#fields of dandelions au | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

husbandhoshi · 3 months

Text

TO GROW LOVE (AND EAT IT TO THE CORE)

pairing: mingyu x gn!reader wc: 8.1k summary: your whole life, you've only wanted one thing. then you meet mingyu. suddenly you want too much, and you wish the summer never ended. notes: farmer!au, established relationship, angst/hurt/a little comfort

this is a birthday fic for my one and only cat @wuahae ! yes this is about half a year late but what can i say. all good things come with time. thank you for being so kind, funny, and thoughtful (and patient)! not a day goes by where i’m not thankful for our friendship :)

and a million thanks to hana @wqnwoos and jackie @97-liners for helping me with edits. literally you guys are insane writers and i will never stop looking up to you.

i. strawberries (the summer we were young)

When a strawberry is ripe, the seeds push out from the heart of the fruit, as if it's bursting from the inside out.

This is one of the few and only things you've learned by living in Seogwipo, where strawberry season comes like a supernova. The May sun, full and heavy, peels into summer, and the roadside farms open their doors, trying to catch stray vacationers from Jeju City on the other side of the island.

That being said, there are approximately two things to do here. One of them is farm. The other is pretend like you have a life, which is your childhood friend Yizhuo's favorite thing to do when she's back from university on summer break.

Today, this involved convincing her ritzy, too-good Seoul friends that they're missing out on this side of Jeju. (Missing out on what? You're not sure. Perhaps the chipped paint of the mural walls, or the endless flat-topped stretches of seagrass. Yizhuo isn't fooling anyone, but you've always liked stretching your legs out in the bed of her pick-up, even on the long drive to nowhere.)

Unsurprisingly, her friends quickly came to the same conclusion. Just one look at your local strawberry patch, with none of the glamour of the bloated tourist traps in the city, and they decided they'd rather spend the afternoon at the beach.

It was then, between the fragaria blooms, when you met Mingyu. He asked for your name, and the rest was history. Yizhuo and co. scattered like the grasping hands of an overripe dandelion and you learned that he was, one, the newly-graduated son of a pair of local farmers, and two, very, very attractive. Almost too much so, especially for a place like this.

Now he holds up a berry, a bright red murder between his fingers, and tells you to try it.

"You must be delusional if you think i'm taking food from a stranger," you laugh, perched on the fence bordering the field. It sprawls before you, melon stripes on the sunbaked ground.

"No, my name is Mingyu," he replies. "No idea who delusional is." His smile, all bright lip and snaggletooth, tears into the scarlet belly of a newly picked strawberry.

"We all know what happened to Persephone."

"Well, if the underworld was a strawberry patch, I wouldn't mind being stuck there for all of eternity."

"What're you picking all these for, anyway?" you ask, watching Mingyu struggle with his too-big straw hat between the vines. His woven basket bleeds over with little berries.

"Jam. I make it on the very first day of every summer."

"Why?"

"You ask a lot of questions for someone who trespassed on my farm. You're cute, but I won't let you off easy."

He laughs at how you balk, clearly red-handed. You're not sure how to tell him you don't think you were supposed to be here either. You don't do things like sit in the back of trucks, trespass, or talk to pretty farmer boys who take a fancy to you, but it's the summer before you graduate and you're not even sure how long you'll have to continue making bad decisions.

"Are you gonna take my first-born now?" you joke instead. The daylight runs down the rim of Mingyu's hat, trickles down his brow, and you wish you could pour the image of him into a jar and keep it forever.

"No, but I will invite you in for some fresh jam on toast. I baked a loaf this morning." and when you say nothing, he continues. "The strawberries are only good once a year. It's the best you'll ever have. Promise."

It's a whine and a half, and somehow you convince yourself this will be the last bad decision you'll make. You've been here long enough to know that good things don't come twice in Seogwipo, and he is unlikely to be an exception.

Yizhuo blows up your phone, you tie the gingham apron around Mingyu's tiny waist, and the basket turns to blood in the saucepan.

Mingyu is right. Love comes to you in that kitchen, high and red like the sun, and the jam never tastes as good as it does that summer.

ii. watermelon (hollowed out, like a magic trick)

"A good watermelon sounds like a heartbeat."

You watch Mingyu heave the fruit, small and striped, out of his grocery bag. It joins the array of egg sandwiches and banana milks you picked up from the store together earlier. (There should have been chocolate Pepero too, but you split the box on the walk).

You're on a picnic, sprawled out on the outcropping overlooking the water. The path up is basically right behind your house, but you had never cared to visit. It had always been the local makeout spot, a schlocky teen crawl for those with nothing better to do, and yet, with Mingyu stretched out beside you, it seems newer. More exciting.

You're still just friends, or at least that's what you told Yizhuo. But ever since you sat on Mingyu's kitchen counter and ate from his jam-covered spatula, you don't think you've gone a week without seeing him. It's been almost two months, which seems so long and yet not long enough—he makes it easy to be greedy.

"See?" He thumps the watermelon with the heel of his palm. "Try it."

You already went through this entire charade at the grocery store, right in front of all the local aunties, but you indulge him. There's little point to triple checking if it's still ripe, but you think he just likes hitting it.

"It sounds good," you say. "But how are we even gonna eat it? We don't have a knife."

"Watch this." Mingyu procures a coin from his pocket. "You didn't learn this in elementary school? I feel like everyone was doing it."

"Here?" you ask, incredulous.

"Yeah, here. I grew up here too, you know."

He holds the edge of the coin to the skin and slams his palm into it once more, so that it lodges itself into the rind, and begins dragging it around the fruit. You start to wonder if he bought the watermelon just to show you a party trick—not that you mind, though. The strain of his biceps peeks through his rolled up white tee, and you remember why he was able to stop you with just one look back when you first met.

"No way." The watermelon is so ripe, it bleeds around the incision. "I feel like I know everyone here. And I definitely would have remembered you."

"I was probably, like, two grades above you," he replies. "And my parents shipped me off to live with my cousins after elementary school. They said I should get out of Seogwipo and experience the real world."

"Good call. There's nothing here." You watch Mingyu spin the melon over to cut through the other side. The coin catches the sunlight, and it looks like gold. "I wish I left for university. The one here is so small."

"Really?" He pauses to show you his handiwork. The two melon halves roll over on their backs, their cut edge cruel and jagged. "Cool, huh?"

"Impressive," you say. "Honestly. I really didn't think that would work."

"I didn't either when I first saw someone do it. But I’ll try anything once," he replies, ripping open the packaging of the plastic spoon from the bag. "I can't believe you don't like it here."

"You do?"

"Yeah. A lot." He shoves the spoon in his mouth, and you watch the watermelon juice pool around his lips. "I missed home. The trees and the tall grass and the ocean. All the fruits. Everything. I learned to ride a bike, right down there by the water."

"Hm." He passes you the spoon. You don't want to hog it, so you carve out a piece bigger than you need. "Are you gonna work at the farm?"

"Maybe. Haven't decided yet," he says. "I think I want to be here, though. Maybe do something with food, but I want to be home."

"That's funny, because I think I’ve always wanted to live a different life. Or at least one somewhere else."

"You want to go to law school, right?"

"Yeah." Mingyu is right. The watermelon is all sugar, and you would almost feel guilty for eating it if it wasn't technically good for you. "I’ve always wanted to be a lawyer. It's something about the people watching, I think."

"That’s really cool," Mingyu says, mouth full but no less sincere. It's then that you notice your shoulders are almost touching, and your heart crawls back up to your mouth. "You know what you want. I admire that."

He makes it sound like a compliment, but you're sure it's a curse.

You think of your parents. There's a permanent wrinkle ironed into their foreheads, the paper crease of expectations and high standards. It's not that they didn't care, but their kind of care was a humbled sort, made heavy by a hard life. It didn't help that your big sister Seohyun went straight from Yonsei to work a big tech job in San Francisco and never once looked back.

But you can't blame any of them—wanting has always been a hereditary failing. Sometimes Yizhuo will catch you frowning at nothing, and then you remember that life isn't a performance and every day ends at the same time no matter how hard you work. But you don't know how to tell her that the only thing you can do sometimes is want, because otherwise you wouldn't really have much at all.

It seems like the exact opposite of how Mingyu lives—everything about him seems to pass like the seasons. Maybe that's why you can't seem to get enough of each other.

"Thank you. Really." You dig the spoon into your half of the melon. There isn't much left. "You're way too nice to me."

"It’s not hard to be," he laughs. "Maybe you're just too hard on yourself."

You're losing track of the distance between the two of you. You can almost feel the heat playing off his skin.

"Maybe."

It's then, under the veil of summer, where you meet Mingyu's gaze and, finally, things seem close to simple.

All you know are his eyes, heavy with sun, and then the slow, slow move of his lips against yours. He tastes like August, long and sweet, and for once you know what it's like to not only want, but to have, and to have again.

The ocean sings on the horizon, and the watermelon bellies weep.

iii. adzuki beans (or, the blood of a headless taiyaki)

Mingyu eats taiyaki headfirst because he says it hurts less.

"That makes no sense," you tell him, your pinkies linked. You never really liked holding hands, but yours fits so perfectly in Mingyu's and there's some girlish, childlike shine to it when you watch his finger search for yours after just a moment separated.

"What do you mean."

He breaks your gaze to eye a red bean taiyaki, like an unwilling predator sizing up their prey. It's the lamest, most embarrassing iteration of National Geographic you've ever seen, and yet you cannot find any fiber within yourself not deeply in love with the lion.

Fall is a forgiving place for your relationship to settle. You're now a senior at university and he's started his gap year. Gap implies he's in the middle of something, but in true Mingyu fashion, he leaves it up to fate, or chance, or something not nearly as kind (whim).

"Taiyaki isn't alive. And why would you want to pretend it is? Eating gummy bears would become an extinction event."

"It kind of is." He holds out the tail end of the taiyaki, the pastry almost explicitly flayed open, in front of you to eat. "Why does the Haribo bear have a face? Why do the gummy bears live in a gummy forest?"

"Great, so now I can’t even enjoy gummy bears without feeling like a serial killer?"

You dig your pointer into his shoulders, broad from all the time he spends on the farm. To think that his hands, big and weathered, were made to pick berries (and now wrap around your pinky finger) is bruising, if not ridiculously funny.

"It's a crime of passion. Gummy passion. Prosecute that."

He kisses your cheek and your heart almost squeezes into two.

The terrible thing about being with Mingyu is how seemingly endless his affection is. Now he's feeding you in public and buying the two of you matching socks (cat and dog, to be exact), although you'll admit it's a little charming, even if the neighbors do gossip.

He's sweet, too sweet, and his kisses stick to the back of your throat.

But you can't be fooled. There's an unsaid violence to the way Mingyu loves. (The meticulous spiral of the peel he carves when you ask for him to cut you an apple. The grind, decisive and cruel, of a knife against a cutting board. A pair of canines against your neck, your jaw.)

Even now, he bites the head off another unwitting taiyaki before stuffing it back in the bag.

"We're still splitsing, right?" he says, with perhaps 1% of his mouth available for speaking and the other 99% murder machine.

Splits, he always says before you share food. You never had the heart to tell him that it's in the same family as mines or sharesies or takebacks—silly childhood relics, ones that no one uses anymore because they don't mean anything.

This time, you don't hear him because you're thinking about the law school fair you went to before Mingyu picked you up. The future is so close, it scares you. A year from now, what ground would you be standing on? Would it smell like this—the peat, the thread-spool fields, the balm of the ocean? Would you still have Mingyu's finger wrapped round yours?

"Have you decided if you're staying at the farm?" you ask.

"Not really." He uses the back of his hand to wipe off his chin. "If my sister decides to take over, I’m actually kinda thinking of going to pastry school instead of getting a masters."

Mingyu had been toying with the idea for some time after you had talked about it on the outlook. It started off as a joke (September; a galette), then a what if (October; green tea mochi), and now it sits at a kinda.

"Kinda?"

The word gathers speed in the pachinko machine of your mind. You never liked being a kinda person. For Mingyu, it seems like a luxury of a word, but for you, it's really just another thing to hide behind. Kinda talented, kinda ambitious, kinda just there. You're always one foot in, one foot out of something better.

"Yeah, kinda. Why?"

"I dunno. What if we both end up leaving?"

"Maybe. You still want to, right?"

You would be lying if you said you didn't—it's what you always wanted. Seogwipo has been a sun-rot, too-small crutch for you, but you would also be lying if you said you weren't terrified that you'd eventually come back, limping like some doomed Icarus, unable to truly make it in the real world.

Then you think of the pockmarked farmland beside your home, lacy with the fall harvest. Even now, you can trace the endless blue of the coastline all the way there, cut through all the maybes and just let the sound of the ocean fold you into sleep like you were a child again. You wonder if Seohyun, all the way on the other side of the world, ever misses it.

"I’m not sure," you say, because, as much as you don't like it, it's the only answer you have.

"It's ok. You'll figure it out. You always do." He squeezes your cheeks together between his thumb and index, laughing at how they pillow out underneath his fingers. "Screw pastry school. I could come with you. Who else would keep you fed?"

Mingyu's complete and unfounded belief in you makes you feel something close to betrayal. How could he say any of that? With what proof? Only someone like Mingyu would be able to hold the wrinkled fruit of your unremarkable life between his palms and see something better than that. Maybe it's because he grew up on a farm. Either that, or he already cares for you too much, too painfully.

Secrets are easy to keep when they look like yours. At least here, in the pit of your stomach, you can keep count, take attendance of them, all your tittering, small anxieties. Some days it feels like your ribs are pressing out, but it's better than cutting everything loose to spill out over what little you do have control over.

You can handle a little pressure. You have to.

What concerns you is the hand Mingyu's got across your chest. With one look, he just might gut you. A twist of the heart-knife, and all those carefully wound insides carved out in an instant—maybe he'd pity you, but worse than that, he'd likely be disappointed.

For you, expectation has always stood taller than shame, and the idea that he sees something past you makes you want to run away.

"I could be a house husband," he says as easily as ever. "You'll be off saving the world, arguing with whoever, and I'll be there to run you a bath afterwards."

"Let's not get too ahead of ourselves," you reply, binding up the strange, hollow feeling in your stomach with a laugh.

There's a scared little girl hiding inside you, and whether Mingyu sees her or not hurts the same. A spade is a spade. You can only pretend so long.

You look at the taiyaki floating in their wax paper bag, blinded and wrought open by the same grin that now peels you down, and you're not hungry anymore.

iv. winter pears (rotten, outside your parents' house)

Mingyu's family loves Christmas.

