the 'Eras Tour' continues its journey across the country, all eyes remain glued to the stage, anticipating every possible hint of a rekindled spark between Harry Styles and Taylor Swift.

Stay tuned as we keep our lenses focused and our ears to the ground for any whispers, sightings or signs of this potential Hollywood romance getting back together.

liked by harryfan1, harryfan2 and 10,927 others

harryupdates Harry out in New York today !

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harryfan1 AHHHHH

harryfan2 who is THAT

harryfan3 waiiiiiit whats going on

harryfan4 chill istg y’all have been sooooo dense lately, first starting rumors of him and taylor getting back together and now freaking out over harry greeting a (probably) a friend

liked by gemmastyles, kamsaunders and 25,927 others

yourinstagram i really do 🫶🏻 new york

📸by my, my, my, my, my, loverrrr 💘

view all 940 comments

taylorfan1 she’s so prettyyyyy

audreydouglass You both give me life 🥹

janravanik Quoting the boss 🤩

gemmastyles I can’t wait to see you rock the stage tonight

↳ harryfan1 GEMMA IS GOING TO THE ERAS TOUR ???

taylorfan2 eras tour dancers give me life

liked by harryfan1, harryfan3 and 15,928 others

harryupdates Harry and Gemma at The Eras Tour in MetLife Stadium tonight !

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harryfan1 WTF?????????

harryfan2 i’m officially believing the rumors that him and taylor at back together

taylorfan1 WE?

harryfan3 what the actually fuck is going on this is the FOURTH show he attends and now with his family ?? lord i’m coming up

liked by annetwist, yourinstagram and 866,297 others

gemmastyles I went to The Eras Tour in my Reputation era I guess ✨🖤🐍

view all 21,036 comments

harryfan1 SLAAAY

annetwist My turn now ! ❤️

↳ harryfan2 ANNE IS GOING TO THE ERAS TOUR ??? wtf is going on

yourinstagram love you so much, so happy you could make it 🥹💘

↳ harryfan3 see i’ve been saying that she must be a family friend

harryfan4 rumors of haylor being a thing again lowkey don’t sound too crazy

liked by harrystyles, yourinstagram and 803,827 others

annetwist The Eras Tour with my girl @gemmastyles 👯‍♀️ watching the amazing @yourinstagram rock the stage. Of course the star of the show @taylorswift gave her all and blew us away ! Amazing night ❤️🎶

view all 23,972 comments

harryfan1 OMG

gemmastyles Oh I love being a woman 💘

↳ harryfan2 she gets it

yourinstagram love you both so much ! thanks for coming 🤍

↳ harryfan3 she must be gemma’s bff or smth

taylorfan1 HAYLOR IS SO ALIVE

liked by harryfan1, harryfan2 and 17,029 others

harryupdates Harry just followed this account on Instagram !

view all 201 comments

harryfan1 oh????

harryfan2 he has attended so many eras tour shows he befriended the cast

harryfan3 she also interacts with gemma a lot 👀

harryfan4 how crazy would it be if he’s dating her and not back with taylor like everyone thinks lol

↳ taylorfan1 don’t be delusional

liked by harryfan1, taylorfan1 and 22,017 others

harryupdates HARRY BACKSTAGE AT THE ERAS TOUR IN DENVER !!!

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harryfan1 STOOOP

harryfan2 i was against the rumors of haylor rekindling but this is so 😭

taylorfan1 if i had a nickel for every time harry has attended the eras tour i’d have more than 5 nickels which is INSANE

harryfan3 the rumors are true i guess

TWITTER

liked by gemmastyles, kamnsaunders and 27,018 others

yourinstagram the way fans figure things out never ceases to amaze me 😛 #randomthougts

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harryfan1 is this who we think harry is dating?

tamiyaxlewis 😂😂 Love youuuu

taylorfan1 i want to know the eras tour inside tea

gemmastyles Welcome to my life

harryfan2 blink if you’re dating harry

harryfan3 she’s so pretty tho

liked by harryfan1, taylorfan2 and 10,726 others

haylortea TAYLOR JUST ANNOUNCED 1989 TV WITH HARRY IN THE AUDIENCE !!! STYLE FT HARRY IS COMING

view all 201 comments

harryfan1 OMFGGG

harryfan2 WAS HARRY REALLY THERE ??

↳ taylorfan1 yes there’s pictures around twitter !

taylorfan2 i think a collab with harry is possible since it’s been denied that they’re back together !

harryfan3 THE IMPLICATIONS !

HARRY VIA INSTAGRAM STORIES

liked by harrystyles, gemmastyles and 96,827 others

yourinstagram here’s the reason he attended so many shows 🥹💘 (if you know you know)

view all 5,927 comments

harryfan1 HUH?

kamnsaunders FINALLY !!!

harryfan2 if i can’t see his face it’s not real

annetwist Love, love ❤️

taylorfan1 this is hilarious LMAO y’all really thought it was all about haylor

harryfan3 WHY AM I CRYING THIS IS THE SOFTEST HARD LAUNCH EVER

harrystyles ❤️

↳ harryfan1 STOP

↳ harryfan3 I JUST FELL TO MY KNEES

liked by harrystyles, gemmastyles and 102,927 others

yourinstagram Taylor Swift: Era’s Tour World Premiere 🫶🏻✨🥹 To Taylor and the cast: I just love y’all. That’s it.

view all 5,207 comments

harryfan1 okay she’s stunning

audreydouglass She’s beauty and she’s grace… love you twin 🥰

harryfan2 DID HARRY ATTEND THE PREMIERE?

↳ harryfan3 i don’t think so there’s no pics

annetwist Congratulations ❤️

harryfan4 i’ve lived 293728 lives since the first time harry was spotted at the eras tour

liked by harryfan1, harryfan2 and 12,028 others

harryupdates HARRY AT THE ERAS TOUR FILM PREMIERE !!

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harryfan1 AHHHh

harryfan2 HE LOOKS SO BABY

harryfan3 my heart he gave yn her time to shine

harryfan4 I LOVE THIS COUPLE !! who would’ve thought harry would be dating one of the era’s tour dancers

taglist: @lightsoutstyles @willowpains @straightontilmornin n @sleutherclaw @gimsaysay y @hazzassmirk @platinumbarbie143 @musicforcinemas @celesteblack08 @scntfrhs @eleanordaisy @lomlolivia a @iceebabies @iloveshawn @be-with-me-so-happily @watermelonsugacry @rayisthehoe @drewrry @white-wolf-buckaroo

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yourartmatters-itswhatgotmehere · 4 months

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new favorite video, yes!!❤️🤍💙 #RWRB #RWRBMovie #RedWhiteAndRoyalBlue thank you Aneesh!!

!! more VERY IMPORTANT RWRB content in this post: https://yourartmatters-itswhatgotmehere.tumblr.com/post/739408729011781632/rwrb-this

Henry Fox & Arthur Fox-post here: https://yourartmatters-itswhatgotmehere.tumblr.com/post/738761008290627584/when-alex-texted-henry-yo-theres-a-bond

----from: https://instagram.com/p/C1POyPot_ZC/

my RWRB instagram highlight here: https://www.instagram.com/stories/highlights/18198132073262637/

THIS SONG IS SO FIRSTPRINCE!! thank you Nick & Taylor, i'm adding it to my RWRB playlist!!

youtube

♥. and now some RWRB links here:

Matthew talking about Alex's bisexuality ahead of the movie:

Alex, our ACD, our bisexual king post:

our FIRSTPRINCE post/mostly beautiful pictures/:

FIRSTPRINCE EDITS(post with edits/links♥):

coming out-important post/A's speech(both movie+book versions):

RWRB DELETED SCENES post:

RWRB BLOOPERS/BTS post:

THAT SCENE-Alex and Prince Henry Flirt Over Text:

KARAOKE SCENE:

Them reading RWRB:

!! https://nicostiel.tumblr.com/post/725473496174575616/red-white-and-royal-blue-2023-text-posts

for more bonus content post, nick's other queer roles posts, more taylor etc visit my tumblr account and use the hashtags in the search!♥

+ https://www.tumblr.com/yourartmatters-itswhatgotmehere/729333681897046016/the-delicate-art-of-the-grab-and-kiss?source=share

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 4 months

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Napoleonville [Chapter 1: The Fall-Down House]

Series Summary: The year is 1988. The town is Napoleonville, Louisiana. You are a small business owner in need of some stress relief. Aemond is a stranger with a taste for domination. But as his secrets are revealed, this casual arrangement becomes something more volatile than either of you could have ever imagined.

Chapter Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), dom/sub dynamics, alligators, kids, parenthood, smoking, cupcakes!

Word Count: 7.2k (she's very chonky for a first chapter).

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Since this is the first chapter of a new series, I'm going to tag a bunch of usual readers, but I won't tag you again unless you want me to. 💜

@persephonerinyes @tinykryptonitewerewolf @daenysx @babyblue711 @arcielee @bhanclegane @jvpit3rs @padfooteyes @marvelescvpe @travelingmypassion @darkenchantress @yeahright0h @poohxlove @trifoliumviridi @bloodyflowerrr @fan-goddess @devynsficrecs @flowerpotmage @thelittleswanao3 @seabasscevans @hiraethrhapsody @libroparaiso @st-eve-barnes @chattylurker @vagharnaur @moonlightfoxx @heliosscribbles @beautifulsweetschaos @namelesslosers @partnerincrime0 @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @marbles-posts @maidmerrymint @backyardfolklore @dd122004dd @jetblack4real @joliettes @mariahossain @minttea07 @please-buckme @florent1s @tempt-ress @wintersire @w3ird11 @eltherevir @florent1s @maii777

Let me know if you'd like to be tagged! 🥰🧁

“What do you want to do to me?” you whisper through the phone, stretched out across your bed like a cat as George Michael’s Faith plays from the baby pink Panasonic boombox out in the kitchen. It’s late afternoon, and fading daylight falls in tiger stripes through the window blinds. The May air is hot, muggy, golden; cicadas hum in the southern live oaks, an ancient earthen music like rattling bones.

A few seconds pass before he can reply. It was a bold way to begin. You are admittedly a little impressed with yourself; an idea like this has been pacing around in your skull like a beast behind bars for years, but you’ve only now set it loose. “That’s difficult to explain in words,” he says; and in the low, teasing purr of his voice you can hear that your gamble paid off like striking oil. He has a British accent, which you never would have expected. You only recognize it from clips you’ve seen of Prince Charles and Princess Diana on 60 Minutes. “But I’d enjoy showing you.”

It’s laid open beside you on the bed, his personal ad in the Bayou Journal: Educated white male in his mid-20s. Single and not looking to change that. Seeking an open-minded, adventurous, and spirited lady for short-term D/s arrangement. Be prepared to answer the following riddle: I’m small but loom large, I’m Italian but French, I give away much to gain little. Who am I? Best regards, An Indecent Gentleman. “I’m waiting.”

“You understand what is meant by D/s?”

“Of course,” you say, your best feigned flippantness. You only know because Amir told you; he’s been daring you to call for three days.

“Thank God,” the man on the other end of the line sighs. There is an inhale like a drag on a cigarette. You imagine what he might look like: broad or slight, dark-haired or blonde, striking or average or homely, treacherous or safe, forbidden fruit or just plain forbidden. “I’ve had four different women ring me thinking I’m going to be their boyfriend, dinner and flowers and everything. They’re functionally illiterate down here.”

How unfortunate, you think. He’s highfalutin. But alas, no one is perfect. That’s no prohibitive obstacle. He doesn’t need to be faultless; it’s not as if you’re planning to marry the guy. “I like when someone else is in control.”

“Why?” This is a test, you can feel it. You can sense his rapt attention across the wire, through the electricity and the lush treetops and the rust-amber sky.