You think it's because of the pear trees they have in the front yard. They stand bravely before the house, all emerald ash and wisdom in the December freeze. Run your palms over the knobs and it's like you can see into a sleepy visage of simpler days past. (Below its heart, carved: 1982, the year the farm was bought. Along the tangle of the roots: gyu waz here, in an unsure, childish scrawl.)

Winter comes to the countryside crawling on its hands and knees. On days it doesn't snow, there's a mist, boggy and clingy. You've come to realize the cold is more of a threat than a promise, and so the pear trees still bear fruit; the silvery branches hang heavy, faithful.

The first day of December, Mingyu's parents had tasked the two of you with decorating the farmhouse, a duty you took very seriously. You wrapped Mingyu up in string lights and watched him blink in and out like your own personal firefly.

It wasn't until you watched the rafters, the barn doors, the joyous vault of the ceiling all glow, like a spectacular firework, that you finally started to understand why Mingyu was so into the holidays.

It was in the yellow blush of the string lights that you had your first pear from the tree, which Mingyu insisted was a holiday tradition. We make poached pears, he said, mid-bite. You simmer the pear in syrup until it gets so soft, you can cut into it with a fork. Just like butter.

That same night, he kissed you, mouth hot and trembling and tasting of honey, and pressed you against the bark so hard, you could feel the grit of its veins against your skin.

You think December became your favorite month, and pears your favorite fruit.

So much so, that for the entire month, you try to put away your worries about law school applications to celebrate with Mingyu and his family.

You learn his mom makes the best hot chocolate (a cinnamon stick and a dogged devotion to the whisk), and that Mingyu has no clue on God's green earth how to ice skate. (He careens right into your chest the first time. You spend the next hour with him attached to you like a backpack—he manages to find the most impractical ways to do anything, which you somehow admire the most). On Sundays, Yizhuo ditches her Seoul friends and instead accompanies you to the mall two towns over, where she watches you compare different ties and watches and collagen creams as you decide on gifts for his family. (Lilac is so last year, she'd say, stirring the straw of a watered-down milk tea.)

It's not until the weekend before Christmas when you realize just how serious things have gotten. Your feet understand the meander of the dirt path to the farmhouse, your bones the scent of the yellow-skinned apple, the faded wildflowers. Your palms crave the plush of the rug they have in front of the fireplace. Hell, you can't even eat soondubu without thinking of the kind Mingyu's dad makes, with extra anchovies and green onion.

You don't think about what this means. There are ten days left in December and love poured from a full cup never seems to run out.

"Please let me carry some of those," Mingyu wheedles. "Oh my god. I'm like the worst boyfriend in the world."

"No, you are not." you make your way up to his doorstep, taking care to one-two step over the stray roots of one of the pear trees. It's second nature to you by now. "The moment I hand you a box, you are gonna start trying to figure out what it is."

He harumphs and plucks the big one off the top anyway, the one he knows you can't reach. "I didn't even know you were getting us gifts. You didn't have to."

"It's the least I could do. Who shows up to a holiday dinner emptyhanded?" You stop at the front door. "And stop shaking it," you laugh, using the tip of your boot to nudge his shin.

"Okay. Okay," he says, saccharine, adoring, before grabbing the doorknob. "Ready? Are you nervous? You shouldn't be nervous, right? It's not fancy or anything, if you were worried about that."

And that's the thing that wedges itself between your ribs. Mingyu and his whole family are like this. They love and worry and love again; it presses deep into you, fills you, and overflows.

So here you are, standing in your nicest dress and balancing a stack of gifts you hope will amount to something, never enough but something, to repay the people who you feel have loved you more than you deserve. It's all you really have. You do your best, and yet you know when that door opens, it'll all be washed away in a high-tide flurry of hugs and laughter and the familiar press of Bobpul's wet nose against your leg. They're just those kinds of people—they would be just as happy if you didn't bring anything at all, and somehow that makes you feel even more guilty.

"No, no," you wave him off. "I’m fine. Excited."

When Mingyu opens the door, everything goes just as you expected. His sister takes your coat, your gifts are whisked away to the tree (Aji has already figured out which one is his), and his parents descend upon you in a choking swell of warmth and charity.

We baked some fresh bread for your parents (—Thank you so much, but you really shouldn't have.). You look so beautiful in that color (—No, no, you flatter me too much.). Mingyu better be taking good care of you (—He is. He really, really is.).

The kitchen is gauzy with cinnamon, anise. They must be making their famous poached pears, which Mingyu remarks on, just like clockwork.

Dinner passes the same way. It bubbles over with affection, and you feel swallowed by an impossible yearning. This—a full table and a hand to hold underneath it—did you deserve this? And could you keep it?

For an instant, you picture yourself, years later, at this same seat. Mingyu would be fussing over the rice cakes, his apron still gingham because it reminds him of the day you two met. His parents, grayer but no less happy, bickering over the shade of tinsel on the tree. And the dogs, coiled at your feet like they are now. The vision laps at your bones like you're a raft in a storm.

You're pulled back into the moment when Mingyu squeezes your hand, grounding and insistent. "Mom asked how school was going. I told her I think you're basically the smartest person I know, and I’m pretty sure you're getting into whatever law school you want."

Mingyu's parents laugh, and they cut through their pears.

"Oh, sorry," you say. "Um."

Clink. Knife meets flesh, meets porcelain. Your cheeks are hot. You wanted to talk about anything other than yourself tonight. Clink.

"The top programs are a reach, but it'd be nice." clink. "I just want to get in somewhere."

"They’re all so far away," Mingyu's mom remarks. "So grown up. Any school will be lucky to have you. You'll get into all of them."

Clink.

"Or maybe you can stay here." You watch the prongs of Mingyu's father's fork disappear into the pear. "Keep us old folk company."

"No, no, I think Mingyu should take notes and get off his lazy ass," his sister says, teasing. "Going back to the city will be good for him."

"So you can, what, burn down the kitchen again?" Mingyu grumbles, and the whole table seems to boil over with laughter.

"We’re kidding," his mom tells you. "No matter where you go, I’m sure you'll do great. We can even throw you a party at the end of the year. For graduating."

Clink. Clink.

There's a horrible uneasiness writhing around in your stomach. It's pear and syrup and clove and a blackness, an anxious, selfish one that sucks up all the generosity of the evening and turns it into shame.

Mingyu's mom is talking about throwing you a graduation party, something you didn't even think to do for yourself, and here you are, thinking about the shaking moment you open your rejection letters and the lonely path you'll draw on your way back home.

It's ok. They missed out, Mingyu would say, pouring you a consolation drink, and then it would be over. You'd go home and sit on your bed and the trifold piece of paper would go round and round your head like it was in a washing machine.

Your heart, an inventory of tasks and goals and tally marks. Things you've taken and things you've owed. It's a soft, boneless excuse. Be grateful. Give them that, at least.

Clink.

Dessert ends before you can tell his family not to get their hopes up. Mingyu's mom sends you off with your loaf of bread and a kiss on the cheek, and the moment is gone.

"Gyu," you call out on the steps in front of the house.

There are words at the seam of your lips. You want to tell him you're sorry for worrying so much. For making the whole dinner about you and then very possibly having nothing to show for it when it matters. For the heaviness in your chest. Your cowardice. But none of it comes out.

Instead you watch Mingyu pull at the leaves of a pear tree, watching the frost-filigree they get at the end of the season. He looks over his shoulder and smiles at you, as if he's on the hazy cover of a magazine. His eyes bend so wonderfully at the corners when he looks at you, and it breaks your heart.

"You had fun, right?" he asks. "My parents like you a lot, you know. I think they really do."

But that's the problem, you want to say. You all do, and I have no idea why.

Some of the pears are beginning to rot now. You watch one drop off the vine, and it caves to the pavement like it was made of nothing at all.

v. wild barley (grows like weeds)

In March, you play house.

Your parents leave on a two week trip to see relatives, and Mingyu takes it upon himself to make sure you survive.

It's a kind, blinding charade.

(7 am, breakfast. You usually don't even eat breakfast, but you wake up to doenjang and a smile, one that presses itself to yours until you're wearing it on the long walk to school.)

(4 pm, the stretch between lunch and dinner. You're muddling through another useless club meeting when Mingyu sends you a picture of him in your mom's apron, making kimchi. Kiss the chef, he texts you. You promise to, over and over and over.)

It's good until it isn't.

That isn't to say that it's Mingyu's fault. In fact, it's never really Mingyu's fault, and that's the worst thing about your relationship. Sometimes you wish he was worse just so there was someone else to blame.

(1 am, a fridge-cold glass of water and a hand on the column of your spine. Can't sleep? He asks. Just had a weird dream, you say.

It's a lie. You're a liar.

You miss your parents and the first wave of acceptance letters comes out in two days. You're not like him. Sleep has never been a cure for the exhaustion you're feeling, and you have no way of telling him that however warm the bed is won't fix that.)

It's on a Thursday afternoon when you open your mailbox and see the tiny, thin envelope that you've been expecting for the past week. You don't need to open it to know what it says, and yet you do it anyway.

The sun is white, a ghost in the spring sky. The ocean bleeds into the overcast, the curly barley stands tall around your feet, and you let the worst letter you've gotten in your life fall upon your shoulders, word by terrible word.

Then you close it, pinching the seam shut, and draw up your brave face. Nothing left to do but be brave. You're convinced you've used up all the sadness in your relationship—spend in pennies and the well still runs dry. Mingyu will cup your cheek and call you darling, pouring into your emptying basin, holey and broken.

You see him now through the kitchen window, Venus in his clamshell of a kitchen. Galbijjim day, he had said this morning. Now, he waves at you, glittery with recognition.

Your throat feels like crumpled paper.

Mingyu smiles at you, hazy through the glass. Your cheeks hurt and your mouth is paper mache, but you smile back anyway.

///

The letters come one after another.

You know what the envelopes hold and yet you keep opening them. The little folder you keep stashed in your bottom drawer gets fatter every passing day because you can't help but revisit your misery, almost as if you need to remind yourself it exists.

Mingyu is none the wiser. Today he decides he'll put off pastry school for one more year. "It doesn't feel like the right time," he says, rolling a log of burdock kimbap up. "You know what I mean?"

No, you don't. You never really do.

You do know, however, that it would feel really fucking bad that, come the end of the year, to have nothing. All your friends would be going somewhere—even Yizhuo opened her acceptance to an MFA program in Shanghai yesterday—and you would be here, still, feet firmly planted in the muddy Jeju dirt like they always had been.

"Hey, don't look so disappointed." he jokes. "Don't tell me you're already trying to get rid of me."

You're not, you really aren't. But part of you wonders if it's just a race to the bottom. If you got rid of him before he decided he wanted to get rid of you, maybe it would hurt a lot less. One less letter for the folder.

"Never. But imagine if you picked up a French accent at pastry school. Then I’d consider it. Maybe."

You watch his knife rock back and forth on the cutting board as he cuts the kimbap.

"Some for you. And more for me," he says, in what you can only describe as someone attempting to speak French when they've never heard it before. "Unless you want more, mon cherie."

He brings the plates to the table, his grin nothing short of dizzying.

"I’m irresistible, huh? Still wanna leave me now?"

"You're gonna have to try a little harder than that, I think."

The words roll off your tongue, easily, traitorously.

You watch the kimbap disappear off of Mingyu's plate.

Going, going, gone.

///

Seogwipo is always dark at night, only kept alive by the glow of the moonlit sea.

You can't sleep. Again. And so you sit out on the steps in front of your house, letting the twilight wrap around you like a blanket.

You got your last letter back earlier today. You held your breath and tore it open like you would a birthday card with money in it.

Waitlisted.

It was surely better than a rejection, but some naive, child-eyed part of you thought that if you had just closed your eyes and hoped hard enough, things would work out the way you had planned. Tragically, it wasn't enough this time. You wanted and wanted and you thought maybe that would mean you'd come close to deserving it.

Your parents called today. After managing to sideline the issue of basically the rest of your entire life, they had finally cut through your sad little charade. No good news yet, huh?

No, but—

It was always like that with you. No, but it's not as bad as you think. No, but give me a chance. No, but I’m trying. I've been trying.

You wish things didn't come out of you so complicated. That you could be like Seohyun, who could go through school with her eyes closed and still graduate at the top of her class. Instead, you parade around your little failures, trying to convince people it all could mean something only if they squinted. See? It isn't so bad.

You think you're past the point of crying about it. Your stomach hurts, you're cold, and most of all, you just want to go back to bed. Plus, although Mingyu sleeps like a log, you think he's developed a sixth sense for whenever you get up too early.

Time to be brave, you've been telling yourself, although you don't know who you're pretending for anymore.

So you nudge the front door open—it's so old, it wails if you come at it with any more force—and, to your surprise, see the light above the kitchen sink turned on.

It's not very bright, but it's enough to make out Mingyu's broad silhouette, back turned to you as he makes a cup of tea. He's humming one of his made-up songs.

"Mingyu?"

"There you are," he says, turning around. "Just came out to check on you. And make you some tea."

The kettle whizzes. Your gut twists.

You still haven't said anything to Mingyu. To manage your own disappointment was one thing—you don't think you could handle another person's. And yet when he stands there, Pororo mug between his huge hands, you feel as if you are holding a knife, big and guilty and bloody.

"I-I'm fine, Gyu. Honest." you watch his expression flicker, unreadable in the persimmon lamplight. "Sorry you had to come out. It's chilly out here."

"You know, you can tell me what's going on. I won't judge."

No, no, no. This is the last conversation you wanted to have, with the last person you wanted to have it with.

You feel feverish. You think your hands are shaking.

"Mingyu, I swear—"

"Whatever it is, we can fix it. I know we can."

That almost makes you want to laugh if you didn't want to cry so bad. Of fucking course he would say that. Mingyu, who treats life like it's the watermelon trick he showed you on the outlook, wants to put a bandaid on this whole thing, as if that could come close to fixing it.

He'd tell you to curl up on the couch with a bad movie while he orders takeout. Kiss you on the top of the head. It's ok, baby. Just another bad day for the person who has the worst luck in the world. Another lump of problems for him to try and make better. If he isn't sick of you now, he sure would be soon enough.

"It’s okay," you say, steeling your voice. "It really isn't a big deal. Let's just go back to sleep."

You try to walk away, but the hardness in Mingyu's eyes roots you down to the tile.

"Stop doing that."

"Doing what?"

"Pushing me away," he swallows. "Like you always do. I know something's going on."

"I’m not, i just—"

"You just what? You can't help it?"

"No, I—"

"Because you like to know that you can? That you can say whatever and then watch me come back?" A fragmented, heavy silence thrums between you. He's looking at you like he's daring you to say something, anything. His gaze is black. "What am I good for if you can't tell me anything?"