“I have a lot of…responsibilities in my real life,” you explain. “A lot of pressure. I make the decisions, I look out for other people. Sometimes I want to be the one who’s told what to do.”

“I can make that happen. And the riddle?”

“It’s Napoleon.”

The grin is sharp and triumphant in his voice. “Good girl.”

“He was short but an emperor. He was born in Corsica to an Italian family, but he ended up ruling over France. He sold off a bunch of French colonies to focus on conquering Europe and still couldn’t quite manage it. But the U.S.A. got this charming little corner of the world as part of the bargain.”

“You’re a historian,” the man says, sounding pleased.

“No sir, we all had to learn about him in school whether we wanted to or not.”

“Sir,” he echoes, tasting it, savoring it. You imagine a pink tongue flicking out to skate across his lips. Then he is abruptly cool, impersonal, businesslike. “Listen, I’ve got a scar down the left side of my face. It’s thin, it’s clean, but it’s noticeable. The eye is glass, although you can’t really tell unless you look closely. Is that a problem?”

A scar? Is he a veteran? A lion tamer? A motorcycle enthusiast? You try to remember what kinds of hobbies British people have. Isn’t there some kind of sport where men swing sticks around while riding horses? That sounds like it could put an eye out. Perhaps to your own surprise, you find that you are more intrigued than uneasy. Oh, you realize, dull like dawn through mist. I like him. I want him. Not just THIS, but HIM. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Brilliant. I don’t want to talk about it again.”

“That’s fine.” You hesitate. “There’s actually something I should tell you too.”

“Hm?”

The hum of his voice is arrogant, hungry. You try not to get distracted. Blood rushes hot and ashamed into your cheeks. “Um, well, uh, sometimes it’s difficult for me to…you know. Finish. Not when I’m alone, just when I’m with a guy. Especially if I’m anxious. And I don’t want to feel worried about faking it or making sure it happens or dealing with you getting offended or upset or whatever. Because it’s fine, really. It doesn’t mean I’m not having a good time. I’m just…stuck in my own head.”

There is a sound you can’t quite match to an expression, an exhale, a scoff. “Obviously I wouldn’t be mad at you. But you’ll come. I know you will. I’ll make you.”

And you’re flooded with a relief that you never dared to hope for. A confession spills out in a trembling whisper: “Please.”

“When?” he says, eager, urgent.

“I think if we don’t do it now, I’ll lose my nerve.”

There is a razor-thin pause, and then he asks for your address.

~~~~~~~~~~

You haven’t had a man in your bed in years; you are abruptly and unkindly reminded of this when you paw through the top drawer of your bedroom dresser and find only practical, deadly unsexy cotton Kmart underwear. You dash to the closet, yank open the squeaking door, and—tucked away in a cardboard box of winter clothes like sweaters and jeans, forgotten, needless—unearth a sprinkling of insubstantial silk and lace, all in luxurious gemstone hues: amethyst, ruby, sapphire, onyx, emerald.

“Oh, hallelujah.” You throw off your sunshine yellow shorts and tug on what were once upon a time your favorite panties. They don’t fit nearly as well as they used to; they fit horribly, in fact. They evaporate the thrill and leave nauseous trepidation in its place. “Oh God. Oh no. Oh no, oh no.” You steal a harried glimpse of the clunky black alarm clock on your nightstand. The flashing red numbers inform you that you have approximately ten more minutes until he arrives.

You jog pantsless to the kitchen, pour yourself a glass of sweet tea—ice cold, bright with a squeeze of lemon juice—and pace back and forth across the wooden floor as you sip it. The pine boards slope at just the slightest angle; if you laid an apple by your feet, it would roll. The house is sinking. It was built at the turn of the twentieth century, but it won’t live to see the next. Ailing sunlight casts your shadow against the wall, mint green, spider-leg cracks inching through the paint. Outside cicadas buzz and doves coo in long, mournful whirrs.

You pick up the phone—pink to match the boombox that is now playing Poison’s Nothin’ But A Good Time—next to the refrigerator and dial with one finger, your other hand still clutching the frosty glass of sweet tea. It rings twice before he answers.

“Wassup?” Amir says distractedly. You can hear a commotion from his living room on the other side of town: his grandmother squawking, ambient applause, Wheel Of Fortune.

“Quick, what should I wear?”

“Huh?”

“The guy! The guy from the ad! I called the guy! What should I be wearing when he shows up?”

Amir cackles. “Ho, you must be truly desperate, why the fuck are you asking me?” There is some shrill protestation in the background. “Grandma, don’t you dare try to act like you’ve never heard that word before, we just rented Aliens.”

“You know what men like,” you plead.

“Not the straight ones!” And then, not to you: “Grandma, calm down. Grandma, Grandma! It’s my homegirl. She has an emergency. She’s got a man coming over and she doesn’t know what to wear. What did you wear for Pop Pop? What? What?! You expect me to believe you got seven kids out of that dude with just some old floral nightgown?! Prairie girl fabulous? Looking like you’re on your way to join the Donner Party? Okay, if you say so! Phyllis knows best!” Amir’s attention returns to you. “Grandma suggests a nightgown.”

You are skeptical. “That seems slutty.”

“You’re inviting some stranger over for an all-expenses-paid ride on the Pussy Express and you’re concerned about looking slutty?!”

He has a point. “Okay. Okay. Yeah. You’re right. Okay.”

“You wear that nightgown with confidence and you take that random kinky man directly to bed, do you understand me?” Amir orders.

“Totally,” you say, gulping sweet tea with a shaking hand.

“Good luck. I gotta go, it’s the Bonus Round. Hope you have a few rounds to tell me about tomorrow.” Then he hangs up.

Back in your bedroom closet, you find a black satin slip that runs to your ankles and flows like a ballgown. You put it on some nights when you’re feeling desirable, after a bath of bubbles and steam, candles and Madonna, freshly shaved legs and shimmering with Pond’s, when you want to lounge around daydreaming, when you want to remember the fantasies you once had about what your life might turn out to be. Now you wear it in the fading daylight, nothing underneath and golden sunbeams turning your skin to something that warms and glows.

You appraise yourself in your dusty dresser mirror, and you think: Not too bad, actually. You’ve had your hair up in a haphazard bun. You reach to take it down, then stop yourself. You like the wayward wisps, the I-don’t-care-too-much casualness. Your breathing is slow and calm again. There is a noise outside: tires crunching on gravel. Your glass of sweet tea, now mostly just ice cubes, is sweating on top of your dresser. You grab the glass, swipe the Bayou Journal off your bed, and take both to the kitchen counter, still speckled with flour, powdered sugar, flecks of cinnamon. Then you pad across the sloping wooden floor in your bare feet to open the front door. Amber dusk streams in; you can hear bullfrogs croaking and the hoots of the long-eared owl that lives in the collapsing, overgrown shed behind the house. Spanish moss hangs like cobwebs, like chandeliers. The tree swing rocks idly in the breeze. The first notes of You Shook Me All Night Long play from the kitchen boombox.

His car is red, sporty, with a logo on the grill that you don’t recognize, a series of circles intertwined like rings. He cuts the engine and steps out into the driveway as you watch from behind the screen, leaning against the doorframe with your arms crossed over your chest. He’s tall, trim, blonde, wearing Adidas sneakers and light-wash jeans and a Marlboro jacket that it’s far too hot for. He peers around, taking in the trees and the house through his black aviator sunglasses. He puffs one last time on a cigarette before putting it out on his own windshield and starting towards the porch. And immediately, primally, you crave him like water or air.

He climbs the groaning steps, splitting wood and rusty nails. You open the screen door to meet him in the threshold. And he takes off his sunglasses so he can look at you, stowing them in a pocket of his jacket, his gaze not wavering from yours, his lips not saying a word. Yes, he has a scar, but it doesn’t diminish him in the slightest. Yes, his left eye may be glass, but you wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t already told you. You’re too tangled up in the right. His iris is a brisk greyish blue, not like the ocean, not like the bayou, more like the sky before a hurricane, heavy with the threat of wind and rain. His face is strong, jarring, beautiful in a rare way. His full lips are curling into a grin.

At last, you speak first, an inane observation that feels somehow significant. “You found me.”

“I did.” He nods towards the large lavender sign out by the mouth of the gravel driveway. Hand-painted on it are the words Hummingbird Bakery and a logo that Amir designed, a hummingbird feeding on the frosting swirl of a cupcake as if it’s a flower flush with nectar. “You told me to look for the sign. That helped.”

“What kind of car do you drive? I don’t recognize it.”

“It’s an Audi Quattro.”

“Audi,” you repeat, like a hopelessly distant place, New York City or Los Angeles or Paris or the moon. “Is that British?”

“German, actually.”

“You’re from a very different world.”

“Yeah, I am.” His eye flicks up and down your body, black satin that curves and clings; his grin widens. “But I could learn to like yours, I think.”

You step back so he can follow you inside. The screen door shuts with a bang. Under the shadows, as the sun sets into the west, he unzips his Marlboro jacket and tosses it onto your living room couch. Underneath he wears a white t-shirt. We’re opposites, you think dazedly, wondering what he will taste like when he kisses you. He grazes his fingertips down the front of your throat, continues to your chest, stills when he hits the satin of your slip.

“You can tell me to stop whenever you want to,” he murmurs, and you breathe in his smoke and cologne and dauntless, dizzying self-assurance. “But until you say stop, I’m gonna keep going.”

Your heartbeat is drumming beneath his hand, part exhilaration and the rest nerves. You are afraid of disappointing him; you aren’t sure what to expect. “I don’t even know your name.”

“Aemond.”

Aemond. Foreign, like Audi, like Paris. You give him your own in return. He leans in, presses his hips to yours, denim and satin that you can feel his heat through. And you think he’s going to kiss your neck, or bite it, bruise it, mark it, claim it, claim you; but he only ghosts his parted lips from the edge of your jaw to your bare shoulder, inhaling slow and deep, drawing your atoms into his lungs until they tumble down the narrowest corridors and into his capillary beds, into his bloodstream. You moan softly, helplessly, and turn your face to kiss him.

“No,” Aemond growls, teasing you, catching your chin with one hand to hold you still. His other hand glides down the front of your slip and stops between your legs. Through satin the color of a starless midnight, his fingers stroke you roughly, commandingly. Animalistic yearning bolts low to weaken your knees, high to rip a gasp from your throat. “Nothing underneath,” he notes in approval.

Oh, I like him, you think, in equal parts ecstatic and petrified. I REALLY like him.

But are you going to be able to impress him too? Are you going to ruin this?

You whimper, unintentionally and almost inaudibly. Aemond is studying your face; furrows appear in his scarred brow, so faint and fleeting you might have imagined them. Then his hand retreats as he says: “Show me your toys.”

You gape up at him; this is not what you anticipated. “What?”

“I want to see how you make yourself come. You have toys, don’t you?”

“I do,” you admit, though you’ve never used them with anyone else before.

Aemond smirks mischieviously, then commands: “Show me. Right now.”

You lead him to your bedroom and slide open the middle drawer of your dresser. You glance at his reflection in the silvery glass of the mirror; he’s staring, not at your body but at your face, his gaze locked with yours, his mouth open, entranced, hungry. You move to stand against the wall, smiling sheepishly as Aemond shoves aside folded sheets and pillowcases to reveal your collection. It’s nothing too adventurous: five vibrators in different colors, styles, sizes.

“Quite the assortment,” he praises.

“They were gifts from a friend.”

Now Aemond is dubious. “A friend?”

“Don’t be jealous. He doesn’t like women.”

Aemond laughs, warm and boyish like he’s breaking character; and you are alarmed by the wave of fondness for him that crashes through you. It’s something that could pull you under. It’s something you could drown in. He picks up the largest vibrator: long, thick, pink like soft feminine vulnerability, like love. Then he is darkly, deliciously stern again. “On the bed.”

“No.” Not because you’re genuinely protesting. Because you want him to make you.

Aemond grabs you around your waist and drags you towards the bed as you squeal, giggle, fight him halfheartedly. He throws you down onto the wildflower-patterned duvet and climbs between your thighs, parting them as he pushes the hem of your black satin slip up to your waist. Abruptly, you are bare for him, exposed, fiery dusk air cool against your wetness. Aemond is still fully clothed, white shirt and pale blue jeans. He is holding your legs open with his own. You can see the bulge of his cock beneath the denim: at least as large as the vibrator and hard with insistent longing.

I want him, you think as you hear the vibrator click on. I want him, I want him…

Aemond brings the pink silicone tip to your flesh, and instantly you’re ravenous. It shocks you how much more erotic this is when someone else is holding it, when someone else has you entirely at their mercy. You cry out, loud and shameless, euphoric. Your back arches; your fingers twist into the duvet. As he presses the vibrator down more forcefully, Aemond braces his hips against yours, grinding into you through his jeans, taunting you, conquering you.

You fumble for the button and zipper of his jeans. “Please—”

“No,” Aemond snarls, beaming, snatching your hand and pinning it up by your head. His other hand is still circling your clit with the tip of the vibrator. “You haven’t earned it yet.”

“Aemond, please, I need you—”

“No,” he says, defiant. He makes the rules. He has the power; he’s in control. Suddenly, he pulls the vibrator away. You yelp in dismay. “You know,” Aemond quips cavalierly. “It’s a shame you have such a difficult time finishing when you’re with a man. I bet you’re not even close.”

“I am,” you whine, in agony, in ecstasy.

Aemond pretends to be surprised. “Hm.” He returns the vibrator to your skin, slick, hot, aching in the most wondrous way. You sigh as the pleasure surges through you, as you soar up to the previous plateau and then begin to ascend beyond it. You must have repositioned yourself without noticing; Aemond releases your hand to smack his palm against the inside of your thigh. “Keep your legs apart. I want you wide open for me.”

“I will, I promise.” I’ll do anything you tell me to.

Aemond’s hand ventures lower. Two of his fingers glide inside you and thrust in time with his hips. “Fuck,” he hisses, breaking character again; and something rocks through his shoulders, his spine, a divine temptation that he is battling.

“Aemond, more,” you plead, looking at the massive outline of his cock under his jeans.

“Not yet,” he pants, fucking you with his fingers as the vibrator hums against your clit. “You have to come for me first, baby. You have to earn it.”

And you’re close, you really are, you’re closer than you ever would have imagined you’d be with him tonight, this stranger, this elusive British man, this man from a personal ad in the Bayou Journal that you almost never replied to. Your hair has come undone and is wild around your face; your heart is pounding frantically; your skin is bathed in a sheen of victorious perspiration. When was the last time someone made you feel like this? You can’t recall; the answer might be never. There is a spellbinding, intensifying sensation of warmth, of opening, you’re only seconds from the brink, you’re ready to step off the precipice and into open blue air the same color as his eyes—

Aemond yanks the vibrator away again, grinning toothily down at you.

“No!” You scrabble for him with shaking hands, pulling yourself up as you reach for the vibrator. Aemond pushes you back onto the bed. Despite your protests, you love the feeling of his weight on top of yours; you love the organic symphony he’s built of, muscle and bone and skill and power. His fingers are still pumping in and out of you, keeping you soaked and throbbing, pinning you to the edge of an orgasm without permitting you to succumb to it.

“It’s going to be so good for you like this, baby,” Aemond insists, low and raspy. He’s reading your face, attentive to every detail, drinking up your desperate body and quivering voice. “I swear I’m not torturing you for no reason. Let me show you. Let me take care of you. When it happens, it’s going to blow your fucking mind. Are you ready?”

“Yes, now, please, do it now,” you whimper as you lie beneath him, open, bare, senseless, vanquished.

Aemond drags his tongue over the tip of the vibrator, moaning with lust as he tastes you. Then he at last presses the pink silicone to your clit once more. In your electrified nerves, in your scalding blood, there are sparks and momentum and currents rushing towards the cataclysmic breaking of a rogue wave. “Nice and slow,” Aemond murmurs. “Let it build.”

Instead of the peak, you reach another plateau, so high and so rapturous you can’t stand it, you can’t fathom climbing any farther. It’s becoming so sharp and intense it’s almost painful. Fresh anxiety flashes in your mind like lightning. The momentum begins to dissipate like dewdrops under the late-morning sun. Oh no, I’m going to lose it, I’m going to disappoint him—

Aemond lifts the vibrator off you again; before you have time to collect yourself enough to speak, to apologize, he’s slipped his fingers out of you and carefully guided the vibrator inside, stretching you, filling you, thrusting rhythmically but not too viciously or too deep. He places his thumbprint on the place where the vibrator was just seconds ago and circles quickly, once, twice, again, and then…

You try not to scream, but you can’t help it, can’t stop it; the climax wrenches out of you indescribable pleasure, vanished fears, awe and relief, twisted muscles and gasping breaths, every electrical impulse of every atom, and each time you believe it’s over it rolls a little farther like an endless summer afternoon. When it’s done—truly done—you aren’t sure exactly how it happens but suddenly you’re sitting upright on the bed and the vibrator is lying forgotten on top of the duvet and Aemond is laughing, kissing you—sweat and nicotine, smoke and salt—and caressing your face with his hands, saying: “You were such a good girl. You did amazing. I’m so proud of you.”

“Okay,” you exhale unsteadily, smiling. You nod to the very noticeable bulge in his jeans. “Your turn.”

“No,” Aemond says primly.

“What?”

“No,” he repeats. “Not today.”

“But…but…why?”

The curl of his lips is crooked and playful. “To prove I’m not just here to get myself off.” He kisses you again, far more tenderly than any random dom from a personal ad should. “You don’t trust me. But maybe next time you will.”

“How could I trust you? I don’t even know you.”

“We’ll have to spend more time together.”

“You seriously aren’t going to fuck me right now? Me? A mostly-naked stranger you met up with exclusively for the purposes of fucking?”

“Are you dissatisfied?”

In truth, no; your pulse is slowing, your thoughts are calm, your lust is satiated, you’re reasonably certain that you’ve sprained no less than four muscles. You feel like the sky after rain: emptied, unburdened, untroubled, at peace. “Not at all.”

“Then you shouldn’t be complaining.”

You reach out to touch Aemond’s unscarred cheek and he smiles. You try to ghost your fingertips over the left side of his face and he flinches away, leaves the bed, takes the vibrator to the bathroom to scrub it with soap and water. “Can I at least pour you a glass of sweet tea or something?” you call after him. “I feel guilty. I feel like I didn’t uphold my end of the bargain.”

“You exceeded all of my expectations,” Aemond says with a strange sort of somberness. “But sweet tea sounds great.”

You take five minutes to clean up and change into real clothes—ratty denim shorts and a red, white, and blue Pepsi t-shirt, chaotic hair, no bra—and then meet Aemond in the kitchen. He’s surveying the large circular table, which is littered with covered cake plates in a hodgepodge of sizes and colors; you found most of them at yard sales and thrift shops. The sun has set and the stars have risen; the kitchen is illuminated by yellow-hued florescent light. Night air flows in through the screens of the open windows. The boombox is currently playing Tiffany’s I Think We’re Alone Now.

“What’s the deal with that?” Aemond asks about the cluttered kitchen table.

“They’re the baked goods. For my bakery.”

“Right,” he says, remembering, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “The sign out front.”

“Would you like anything? Today we had butterscotch chiffon cake, coconut custard cake, blackberry dark chocolate cupcakes, pecan pie, red velvet brownies, lemon blueberry cookies, lavender black tea cookies, chocolate meringue pie, butter pecan muffins…”

“How about those?” He points.

“Oh! Those are banana bread cupcakes. One of my favorites.”

“Banana bread…cupcakes?”

“Here.” You plop one on a plate for Aemond, then go to the refrigerator to pour two tall glasses of sweet tea. “A lot of people put chocolate chips in their banana bread, but I feel like any chocolate really eclipses the banana flavor. It’s so subtle, you know? So what I do instead is cinnamon, honey, cream cheese frosting, and a tiny bit of sea salt mixed into the batter. If you get the ratio just right, there’s this really great blend of saltiness and sweetness, and the banana is still the star of the show. Of course I’ve fucked up plenty of times too and almost given myself dangerously high blood pressure. If I ruin a batch, I’m the one who has to eat it. We can’t let anything go to waste. Our profit margin is thinner than a crescent moon on the best months.”

“Oh my God,” Aemond says. He’s taken a bite and is now gawking at the banana bread cupcake. “You made this?” He gestures to the table. “You made all of this?”

“My best friend Amir runs the business with me, but most of the recipes are mine. My mom used to bake all the time when I was little. Now she has rheumatoid arthritis and has given it up, more or less, but that’s where I learned a lot of what I know. And I try to come up with new ideas each week to add to the rotation.”

“This is exceptional,” Aemond says. His mouth is full of the rest of the cupcake. He washes it down with a few gulps of sweet tea; ice cubes jangle in the misty glass. “This is, like, insanely good. Can I have another one…?” He’s already lifting the cover off the cake plate.

You chuckle. “Yeah, seriously, have as many as you like.”

“How much do you sell them for?”

“The cupcakes are $1, but you don’t have to pay me. You get the unrequited orgasm discount.”

“Just $1 each.” Aemond is incredulous. You aren’t sure what that’s about. He sets the second cupcake down on the table, tugs a black leather wallet out of his jeans pocket, and gives you a $10 bill.

“Aemond, really, you don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t have to. I want to. Take the money. Stop talking about it.”

You smirk up at him. “Is that an order, sir?”

He grabs your jaw with one forceful hand, kisses you roughly, bites your lower lip almost hard enough to draw blood. He tastes like cinnamon, honey, sugar, sex. “Yes,” he says, grinning wickedly. Then his hands drop to unbutton your shorts. The idea of stopping Aemond doesn’t even cross your mind; your desire for him—him specifically—is back, flaring red and primeval and irresistible. “I want you on top of that counter—”

Outside there are footsteps bounding up the front porch, loud on the creaking boards. You tear away from Aemond and hurry to re-button your shorts. What? Already??

You know exactly who it must be.

Well, now I’m definitely never going to see Aemond again.

He’s terrified, he’s wondering whether he should try to jump out of a window. But really, he’s already been spotted; his Audi Quattro is still waiting for him in the gravel driveway. “Please don’t tell me that’s your homicidal armed boyfriend or something.”

“No,” you say. “It’s my daughter.”

“Wait, your…?!”