There's that familiar, stinging pressure behind your eyes. You think you're crying, but you're not sure. Maybe you've been crying this whole time.

"Fine," you bite. Your blood feels like hot metal. "You really wanna know? I didn't get into law school. There. Happy now?"

Mingyu looks stung.

"W-why didn't you tell me?"

Because I thought you would stop loving me. I thought you would have finally had enough.

"Because it's not all about you, Mingyu."

The words, selfish and damning, burn your tongue. Mingyu is right. This is what you always do. You fuck up and then make everyone else hurt for it.

"I'm sorry," Mingyu says. His voice doesn't sound like his. Instead, the words seem to hang in the air, trembling and holding their breath, waiting for an apology you can't give yet. "I shouldn't have—"

"It's ok." You swallow hard, and it hurts. "Let's just go back to bed."

It's getting colder and colder. You think there's a little hole in your sock, right above the cat's whiskers.

Mingyu doesn't reach for you as he passes to get to the hallway. Maybe he doesn't know how to anymore.

The Pororo cup is left abandoned on the counter. You walk over and read the label on the tea bag—barley, because you have class tomorrow morning.

You pick it up, let the ceramic buzz between your hands with whatever warmth it has left, and hold it to your lips.

It's cold now, but all you can think to do is drink it. Erase all the evidence that tonight ever happened, and maybe it'll be nothing more than a bad dream in the morning.

There's honey at the bottom of the cup. It sears the back of your throat, but you drink until there's nothing left.

vi. the peach blossoms (without fail, bloom every August. I miss you.)

You broke up the next day.

Even now, you remember what happened. You had woken up early that morning to make your own breakfast because you couldn't allow Mingyu to give you any more of himself. Your hands could only hold, shatter, so much.

"Mingyu, I think we should...." You looked at the zigzags of jam on your toast, angry and uneven. "I think we should stop seeing each other. For now," you had added, as if that made anything better at all.

Somehow that seemed more merciful at the time. Really, you think it just showed your cowardice. If you were going to break his heart, you might as well have gone all the way the first time.

Maybe it was a good thing that Mingyu saw right through you. He always did.

"So that's it, huh? You're just gonna give up on us?"

"No, I just...need some time."

"How long?" he asked. "Be honest with me. Because you know I’ll wait."

"I don't know." You couldn't meet his gaze. His eyes reached and reached over that kitchen table and you denied him even that.

"Don't you always know?" he asked, pitifully, desperately. "Don't you want this to work?"

And you did. In fact, you don't think you had ever wanted anything more, and it was that that scared you. You had already lost law school—you couldn't let the only other thing in your life let you go. So you pulled the trigger first.

"We should just end things. I'm sorry. I can't give you what you need."

He packed his bag within the hour, and you think everything, from then on, froze inside you. You didn't move from your seat until your parents came home from the airport later that day and asked why there were two plates of toast still on the table.

You think you knew, someplace, inevitably, this would happen. You, who only knew hunger, had reached deep inside Mingyu and rooted out a love you didn't think you were worthy of having. And yet you still ate from the vine, bite after guilty bite, until you couldn't take any more. The only time he asked you for anything at all, you couldn't give it to him—such was the irony of your relationship.

Maybe you were doomed the moment the first strawberry hit your tongue, just like you had said, all that time ago.

About a month later, you got another letter in the mail. Chungnam National University Law School, it read. This one was fat, in one of those brown envelopes lined with bubble wrap. Somehow, miraculously, that position on the waitlist had turned into an acceptance. You held the package to your chest and cried, loud and with abandon, as if taking a deep breath after almost drowning.

Ironically, the first person you wanted to tell was Mingyu. But the good news you needed to save your relationship came too little, too late. Perhaps that meant it had no legs to stand on in the first place, but that didn't stop you from missing it. Instead, you told Yizhuo, and she drove you to Jeju City and treated you to dinner. "You should just call him," she had said. "Hey, don't look at me like that. He'd probably pick up on the first ring."

The city is swathed in August's crimson summer—peach season. The narrow streets are lined with peach trees, the fruits glowing like fat drops of sunlight. All you do these days is plan for your eventual move to Daejeon and the start of a life that seems newer and shinier than your own. But surrounded by the cicada song, the velvet treeline, the rain-soaked asphalt, somehow you think you're going to miss Seogwipo more than you think.

(Fickle, fickle heart. You always needed things to be taken away to really be able to appreciate them. Somehow, all that wanting had boiled down to something more satisfying, more filling.)

You wonder how Mingyu is. Now that you think about it, he seems just as much a part of Seogwipo as the farm he lives on. It was only last summer when you had first met him in the field, set on fire by the strawberry harvest. You think about him now, peddling around that ridiculous wicker basket to make jam. Maybe talking to another pretty girl, someone as naive, cruel as you had been.

Not long ago, you considered calling him to apologize, but that'd just be another thing to be selfish about. A little time and some warm weather, and I’m calling to finally wash my hands of you. That's what it would sound like, no matter what you said. Still, it didn't stop you from thinking of him, every flower, every season.

"You know, I always wanted to grow peach trees. But I think we've always been a pear kind of family."

Mingyu. If a voice could cut through air, it'd be his.

You whip around, half-believing you're hearing things. Certainly that would be easier, but you're learning that there are some things you can't run from.

And like a picture, Mingyu stands tall, golden, framed by the peach blossoms. Not a thing about him has changed. Not even the way he looks at you.

"Mingyu," you breathe. Unfortunately, none of the times you replayed your last conversation with him help you come up with something to say, because in none of them did you anticipate him coming back. "W-what are you doing here?"

"I live here, silly."

"No way," you reply, scrambling. "Crazy, because I live here too."

You both laugh nervously, a silly, bubbly thing, but you feel like you're going to throw up. It's only now that you realize you're kind of on the walk to his place. Seogwipo has never had places to hide.

"I...um." You try and disentangle the guilt from the nostalgia from the scent of the peaches and the warmth on his face. They all look the same. You missed him. "I got into law school. In Daejeon."

"I heard," he says. "Not surprised at all. I always knew you would."

"Thank you. I mean it." The cicadas buzz around you, as if they know they have an important silence to fill. "You're staying in town, right?"

"Actually, I decided to apply to culinary school. It finally felt right, you know? I'm leaving at the end of the summer, but it's just in Jeju City. I couldn't leave the island."

"Thank goodness. I don't know if you could tell, but I kind of always hoped you would. I don't think I’ve ever eaten better food." Your voice wobbles, but it gets there. "You'll do amazing."

Then time stretches and forces you to recognize, reckon with, the moment you're in. You wonder if he feels the same way you do—bruised, overripe. If there's still a space in his heart for you.

Deep breath. Life only gives you so many chances.

"Mingyu, I’m sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't make us work. You deserved better." Saying it feels like peeling the skin of your heart back. There's still a palpable distance between the two of you—you think that had always been there—but it feels more comfortable in a way it never did before.

"Don’t apologize," he says, easily, as he always does. Everything seems to flow off him like water, and you think that's the part of him you loved the most because it was the one thing you couldn't touch. "We loved each other. I think that much was true."

A jasmine breeze curls through the trees, sending the blossoms fluttering around you like ink in water. The very first time you met Mingyu, you thought the image of him, haloed with the sunset, was the one you wanted to keep forever. And yet, somehow, you don't think you'll ever forget the way he looks right now.

"Will you ever come back to Seogwipo?" you ask.

"I was gonna ask you the same thing—you were always the one who wanted to get out of here." He grins, ear to ear. "Of course I'm coming back. There's nowhere I'd rather be."

"Yeah. I think I know what you mean."

The sea, the clay dirt, Mingyu. Even yourself, clumsy and care-worn. You think, somewhere along the line, you forgot how to love. But you're learning—one step at a time.

"Friends," you say. "Let's be friends. If you'll let me."

"Thought you would never ask. Gladly. Always." The space between you seizes, like it's holding in a breath. Maybe one day, you'll think of closing it once more, but you like where you stand now. You can admire him better from a distance, without your fingerprints all over him. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, something he does before he gets ready to leave. But before he does—"I'll see you soon, okay? You better come back. Promise me."

For the first time, you see the honesty in his eyes and you really, truly believe him.

"Promise."

The Seogwipo sun is high and red in the sky when you wave Mingyu goodbye. It feels like you're coming to an end of a long summer, but you're not afraid. You watch the wind dance through the peach blossoms, their branches never searching, never wanting, and you finally feel as if you've arrived home.

#literally on my hands and knees begging for the tags to work #mine #mingyu #mingyu x reader #mingyu x you #mingyu angst #seventeen angst #mingyu imagines

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doobea · 6 months

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✰⋆⁺★ I SURRENDER ALL OF ME ─ CHOSO KAMO

synopsis: choso takes a lot of things seriously - this includes childhood promises and vows.

contents: very fluffy, sfw, no curse AU, childhood friends to lovers, gn!reader, death jokes thrown around, umm just imagine the rest of the curses as humans LOL, sorry mahito - ur interesting word count: 1.4k a/n: bye this meant to be a small drabble but ended up being semi lengthy... sorry i havent been active as much ;;

Two fruit punches, a full bag of grapes, and four sandwich halves in a colorful lunch box sit between you and Choso. It isn't until it's down to one fruit punch, half of bag of grapes, and three sandwich halves left that you decide to build up the courage to blurt out a burning question.

"Do you want to get married?"

Your best friend doesn't bat an eye at your inquiry as he finishes the remainder of his drink and rips off a piece of crust from his meal, tossing bits of it into the pond in front of him. The moment a flock of ducks fight over the the pieces, he answers.

"Doesn't everyone?"

"Yeah, but—" Heat rushes to your cheeks as you force the next words. "Do you want to get married to me?"

This time, Choso turns his head and tilts it, eyebrows creasing and the birthmark on his nose scrunches just ever so slightly. The eight year old looks mildly offended that you even asked that.

"I only want to be with you," he proclaims with all the vigor that a child has. Then, with another chunk of crust thrown in the pond, Choso continues with all seriousness. "But you need a ring to propose, right?"

"I..." you trail off, fumbling with your empty juice box as you try and search for the right words.

To be honest, you didn't expect that response from Choso. If he isn't interested, he would've your question, and that would be that. It isn't like you two can actually get married anyway. And yet, watching Choso fiddling around with the patch of grass next to him, examining and ripping the longest blade he can find, you can't help but to anticipate a response from him.

Choso looks satisfied with himself when he raises the makeshift ring in your face. You only had a split second to inspect the 'jewelry' before his voice rings in your ears. "Will you marry me?"

You find yourself answering without much second thought. "Yes."

Both of you hold onto your breaths as he slides it on. It's not the perfect size, a bit too big for your finger, but there's a little bow at the top that's tied with a small yellow dandelion. Your chest swells with happiness and did the next thing that an eight year old would do - you lean in and press your lips to Choso's cheek, the way you've seen your parents do to each other hundreds of times. When you pull back, Choso is staring, cheeks inflamed.

You smile brightly at him.

You're going to kill Satoru and Suguru.

They just had to decide that a maid and butler themed cafe wasn’t going to raise enough money for the college fundraiser this year. They both just had to decide to set up another booth, and not just any booth — a kissing booth.

And Satoru, for some reason, thought it would be funny to put you in charge.

You're not entirely sure how the rest of the elective board approved of this idea. And you're still not entirely sure why you have to wear a stuffy uniform along with it.

You're going to kill Suguru first, and then give Satoru a slow painful death.

"Pfft, oh my god!"

No, scratch that. You're going to kill every student that comes up to this dumb booth. The first victim starting with Mahito.

Your stomach churns as you watch him and his little group of friends trail behind him, edging closer to the booth with a wide grin plastered across his face.

It takes every fiber in your body to not physically lunge forward and punch him. Getting this booth shut down not even ten minutes in would have you running around the track field as part of Suguru's punishment. You're ignoring the sweat trailing down the back of your neck and pray that Mahito isn't serious about putting his lips anywhere near you.

"Fuck off," As long as it's not physical, you plan to verbally assault him as much as you can.

You force yourself to look pass Mahito and sneer at the rest of his friends. It doesn't surprise you to see all of their lips quivering, trying their best to not just burst out laughing in the middle of the campus courtyard, which they're all failing miserably at. All of them are giggling to themselves like middle schoolers but one man.

His eyes catches yours, looking mildly unfazed before tired eyes suddenly widening at recognition. You have to do a double take and, upon closer inspection, you let out a small noise at the sight of the distinguishable birthmark on his face.

"Choso?" You haven't seen him since he moved away several years ago. Who knew he would've ended up at the same university as you, let alone hang out with an annoying guy like Mahito.

Before he could even respond back, Mahito begins fishing for something in his bag. Then, your worst nightmare comes to life as he pulls out a fucking wallet. You're mentally preparing yourself to throw up on the spot, then calling your club presidents announcing your leave as treasurer, then killing yourself. That is, until Choso slams down a couple of bills of his own.

You take a moment to process what just happened before staring bewilderedly at your childhood friend, who just kept a straight look.

"What the fuck?" The voice comes from Mahito.

"That's cheating," Choso begins and now you're really confused.

"You guys are dating?" Another voice chimes in, you think it belongs to Jogo.

With a firm head shake, Choso responds, "Married, actually."

You can't tell if this is his way of protecting you from Mahito but you go along with the act anyway.

"Married." Mahito repeats slowly.

"Married." Choso confirms.

Then, the other male points a finger at your direction. "Since when?"

You smile. "Since we were kids."

You awkwardly clear your throat, stuffing your uniform in your bag as you stride out of the bathroom back in your regular clothes. Choso greets you right outside with a subtle smile, signs of his friends from earlier gone and the small shoebox in his hands, the one specially for today's event, has a total of twenty dollars. Twenty of his dollars and zero kisses were made.

According to Suguru math, that's, like, ten miles around the track field.

"Thank you, I don't know what I would've done if you weren't there," you finally speak after he offers to walk you back to your dorm.

"Technically it would've been cheating," Choso jokes nonchantlanly.

You snort, shoving the male just slightly along the empty gravel path. "Well, you're a terrible husband because I haven't heard from you in over a decade."

Choso winces, rubbing his neck and mumbling a soft, "Sorry, I forgot to ask for your house number before my family moved."

Choso has always been relatively quiet as a kid, and even now you can still see that he keeps to himself by some of his habits, but your days spent throughout middle school to high school were relatively much quieter without him by yourself. Thankfully, he saved your ass today, so you suppose you can spare Choso's life for now.

"Social media is free, you know?" You tease back.

He laughs. "Didn't get my first phone until second year of high school, and that year I found out I had a half-sibling."

You stretch your eyes wide, almost tripping over your feet, and then your gapping mouth evolves into a smile. "Okay, wow—that's huge news, I guess I can forgive you for that."