The door swings open; you hardly ever lock it. Cadi trots in just as you are flipping over the copy of the Bayou Journal on the kitchen counter so Aemond’s personal ad is no longer visible. Instead, what now faces up—dotted with flour, powdered sugar, cinnamon, grease stains of butter—is a column about the rigs opened in Lake Verret. Just what this town needs, you think distractedly. An environmental disaster.

“Mom, whose radical car is that—?” Then Cadi spies Aemond and blinks at him a few times. She is ten years old but thinks she’s your age, short hair, short temper, denim overalls and a t-shirt underneath patterned with multicolored horses.

“This is Aemond,” you explain. He waves awkwardly and then resumes nibbling on his second banana bread cupcake, avoiding her scrutiny. “He’s a friend.”

“But you don’t have any friends,” Cadi replies.

“Watch it, Child Of The Corn. I have friends.”

“You have like one friend.”

“What happened to your sleepover with Mawmaw? I thought you were excited to trick her into watching Hellraiser.”

“Blockbuster didn’t have it. Then Great Aunt Ethel called and said she broke her hip. Mawmaw dropped me off here on her way to the hospital.”

“And she didn’t even think to check with me first, huh?”

“As if you’d have anything better to do.” Cadi races to the refrigerator—careening around a shellshocked Aemond—and heaves open the door. “What’s for dinner?”

“I think we have some Swanson’s meals left. Oh, and spaghetti.”

She narrows her eyes at you. “Who made it?”

“You’re in luck! Not me. Amir.”

“Yay!” Cadi trills, then drags out the pan and begins spooning mounds of spaghetti onto a plate. Aemond looks to you, intrigued.

You say: “I bake, I don’t cook.”

“She really doesn’t,” Cadi concurs.

“Completely different skillset.”

Cadi places a few paper towels over the heaping plate so sauce doesn’t splatter all over the microwave and then sets it to three minutes. As she waits to eat, she wanders over to where the Bayou Journal is lying on the counter and scans the page: Viserys Targaryen, three state-of-the-art oil rigs, Lake Verret, an additional 50 employees hired, Jade Dragon Energy. “Those bastards are going to get their way, I guess.”

You sigh. “Yup.”

Aemond is alarmed. He polishes off the last of his cupcake, frowning as he licks frosting from his lips. “You don’t approve?”

“They’ll blow up the whole town,” Cadi says matter-of-factly.

You smile wanly at Aemond as you sip your sweet tea. “You work for Jade Dragon, right?”

He stares back at you—stunned, perhaps even fearful, a deer flooded with headlights—but doesn’t speak.

“It’s alright. I figured you must. Some smart British guy way out here in Cajun Country? It’s gotta be for a job. Don’t worry. We won’t shoot and skin you or anything. It’s not your fault. You’re just collecting a paycheck, it’s not like you’re running the company.”

“Right.” Aemond grabs a third cupcake and gnaws at it. After a moment he adds: “I have a degree in petroleum engineering. I just moved to Napoleonville last week.”

“I knew it,” you say.

“Boo!” Cadi heckles jokingly. The microwave beeps, then she disappears into her bedroom with her plate of spaghetti. You hear Cadi turn on her little television and flip through the channels until she finds Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Aemond watches her closed door for a few seconds—still processing, you assume—and then turns back to you.

“Her name’s Katie?”

“Cadi. C-a-d-i. It’s short for Arcadia.”

He is impressed. “Greece?”

You titter nervously. You don’t know what he means. “It’s a town up by Shreveport, it’s where Bonnie and Clyde were arrested or killed or something. I’m not sure. Her father picked it.”

“You didn’t have an opinion?”

“Um, I wasn’t really…uh…conscious for a few days after she was born. By the time I was up and around again, he’d already filled out the birth certificate.”

What is that you see flicker across his face like the transient surge of a lightning bug? Curiosity? Apprehension? “I see. And her father is…” Aemond raises a blonde eyebrow, the one his scar cuts through. “On an aircraft carrier somewhere?”

You laugh. “He’s not deployed. We’re divorced, Willis lives about fifteen minutes down the road. It’s amicable.”

“So I don’t need to worry about him showing up on your front porch to murder me with a 2x4 full of nails.”

“No. Although he is the town sheriff.”

Aemond smirks. Is this a challenge or an inconvenience? “Why’d you two split up?”

You shrug, glancing at Cadi’s bedroom door. She is quite aggressive with her television volume; you’re confident she won’t be able to listen in if you keep your voice low. “It’s not that interesting a story.”

“I’m extremely interested.” And he sincerely appears to be, head tilted to the side, eyes fixed on you (though you know the left one sees nothing), thoughts whirling like storm winds.

“Well…we only ever got married because of…” You gesture towards Cadi’s room. Aemond nods, following along. “And I was too young and I didn’t know anything. I didn’t know what I wanted out of a man, I didn’t even know I had the right to set standards to measure a husband by. Willis wasn’t terrible. He didn’t hit me. He just wasn’t really who I wanted.” You chew at your lower lip, peering down at the kitchen counter, drawing circles in the sparse flour dust. “He never even proposed to me. Not properly, I mean. I told him I was pregnant and he said: Well, guess we oughta get married, huh sugar? and then drove me to the Kmart up in Gonzales to pick out a ring.”

“Classy,” Aemond mutters.

“I had to buy it myself, actually. Willis didn’t have enough cash on him. He paid me back later, but still. It wasn’t about the ring. I don’t need gold and diamonds. But I need someone who really sees me and understands me and chooses me, you know? I’ve never felt chosen. And I decided I didn’t want to settle for that. If I ever get married again, I want the whole goddamn thing. The real thing. I want the candles and the flowers and a boombox blasting Heaven Is A Place On Earth. And if that’s not in the cards, I guess I’m not the marrying type.”

“And you’ll make do with occasional visits from your friendly neighborhood dom.”

You grin up at Aemond. “Yeah, exactly.”

“You really hate Jade Dragon?”

“Companies like that…they just use us. Our land, our labor. And then when they decimate the place they pack up and disappear overnight, no pensions, no retirement, no unemployment, no meaningful cleanup, just Thanks for the millions! Bye! and we’re left to live in their filth.”

“That’s a rather cynical perspective,” Aemond says.

“It’s a realistic perspective,” you counter. “In 1965, there was a pipeline explosion in Natchitoches, in ‘79 there was an oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico, in ‘80 a Texaco rig accidentally drilled into a salt mine under Lake Peigneur and destroyed the whole ecosystem. Two weeks ago there was a refinery explosion an hour east of here in Norco. 4,500 people had to be evacuated from their homes. So no, the jobs sound nice, but in my humble estimation they’re not worth dying for.”

Aemond considers you, a look that is not patronizing or combative but not convinced either. And there’s something else too: a caginess, a nervousness.

“And these Jade Dragon people, the Targaryens? They have a history,” you continue. “I read about it in the Bayou Journal. Last year they had an oil spill at an offshore rig near Ketchikan, Alaska. They poured hundreds of thousands of barrels of poison into the ocean and killed a bunch of dolphins and whales and everything. Fishermen went bankrupt, people committed suicide.”

“Mistakes happen.” Aemond places his empty sweet tea glass in the sink.

“But they didn’t make it right. Their lawyers blamed a defective piece of equipment and kicked liability back to the manufacturer. They’ll be battling it out in court for the next decade. And meanwhile, the people of Ketchikan get nothing but misery. I don’t want Napoleonville to end up like that.”

Aemond gazes out the kitchen window and into the cicada-rattling night, faraway, pensive.

“But seriously,” you say, more casually now. “I get that it’s not your fault, Aemond. I don’t hate you or anything. You’re working for a living like anyone else. You can only do so much.”

He looks back to you and smiles vaguely. “I just go where they tell me to.”

“And that’s why you like to be in control when you’re with me.”

“Yes,” Aemond says; and on his face—strong, scarred, perfect—you can see that he is reminiscing, that he is planning what he wants to do to you next. But he can’t do any of it. Not here, not now.

“I’m sorry about…you know. The kid thing. I really didn’t think she’d be home tonight. I would never subject her to something like that, walking in to find a strange guy in the house. And I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable either.”

“It’s okay. I believe you.”

“I don’t usually do this. I’m sure you think I’m lying, but I’m not. I’ve had two boyfriends since I got divorced seven years ago, and both times it didn’t last long and Cadi never met them. And it wasn’t…like it is with you. The dynamic, I mean. The…control thing. They were just normal dudes.”

“And they couldn’t satisfy you,” Aemond says, taunting, proud, setting your blood on fire.

“No. They couldn’t. Not even close.”

You both stand silently in the kitchen amidst a cascade of inconsequential noise: Eurythmics from the little pink boombox, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles from Cadi’s room, cicadas and bullfrogs and the long-eared owl from the world outside that is primordial and feral and green. For the first time in as long as you can remember, you feel not like the piecemeal potential of a desirable woman but whole. Aemond’s right eye traces every curve and edge of you in a way that makes you think: Maybe I will see him again after all.

“Come on,” you say, turning towards the front door. “I’ll walk you out.”

But when he steps onto the creaking porch—pulling on his Marlboro jacket, watching lightning bugs bloom like daisies in the yard—Aemond seems to be stalling. “This is lopsided,” he says, tapping the wooden boards with his Adidas sneakers.

“I know. The whole foundation is, it’s sinking. We’ll have to move eventually. But we’ve been in this place since Cadi was five, it has a lot of memories. She calls it the Fall-Down House.”

“Cute,” Aemond says, but he’s pondering something. “Do you own it?”

“Oh no, God no. We rent.”

“Are you saving for a down payment to put on a new house?”

This is a rude question. “A little,” you reply curtly. Not enough. You need to make money to save money.

“Okay.” Aemond senses your discomfort. He’s good at that; it’s an advantageous skill for a dom to possess, knowing when he’s approaching a limit long before you have to shut him down. He descends the porch steps. “I’ll be back for more of those cupcakes—” There is a shrill, alien hissing from out by the tree line. Aemond shouts and scrambles back onto the porch, throwing an arm in front of you to shield you from his enigmatic nocturnal adversary. “What the fuck was that?!”

“Just a gator,” you reassure him, amused.

“A what?”

“An alligator.” You show him the shadow that lurks beneath a young oak tree draped with Spanish moss. “She’s over there. Just stay on the gravel once you get off the porch.”

Aemond is puzzled. How does anyone live in this hellscape? his face says. “How do you know it’s a female?”

“She’s not too big, and she doesn’t bellow. But she sure loves to hiss.”

“I think alligators should have gone extinct with the rest of the dinosaurs.”

“Well, there’s a secret to dealing with them.”

“Yeah?”

You smile, skating your fingers into the sleeve of Aemond’s Marlboro jacket and up his forearm until you feel goosebumps rise on his skin. “If she gets mean, you just have to bite back.”

Aemond chuckles, turns your face towards his, kisses the apple your cheek…and then, for only a moment, his teeth close around the sensitive flesh there leaving a whirlpool of pulsing, forbidden heat. He whispers through your hair: “See you soon.”

“Will you?”

“Yes,” he says, severely now. It’s a commandment, it’s a need. “I absolutely will.”

Aemond leaves you, strides across the gravel driveway without glancing back, ducks into his car, lights a cigarette; you can see the rust-colored glow through the windshield as he takes a drag. You wait in a flurry of moths under the dim florescent bulb of the front porch until his Audi Quattro veers onto Route 401 and disappears.

I hope he meant it, you think as a lightning bug lands on your knuckles and illuminates there like the gemstone of a ring. I hope I’ll see him again.

Then you shake away the insect and go inside to see if Cadi wants to help you clean up the kitchen and get a brown sugar pie baked for tomorrow. As compensation, you’ll offer her the $10 bill Aemond gave you for the cupcakes.

#aemond targaryen #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond x you #aemond fanfiction #hotd fanfic #hotd fic

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alphaofdarkness · 1 month

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miss ’Bine missed her blueberry just as much ✨

Based on this text post by @flilisskywalker + an added draw of Sabine having her “missing Ezra hours” once again 🥺

I hope y’all enjoy these silly doodles, more will come soon enough, after all I have a list ヽ( ˘з˘ )ゝ~ I also love drawing Ahsoka, she’s so fun to draw with her design 🤍🧡 as well as Sabine’s howler friend 🐺💜

Please do NOT repost without credit or linking it back to me‼️

#sabine wren #ahsoka tano #sabezra #ezrabine #ahsoka series #star wars #star wars rebels #sabine’s howler friend #alpha’s art

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virgo-mess · 2 months

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The time has come that @karatekels and I gift you guys the link to all the TIG movies we have been able to find. It will also be routinely updated if we happen to get hold of another one! There's 12 movies on here, and the two part episode of In the Heat of the Night TIG guest starred on as the hunky carnie Luke Potter 🥵! The Secret of Giving was curtosey of whichever lovely person posted the link for it during Christmas. I wasn't able to find your account again, but if you see this, thank you, and I hope you don't mind. We put it in this folder. And once again, thank you to whoever shared Beyond Forgiveness with me ages ago 🩵🩵🩵. I hope you guys enjoy it, and I'll be sure to notify you if a new movie has been added 💜

Movie List-

Excessive Force

Black Friday aka The Kidnapping

Rock Hudson

The Secret of Giving

The Heat of the Night two part episode

The Unexpected Mrs. Pollifax

KK3

Ulterior Motives aka Kill Fee

Vampires

Black Point

Hallow Point

Beyond Forgiveness aka Blood of the Innocent

Kull the Conqueror

High Adventure

Seawolf aka The Pirate's Curse

Crackerjack

Avalanche aka Escape from Alaska

Timecop 2

Final Encounter/ For the Cause

#thomas ian griffith #terry silver #the cult of tig #tig #movies #love you guys #enjoy

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the-kipsabian · 4 months

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wrestling fic writers!!

i have decided to be the change i wanna see, so lets do a nice little thing for each other, as a community full of incredible and talented writers. yes this is writer specific only, but thats cause thats where the main problem of people not interacting with creative works lies in this fandom as far as i can tell and have seen people talking about it especially in the last couple of months

if you read this, please add links to your written works. it can be just a single fic youre really proud of, your writing blog, your writing tag, your ao3 account, anything where your works can be found

and if you leave your link here, PLEASE check out someone else that has left their works, and interact with them. leave them a comment, even just a kudos, REBLOG their fic, etc. interacting is the keyword i want to emphasize here, along with building a sort of a masterpost of where to find people writing in this fandom

and if you are not a writer, youre still highly encouraged to interact with this post and share it and show love to the writers in this fandom, obviously!! i think that should go without saying, but adding it in anyways

a bit more about my vision and resources and such under the read more, but thats the gist of it. happy linking and please be kind and supportive to each other!! 💜

nobody is too big or too small to add their things on this list. if you write and post anything in this fandom whatsoever, be it fics or drabbles or headcanons, any companies or any kind of ships or reader inserts or any content whatsoever no matter how 'dead dove dont eat' or hell even if its just meta, we welcome all here and nobody can say that one thing is less valid than another. just please tag your content accordingly, especially if theres content warnings, and feel free to mention what you write, who you write, any info you wish to leave that would help people before they click on your links. but even so, that should not and hopefully will not deter people from interacting, no matter what it is. someones trash is another ones treasure, i promise you

and unless the amount gets really overwhelming, im personally going to be checking out everyone that leaves something here. unless it squeaks me out, but even then, i'll spread the word. and i just wish as many people as possible will do the same, and not just use this as a potential board to only get eyes on their stuff. ofc thats also the point, but you should give as much, if not more, than you get. we need to be kind and supportive of one another (besides, from personal experience, if you show love to someone else, they are more likely to do it back than without you taking the first step, so... pay it forward)

as for resources, heres a few links that should be helpful in leaving comments and feedback. of course everyone does their own thing and no comment is too big or too small to leave, but for those who need them. if you have anything you'd like added to this list, dont hesitate to get in touch or drop it in the post yourself!!

101 comment starters

ao3 floating comment box

kudos html

dont know how to comment? easy solutions

a quick hot guide to commenting (by yours truly)

an overall guide to appreciating fanfic writers

and just in general.. leave people comments. leave them asks about their projects. just go over and gush about their work. i know it sounds embarrassing but writers love nothing more than to hear that someone likes what they are doing. if you find a fic that hasnt been updated in forever, comment on it. it might just be the spark the author needs to continue. while kudos and likes are nice, and just as valuable to some, its definitely in the words the people leave for them that matter the most. im not saying this to put pressure on anyone, its just how it is, and i feel like unless people are writers themselves, and even then sometimes, thats just hard to grasp, especially if the writer is a smaller and less popular one who doesnt get a lot of traffic in the first place

i think thats all. just be nice and considered to everyone, reblog peoples works, this post with others add ons and so forth. and if i find anyone talking shit here or at other writers for something they share, you'll be blocked and im probably taking your kneecaps. be fucking nice. we are all struggling here and we need to stick together

happy sharing and commenting 💜💜

#wrestling fanfiction #wrestling fic #aew fanfic #aew fanfiction #wwe fanfiction #wwe fanfic #i hope this make some sort of coherent sense #despite being a writer im really bad at words lmao #i also dont know what to tag this with without clogging main tags so im going to trust moots to get this going first #just. this is a topic im passionate about. i love writing i love writers and having seen the wrestling fandom as of late really struggling #with this. we need to do something. even a little bit helps. actually get people leaving feedback and commenting again #supporting each other. we can do this together #dont let dreams be dreams lets fucking do this #just be nice and help each other out #im gonna stop now before i get overly emotional. if theres any questions let me know tho i think i got the main parts pretty clear here #again moots. im trusting you to get this started. im not gonna add my own shit here immediately this isnt about me #this is about the community as a whole #i also hope nobody is afraid of adding themselves here. you are all valid and worth the attention no matter what #just remember to also give if you leave something here. look at the previous links. look in the notes to find more people #okay thats it i need to make dinner now #lets just be kind and support one another. promise me that 💜#night is an absolute mess on main

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tswaney17 · 5 months

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Frenemies

Happy birthday to my gorgeous, talented, amazing, bestie, mate, @nikethestatue!! I hope you have the lovelies of lovely birthdays, my friend. You are such a treasure to me. 💜💙💚

My fanfic account: @tswaney17fics

My ao3 account: tswaney17

Please let me know what you think about this update. I love getting your feedback. Constructive criticism is always welcome. 💕

Trigger warnings: nsfw, hate sex, basically porn with no plot

Word Count: 3,440

This fic will be posted on AO3 only. Read here.

Elain sat at the bar, sipping a tumbler full of whiskey. Her face grimaced as the amber liquid slid down her throat, burning the whole way down. The annual office holiday party was in full swing, and she had parked herself at the bar the moment he entered.

That was an hour ago, and two and a half glasses of whiskey later.

She could feel its effects already, that warmth growing from the pit of her stomach, her head buzzing. Elain didn’t typically drink like this, but she felt compelled to when her obnoxious coworker walked in, found her gaze from across the room, and smirked.

Azriel Knight was hands down the rudest, most competitive, egotistical person she had ever met. He always had to one-up her on reports and tasks and anything else their boss threw at them. No matter how well she put something together, he somehow always had the upper hand. And it irked her to hell and fucking back.

Worse than that, he was undoubtedly the most gorgeous man she’d ever laid her eyes on, and he knew it too. Azriel knew he had charm and charism and a fucking body most men dreamed of. Used it to his advantage too. Elain often found herself growing warm when the fought. When he stepped just a bit too close, his dominant personality overwhelming all her good sense.

~~~~~

Remember, sharing is caring! Please reblog if you liked the fic. It helps spread my work and I truly appreciate it. 💕

While I have moved these fics to AO3 only, I am still going to utilize a tag list here on Tumblr. This as a permanent solution and may change in the future. For notifications, you can follow and subscribe to my fanfic account where I will be reblogging updates and snippets only. You can also find me on ao3. If you would like to be added to my tag list, please leave a comment on this post.

My fanfic account: @tswaney17fics

My ao3 account: tswaney17

Taglist:

@nikethestatue

@reverie-tales

@123moiaussi

@duskwhisperer

@zdenkah

@nyxreads

@shedoessoshedoes

@athena-85

@jasmineandshadows

@nightcourtseer

@nivem565

@debramclaren

@illyrianvalkyriecarynthian

@secretpuppyflower

@justreallybored

@ultadverb

@the-regal-warrior

@roseandshadows

@tcursebreaker

@kingravinger

@mis-lil-red

@eloeloeheheh

@fawnandshadows

@swankii-art-teacher

@miss-bee-cat

@bookhhrelaz

@impossiblescissorspeachpaper

@elrielbaby

@lesolehabitantdelalune

@thoughtsaboutshows

@britishwings

@aelin21galathynius

@saz-griffin

@azrielslight

@bookstaninthesoul

@curiositywoman

@karsyn-b2

@elainsweetcobalt

@emilyondemand

Some tags seem to not want to link, which could be related to your visibility settings. Sorry about that!

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blinkysrewatchparty · 6 months

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Welcome to Blinky's Rewatch Party!

Hello Nighthawks, Sniggles, and Latte Hattes! You've found the official tumblr page for Blinky's Rewatch Party--where we organize semi-regular watch parties of Nightmare Time 2 episodes as part of our campaign to both share our love of NMT and hopefully get our grubby little hands on Nightmare Time 3!

Current Rewatch Party Planning Polls: None Currently Active!

FAQ with all the basic info under the cut!

WHEN ARE THE REWATCH PARTIES?

The Rewatch Parties are every other Saturday, at two different times, so that as many people as possible can participate directly! The schedule for the current round of Rewatch Parties is:

HOW CAN I PARTICIPATE?

Here on Tumblr, we will be using the tag "Blinky's Rewatch Party." You can use the tag to liveblog your rewatch, or wait until the story is over to post any and all thoughts at once. If you can't make either of the chosen times, that's okay! The tag's not going anywhere; simply watch and post your thoughts whenever you can. And remember to check out the tag to see what other people are saying!

If the Tumblr tagging system isn't your ideal communal watching experience, that's cool too. We're set up on several other social media platforms that you are welcome to check out!

Also you can follow this blog! It's not super necessary, but it will make keeping up with any updates easier. Also, likes and ESPECIALLY reblogs of any and all posts are greatly appreciated--I don't really care about notes for notes' sake, but since the whole point is to keep people watching Nightmare Time, I'd love for the parties to reach as many people as possible!

WHAT OTHER SOCIAL MEDIA PLATFORMS? HOW DO I FIND YOU THERE?

We'll be hosting the watch parties here on Tumblr, but also on Discord, YouTube, and Twitter.

The link to our discord is here: https://discord.gg/Mz2P65mt29! it's super chill and fun and there's a surprising amount of discussion and theorizing about Chumby.

We don't have a specific YouTube page (yet!)--we'll simply be hosting the watch parties in the comments sections of the Nightmare Time episodes themselves. This will have the added bonus of really showing increased interest in NMT, and getting us one step closer to our ultimate goal: MORE HATCHETFIELD!

The link to our twitter is here: https://twitter.com/BlinkysParty. We will be using the hashtag #BlinkysRewatchParty.

For more information on participating in the Rewatch Parties on various social medias, go here.

WHO RUNS THE WATCH PARTIES?

That would be me! Hello! My name is Brooke (she/her), and you may know me on here as @man-down-in-hatchet-town. I want these watch parties to be as positive an experience as possible, so please feel free to reach out to me on this page OR man-down with any thoughts, questions, or concerns. Unlike Hidgens, I promise I won't show you my résumé!

Our discord is also largely managed by the amazing @abarryswiftexit! They are super cool and friendly and the real hero of this whole endeavor.

YOUR ART IS SO COOL! WHO MADE IT?

I'm so glad you asked! Our awesome text graphics and unbelievable avatar are all by my wonderful fandom best buddy @its-short-for-jackalope. Seriously, guys, their art is so good and interesting, so be sure to check it all out and give his page a follow!

Thanks, Jack! 💜

AND THE BIG ONE: WHAT HAPPENED IN 2005 TO MAKE THE HATCHETFIELD TIMELINE SPLIT?

I actually don't know this one (though I have lots of thoughts and ideas, help)! But I do know that rewatching Nightmare Time will help us get the chance to find out. So let's get our Bliklotep on and do this thing!

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rotten7rat · 3 months

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Batkids Music - Playlists Linked

So I've made playlists for almost all the batkids now (I will go back and edit this post once I have added at least an hour to Cassandra's, Duke's and Damian's, but for the moment I am stuck).