"He's a senior in high school, might be thinking about coming here next year."

"He similar to you?"

Choso shakes his head and looks fondly ahead. "Livelier. Kinda like jock but one of the nice ones."

After rounding a corner, you speak again, eyes now glued to his messy pigtail buns. "Your hair is cute, you've always kept it down as a kid."

Choso self-consciously runs a hand over his scalp, tints of pink paint over his face. "Thanks."

You decide to be bold and interlock your arm with his. You watch closely as his body flinches at the contact but he doesn't pull away, doesn't say a word.

Your stomach does a few threatening somersaults. "I thought about you almost everyday, you know?"

For a moment, Choso says nothing and you're starting to wonder if you're going to be left in suspense but, after he reaches to the steps of your dorm building, he says, "Me too."

You elicit a sigh of relief and tug his arm closer. "So, you planning to start walking me to classes and getting lunch every day now?"

Choso brushes the hair out of your eyes before resting his forehead against yours. "If that's what will make me a good husband, then yes."

#doobea writing #choso x reader #choso fluff #choso kamo fluff #jujutsu kaisen x reader #choso kamo x reader #jjk x reader #jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen fluff #MY BOYFRIEND <3

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ficsilike-reblogged · 10 months

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Dandelion

Summary: You usually preferred the company of dragons to most people. The presence of a certain Targaryen prince threatens to upend your quiet life. Pairing: Soft dark!Aemond Targaryen/F!Reader (No Y/N, could be read as an unnamed OC)

Warnings: Familial abuse, negative self talk, canon typical violence, dub-con bordering on non-con, obsessive behavior, power imbalance, canon typical sexism. Please do not read if this will upset you. You are responsible for what you consume. NO MINORS ALLOWED A/N: No Civil War AU! I will borrow a bit from other events that will eventually happen in ‘The Dance’ but I give them a different outcome because I do what I want. Reader is from an original Valyrian house and the only physical characteristics they have are purple eyes and silver hair. She is also a few years older than Aemond. Enjoy!

Word Count: 21k :)

You’d never been good at running. You were too slow. Too clumsy. Too self-sacrificing.

No.

You were terrible at running. You couldn’t outrun your brother as he swore and raged and tugged at your hair. You couldn’t outrun your mother’s prized stallions when they turned course toward you in the field. You couldn’t outrun your father when he saw the mess you’d tracked into your family’s manse alongside your sister.

But you were able to hide her in her rooms and take the blame for all of it. She was so small. She didn’t need to be hurt like that. You could take it, couldn’t you? If you were feeling brave, you’d take her hand in yours and sneak out to the rolling valley that was always spotted with wildflowers.

“Do you know that you can make wishes on dandelions?” Your sweet sister, Vaella, asked one day, holding a bunch of dandelions in her hand. Most of the stems had started to wilt in her too-tight childish grip. But you eased them out from between her fingers with a smile and let her tell you about the “magic” she had heard about from her friend, a little lady from House Tyrell. You righted the stems as best you could, smiling as you did. Wouldn’t that be nice? To blow away a few petals and have your wildest desires come to fruition?

“Shall we make a wish then?” You asked, holding out a few for her to take again. Her jagged little nails, something your mother always scolded her for, caught on your fingers and you tried not to hiss as you felt your skin give way beneath them. Blood bubbled to the surface as your sister quickly apologized over and over again even as you waved her off. “Make your wish!”

Vaella dutifully shut her eyes and then sucked in a deep breath before quickly blowing away all the dandelion seeds. You knew her wish, Seven knew she had told you about it enough: a kind, loving husband, with enough gold to rival kings.

You followed suit but frowned as you tried to find a wish worthy of asking. But, as you heard Vaella’s melodic giggles beside you, you knew. You tightened your blood-tinged fingers around the flowers. I wish for Vaella to have everything good and beautiful in this world.

Then you heard your father on his horse barreling toward you. You knew it would only hurt more if you tried to escape his wrath and you’d never outrun him anyway—your mother knew how to breed and train the fastest horses this side of the Red Mountains and Dorne.

So, no. You weren’t good at running. But you were almost decent at playing the part most everyone else wanted from you. You learned what to say and how to act to stymie your parents’ rage and your brother’s annoyance. You knew how to do your duties as a highborn lady who had a fortunate Valyrian bloodline. Your family had always been dragonkeepers. Even before The Doom, your family had tended to the dragons that had conquered most of Essos, knowing their likes and dislikes, calming and caring for the animals and their riders. It had been a noble profession then and it was a noble profession now. Of course, not all of your bloodline had taken up the mantle, but it was expected that at least one of every generation, no matter their gender, would take up the duties as the decades passed, even before the Dragonpit had been constructed.

Loyal to the Targaryens and their dragons. Always. (Even if your family had tried to dissuade to no avail the royal family from constructing the Pit, saying that the dragons were never meant to be caged so.)

Your family had been adamant about the Valyrian blood in their veins staying pure. When they tired of marrying Velaryons or Celtigars, and House Qoherys died out, they sought spouses from across the Narrow Sea, from Volantis and the Old Blood who could prove unbroken Valyrian ancestry, or from Lys, the city where Valyrian Blood was (said to be) strongest. But never a Targaryen. They had never asked and your family had never reached so high. You were servants to no one but the dragons and the Targaryens. Your allegiance and skillset had made your House wealthy beyond measure, it was only bolstered when accompanying Velaryons on foreign voyages or devising new money making schemes with the Celtigars. Advantageous marriages with dowries worthy of princesses helped, too.

Being a Keeper was a family tradition you couldn’t run from. And, if you were being honest, it was one of the few things about your family you did not resent. Your duties in The Pit kept you away from your father’s anger and your mother’s sneers. Your elder brother Rhogar’s duties in The Pit were easily circumvented and you knew enough to steer clear of him. You found purpose and camaraderie amongst the dragons and hatchlings. They could not speak, true, but they were your truest friends since your sister’s wish had come true and she had absconded to Volantis to live the life of a noblewoman of the Old Blood with her doting husband. It was a quiet life. But you knew better than to ask for more. You still wished for something on dandelions every time you had the chance. For a friend. For love. For the continued prospering of Vaella and her growing family on the other side of the Narrow Sea. You knew better than to wish for the love of your parents or brother. No amount of blood or dandelion magic would ever grant you that.

However, when the war with the Triarchy and the man known as the Crabfeeder proved enough of a problem that the conflict-averse King Viserys finally started to treat it as a war, you were happy to accept the summons to Dragonstone. There were a handful of dragons now roosting there, ready to be flown out by their riders to aid the Velaryon and royal fleets. After you arrived, you had been handpicked by Lady Laena Velaryon to care for Vhagar. It had been the honor of your life, alongside being Laena’s handmaiden for the day of her wedding to Prince Daemon. She had been a fierce warrior astride Vhagar, an even fiercer mother to her twins, Rhaena and Baela. She was not but a three namedays older than you but it might as well have been decades. She was so different from you. So poised and lovely and kind—and her family adored her. Her brother, Ser Laenor, whom you also saw frequently with his dragon Seasmoke, had named Rhaena the heir to Driftmark just after Baela had been betrothed to Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Harwin Strong’s firstborn son, Prince Jacaerys. The celebration Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys had thrown to mark the occasion was lavish and lovely. You had wished upon three dandelions that night, wanting the best for Baela and Rhaena.

“One day,” Laena said to you, climbing down from Vhagar’s saddle as you held one of the twins’ hands in each of your own, “you will make a fine mother.”

“Someone will have to learn to stomach the scent of dragon if they want to bed me, my lady.” Not to mention that you were nearly considered an old maid already. You were sure the only reason you hadn’t been married off was because your parents hadn’t deemed you worthy of the dowry they’d once set aside for you. They’d prefer to keep their gold which you added to with each moon. And their repeated, cruel comments about how you’d never marry because of your looks, ‘horrid’ personality, and court ineptitude and made you believe you would be alone for the rest of your life, only accompanied by dragons.

Laena laughed and let her twins leap into her arms. “You are the blood of Old Valyria, my dear. Anyone would be lucky to have you, smell of dragon or no.”

She had been kind to you. Effortlessly, so.

Then, when she had been killed by a scorpion bolt fired by devotees to the Crabfeeder, your world tilted on its axis. The twins’ hatchlings, Morning and Moondancer, had cried and trilled for ages, feeling her riders’ grief in their small nests. They only rested on the short boat ride to Driftmark as they nestled in your hold. You did your best to help them, to make sure they fed, as Daemon tried to prepare for the rest of the royal family who were descending on Driftmark for the funeral. Daemon himself was a mess. How could he not be? Everyone who knew the couple saw how in love they had been. How in love Daemon was still. You’d heard whispers that Corlys had blamed Laena’s death on Daemon’s pride. The Rogue Prince had flown out to meet the Triarchy’s forces alone and Laena had been the only aerial defense to keep him safe. And, perhaps a small part of you believed that.

The night before their arrival, Vhagar finally landed back on the island. You’d heard whispers of how she had raged against the Triarchy’s fleet after feeling Laena’s death and watching Corlys pull her body from the water. The old dragon had nearly destroyed the entirety of the enemy’s fleet singlehandedly before disappearing into the clouds. But now?

You took careful, slow steps toward her as the moon continued to climb higher into the sky. Her giant head swiveled as you approached and she grumbled, shaking the ground beneath your feet, before she recognized your scent. Laying your hand to the near-scalding scales on her neck, you tried to press all the love you could manage into the touch, your sorrow, your calm. “I miss her, too,” you whispered in Valyrian. “But it is good to have you here.”

The old dragon gave another rumble and it almost broke your heart at how sad she sounded. How much heartbreak could one beast endure?

“We will get through this together, won’t we?”

You stood behind Baela and Rhaena and watched as ships with black and red sails docked. Morning and Moondancer were coiled around their shoulders, finally sleeping after a night filled with more crying and your desperate attempts to feed them. Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Harwin disembarked first, followed by their sons, Princes Jacaerys and Lucerys. King Viserys followed soon after with his hand being held by his youngest, Prince Daeron. Queen Alicent was next with her other three children, Princess Helaena and Princes Aegon and Aemond, following closely. The family was greeted solemnly but warmly by the Velaryons and Targaryens—aside from the icy stares you saw thrown in Daemon’s direction by Princess Rhaenys, Lord Corlys, and Ser Laenor.

It would not be the first time you’d heard of troubles in the royal family. There had been rumors of a feud between Rhaenyra and Alicent after the latter’s marriage to Viserys. It had been quashed eventually, the pair falling back into their close bond soon after Alicent’s father, Otto, was dismissed from his position as Hand of the King and replaced with Princess Rhaenys. Apparently Otto had tried to convince Alicent that Rhaenyra would kill her friend’s children to keep her promised crown—which was preposterous because, even tucked away on Dragonstone, you’d heard how Rhaenyra had doted on her half siblings. You knew for a fact that it had been Princess Rhaenyra and Queen Alicent together who had pushed for the new law which allowed daughters to inherit titles and lands. The princess had also been the one to pick the dragon eggs for each of their cradles, too. Only two had hatched, unfortunately. Aegon’s Sunfyre and Daeron’s Tessarion, but you had been told that Princess Helaena had claimed Dreamfyre just a few moons ago.

That left only Prince Aemond.

He was a few namedays older than the twins and offered them a small smile when he reached their side. His purple eyes flittered over to you for a moment and something passed over his face, something you could not name. But it was quickly over and he was offering a few hushed words of comfort to his cousins.

Princess Rhaenyra was the first to actually greet you, cradling her pregnant belly. “It has been some time, has it not, my lady?”

You managed to smile as you curtseyed. “It has. I hear Syrax is faring well; expecting another clutch soon, no?” You’d once been one of the half dozen of keepers tasked with the princess’ dragon and had been the most indulgent with Rhaenyra wanting to constantly be on dragonback despite the others knowing she was supposed to be humoring lords vying for her hand. You had also been the only one to be able to calm Syrax during Prince Jacaerys’ early birth while the Princess and her husband were visiting Dragonstone. Three other Keepers had perished, either burned or eaten, as the little prince was born but not you. You had calmed her. You had been the one to discover that Syrax had laid a clutch of eggs alongside her rider. The Princess had been kind and gracious when you told her of the news.

The Heir Apparent smiled, sweeping a hand over her stomach. “It is quite a blessing, truly.”

You continued to speak for a little longer, watching as Rhaena and Baela walked to their father’s side as he spoke to Alicent. Rhaenyra was just as pleasant as always. But, despite the important company, you heard something that nearly had you frowning.

“Who is that?” Aemond asked Baela. A quick glance to the side let you see the prince pointing at you.

Baela gave your name with a small smile, making sure to enunciate your House’s name, too. “She is Vhagar’s Keeper.”

The night continued and you were dismissed as the family gathered for supper. It was only when you were in the comfort of your chambers did you allow yourself to cry. Hot, giant tears slid down your face as you tried to muffle your sobs beneath your fingers. It felt like your ribs had cracked open to reveal your broken heart.

When you found little respite from your grief with sleep, you slipped out of your rooms and toward the shore where you knew Vhagar roosted for the night. She once again greeted you with a huff, nudging her head into your stomach and nearly bowling you over.

“I know,” you murmured, smoothing your hand down her dark scales. “Me too.” Movement out of the corner of your eye caught your attention and it took you a moment to realize it was Prince Aemond, trying unsuccessfully to sneak back into High Tide. His shoulders slumped when he caught your gaze and he dragged his feet to your side after you waved him over. “It is late to be out of doors, my prince.”

His mouth pulled into an even deeper frown. “I know, my lady. But you are out at this hour, too.”

You nodded, continuing to lathe attention on Vhagar. “I am not royalty. The Triarchy may have been pushed back to Essos, but it would still be deemed unwise to be without an escort for someone of your status.”

The young prince looked down at his feet, digging the toe of his fine leather boot into the sand. “I just wanted to see Vhagar. Uncle Daemon said she was the biggest dragon in the world.”

His boyish countenance had you softening. You could only imagine what it was like to be the last Targaryen without a dragon, a birthright. “She is. The last of the Conquerors’ dragons. Come, stand by me. She is tired now; she’s usually much more agreeable like this.”

Even in the dark, you saw Aemond’s entire face light up and he was quick to do as you instructed. He followed your quiet guidance to let Vhagar learn his scent before touching her, placing his hand beside yours. “She’s a beauty.”

You hummed and Vhagar shifted the slightest bit, the sand spitting beneath her giant body. “She is. A great and terrible beauty. And she mourns with the rest of you for Lady Laena.”