Dick - Bimbo Pop? I dunno just fun and a little embarrassing, but mostly fun. That video of that girl dancing down the street listening to Fantasy by Mariah Carey? Him - 💙🖤

Cassandra - soft and comforting with some more upbeat sounds tossed in, like staying in on a rainy day but also playing video games with your girlfriend - under construction

Jason - grungy/emo/punk-ish? Hasn't updated his playlist since he was 14 but still likes everything on it for old times sake at least - ❤🤎

Stephanie - ridiculous. Keeps people on the edge of their seats, wondering what shit will play next, an actual song or ???, gives Bruce a headache - 💜🖤

Tim - chill and relaxed, maybe a little depressing at times, nice driving music, and skating music - ❤💛

Duke - classic rock? Like Zeppelin and Hendrix maybe? Help welcomed - under construction

Damian - I literally have no ideas, help needed - under construction

These playlists are for music that I think they would listen to, rather than songs that fit them. The playlists include music that they listened to when they were younger and still now (coz who doesn't still like the same shit they did as a kid, even if its just for nostalgia?)

I add to these and edit them all the time, and suggestions are very welcome!

Enjoy

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o0corruptedghoul0o · 7 months

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💀 welcome to my simblr, pup 💀

🔪 I'm ghoul (simomo), ts4 cc creator and I post pics of my ocs, gameplay or random things on this blog as well as reblogging sims 4 related stuff that catch my eye

🔪 I'm a loner and dislike socializing but my inbox is open for your messages & questions still. Too personal questions won't be answered as opening up makes me uncomfortable

🔪 I love smut, horror & gore as you may notice when you visit my blog. If you're under the age of 18 or sensitive to these kind of topics I ask you kindly to leave. This is nothing personal, just want to keep it comfortable and respectful for everyone

🔪 I don't use a lot of tw tags as the whole theme around my blog should be clear. Still, for the posts that might be disturbing or too extreme and sensitive I will use the tw:gore tag in general

🔪 I'm wcif friendly but please check the #wcif tag before you ask

🔪 You can check my cc with the #ts4cc & #s4cc tags or check the navigation on my blog

🔪 Additionally you can check out the download page

🔪 Call of Duty posts are tagged with #cod, explicit posts are tagged with #l3wdz

💜if you still feel comfortable here I hope you enjoy your stay💜

■□■□■□■□■□■

!!NEW!! (30/10/2023) - Download page is up~ & Simfileshare links are added to all download posts

#I saw navi and introduction posts on several blogs already and thought it's not a bad idea to do the same #since I gain more followers lately #and everyone should know what awaits them #it also gives me the freedom to post what I want

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 1 year

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Now I’m Covered In You [Chapter 6: Dawn]

Series summary: Aemond is a prince of England. You are married to his brother. The Wars of the Roses are about to begin, and you have failed to fulfill your one crucial responsibility: to give the Greens a line of legitimate heirs. Will you survive the demands of your family back in Navarre, the schemes of the Duke of Hightower, the scandals of your dissolute husband, the growing animosity of Daemon Targaryen…and your own realization of a forbidden love?

Series title is a lyric from: Ivy by Taylor Swift.

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+), dubious consent, miscarriage, pregnancy, childbirth, violence, warfare, murder, alcoholism, sexism, infidelity, illness, death, only vaguely historically accurate, lots of horses!

Word count: 6.4k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @borikenlove @myspotofcraziness @teenagecriminalmastermind @quartzs-posts @tclegane @poohxlove @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @chainsawsangel @itsabby15 @padfooteyes @arcielee @travelingmypassion @what-is-originality @burningcoffeetimetravel @randomdragonfires @anditsmywholeheart @aemcndtargaryen @jvpit3rs @sarcastic-halfling-princess @flowerpotmage @ladylannisterxo @thelittleswanao3 @elsolario @tinykryptonitewerewolf @girlwith-thepearlearring @minttea07 @trifoliumviridi @deltamoon666 @mariahossain @darkenchantress @doingfondue @atherverybest @namelesslosers @skythighs @moonlightfoxx @partypoison00

Let me know if you’d like to be added! 💜

She’s worse than you could have ever imagined.

She’s dignified and graceful and courteous, stunning like an opal or a pearl, a portrait in motion. She has hushed footsteps and large bright eyes that dart around taking in every detail. You can tell she’s intelligent, everyone can tell, and that’s worse than all the rest of it; as she and Aemond stroll together through the gardens, she asks him questions about history and hunting, and then has clever retorts to his answers. Their conversation has the seamless, pacific quality of language between people who have known each other for years. It’s just like the Duke of Hightower said it would be. She is precisely the sort of woman Aemond would have chosen for himself.

The Duke prattles on about various features of the palace and its grounds, inflating favorable attributes like a seller at a horse auction whose children are waiting hungry at home. It’s not difficult to imagine what fuels his freneticism. The king, unresponsive and reeking of decay, lies dying in his bedchamber. Rhaenyra is keeping a vigil there. She must genuinely love him, as there is nothing more to gain from cooling his forehead with damp cloths or clasping his feverish hands. The Greens have no such tender heartache brewing within them. They mourned King Viserys long ago, not his death but his dreadful, interminable absence.

Rhaenyra refuses to leave her father, and Daemon refuses to leave her here in London unprotected—though he should be riding north to command soldiers pledged to the Blacks—and so the two factions circle each other like snarling dogs. The second the king dies, the war will erupt, and everyone knows this. The court is a powder keg. Letters are scrawled, noblemen are dispatched to raise their banners, no one eats or drinks anything unless it is brought to them by a lifelong loyalist. In the past 48 hours, there have been twelve fistfights, seven sword duels, and no less than five deaths, six if you include the poisoning servant who (allegedly) threw himself from a window of the Tower of London before he could be racked. And for once, the Greens’ supporters know exactly what to say to you. They fawn over your health and mourn your losses, all four of them, as if they happened only yesterday. They never tire of expressing their horror. They vow that the treacherous, murderous Blacks must not be given any further opportunity to endanger you or the child you now carry. You are not just—at long last—a true Green. You are a beacon that draws ever more allies to their side. You are a talisman. You are an example of how mercilessly low Daemon will sink to devour his adversaries: a serpent, a wolf, a butcher who no man of honor could count among his friends.

You are walking behind Aemond, Kunigunde, and the Duke of Hightower with Nico and Daeron, trying to remember how to smile, how to speak about trivial things like fabrics and feasts. Nico is hoping that even considering the haste with which this wedding must take place, the kitchens will manage to whip up some famous Austrian dessert, cheese strudels or Linzer tortes or Marillenkuchen, a sort of apricot cake that is renowned throughout the Continent. You can’t follow her phrases; your hearing goes in and out like a tide. Late-April rain, cool and benign, falls in large sporadic droplets.

The Duke is rambling: “You’ll see that we have here in the gardens all manner of herbs, angelica, feverfew, St. John’s wort, betony, chamomile, rosemary…” He does not mention pennyroyal, a word that now brings tears to your eyes. “There are a plethora of roses, of course. Bluebells, daffodils, wisteria, tulips, lavender. And calla lilies, a symbol of matrimony, I believe. Perhaps you would like to use some in your wedding bouquet.”

“Do you grow any edelweiss?” Kunigunde asks in a voice like windchimes.

“Edelweiss…?”

“It is found in the Alps,” Aemond explains. “Small white blossom that thrive in rocky limestone soil. It cannot survive in England, regrettably.”

“A shame,” Kunigunde says with what you would guess is well-disguised homesickness. “It’s my favorite flower. That’s what’s used in my perfume, you know.”

“A splendid scent!” the Duke chirps, and he is not a man inclined towards chirping. He is a child on Christmas morning, a hound who’s found the trail of a fox. “We shall arrange to have edelweiss perfume shipped here directly from Austria for you.”

“Ah! But I see you have an infestation.” Kunigunde points at the grasping emerald vines that are spilling from the grey stone walls of the palace down into the gardens.

The Duke follows her eyeline. “Oh, ivy, yes. Well, there’s no stopping that. A stubborn weed. It would cover the whole world if it could.”

You and Aemond glance at each other, like a reflex, then immediately look away. His cheeks flush a deep hectic pink.

“But it kills,” Kunigunde says. “It smothers everything else. It must be tamed.”

“We’ll have it ripped down,” the Duke assures her, then leads you all into the royal stables to escape the rain.

Kunigunde drifts down the aisle, inspecting each stall. She moves swiftly past Caraxes; he kicks at the walls when she comes near, flattens his ears and glares with bulging black eyes. Kunigunde’s gown is not the sunlike gold of the Holy Roman Empire nor the green of the family she is marrying into. She wears a harmless unaffiliated color, a pale watery pink that makes you think of the organs of a gutter bear: a lung, a kidney, the deflated globe of a stomach. She’s not trying to prove that she’s anything. She doesn’t have to. Everyone knows exactly who she is: the only daughter of a kingdom far larger, wealthier, and more stable than England. As the wife of the second son instead of a third, she will outrank Nico. As a superior partner in every conceivable way, she will eclipse you.

Sir Criston Cole arrives, hauling Aegon along like an errant child. Your husband keeps running away and hiding in stairwells, in trees, behind curtains, under beds. He knows people are always searching for him now, wanting to meet the almost-king, trying to coax him into discussions of alliances and war plans. He sighs and bows to Kunigunde, his white-blond hair uncombed, his ocean-blue eyes groggy.

“Welcome to England, princess. And, uh, I presume you have a nickname of some sort…?”

Kunigunde blinks bewilderedly at him. “Why would I require a nickname?”

“Jesus Christ,” Aegon mutters, and wanders away to pet Sunfyre.

“We’ll purchase you a horse of your own,” the Duke of Hightower promises Kunigunde, papering over the mishap. Aemond has migrated to Vhagar, stroking the white blaze of her face, ticking her velvety muzzle with his expert fingers that you wish you could stop staring at. “A gift to commemorate your marriage. Any color and breed that you wish. Perhaps a golden Akhal-Teke like Sunfyre, or a mighty Percheron like Tessarion, or a breed from your native Austria if you’d prefer…”

Kunigunde stops at your horse’s stall. She marvels at her—gleaming black coat, vast muscles, defiant eyes—and gasps in delight. “Meine Güte! What is this one?”

“She’s an Andalucian,” you tell her. “From Navarre.”

“Your homeland,” Kunigunde notes gently, like someone who knows the pain of being exiled from the same earth that grew you.

“Yes, princess.”

“She’s beautiful,” Kunigunde declares. “Gorgeous. Formidable. What do you call her?”

“Midnight,” you reply, then steal a glimpse of Aemond to test his reaction. He pretends not to be listening, but again his cheeks color with a fleeting wash of scarlet. His betrothed—in a few short hours, his wife—observes this thoughtfully. It’s nothing as low as suspicion; it’s an intelligent, acute sort of awareness. One can look at her face and see gears and levers shifting, hear the ticking of a clock.

When the Duke continues the tour to show off the archery fields, Kunigunde insists that he begin without her; she will have you escort her there shortly. As soon as the rest of the group is out of earshot, she leans into you and takes your hand, painting the air with her fresh, lively edelweiss perfume.

“Is it awful?” she asks in a conspiratorial whisper.

You genuinely have no idea what she’s talking about. “What?”

“His eye,” she says. “Prince Aemond’s lost eye. A grisly thing, surely. The scar is bad enough, but the eye? I can’t imagine having to stare at it while…while…well, you know. While he’s lying with me. Fortunately, I have been assured that I won’t ever have to see it. But I’m sure you have. I’ve heard that you’re very good friends.”

“I’m afraid I can’t be of much help to you. I haven’t seen it myself.” You’ve wondered about it, though never with such scandalized revulsion. There’s nothing about Aemond that could disgust you. And then you say to comfort her: “But he’s well worth it.”