Aemond hummed in response and you watched his shoulders slump the slightest bit, as if he needed to be reminded of the loss his family had just suffered, or the reason why he’d been put on a boat and shuffled away from his home. He had been so enthralled with simply being near Vhagar. And you knew it was foolish of you to do anything of the sort, but you smiled and shielded his eyes when Vhagar took flight again, sending sand into the air.

“Come, I have something else to show you.”

The prince followed dutifully as you led him toward the small patch of grass near High Tide’s outer curtain. Small white and yellow flowers had sprouted not a few hours ago and you were quick to grab two. You were even quicker to grab a knife from your belt and cut across your thumb when he was not looking, instead tracking Vhagar across the sky. You let the crimson stain the flower’s stalk before handing it to him.

“This is a weed.”

You laughed at how he scrunched his nose as he stared at the flower. “There’s magic in those petals, my prince, just as there is magic in our blood, in our words. Trust me when I tell you that you will have a dragon one day. You need only wish for it and wait.”

Aemond’s face twisted, like he was ready for you to tease him, or laugh at him. But you simply held up your matching, blood-lined dandelion and blew its petals away into the ocean breeze. I wish for him to have a dragon and be happy. He watched you for a moment longer before, almost delicately, blowing the petals away to float alongside yours.

A light coming on in the fortress had you turning. Someone was probably looking for the prince. “It is time for you to retire, my prince.”

The young prince nodded as he turned to you, the pale moonlight bleeding across his silver hair. “I would have no other hands tend to my dragon.” His hands curled to fists at his side for a moment before releasing, as if he were scolding himself. “We are the Blood of Old Valyria.”

It had been nearly six years since you saw Aemond. Much had changed.

The war with the Triarchy had fizzled. It still lingered, of course. There were whispers that the Triarchy was attempting to hire any and every sellsword company in Essos but nothing had come of those whispers though. Not yet, anyway. Most of their forces had been pushed back (again) by Princesses Rhaenys and Rhaenyra while Prince Daemon and Ser Laenor destroyed their food and weapon stores in the Disputed Lands. It was not a surrender, unfortunately, but Westeros was thankful for the reprieve.

You had become Morning and Moondancer’s main keeper, too, your duties shifting after Vhagar disappeared into the clouds and didn’t return. It was a blow, to be sure, to lose another link to Laena even after you and the twins were moved permanently to Driftmark while Prince Daemon stayed to command the armies from Dragonstone while also flying to the Free Cities of Essos to try to broker alliances (some whispered that Prince Daemon took his nephew, Prince Aemond, alongside during his mission but you could never know for certain). But Baela and Rhaena were growing into their own and you were so happy to guide them, in any way they needed. Their dragons were now large enough to be ridden for short distances and you had nearly cried when you watched them circle the island for the first time. The twins often came to you for anything they were too embarrassed to ask their father or too impatient to ask their septas or grandmother Rhaenys. Daemon doted on them, indulging their almost every whim and laughing alongside them on dragonback whenever he had a moment to visit. Seeing them together almost always twisted at something in your chest. They were a family. You wouldn’t have that, would you? You were far past the age of majority and had stopped attending any sort of function where you could even attempt to find a suitable match. What was the point? No one had ever been interested in you in that way and you had all but resigned yourself to simply being a Keeper.

It would be a quiet life for you.

But your quiet was disrupted when Baela and Rhaena were invited to the capital for King Viserys’ nameday celebrations alongside their father. They insisted on bringing their dragons—who were you to deny them? So, you found yourself wrinkling your nose as the large boat approached the capital, the familiar and awful scent of the city wafting toward you. After docking, you were met with a few familiar faces that helped you lead Moondancer and Morning to The Pit to be safely sequestered alongside the other royal dragons. The pair took to their temporary roosts well enough, recognizing the scent of Meleys and Seasmoke through the stone halls. As Caraxes settled near them, they were more than content.

“The lost daughter finally returns home, eh?”

The grip you had on Moondancer’s reins suddenly seized at the sound of your brother’s voice. Slowly, you moved to loop them around the chain on the wall before turning to face him. Rhogar had not changed much. His mouth was still curled in a scowl. His silver hair was still cut short. His periwinkle eyes were still cold as ice. And you knew better than to instigate anything. “Lady Rhaena and Lady Baela requested I accompany their dragons.”

Rhogar hummed. “They do seem fond of you. I was sure they’d send you away after Lady Laena’s demise and Vhagar fleeing your care. It seems they were taking pity on your failure.”

“Yes, they’ve been very kind to me.” He had always been good at cutting down to bone with few words. He’d also once literally cut you down to the bone after you were selected to be Vhagar’s Keeper. You could never win with him. Ever. There was no negating his hatred of you. It had started when you were born a girl instead of a boy and Rhogar thought it meant he was ‘forced’ to be the Keeper of your generation. If he had forgotten that your aunt had also been a Keeper until her death, you could not and would not say. He had wanted to be knight, apparently, despite his poor form with a sword and shield. “You forced this on me!” he had once spit at you. When you had taken up the mantle of Keeper, you’d half-hoped that his malice would fade. It did not. If anything, it grew like a raging fire. With every compliment from another Keeper or Targaryen directed toward you, he only hated you more. It was almost as if he stayed in The Pit to show anyone and everyone that he was the better Keeper. He tried. You would give him that. But the other Keepers turned to you for advice. They asked you for the balm you had created to soothe any wayward burns. They respected you. And the dragons preferred you. Before you had been moved to Driftmark, you could easily move between duties for all the dragons, each of them never minding your presence in their stall. You would never forget when Meleys had snuffed in Rhogar’s face before turning to you. And you had a feeling that Rhogar would never forget it either.

It had been Rhogar who had first called you a witch, the word dripping with venom. After all, how could one person, a woman, be so adept at caring for the dragons? The other keepers found it hilarious and adopted the nickname for you, too. They called you a witch. Sure, it was usually said with a teasing smile or an accompanying wink, but the moniker remained and endured. You didn't deny it. The blood you always knew to spill on dandelions was your secret. If you were a witch, so be it.

“Mother and Father will expect you home tonight.”

The small fortress built just outside the walls of King’s Landing hadn’t been your home for years. Hadn’t been a home since your sister sailed away and even then, you would make the argument that it had been Vaella alone that had been your home. Your one solace. Stepping through those doors again would not be a homecoming. But you knew better to deny them. “Of course.”

You had been surprised to have your pick of the handmaidens at the Red Keep after you spoke with Lady Baela about your family requesting your presence. You had been fully prepared to be ridiculed by your parents for smelling of dragon in their fine house, but you were bathed in a fine copper tub and then lathered in rose oil before Rhaena came in with a dress she promised would look lovely on you.

And the simple gesture nearly had tears coming to your eyes. Rhaena was quick to notice and all but threw the dress onto the bed before grasping gently at your hands. “What troubles you?”

“N-nothing, my lady. I fear I am just a touch overwhelmed. It has been some time since I have been in the capital.”

Rhaena frowned, a knowing look. “Do you wish to return here perma-”

Your grip tightened on her hands before you could even think to stop yourself. “No! No, never. I am happier with you and your sister than I have ever been in this city.”

The brilliant smile Rhaena gave you as she nodded was enough to calm your rapidly fraying nerves and she was quick to change the subject to the tourney starting tomorrow, the first part of the celebrations. “But mostly I am hoping that my toes will not be crushed each night—I’ve heard the men from the Riverlands are particularly awful at dancing.”

It was with Rhaena’s tinkling laughter still in your ears that you tried to brace for the hurricane that was your family. The smallfolk of King’s Landing called your family’s home the Little Red Keep for how your forebears had modeled it after the Royal palace. There were verdant rose bushes still lining the outer walls. There was still a small pond beside one of the turrets, filled with water lilies. There was still the large white dragon of your house’s sigil painted across the grand front door, gold keys in its mouth. It had not changed.

It was not home.

The door was opened by an unfamiliar servant and you were led toward the large hall where you could already hear your family chattering. It quickly halted once you stepped inside. You father stood from his chair with a placid smile on his face which you knew only meant he hadn’t had his first drink yet.

“There is my daughter.” He skirted around the table and hugged you, smashing your cheek against his chest. The medallions on his doublet were sharp against your temple, biting and cold. “It has been too long since you have been home.”

You hummed and tucked your chin to your chest as he held you at arm’s length. “You’ve been receiving the gold I’ve sent, haven’t you?”

He laughed and you tried not to recoil as his meaty hand curled over your upper arm. “Yes. You have been a dutiful daughter. It seems being sent away from the frivolities of the capital turned you into a respectable Keeper.”

There it was. The first sting. You knew better than to argue, to say that Princess Rhaenyra had often preferred you to care for Syrax, that Prince Daemon was always pleased with your care of Caraxes, that the other Keepers (aside from your brother) seemed to defer to you for any sort of special care that the royal mounts may need when you were still stationed at the Pit. “I am happy to have pleased you.”

“Come, come,” he said with a final squeeze to your arm that nearly had you wincing, “we’ve had all your favorite foods prepared.”

A single glance at the spread of food let you know, for the umpteenth time, that they didn’t know you at all. There wasn’t a single dish you favored in any capacity. There was your brother’s favorite roasted boar alongside your mother’s favorite lemon cakes, and everything else had your father’s favor all over it. You were nowhere to be seen. But you still took the seat your father pulled out for you and hoped for the best.

You only had to bite back tears twice and hadn’t needed to dodge a punch or a slap or even a fork thrown in your direction. Perhaps it was a good night. Maybe the years away had softened their disdain for you. That happy thought quickly disintegrated when you were pulled to a stop near the manse’s front door. “It was a pleasure to see you again, Father, Mother. You as well, Rhogar.” You smiled, almost convincing yourself that you hadn’t been sitting on needles the entire time.

“Where do you think you’re going? It is nearly the hour of the owl.”

While it may have been an innocuous and reasonable question from any other parent, this was your father. “Prince Daemon has been kind enough to have chambers reserved for me at the Red Keep-”

“So your family’s home is not enough for you now?”

Your eyes closed. You shouldn’t have come.

“Are you well?”

You nearly recoiled from the question but managed to smile instead. “I’m fine, my lady. Thank you.”

Baela frowned, amethyst eyes traveling across your swollen cheek and the way you were favoring your left side. “Are you certain?”

“Truly. Just a bit of a tumble last night.”

She didn’t look like she believed you and Rhaena who sat beside her didn’t look convinced, either. Thankfully or not, the doors to Baela’s rooms opened and a flurry of servants filed in and set out a spread of food on the table near the window where you all sat. One of the handmaidens who had accompanied you all from Driftmark, Isla, you thought her name was, turned to Baela with a smile as she set a plate filled with boiled eggs on the table. “Are you excited, my lady?”

Baela nodded, lips turning up a brilliant smile. “Of course! And I am so pleased that you will be at my side, too.” The pair spoke for a little longer before the group was dismissed and the three of you turned toward the lush breakfast.

You slowly spread a bit of cherry jam across a hunk of bread, eyes darting between the twins as they filled their plates. While it was normal for them to invite you to break your fasts together, you did not want to gain their ire, too, by prying.

Thankfully, it seemed Baela was happy to speak anyway. “I have news.” She set her utensils down and looked at her twin and you with another smile. “Princess Rhaenyra has invited me to stay at the capital so that I may spend time with Jace and learn the ways of court.”

Rhaena beamed, reaching to lace her fingers with her twin’s with a matching giggle. “Grandmother has said it is time for me to learn how to rule High Tide.”

Your heart felt like it was being crushed beneath a blacksmith’s hammer. While you always knew this day would come, you’d half hoped it wouldn’t be so soon. You listened as they laughed, excited about their futures, before they cried about being separated, before laughing again at remembering they’d never be too far away on dragonback. But you’d wished for them to be happy, hadn’t you? They sounded so happy. Both of them looked at you, matching smiles on their faces and you hoped your smile was convincing as you reached out to lay a hand over theirs on the table. “You both will be wonderful. I am so proud of you.”

The next morning, after another cruel night under the shadow of your family, only continued to squeeze at your battered heart as Princess Rhaenys pulled you aside with a small smile and quietly relieved you of your duties for caring for Morning as there were “plenty” of Keepers in the Velaryons’ employ on Driftmark. “I’m sure you understand,” she said, squeezing your arm.

You nodded with your bruised heart in your throat. “Of course, my princess.”

“You have been an exemplary Keeper to my daughter and granddaughters. But I would not ask you to choose, so I have made the decision for you.”

The compliment did give you a small bit of levity as you walked to the Dragonpit to see to your duties—you were an exemplary Keeper. Morning was not set to leave for another fortnight and you still had Moondancer to care for, didn’t you?

“I’ve been given orders to tend to Moondancer,” another Keeper said before you could even question her presence in the dragon’s roost. “Were you not informed of it, my lady?”

Apparently not. “Oh, my mistake,” you muttered. “I-”

“You would have your hands full, my lady. I am happy to be selected to be Moondancer’s keeper. It is not of your station, anyway.”

What did that even mean? It echoed in your mind as you listlessly moved through the Pit, finding mundane things to do now that you were unanchored. Morning was already being tended to by the Keepers that had sailed from Driftmark. The most fulfilling thing you did was helping a few of the newer Keepers care for the clutch of eggs Dreamfyre had laid two moons ago. You were willing to bet that the eggs would eventually be given to the babes that would be born to Rhaenyra or Alicent’s children. Being this close to the majority of the royal family once again let you be privy to a fair bit of gossip. Apparently there had been rumors that Alicent and Rhaenyra were using the lull in the war to strengthen alliances within the Seven Kingdoms. Most believed it would be Aegon to be married off first.

You just hoped they were happy.

“I thought you’d be out in the valley,” one of the Keepers said as you helped them fit the last egg into the crackling fire pit to keep it warm.

You frowned as you pulled off your thick gloves, pushing them into your belt. “The valley?”

The other Keeper frowned, too. “Have they moved? Seven Hells, no one tells me anything!”

Before you could ask just what they meant, your attention was pulled by the sound of metal on stone which you knew only meant one thing: a knight had been foolish enough to come into The Pit. Had they not heard the stories of men being boiled between breastplates by dragonfire? You never cared for the noise and you knew most dragons did not either, the grating sound too sharp for their liking. But soon enough, two whitecloaks rounded the corner and set their sights on you.

They called your name and you stepped forward, expecting to be summoned to the Great Hall or one of the twins’ chambers. “Prince Aemond requests your immediate presence.”

You wordlessly let them lead you away, fully prepared to be deposited into the Great Hall of the Red Keep. Instead, you were all but hefted onto the back of a horse and moved through the city that had all but cleared out to attend the first rounds of the tourney just outside the Lion Gate. You could hear the cheers from the crowd, a dull roar muffled by distance. The knights escorting you said nothing, two silent sentinels on matching white destriers on either side of your horse. They led you through the Dragon Gate and a little further north where the start of the unnamed valley started to slope. “We take our leave of you here, my lady,” one of the knights said. “The prince waits for you below.”