Kunigunde smiles hopefully. It’s the first time you’ve detected genuine vulnerability from her, but it’s there. “Is he?”

“Yes. He’s very clever and chivalrous. He has no vices, drinking, gambling, idleness. He loves history and sword fighting. He always smells of smoke and leather and hard work, like a blacksmith’s forge. He always has ink stains on his hands. And he writes poems.”

“Poems? Really?” Kunigunde says. She’s pleased, but she’s something else as well. There’s that watchfulness in her face again, too many layers for you to sift through. “Have you read many?”

You reply briskly as you lead her out into the scant rain: “Only one.”

An hour later—when the Duke of Hightower has concluded his ever-so-slightly-desperate flaunting of Westminster Palace and turned his attention to the hurried wedding arrangements—you return to the royal stables to see Midnight. You brush out her coat, feed her handfuls of oats from your palm, wrap your arms around her colossal black neck and rest your head against her, feeling the radiating heat of her body and the thudding of blood in her veins.

“I don’t think I can do this,” you tell Midnight. She nickers in reply, a low sympathetic rumble.

You hear footsteps in the aisle. Anxious—you really aren’t supposed to be going anywhere alone until the Blacks have left the court—you step out of Midnight’s stall to see who it is. Aemond is waiting there, his silvery hair wet from the light rain, wavy and dripping.

“What do you want?” you pitch at him.

He speaks with hesitant, quiet words. “I just wanted to express…I’m aware that…I’m sure this is difficult for you.”

“What an astute observation. I hope your tutors were well-compensated.”

“Ivy, I know how you feel—”

“Do you?” you snap. “Have you ever had to feign pleasure as some drunken stranger was invading you? Have you felt that your entire worth was whether or not you could produce a living son—an endeavor that might kill you, by the way—and then been vilified when you could not do it because you were being poisoned, all that sacrifice undone like someone pulling out a loose thread from a tapestry, all those nights of forced smiles and premeditated moans wasted? Have you stolen seconds of happiness, your first in a year, only to watch the person who gave them to you marry someone who is not a pitiful failure by any possible metric but a godsend who surpasses you in every way? Have you felt what it’s like to carry one man’s child when you desire another? No, you haven’t, and you never will. You have no fucking idea what this feels like.”

“We need to end this,” Aemond says. “The Holy Roman Empire must support the Greens’ claim to the throne. All our lives hang in the balance. Yours, mine, Aegon’s, my mother’s, Daeron’s, Nico’s. Everyone’s.”

“Right,” you hear yourself tell him.

“My wife…” And you flinch as he says it, like he’s hit you, a palm crashing against your face, a wave of flesh and bone. “She has to be happy here. She has to have a real marriage.”

“Unlike mine.”

He closes his eye. “Yes.”

“Then go,” you say, biting back sobs. “Go and get ready for your wedding.”

“You don’t think I’m being ripped apart by this?” he demands, striking a fist against his chest. “You don’t think I’d like to have some choice in the woman I’m bedding? For once in my life? You don’t think I’ve spent hundreds of hours wondering how our lives would look if the timing had been different, if you could have been wed to me and Aegon given the emperor’s daughter?”

“She’s perfect, she’s…” Your voice breaks off, bitter and fracturing.

“Yes. She must be, everybody agrees. Even the Blacks are in awe of her. They’re petrified by the advantage this match gives us. But I can’t see it. Because I’m not the man I was before and I can’t get him back. Because now I’m covered in you.”

You clean tears from your cheeks with quick, aggravated swipes. “I’m sorry our momentary indiscretion has become such a source of regret.”

“I don’t regret it.”

You look at each other from across a chasm of silence like a miles-wide torrent of dark cold water, a river, a channel, an ocean.

“I’ve made something for you,” Aemond says, kindly now.

“You’ve had it made, you mean.”

“No.” He shows you his hands. He made it himself.

“I don’t want it.” But you’ve made something for him too: a tunic to wear as he takes Kunigunde’s hand in marriage, deep forest green with bears and horses and roses stitched into it with gold thread. You’ve already given the tunic to Daeron so he can present it to his brother this evening. You won’t be there when he’s getting ready. You wouldn’t be able to bear it anyway. “I won’t accept it.”

“Then I’ll leave it in the box where you keep your sword.”

“Aemond, you don’t have to pretend,” you say. “I know you’ll spend the rest of your life avoiding me. You can start now.”

He comes to you and lays his hand on your belly; you’re not showing yet, but everyone knows you carry Aegon’s child. And now that the sinister cause of your previous losses has been revealed, there is no reason to believe that this one won’t live. “I will always protect you. And the child.”

You reply cynically: “Because if it’s a boy, he might be the king someday?”

Aemond shakes his head. “Because whether boy or girl, it’s a piece of you.”

He turns away and walks out into the rain, a grey spring afternoon hurtling towards night.

~~~~~~~~~~

You hide in the stables for as long as you can. When it grows so late that you know people will start looking for you—Nico wanting your opinion about her dress and her hair, the Duke of Hightower ensuring that the vessel carrying Aegon’s heir hasn’t gone missing—you take Midnight and trek down to the edge of the forest. She’s as good as any guard who might escort you; she’s been known to bite and kick at anyone besides Aemond and Vhagar who ventures too close. You use the spade you keep stabbed into the earth there to dig up the pink ivory wood box your sword is stowed away in. The soil is already soft, recently disturbed. There beside the blade, on velvet the same color as the flag of Navarre, is a thin gold chain with a charm attached to the center. The charm is a leaf with three distinct points like little mountains, like a crown.

“Ivy,” you tell Midnight, showing her the necklace. “He’s carved a leaf of ivy.”

Midnight only peers at you, onyx-black eyes attentive, ears pricked forward, chomping on the mouthful of lush wet clovers.

You put on the necklace—feeling traitorous, feeling heartsick, feeling comforted somehow—and then pick up your sword. You take it to the base of the tree to carve the dates you’ve left there ever-deeper, keeping them alive in a way that your first four children never will be. You locate the small imprints in the bark, and then you stare at them in puzzlement, the sword in your hand abruptly unnecessary. Someone else has already revived them recently. Someone else has traced over the dates so they won’t fade.

Aemond’s words come back to you like rain after a spell of drought: Because whether boy or girl, it’s a piece of you.

You press your knuckles to your trembling lips and sink to the dark damp earth, embers burning in your eyes and your throat.

“I’m in love with him,” you say aloud for the first time. “I don’t want to be. But I am. And I don’t know how to stop.”

And you stay there for what feels like a lifetime before you return to the palace to ready yourself for his wedding to the Holy Roman Emperor’s daughter.

~~~~~~~~~~

The ceremony is almost ludicrously simple in its haste, in the Duke of Hightower’s urgency to get the marriage finalized before King Viserys’ death. Aemond and Kunigunde recite their vows in the tiny private chapel, the same place you found him after you lost your last child, after you read his poem.

It’s like I’m reliving everything between us, you think as you look down at the wooden floorboards, unable to watch him linked by the hands with the woman he will share his life with. The stables where we first spoke, the chapel where he gave me the name that only he knows, where now he pledges himself to be someone else’s husband. The beginning and the end.

Aemond wears the tunic you made for him. Kunigunde wears a delicate and impassive pale blue. You wear the gold ivy leaf necklace and a gown green like envy. There is no sunlight streaming in through the stained glass windows today. Even if the sun had not already set, the sky is thick and churning with rainclouds. There is thunder somewhere, distant, ominous. Hundreds of candles illuminate the chapel like a pinpoint inferno in a world full of darkness.

In the Great Hall, the Greens sit at the high table together: the Duke of Hightower and Queen Alicent, you and Aegon, Nico and Daeron, Kunigunde and Aemond, Sir Criston Cole pacing restlessly, seeing threats in every shadow. No Blacks attend, nor would they be welcome to. Their great defender lies dying on the other side of the palace as the Greens stitch the final thread into their design. This is the Greens’ triumph to revel in. Everyone knows it will be their last glimmer of joy before the bloodshed begins. The English countryside is blooming with banners: green roses, black roses, but none in the proper color. You are the only one whose homeland is red. You have already written to Alonzo that the war is imminent, that the Blacks have slaughtered your children and risked your life. Soon ships, soldiers, archers, horses, and gold from Navarre will be arriving in London. You fold your hands together over your belly, wondering if the war will be over by the time you deliver your child, how many lives it will claim, what sort of king Aegon will be.

Beside you, your husband drains cup after cup of wine, but he cannot escape the inevitable. When the Greens wage war, it is his claim they are fighting for. And as long as he lives, it is he who must wear the crown. Aegon glances at you, smiles tiredly, dark patches around his eyes like a badger’s. He reaches over to touch you fondly, your hair and your cheeks. He drapes an arm across the back of your chair and rests his head on your shoulder, one hand on your belly. Aemond watches this, his eye sharp and glacial, then departs with his new wife to dance.

“How are we tonight?” Aegon asks. Meaning both of you, you and the baby.

You twirl messy locks of his white-blond hair around your fingers. “Well enough, all things taken into consideration.” And you wonder, as you do with increasing frequency, what sort of man he might have been if he hadn’t been beaten black and blue by the demands placed upon him since infancy. “Aegon, when are you happiest?”

“I don’t know,” he says, as if he hasn’t ever considered it. “Never.”

“Never? Really?”

“When I’m with Sunfyre,” he decides. “And when I think about the fact that I’ll always have you.”

He can’t mean that. He’s spent most of the past twenty-one months ignoring me.

“I miss you,” he murmurs. “I miss being with you.” He turns your face to his and kisses you sloppily. The Duke of Hightower rolls his eyes—this is far from decorous feast behavior—but is otherwise content to ignore it. Across the exuberant hall, the Montfords hang their heads in resigned disappointment. Aegon’s murky gaze skates over your body: green velvet, gold metal. “I was always uneasy about it because of the pressure to give the Greens an heir. But now…you are already with child. And neither of us were at fault for what happened before.”

He kisses you again, his tongue darting between your lips, wine and drowsy desire. And you think, through a fog of melancholy and self-loathing: Could I find some happiness with him? If Aemond will spend his life with Kunigunde, if Nico will know true passion with Daeron, if Rhaenyra will have Daemon’s single-minded devotion until it destroys them and their children too…could I have something for myself that makes the burden of existence lighter? Could I even learn to love him? If I tried for months, for years, for decades?

“I understand if we can’t lie together,” Aegon says. This is a stipulation you have been clinging to; it is more of a recommendation from physicians than a decree, a guideline that many couples break without consequence. It is a convenient excuse for an unenthusiastic wife to neglect her marital obligations. “But when you’re ready again…I want you. No one else. I want you so fucking badly it’s killing me. It’s all I can think about.”

It's just an escape, you think, you know. It’s a port in a storm for him. And yet…perhaps it could be the same for you. You push back his hair and touch your lips to his forehead. “You can have me, Aegon. If you’re gentle.”

He beams at you, dazed with wine and reckless optimism. “I always am.” And he’s right; he is. “Shall we dance, wife?”

“I don’t think I’m supposed to. And I’m certain that you are not capable of it at the moment.”

He takes your hand and staggers to his feet. “Let’s walk then.”

Aegon accompanies you around the perimeter of the hall, clumsy and stumbling, yes, but also proud, his palm on your belly, presenting you to various Green-affiliated noblemen and their wives, daughters, sons. They are warm and compassionate to you, appalled by your now-infamous suffering, mindful of the fact that if their faction wins you will soon be the queen; and with a husband like yours, the people closest to him will be more influential than the king himself. Among the dancing couples, Daeron spins and giggles with Nico. Aemond revolves with Kunigunde—she’s almost as good a dancer as you are, almost, though as far as anyone besides you and Aemond know she’s the best at court—but his eye follows you and Aegon around the crowded room, betrayed even though he has no right to be, incensed by the only honorable choice you can make. Aegon’s wine sloshes out of his cup each time he trips over his own feet, leaving a trail of maroon puddles on the floor. You sip mead now, weaker than wine and sweet with honey. You cannot stand the thought of apple cider; even the scent of it makes you nauseous and unbearably sad.

The Duke of Hightower, red-faced with frustration, appears as Aegon clutches the wall to keep his balance. “For the love of God, go eat something! Sir Criston?” The Duke waves the knight over. “I command you to take Prince Aegon back to the high table and do not permit him to leave it until he has consumed no less than one full plate of bread and meat. Is that understood?”

“Does the apricot cake count?” Aegon slurs.

“Fine,” the Duke agrees, and Aegon is ushered away. You and the Duke of Hightower stand together without speaking, watching Aemond and his wife dance together, two flawless figures with their hands resting lightly, sheepishly on each other, speaking in clandestine voices that no one else can hear. It knocks the air out of your lungs once, twice, again. This is going to kill me, you realize. I can’t drown out the memory of his voice with Aegon’s. I can’t stop wanting him.

You say with dark disdain: “My beloved grandsire-in-law. Did even you ever dare to dream of a future this bright?”

“He should be groveling in appreciation for this arrangement and so should you.”

You glare at the Duke and echo something you once heard Aemond say to him. “You care nothing for love.”

The Duke of Hightower turns to you; his voice cuts like jagged, rust-laced metal. “I loved my wife more than you could fathom, princess. More than the future or the past. More than my titles, more than my children, more than myself. And yet over the course of five days I watched her die of fever—insane, in agony—and there was nothing I could do about it. Nothing. There was no amount of money to pay or men to cut down with a blade. The wheels of the world turn again and again, and we’re all just running on top of them until it’s our turn to be dragged screaming below and crushed into oblivion. None of us own anybody. Not even the ones we’d kill for. All we own is our legacy. That’s all we can salvage from the maelstrom of this life. And this…this…this affinity between you and Aemond? It has no place in a future where we could win.”

You study Kunigunde—the daughter of one emperor, the sister of the next, the wife to the man you love, the future mother of his children—and marvel at what you would give to be her. Anything, everything.

“If you love him, you will not imperil him,” the Duke says. “You will not jeopardize our ascension.”

“I love him,” you confess in a splintering whisper.

The Duke of Hightower frowns at you in disappointment, in disgust. “Learn to hide it better.” Then he sweeps away to make his rounds among the noblemen, to ensure their banners are rising and their loyalties unfaltering.

Nico, in exuberant spirits as always, finds you and joins you in observing the newlyweds. She reads the words in the lines of your face, the wonder in your eyes. The princess from Austria is beautiful, brilliant, flawless. She is entirely worthy of him.

“Yes, she’s certainly the next best thing, isn’t she?” Nico says cheerfully.

You furrow your brow in confusion. “Second to who?”

Nico grins. “You, of course.” And then she sees your horrified expression. As usual, she’s hit just a bit too close to the mark, to the truth. Nico stammers an explanation. “I mean, you know, because you’re such good friends, and you understand him, he’s so odd to most people, so unnerving, but you like him as he is and he’s clearly smitten with you, and if you weren’t already married to Prince Aegon you’d be his choice for a wife, I’d imagine, but since it’s impossible…”

“Very impossible,” you say flatly.

“Right,” Nico capitulates, anxious. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“I’m not offended, Nico.” You lay a hand on her shoulder and then her flushed cheek, forcing a smile. “I’m sorry. I’m just tired. I’m very tired.”

“You have had a very eventful few days.”

“I’ve aged centuries.” Sometimes I think I’m already dead.

“Would you like me to come back to your rooms? We could read, or do needlework, or just sit and talk by the fire…”

“No, you stay. You’re having such a good time. I don’t want to ruin it for you.”

“It’ll be ruined if I fear you’re unhappy.”

“I’m happy,” you insist. “I’m happy, Nico.” I’ll never be happy again.

Courtiers are beginning to tease the newlyweds good-naturedly, shooing them off to bed. Kunigunde flashes her audience a timid, demure smile. Aemond is stoic; he wears no emotion that you can decipher. He raises his wife’s hand in the air, and there are whistles and applause. Then the couple retires to Kunigunde’s bedchamber, flanked by a flock of servants who will ready them for the essential next step: cleansed bodies, prayers recited, blood on white sheets. The room is spiraling around you; all the air in your lungs evaporates; your vision is speckled with dizzying splotches of darkness. In the midst of the cheers, you flee unnoticed from the hall. As you pass by the high table, you see that Aegon has laid his head down beside his plate and is practically unconscious. You fly through the corridors and take refuge in your bedchamber, a sanctuary, a prison.

You don’t even let your ladies undress you. You send them away and kneel down on the bearskin rug and stay there waiting for nothing, time crawling over you, prickling and slow and murderous like ivy. As the bells toll and the hours pass you imagine what they mean, you envision it, though you wish you couldn’t. Now he is taking off her nightgown. Now he is combing out her long lustrous hair with his agile fingers. Now he is admiring the glow of her bare skin in the firelight. Now he is tracing the slope of her jaw with the lightest touch—entranced, reverent—and tilting up her chin to kiss her. Now his hands are on her throat, her breasts, her waist, her thighs that have never been stained with the blood of another man’s child, parting them, reaching between them, angling himself to enter her. But he won’t rush; he won’t want to cause his lover pain. For all of their innumerable differences, he and Aegon have that in common.

You stare into the flames until they blur and bleed together, your eyes brimming with tears. And suddenly it feels like the fire is inside rather than out: your throat, your lungs, everything you’re made of, searing through vertebrae and veins. It feels like you could burn until there’s nothing left but echoes, threadbare ricochets of memory, a murmur of ash. Aegon does not appear. He’s probably not fucking some Green loyalist’s daughter, you concede that much, but he’s gone nonetheless: passed out under a table, or in a stairwell, or in the garden, or in Sunfyre’s stall in the royal stables. Aemond is bedding his wife and Nico will dance with Daeron until the sun rises but you are here alone, alone, alone, and you always will be. When Aegon drinks himself to death you will be widowed. When your child is born it will be given away to wetnurses and governesses. Nothing here is truly yours. Even if the Greens win, there’s no scenario in which you do.

I should have gone back home to Navarre when I had the chance. I should have fled from here like a sheep from wolves. And now I’m trapped. I’m so fucking trapped.

You cover your mouth with both hands. You don’t want anyone to hear you sobbing and decide to investigate, to piece together what has caused you such distress. Tears pour down your cheeks like spring rain. And you know now that if you are ivy to Aemond, then surely he is the same to you: a merciless trespasser, vines that have grown through your palms and into your bloodstream, scraping along the path of ruby arteries until they strangle the heart. There’s no point in trying to rip him out of you. There’s no way to return to the person you were before.

The bedchamber door flies open and slams shut, so quickly it’s over before you register what’s happening; hurried footsteps travel across the wooden floor. You whirl to find Aemond standing in the stone-heavy silence, in the firelight. You’ve never seen him like this before. He’s still wearing his eyepatch, but his long silver hair hangs free and wild, strands obstructing his face. He is dressed in only loose trousers and a white sleeping shirt that has been unbuttoned down to his navel. He’s backed himself against the wall. He’s trembling all over.

You rise and go to him. “Aemond…?”

He pushes your hands away when they settle on his forearm. “Don’t,” he pleads in a whisper.

“Alright,” you agree immediately. He won’t look at you, his blue eye darting everywhere except your face. He runs his fingers through his hair, shaking his head, breathing rapidly. Perspiration gleams on his bare chest, etchings and basins and steppes you’d only ever imagined. You ask him softly: “What happened?”

“I couldn’t do it,” Aemond says. At last, his gaze catches on yours, as if he’s surrendering, as if a gap in a page has been filled. “Not with her.”

Oh God, what is going to happen to us? What the hell is going to happen?

Before you can ask him, Aemond’s palms are on your tear-streaked face, and he’s kissing you with an intensity that cuts through all the strings that were knotted around you just minutes ago: hopelessness and solitude and bone-rattling terror. Your hands debate stopping him; instead, they come to rest on his salt-damp chest, exploring hungrily, a feast after famine. He’s begging for you in every way but words. There’s no question as to what your answer will be. There should be, but there isn’t; you need him in a way that is inescapable, like the seasons, like time.

You take blind steps backwards until your bare feet meet the bearskin rug, downy black fur of a beast that was killed for you. You stumble down onto the rug together, Aemond on top of you and tugging impatiently at the laces of your gown, you pulling up the hem, unable to wait, unwilling to lose the mindless rush of this moment. The necklace he made for you is a stripe of frost against your sweltering skin. You nip teasingly, ravenously at his neck, tasting smoke and paper and ink and leather, leaving flairs of red that vanish within seconds like dissipating smoke. Your fingers snag in his long white-blond hair; you lift his shirt from his back, inhaling a split-second hint of his wife’s edelweiss perfume as you toss it away. Aemond yanks off his trousers. He’s big, you knew he would be; bigger than his brother, bigger than you are confident you can endure.

Please let this be everything I hope it can be, you think fearfully. Please don’t let it be the way it was with Aegon. Please don’t let it be nauseating, tiresome, lonely, painful. The trepidation must show on your face.

“I won’t hurt you,” Aemond swears. “I’ll never hurt you.”

He retreats, hooks his arms beneath your thighs, and drags you towards him, burying his face between your legs; you bite down on your wrist to keep from crying out in pleasure. Beneath the gathered layers of your gown, his lips and tongue—greedy, dominating, starving for you—find the place where you are most sensitive, most aching. He licks, circles, licks again, sucks gently until you can feel that powerful wave of heat, bliss, finality building in your muscles and your nerves.

Not like this, you think. I want him closer to me when it happens. I want him inside of me, one with me.

“Aemond, come back,” you moan. “Please, please, come back. I need you. All of you. I need you right now.”

He rises obediently, his lips and chin dripping with your wetness, and kisses you deeply, intoxicatingly; you can taste yourself on him, minerals and desire, love and earth. He’s positioning himself between your thighs, two fingers of his right hand slipping effortlessly inside of you, working to ensure that you are prepared for his thickness, his length. You’re nodding as your hips move with his rhythm, gasping in air like you’re drowning, lost in a lust-red haze of helpless desperation. “Are you ready?” he asks in a ragged whisper.

“Yes, yes, Aemond, yes.”

His lips traverse your throat, the arc of your jaw, your cheek. “Stop me if you need to, okay?”

“Okay.”

“We’ll go very slowly.”

Kissing the side of your face, his left hand smoothing back your hair, Aemond begins to ease himself into you. There is pressure—tremendous, delicious pressure—but no pain yet. He stops to give you time to adjust; and perhaps it’s for him as well, shaking with euphoria and anticipation, trying to last long enough to please you. The first tentative rays of dawn are bleeding in from the slits between the curtains. And then there’s a sound that at first you don’t recognize: a creaking, a draft of new air. It’s the bedchamber door opening.

It happens too quickly for you to push Aemond away, to make any attempt to disguise your treason, your lethal weakness. There is only time to turn your face towards the open door to see who has discovered you. Perhaps it is the newlywed Kunigunde searching for her absconder husband, or the Duke of Hightower ready to drag Aemond back to consummate the marriage, or Daemon coming to murder you, or a servant or a guard or Queen Alicent or Sir Criston Cole. Each would be horrific in its own way, legacy-shattering, life-threatening.

But the intruder is none of these people. It is the one silhouette you didn’t even consider. You had assumed he wouldn’t be here. He’s almost never here.

The person in the doorway is Aegon.

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