All of this just felt so strange but years of keeping your mouth shut and your head down kept you from asking any questions. You urged your horse down into the valley, dismounting when you reached the shade of one of the few trees. The valley was speckled with wildflowers and dandelions, not unlike the small valley that had been your sanctuary with Vaella during your childhood. The grass was high and soft as it brushed against your legs with each step. It was beautiful and empty. Prince Aemond was nowhere to be seen. For a moment, you thought of getting back on your horse and riding away, far away, until you passed The Wall in the North and then kept going. No dragons. No family. No bruises. No lies.

Just as quickly as the thought came, it left. The dragons were your life. Whatever duties you were to be assigned, no matter how low or asinine, you would welcome them. Then, something prickled at the base of your skull and you turned your head toward the sky just in time to see the sun blotted out by a hulking, winged form. The ground shook but you hardly cared as you finally set eyes on Vhagar again. A familiar ladder was unraveled and you watched a tall man descend as you approached the old dragon. Her massive head swiveled in your direction and you could not help but smile as she rumbled in greeting. She remembered you.

“Good. You’re here.” The voice was cool and raspy. Dangerous.

“Prince Aemond?“ You asked, feeling more and more stupid by the second.

As soon as his boots hit the ground, he turned to you, long silver hair catching the wind as your heart leapt into your throat. A cruel cut was jagged and slashed down his face, only broken by the finely crafted eye patch securely fastened over it. And while it embarrassed you to even think it, you thought him... handsome. Almost excessively so. He had all the refinement of old Valyria now with a hardened edge. The type of beauty usually reserved for portraits in the books your family hoarded and never touched, smuggled from a home long ago destroyed in The Doom. The barest trace of a smile pressed at his already upturned mouth as he strode toward you. “Do not tell me you have forgotten me.”

“I-I have not, my prince. I...” You shook your head as if that would stop the improper and impossible thoughts from turning and quickly dropped into a shallow curtsey. “It has been some time, has it not?”

“Six years,” he said simply, taking another step toward you. “You have not changed in the slightest. You are just as I remember you.” His remaining eye drank you in, moving from your silver hair to the tips of your boots. And you felt every inch of his gaze.

“It seems I have been left uninformed about quite a number of things. I had not known you had claimed Vhagar.” At the sound of her name, the dragon huffed. It brought a smile to your face and you reached out to press a hand to her giant neck. “She is a worthy mount.”

The small smile the prince gave you grew by a fraction. “Yes. I’ve heard a few of the smallfolk call her Queen of the Dragons.”

“A fitting name,” you said, smile growing. With a final pat to her scales, you turned to him again. “Now, I’m assuming you are wanting my opinion on the other Keepers at the Pit to care for her, no? So, I-”

“You have been left wildly uninformed, my lady.”

The ice in his tone had you freezing. “I apologize, my prince, I-”

“Did I not say that I would have no other hands tend to my dragon?” He took a single step toward you and the instinct to run immediately rushed down your spine. The only thing keeping you still was the heat of Vhagar at your back. “You are to be in the valley from now on. I have been told your other duties have been relegated to other Keepers.”

It all slid into place, the strange dismissals, the aversion. All of it. “Everyone knew of this assignment, my prince?”

And his strange smile widened. “Of course. I thought it polite to let you finish your time with my cousins, but everyone knew you were to be mine.”

You slowly shifted in your seat, trying to relieve some of the ache in your back from your father’s latest rage as you clapped alongside Baela and Rhaena for the winner of that round’s joust. The tourney was nearing its end and you were dreading every second that passed. Your entire life had been turned on its axis. Being reinstated as Vhagar’s sole keeper meant you needed to live in the Capital once again. Your family’s ire and disappointment had become daily battles, only broken by your escape to the valley or by invitation by the twins to accompany them to the festivities. It was a strange and almost sad moment for you to realize that a valley had once again become your solace and safe place and it had been less than a fortnight since you’d docked.

Despite Vhagar’s immense size and age, she had always been easy to care for. Her scales kept her from harm from anything manmade. You were sure even scorpion bolts would do little more than annoy her. Holes in her wings, from battles long since relegated to story and song, did not grow in size nor hinder her flight. You kept an eye on them regardless. The most pressing of your duties was actually maintaining the saddle atop Vhagar’s back, making sure it was still safe for the prince in any and every capacity. The only trouble you ever had with Vhagar was when she ate too much, ten aurochs instead of her usual seven, and her stomach protested. It was an easy enough fix. At least for you. Some of the other keepers called you insane for coaxing the old dragon to eat a large bundle of flowers you had collected from the valley and then spending an hour or so pressing at the hardened scales of her stomach to help her ache.

It was easy for you to settle back into a routine with her. Even with Prince Aemond standing, unmoving, beneath the shade of the valley’s tree with his eyes trained on you. He liked to watch, you found. Quiet. The day you had met him for the first time in the valley had been your longest conversation with him, even when he handed you new robes and requested you wear them when attending to Vhagar, he said less. The clothes were finely made, of course, and had the same treatment as your other Keeper robes to keep the heat and any accidental flames from burning too quickly...not that it would be of any use against Vhagar’s flames, but you still appreciated it. What gave you pause, however, was the strange crest stitched over the heart. It was the standard Targaryen crest except it was in an unmistakable shade of blue. Deep and bright. It was Aemond’s personal rendition of the signal, his personal coat of arms. You caught him looking at it a handful of times when you told him that you needed this or that for Vhagar, a strange gleam in his eye. But you would take his strange looks and almost unnerving quiet over your family any day. Every day. You learned that the whispers of him brokering alliances in Essos alongside Prince Daemon had been correct—and that was how he’d lost an eye. An overpaid assassin had come at him in the dark of his bedchambers in Qohor and had not expected the younger prince to be so adept at defending himself. For better or for worse, the blood spilt had gained Qohor’s favor and Aemond had allowed the mages of that city to work their strange magick on his face to keep the injury from hurting him as time went on. There were also whispers that the night the assassin came was the night Aemond had claimed Vhagar. “She could smell the dragon blood in ‘im,” one of the smallfolk had said, voice carrying across the stalls of food and linen of the early morning market just a few days ago. Was that true?

“You are fidgeting more than little Viserys.”

You immediately stopped your obvious poor attempt at moving discreetly and sighed, ignoring how Baela was looking at you. “Apologies, my lady.”

Baela sighed, shaking her head. “You have nothing to apologize for. I simply wish to know what has you so agitated.”

“Tis nothing. I think I am simply nervous about the feast tonight.”

At the mention of the feast, the last of the name day celebrations for the King, Rhaena leaned around her sister with a broad smile to look at you. ”You are finally coming? You have missed all the others.”

That was true. Every night after you finished your duties, you were all but summoned back to your parents’ manse, once again trapped within the walls of your family. But apparently, tonight they deemed you “enough” to be seen in such a public arena. Or perhaps they’d tired of the questions about your whereabouts and thought the last event would calm them.

You weren’t even sure if you wanted to attend. It had been too long since you’d been invited to anything of this level of pomp and pageantry and you were certain you’d either have absolutely no fun or you’d make an idiotic spectacle of yourself if you did manage to find a bit of frivolity in it all.

After promising the twins that you would save them a dance at the feast after the tourney’s jousting finished, you excused yourself, knowing you were expected back at your family’s manse sooner rather than later. It was almost a miracle that they’d let you attend this portion of the tourney anyway after learning that Prince Aemond had dismissed you for the day after his morning flight.

“I will see you this evening, my lady.” He had said it with such certainty that you didn’t even try to argue that he’d be much too involved with other guests to even notice you, so you simply agreed and thanked him again for the time away from your duties.

The trek back to the manse was short, much to your dismay, but you straightened your shoulders as you were let inside and heard your mother chattering away with one of the other highborn ladies of court in the solar. Just for a moment, you thought you could go upstairs to your chambers, unnoticed by anyone.

“Ah, there you are. You’re late.”

But the hope was all for naught. You turned and greeted the other woman at your mother’s side after dipping your head toward your mother. “Is there something you need of me, Mother?”

Your mother gave a tittering laugh and she pointed at a rumpled bit of cloth draped over an opened box near the end of the settee in the corner of the room. You moved toward it, pulling away the fabric that must have served as a wrapping for the box, and opened it to reveal a gown. Inky black damask fabric was lined with the deepest blue beads you’d ever beheld, stitched carefully to detail a three headed dragon over the breast. Crimson hued eyes were looped on each, twinkling in the dying sunlight spilling in through the open windows. The cut would show off your shoulders and the curve of your neck, dipping only slightly between your breasts, while your arms would only be slightly covered by loops of more black fabric, cut loose to give you freedom of movement. Simply put, it was gorgeous.

As you pulled it fully from the box, you noticed a small bit of parchment tucked into the folds of the skirt. You retrieved it, careful to have the dress’ bodice lay over your arm to avoid wrinkles, and unfolded it. A small token of my gratitude. The small note was not signed but there was only one person you knew it could be. A blue dragon. Gratitude. He didn’t owe you gratitude.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” The woman at your mother’s side said with a dreamy sigh.

“Yes, it is,” you murmured. After all, there was no way you could deny it. The gown was exquisite. You would need to speak to the prince about this. It wasn’t necessary. “I-”

“I was telling Lady Webber that we’ve decided that I will wear that gown to tonight’s feast,” your mother said, a smile on her face.

“But…” The rebuttal died on your tongue as you looked at your mother’s growing smile and the unknowing look on Lady Webber’s face. This was a trick. Your mother knew you wouldn’t refuse her in front of company because the consequences would be catastrophic. So, you pushed a smile to your face and nodded, swallowing your pride and argument. “Of course. And I know she’ll look radiant as always.”

Your mother’s chin tipped up, pleased. “I’ll have one of the maids bring Vaella’s gold gown for you.”

You nodded again. The gown was beautiful but nothing like the one you held now. But still, you carefully folded it back into the box and took your leave, hiding the note between your fingers as you trudged back to your chambers and tried to keep your head held high. Letting them know they had won by crying or screaming or pouting wasn’t an option. You weren’t a child anymore.

Handmaidens eventually filed into your room and lathed you with oils that made your skin soft and made you smell like the roses that were growing outside the manse’s walls. They tightened the corset on the back of the gown until you winced and only then gave a final tug to finish, saying, “the lady of the house said you are to look your best.” They then made sure you had a dainty gold necklace around your throat, golden dragon pendant falling just above your cleavage, to finish the look after you slipped into the soft soled shoes Vaella had left behind alongside the gown. You did look beautiful. There was no denying that—there was also no denying that this gown held no candle to the one Prince Aemond had sent. And you could not forget that the necklace around your neck had been discarded by your mother years ago for being out of fashion in her mind. Your family wouldn’t have you looking like a lowborn beggar, but that did not mean they would ever allow you to shine on your own. You just hoped Prince Aemond would not be insulted. But, again, you knew he’d be too busy to notice anyway.

But it was fine. This was what you grew up with—this is what you knew how to survive. This was them being almost kind. It was a kindness that they did not remark on your poor posture on the carriage ride up to the Red Keep as the setting sun started to bleed red over the city. Your family was announced as you walked in and your parents hissed for you to behave yourself, “don’t embarrass us more than you already do,” before getting swept away by their friends to enjoy the festivities. Rhogar quickly fled your side, too.

You managed to find a seat near the doors and the others at the table greeted you politely but largely kept to their own conversations as you picked at the food in front of you. Large crowds like this always made you nervous. Mayhaps that was why you’d never found a husband. As promised, you danced with both Rhaena and Baela but when you saw Prince Jacaerys walking toward his betrothed, intent on a dance of his own, and Rhaena had tugged at your sleeve and nervously asked if she looked all right when she spotted Lord Corwyn Corbray walking toward her, you assured her that she was beautiful, and quietly excused yourself back to your seat and another few bites of dinner.

You glanced up at the head table, unsurprised to see it filled with silver haired royals. Of course, Rhaenyra’s sons inherited their father’s dark curls, and Alicent’s auburn tresses were as beautiful as ever, but it was still silver silver silver as far as the eye could see. But there was one silver-haired prince missing from the table: Aemond was nowhere to be seen.

But you hardly had the time to think of his absence when Rhaenyra’s carefully braided hair almost seemed to sparkle in the torchlight as she and Alicent stood, each with a golden goblet in hand. A hush quickly blanketed the crowd.

“We thank you all for joining us tonight as we celebrate my father, the king’s, nameday. It has been a trying few years so to be able to come together like this is a blessing from the Seven themselves.” The crowd cheered, raising their goblets in response. “And we have more to celebrate.”

Rhaenyra looked to Alicent who was smiling softly at the princess, her goblet curled close to her chest. Rhaenyra whispered something to her, a matching sweetness in her gaze, before Alicent nodded and raised her goblet higher and you heard the crowd around you murmur, trying to discern what she was about to say. “It is my honor and privilege to announce that all of Westeros will be unified with the marriage of Prince Aegon to Prince Qoren’s heir, Princess Aliandra Martell.”

The crowd erupted in applause and, as if on cue, the doors beside the head table opened and orange and gold spilled out into the hall and a Dornish delegation swept in, headed by a man you assumed to be Prince Qoren Martell. At his side was a stunning woman, draped in similar gold and yellow with a golden headpiece fashioned to look like the sun settled over her dark hair—that must be Princess Aliandra. Prince Aegon rose from his seat and walked to Aliandra’s side and dipped his head before holding out his hand for her to take. She readily did and preened as he kissed her fingers.

The crowd cheered again and room was made at the tables for the Dornish company to join the feast as Qoren and Aliandra were given seats at the head table. King Viserys stood and welcomed Qoren himself before they sat beside each other. It was only then that Aemond reclaimed his seat on his mother’s right, leaning to the side only slightly to murmur something in Helaena’s ear which coaxed a small smile from her.

But it seemed that the announcements were not finished as Rhaenyra and Alicent still stood. Again, Alicent raised her goblet, “And I am blessed to announce that Princess Helaena and Lord Stark will be married, joining the houses of ice and fire!”

The crowd erupted, again, and you watched as Helaena stood while Cregan Stark moved through the crowds and up to her side. An adorable pink had settled on both their cheeks and you weren’t sure if anyone else would notice, but Cregan slowly held out a hand toward her, low and mostly hidden, and Helaena took it, curling her fingers over his. That simple bit of affection had your heart leaping. You knew Princess Helaena had an aversion to most forms of touch, so to see her happily accepting his hand was beautiful. The men of the North were known to be loyal and devoted—the look on Cregan’s rugged features made it seem as if he were already besotted—and that was what Helaena deserved, the gentle princess who always spared a kind word whenever you crossed paths in the Pit.

You joined in the raucous applause and raised your goblet along with the rest of the crowd before Viserys stood again and announced that Aegon and Helaena would take the first dance of the night with their betrothed and soon the hall was filled with music. Aliandra and Aegon were a swirl of black and yellow fabric as they turned about the floor, a command of the dance. Cregan and Helaena were more content to take up less room and smile at each other as they moved through the steps. It was entertaining to see how vastly different the couples were, but you thought it suited them.

Soon the floor was filled with more couples as one song bled into the next and then the next. You had no girlish hope that you’d be asked to accompany someone for a turn about the floor, so you happily took advantage of the extra room at your table and let your posture fall from its rigid line and indulged in a few more bits of cake, too.

Rhaenyra danced with her sons and Ser Harwin. Alicent was swept out onto the floor by Prince Daeron. There was love there. In that large, powerful family. Ser Harwin eventually took Helaena for a spin around the floor, making her laugh, as the Princess and the Queen regained their seats at the head table. You watched them between bites of cake. They bent their heads toward each other, whispering for only the other to hear with smiles on their painted lips.

They may both be married and they may love their spouses, but you knew there was something special, something other, between them. Something that usually only existed in song and story. Just for a moment, you wondered if anyone would ever look at you like the Princess was gazing at the Queen. You wondered if anyone would ever hold you like how the Queen was tugging at the Princess’ wrists, pulling her close, like you were something to be treasured, protected.

Probably not.

“My lady.”

You nearly dropped the piece of cake you were trying to bite. Turning in your seat, you saw Prince Aemond standing behind you, hands neatly folded behind his back. His purple gaze dragged across your face as you stood and curtseyed, hoping you didn’t have any cake smeared on your lips. “Prince Aemond.”

Without a word, he curled his fingers and turned, ordering you to follow him into the shadows behind one of the many pillars of the hall. You nearly slammed not his back when he suddenly stopped before turning to you again, close enough for you to feel each of his breaths against your hair and surround you in his scent of cold mint and dragon, tinged with steel. His thin lips were set in an even thinner line as he reached out and touched the edge of your golden sleeve before you had the chance to step back. “Was the gown I sent not to your liking?”

Your heart dropped to your knees and you resisted the urge to curl into yourself, as if you could hide your dress from him. “I…I adored it, actually. It is the most beautiful gown I’ve ever beheld. But, my mother requested it for tonight’s feast. And,” you cleared your throat, trying to pass the lump growing behind your teeth. It always felt wrong to speak of your family so kindly. And it felt wrong to lie to Aemond who had only been trying to treat you kindly. Hadn’t he? “And who am I to refuse my mother anything?”

But some small voice at the back of your mind was whispering that you needed to apologize and make sure it never happened again, for both your sakes. “I am truly sorry if you feel as if I have slighted you. It was never my intention and never will be.” You paused and tried not to recoil when Aemond’s gaze did not waver from your face. “I would not be comfortable accepting such a fine gift again,” you added, keeping your voice low. “I would not have you debasing yourself in any way-”

The words stalled on your tongue when his fingers skimmed up your arm before sliding across the ridge of your collarbone to pluck at the golden chain of your necklace. He pulled until the golden dragon pendant rested in his palm. “I will give you anything I deem suitable.” Then, before you could do anything, his hand closed over the pendant and he yanked. The clasp snapped against your skin and the rest of the necklace fell slack, broken. He pocketed the necklace before reaching into the finely constructed doublet stretched over his chest and pulled out a small silver chain. A necklace. Even in the dim light, you saw that it was finely crafted, its twisted rings braided together delicately. And, at the very bottom was a charm of a dandelion, no bigger than the nail on your forefinger. And Aemond was quick to fasten around your neck, long fingers sliding over your pulse and tapping—just once—against the vertebrae just beneath the base of your skull. “It’s perfect.”

The metal, warmed by being tucked so closely to his skin, was almost scalding. The dandelion charm slipped beneath the edge of your gown and hung between your breasts. Against your heart. “Th-thank you. But, I don’t feel as if I can accept it.”

“But you will,” he said, lilac eye burning into yours. “I had it fashioned in Qohor.” He whispered it like a secret.

“I…” What could you possibly say to that? Questions upon questions started to storm through your mind but the only thing you could say was an unsteady, “you were in Qohor ages ago, my prince.”

“I was.” Then he reached out his hand. “Dance with me.” His tone broached no argument. But didn’t you owe him that much? He’d sent you a gown that you didn’t wear. You’d once again tried to refuse a gift from him. This wasn’t…this didn’t feel right. You were just a Keeper. He was a prince. You’d overstepped with Lady Laena but that had felt different, almost reciprocal, in your affections for each other but you were always aware that you were a servant of sorts, no matter your highborn status and Valyrian bloodline. This didn’t feel like that…this felt different.

You couldn’t say no.

You placed your shaking hand in his and let him lead you out toward the dancing masses. You watched the crowd part for him as you took your places off toward the side as the next song began. Eyes were crawling all over you. You could feel them. The answering whispers sounded like a buzzing fly behind your ear but you could not discern what they were saying—not when Aemond looked at you, even as your hands dropped for a moment. You were quick to wipe your sweaty palms on your gown as the song began. The dance was fairly simple, one Vaella had drilled into you during your childhood, but as Aemond reached for you, long, roughened fingers curling over yours, you nearly forgot the steps. If he noticed your fluster, Aemond didn’t say anything, continuing to lead you through the dance with all the grace princes of your childhood stories possessed. As you spun beneath his arm, his other hand sliding along your waist, you tried to steady your heart with little success, his fingers searing through your gown to brand your skin. As he pulled you closer as the dance intended, your eyes shot to the long expanse of pale skin of his throat.

“Are you going to speak or should I be content with your silence?” He asked, voice low enough just for you to hear.

The barb stung and you tried to not flinch when he pulled you closer and then urged you backward in time with the song. “What would you have me say, my prince? I am sure I would bore you with my stories of my time in the Pit or on Dragonstone.”

“Will you not let me be the judge of my own feelings, my lady? Or will you rob me of that, too?”

“What have I robbed from you, my prince? If I have offended-”

“Offended? My lady, you have done more than offend me.”

Aemond’s grip on your hands tightened when you tried to pull back, continuing to drag you along in the dance. “I am sorry, my prince,” you whispered, the words cracking on your throat. “I did not know that my mother would take your gift. She is…she takes everything she wants from me.” You hated the words coming out of your mouth, hating how weak you sounded. “I never-”

Aemond yanked you to a stop, your chest colliding with his with each hurried breath you took. The song continued on, the couples dancing beside you were a blur of colors at the periphery but all you saw was Aemond’s light eye staring down at you as he leaned closer, wrapping his arm around your back to drag you ever closer, your other hand pinned with his between your chests. “Is that what you think? That a gown has soured your presence for me?”

Your brows furrowed as you tried to understand what he was saying over the roaring of blood in your ears. All of this was inappropriate. All of this was near scandalous. All of this was Aemond.

And, just for a moment, it was silent between you, only buffeted by the music continuing to play. “You alone have consumed my thoughts. For years.”

That didn’t make any sense but you still let him push and pull you through the next few steps as you tried to understand what he was saying. “If my presence has caused you discomfort, I shall remove myself from your employ, I swear to you. It was never my inten-”

The hand that had been holding yours swept to your face and his calloused thumb pressed against your bottom lip, robbing you of your thoughts and stalling the words on your tongue. The heat of him was near scalding, even through his leather and your fine gown, enveloping you, surrounding you, like a dragon’s fire.

He hummed, pausing for a moment to think—he always chose his words carefully. “No. No, my dandelion, you will not rob me of your presence. I have waited too long for this.” He pulled in a low breath, like he was trying to restrain himself. “I shall see you tomorrow after your duties finish. I expect you do not need reminding as to where, yes?” He asked, nearly demeaning.

You shook your head, his thumb sliding across your lip and heat burning your throat.

He hummed, again, and leaned down a little further, just enough for his breath to bloom across your parted mouth before he stepped back just as the song finished. He clapped along with the other dancers for the minstrels, never once taking his eye off you. He grabbed your hand and pressed a firm kiss to the back of your fingers before turning and walking away without a word.

It was not until you were home again, hours later, that you realized he’d called you my dandelion and your neck had bled from where he’d snapped your necklace.

How does one say no to a prince and keep their head?

Trick question: you don’t.

It had been nearly a moon since the feast and the dance you’d shared with Aemond. While he continued his silent watching as you tended to Vhagar, he would usurp any time you might have had to yourself. He had luncheon brought out to the valley. He would have you take tea with him and Helaena in the gardens if Vhagar decided she needn’t be tended to that day, searching for sharks to eat out of Blackwater Bay. He’d have you climb up into Vhagar’s saddle as they landed to see something that he thought needed tending to or mending. (And while he never moved to touch you, he burned like a fire at your back as you worked.) He had you inspect the hatchlings’ nests to make sure they were properly cared for (as he loomed behind you). He did the same with the clutches of eggs kept within the Pit as well.

It soon became something of a common occurrence for you to be “accompanied” by the Prince to the Dragonpit. While most of the Keepers took it in stride, having trusted you in the past, your brother once ground his teeth so hard as you halfheartedly looked over the chains on Sunfyre that you could’ve sworn you heard one of his molars crack.

And when Aemond asked why your eye was swollen shut the next day, you knew he didn’t believe you when you said you’d fallen off your mother’s horse. But you never denied him anything else. Anything he asked of you, you gave. That was what you were raised to do. Loyal to no one but the Targaryens and their dragons. If Aemond felt the need to investigate, he never gave you any indication other than a soft hmm rumbling in his throat.

You told yourself that you should be thankful the prince was doting on you so. If his strange affections at the feast had been any indication that he felt more for you (which was preposterous–you were nearly ten namedays his elder!), he had not acted on them other than the infrequent murmurings of the nickname My Dandelion. The heat you had felt vanished the moment he stepped away. The only habit of his you could not truly comprehend was his nickname for you.

Lucky. Yes, that was what you were, to know he appreciated your care of Vhagar. He cared enough to essentially install you as the overseer of the Keepers. Or perhaps it was making sure that the gold you were paid was being earned and he felt the need to give you extra duties as Vhagar was fairly easy to keep appeased. Lady Laena had doted on you as well, hadn’t she? Of course, her affections had been overtly platonic and familial, and Aemond’s were decidedly not in some instances. But there was no way you had garnered his attention in that way. How many times had you been told by your parents and brother that no one would ever want you in that way?

You scratched at your chin, trying to ignore your racing thoughts as the sky was starting to bleed an inky purple. It was the first light of dawn and you had hoped to check on the hatchlings before Aemond took his morning flight. One of the other Keepers had mentioned that two of the smallest dragons had been fighting and some blood had been spilled. While dragons were largely hard to kill, they were still not immortal, especially when they were so young. You’d wanted to make sure there hadn’t been any infection in the wounds and to see if you could settle them separately.

You heard whispers from the smallfolk as you passed. Whispers of the Targaryen madness, whispers of their dragons being an abomination to the Seven, whispers of how Rhaenyra would never be a suitable queen, whispers of the crown inching closer to the Old Gods instead of the Seven with the betrothal between Helaena and Cregan. Or how the blasphemous, bloody gods of the Rhoynar would come to usurp the Seven because of the match between Aegon and Aliandra. And you wished this had been the first time you had been privy to such whispers, but only having taken true notice of them a fortnight ago.

Whispers.

They unnerved you. They weren’t…right. You heard them too often to be idle gossip and too outwardly for them to be a true passing thought. Something or someone had come to King’s Landing and had started the whispers. Purposefully.

The whispers came to a head as you hurried toward the Pit. A crowd had assembled, far larger than you’d ever seen this early in the morning, filling the street to near capacity, all of them looking toward one man that stood atop the edge of a fountain, proselytizing. He was missing one of his hands and was wearing roughhewn clothes. His unkempt, grey beard swayed with each exaggerated word that spilled from between his half-rotted teeth.

“These Dragon Filth will lead us all into ruin! Think of your families! Think of your eternal souls!”

The words themselves had your blood turning to ice in your veins but it was the answering, near-gleeful shouts that had you running. And, as if on cue, you heard the crowd turn and start to follow.

You nearly fell through the Pit’s open floors as you careened by the guards stationed near the doors, shrieking at them to be ready, that an attack was coming. But you scarcely heard if they replied as you sprinted down, down, down. You undid the chains on Dreamfyre first, screaming at her to flee, to fly. Her dark eyes nearly blazed as she looked at you before she tore past you with a roar, stretching out her wings as soon as she was able. Screams from the crowd were nearly musical as you set about freeing Vermax, Syrax, and Arrax next.

“Go! Fly!”

The thundering footsteps of the crowd were growing closer. You could hear the scrape of swords being unsheathed, of axes battering against the door or sliding against the stone floor. They were coming.

Just as you were reaching for Sunfyre’s chains you were yanked back by a rough hand grabbing at the back of your tunic. You were thrown to the ground with a scream that quickly died as your skull bounced against the stone.

A man you didn’t recognize loomed above you with a rusted sword in hand. “Dragon filth!” He raised his foot and stomped it down onto your stomach twice before you could even try to move or defend yourself but you were able to grab his ankle and roll as he went to do it again. You felt his bones twist and break beneath your fingers as he screamed and you stood, your ribs protesting. A flurry of movement to your right had you screaming, matching the scream Sunfyre let out, snapping his chains before he let out a bellow of fire just as you ducked, reducing his attackers to charred flesh and bone in moments before spreading his wings and taking flight. You scurried out of the roost and toward the next, knowing that was where the hatchlings were kept, and your heart plummeted as you heard the sounds coming from within.

The hatchlings were screaming—dying. You threw open the door to see two men hacking away at the nest, their daggers bloody.

“Stop!” You wailed, throwing yourself forward and catching one of the men’s arms. Wrestling for control of his dagger was a short affair as the other man’s fist quickly connected with your cheek and nearly took you from your feet again. But you couldn’t, wouldn’t give up. Not when you could still hear the little dragons crying for help. You lurched toward the nest and managed to curl your hand around one of the small dragons before you screamed, a dagger thrust through the meat of your forearm. But still you curled toward the nest, trying to keep them safe—if you could just save them-!

Blood coated your tongue as you picked up the dragons and you barely had the wherewithal to look down to see the handle of another dagger buried into your side as the men beside you called you a “dragon’s whore!” and a “demon’s servant!” Your knees knocked together as the dagger was pulled from your side and you clutched desperately to the hatchlings as you teetered backward, heartbeat roaring in your ears, but they were cruelly ripped away from you.

For the second time, you hit the stone floor and a heavy boot collided with your cheek as a final cry came from the nest. Just as your vision started to blur, you saw the roof of the Pit shake, raining down stone and dust. There was a thunderous roar that you could feel in your marrow just before the world went dark.

The world swam back into focus slowly, in a swirl of creams and blacks and reds. It took you a moment to realize you were in one of the many chambers inside the Red Keep, carefully propped up against a small mountain of pillows with a blanket across your waist, embroidered with a familiar three headed dragon in black thread that shimmered like gems in the muted sunlight, seeping into the room from around the edge of a heavy curtain. You only had a moment to appreciate the fine furnishing before a stab of pain which seemed to pop and fizzle across every inch of your body had you wincing, eyes clamping shut as you bit your lip to keep your whimper quiet.

That’s what you knew how to do. Stifle your noises. Make yourself silent. It always helped. And you could not stop the flinch which shot through you when someone’s hand settled on your shoulder.

“Apologies, my lady. I did not mean to scare you!” The Septa at your side squeaked as she yanked back her hand.

Your eyes opened again and you had to breathe through the sudden nausea that rushed over you in a wave. “N…no apology necessary.”

“I will call for the Maester. And I believe your family has been waiting to see you, shall I let them in?”

Before you could answer–a polite but firm no–the door opened and your parents and brother stormed into the room. You briefly saw a handful of handmaidens trying to keep them back before the door was firmly shut behind them. Your mother burst into tears at the sight of you, fat droplets falling down her cheeks, before all but hurling herself toward you with a cry of, “oh, my daughter!”

You bit back a yelp when her hands, covered in rings, grabbed at your arms, poking and prodding at you as her touch moved higher and higher until she was grasping at your face. If she noticed your wince when her nail scratched against what could only be broken skin, she didn’t reveal it nor did she pull back.

“My lady,” the septa started gently, rising from her seat, “the maester said-”

“I do not care what that old man has said!” She screeched, nails biting into your skin for a moment. “My daughter has been…” The rest of what she was going to say, and you were sure it was going to be quite the show, was drowned out as more tears spilled and she shook her head.

You’d only seen your mother like this once before. It was when Vaella was getting married. Of course, those were supposed to be happy tears; she was sure to cause a scene so more people looked at her than at the bride. It was all a show. Crocodile tears dabbed away with a silk kerchief. Fanning her face. Whispering to anyone who would listen that she was the mother.

Despite the throbbing of each of your limbs and the stabbing pain behind your eyes, you looked to see your father and Rhogar standing beside the bed, doing their best to look concerned as the Septa walked out of the room. If you were an outsider, you may have believed their pantomime. But you knew. They didn’t care. All of this? All of it was for show for anyone who was watching. They were the distressed family of the person being cared for by the royals.

Your father stepped to yourself and pressed a flat, unmoving hand against your shoulder, a frown tugging at the sides of his mouth. “How are you faring? You look ghastly.”

“You look like you have nearly-single-handedly saved the Targaryen dynasty from an immeasurable loss.”

Everyone in the room turned to see Aemond stride in, shoulders back and eye entirely focused on you. Your family was quick to curtsey or bow and then shuffle back to make way for him to step to your side. Aemond paid them no mind before he cupped your face. His grip was surer as he touched you, almost familiar. The touch of his thumb skirting across one of your many slow-healing bruises had you shivering, or perhaps that was the way his light eye was focused entirely on you.

“You are healing well, my lady,” he said quietly, just as his finger looped around the necklace still at your throat, pulling the dandelion charm out from under the chemise (which was definitely not yours) you were wearing.

That same, strange heat started to smolder in your stomach as you looked at him, watching that small smile you saw so infrequently start to push at his lips. But now was not the time to ponder that–after all, it could just be a bit of nausea–as you had other, more pressing, concerns. “The hatchlings, my prince, did they-”

“You saved all you could, my lady.”

That meant some had died. Hot, angry tears immediately stung your eyes as you shook your head, only exacerbating the pain radiating across your body. “How many? H-how many of the little ones-”

Aemond moved to grasp at your hands, gently, softly, as he shook his head. “You need not worry about that now. They will be avenged.”

“We apologize for her childish tears, my prince,” your mother said, voice pulling you away from the prince’s gaze. Her comment only made the tears burn hotter as you tried to blink them away. Shouldn’t you know better? Tears gained you nothing. Tears changed nothing.

“They are not childish,” the prince said, still not turning to give them a glance. “She mourns with my family.”

The Septa swept in again and cleared her throat, thick eyebrow arching high enough to disappear into her habit as she looked at your mother for just a moment, before curtseying in Aemond’s direction. “The maester has been summoned, my prince.”

The prince nodded but did not move from his place at your side, long fingers sweeping lightly over the bandages you saw over your arm and then brushing against your temple.

“We are grateful you have extended your family’s maesters and healers for her care, my prince,” your father said as he stepped forward.

“As I said,” Aemond started, not pulling away from you at all, not moving his gaze from your face, “House Targaryen owes her a great debt. It would be in poor taste for her not to receive the finest care this land offers.”

Everything burned. The skin he touched, his minted breath against your lips, his unrelenting gaze on you. It burned. For better or not, you could not tell. All it was, was consuming.

“If we may, my prince,” Rhogar said, voice low, almost shaking as he spoke for the first time since coming into your temporary chambers ears, “I know my sister would be well rested in her own bed. We can never repay your House’s kindness-”

It was only then that Aemond looked away from you, dropping his hand to his side. “I would not have my lady withdrawn from her chambers until she has fully recovered.”

“We understand the debt you feel you must repay, my prince.” Now it was your mother’s turn to try, once again dabbing at her damp cheeks with her kerchief. “But it is unnecessary. We know she is but a guest here. We would not repay one debt with another for her care.”

“Tell him,” your mother said through gritted teeth, varnished smile starting to wane. “Tell him you do not need to be coddled so!”

There would be hell to pay if you didn’t. Your mouth opened and-

But Aemond simply waved his hand, a flick of the wrist as if he were batting away a gnat. “I will hear nothing of it. The Queen and Princess Rhaenyra both have ordered daily reports on her health.”

“We understand that, my prince.” Your father argued, tone low and placating, as his own periwinkle eyes bored into the Prince. “But we have been kept from my daughter’s side since the attack. She belongs with her family-”

“She belongs here.” Aemond’s tone was cold, broaching no argument. It was the tone of a king. The tone of a dragonrider. And why did something twist behind your ribs at the sound of it? Or was it because his simple sentence had your family looking as if they’d all been collectively slapped. Your mother’s mouth dropped and you saw your brother look to her, questions in his eyes, before they both turned to your father.

“The maester is due shortly. I would advise you all make your goodbyes now and I will have word sent when it is suitable for you to come again.”

After a stretched silence, your mother came first, pressing a too firm kiss to your temple and whispering a rushed, “do not embarrass us,” into your ear before stepping back. Rhogar was next, each of them murmuring his best wishes into your cheek just loud enough for Aemond to hear but not convincingly in the slightest. Your father was last, taking your hands in his in a strong grip that had you wincing, heat rippling up your arm to burrow beneath the bandage where you were certain dozens of sutures were holding your skin together. The look in his eyes had you instinctively trying to pull back, out of his hold, but he held firm.

You knew that look well. Too well. It had been the face of your nightmares since you could dream.

“Daughter mine, I trust you will-”

His words, threats or otherwise, were drowned out by the door opening and the maester being brought in, a flurry of other healers behind him. Aemond stood back, spine pressed against the wall as you were looked over, poked, and prodded. You learned that your stab wounds were healing well, possibly aided by the three days you spent unconscious. “You didn’t move at all!” The maester said with a smile. He also said that he would leave Milk of the Poppy at your bedside to help with any residual pains you were bound to have and that he would come back after dinner to check the mobility of your arm.

It was only when he and his entourage were finished that you noticed Aemond had not left the room at all during the commotion. He stood sentinel near the door, arms crossed over his chest. And, as the chamber door closed softly behind the last of the parade of maesters, you were left alone with him. Again.

A nervous tickle started to grow at the back of your throat and you tried to will it away, head a little lighter thanks to the few drops of Milk of the Poppy you’d been given beneath your tongue a few moments ago, as you awkwardly tried to push yourself higher onto the pillows with only one arm when he started to walk toward you. The effort was only marginally successful and a sharp pain from your side nearly buckled your uninjured arm anyway. By the time you settled again, you were strangely out of breath. But still, you knew you had to say something. “I am once again in your debt, my prince.”

“There is no debt. I would do it a thousand times over, Dandelion.” He then looked you over, something you couldn’t place in his eye, a look you’d seen a dozen times before and couldn’t name. “I will have the handmaidens tend to you before the maester comes again. Dinner will also be delivered. I am assuming you still like the honeyed chicken and carrots.” It wasn’t a question and the prince didn’t give you time to say otherwise before striding out of the room as a gaggle of handmaidens—who you knew usually tended to Queen Alicent—streamed in. They were quick as they helped you move from the bed with delicate, careful movements.

A shining tub was hauled in soon after and filled with steaming water. And, even when the group of handmaidens squawked about waiting for the water to cool a little, you were quick to submerge yourself in it, only relaxing when you were enveloped and sunk down until the water hit your chin. They eventually sat at your side and scrubbed you clean, mindful of your injuries, and added rose oil to the water and massaged more of it into your damp skin.

And while they seemed to be content to work in silence, you had to ask, the question pressing on your tongue like salt, “what happened?”

“Oh, it is just the most wondrous story,” one of the handmaidens said, punctuated with a dreamy sigh. “The prince himself carried you out of the Pit and flew you across the city on Vhagar to the Red Keep where he demanded the maester see to you immediately.”

“It was fit for song,” another handmaiden said. “I would not be surprised if artisans use the scene of him standing amongst the rubble and blood and fire for their finest paintings for years to come.”

“Prince Daeron has already commissioned a tapestry of it to be made.”

An embarrassed heat started to claw at the back of your throat as they continued to chatter away, only stopping their recounting of the Storming of the Dragonpit (as you learned the attack had been dubbed by the city) to sigh, wistfully. They eventually helped you out of the tub and into a silk robe with a blue, three-headed dragon stitched over the heart, just the same as your Keeper robes. Aemond’s sigil.

“But, what happened?” You asked again, ignoring the strange swooping feeling in your stomach. “Who were they? Why?”

One of the handmaidens gave a tittering laugh. “Oh, Sevens. Please excuse us, my lady. We thought you would want to know who rescued you, but of course you would want to know who nearly killed you! The Shepherd—that rag-covered old man—was a zealot who the Triarchy paid to come to King’s Landing. He believed he was doing the Seven’s work. But they knew he would simply cause a riot—apparently he’d already done so in Lys and they offered him freedom in exchange for listening to how King’s Landing was ‘in desperate need of his teachings.’”

The revelation left something aching behind her ribs. While the Triarchy may have been outmatched before, striking at the heart of the Targaryen dynasty’s power was a well calculated and cruel move. Truthfully, you cared only for the fate of the dragons.

The handmaidens eventually helped you back into bed after the maester deemed the mobility of your injured arm as “suitable.” He also made the passing comment that your “womanly duties” would not be affected by the wound on your side, nor the repeated kicks you had sustained to your stomach. “But you may want to hurry it along. You are far past the age of majority, my lady.”

And with that unhappy reminder, you slept fretfully despite your belly being full of your favorite foods and being surrounded by the finest bedding gold could buy. You woke the next morning before the sun, wounds aching, and let a few drops of Milk of the Poppy pool beneath your tongue. Your head swam unpleasantly almost immediately, like undercooked meat in unsalted broth, but your veins no longer felt serrated after a few moments. And it seemed it was almost fortuitous as you didn’t particularly feel embarrassed when the handmaidens came again and helped you into a gown you passively did not recognize and gave you a cheese filled pastry to eat as they guided you through the winding halls of the Red Keep. It did little to settle your sloshing mind and actually seemed to make you feel nauseous the more you ate.

“Where are we going?” You finally asked, essentially shoving the half-eaten pastry into the hand of the nearest handmaiden as your stomach gave an impressive lurch.

“The Prince has asked for your presence on the steps outside the Keep.”

Well, that didn’t answer anything and your next step had your side lighting up with a sharp pain. You gritted your teeth as they continued to lead you forward and through the winding Keep and its halls and courtyards until you were gently ushered outside. Kingsguard were set out in three lines on either side, flanking the steps, their armor shining in the growing sunlight. At the center stood Aemond, sunlight framing him in a glow so bright you had to shield your eyes for a moment.

“She has arrived, my prince,” one of the knights said, taking a step to the prince’s side.

Instantly, Aemond turned and set his eye on you and moved to grasp at your hands, pulling you forward to stand at the edge of the top step. The sudden movement had your stomach rolling and your eyes shuttered. “It is good to see in the sunlight, my lady.”

“I…” The words you wanted to say were heavy on your tongue, tangling behind your teeth. “My prince, what do you need of me today? Is Vhagar-”

“Vhagar is happily roosting in our valley. She only settled once I learned of your prognosis. I shall have you back at my side shortly, where you belong.”

You heard him step to your back, his scorching heat bleeding through your gown, and nearly jumped as one of his hands settled on your hip and you could feel his next exhale against your ear. Your stomach rolled again and your breath was ragged in your throat. You needed to sit down. Needed more Milk of the Poppy. The stabbing pain in your side started to splinter out toward all of your extremities and the swimming of your mind was growing more pronounced. “My prince…”

“Keep your eyes open, Dandelion,” he prodded. “I’ve kept him alive just long enough for you to see him die. All of them.”

His words had you frowning. Who? You opened your eyes and looked out, nearly retching at the sight of it all. From the steps of the Red Keep and down into the city, all of the Shepherd’s men were tied to posts. They looked haggard and hungry. Bloody and bruised. As you pulled in a breath to try to steady yourself, all you could smell was pitch. There were puddles of it beneath the feet of each man.

“What are you doing?”

Aemond hummed. “Dragon fire would reduce the city to ash. Uncle Daemon suggested a substitute.” He grabbed a torch from one of the knights and held it in front of you as he kept his post at your back. “Light the first.”

“I-I cannot, my prince. It is the King’s justice, not mine.” And could you kill a man? Truly?

“You saved the Targaryen dynasty from ruin and nearly lost your life in the process. The King, the Queen, my sister, they all know you have saved us. Protected our dragons at the cost of your blood.” The hand on your hip skimmed up your side, thankfully light in his touch over your covered sutures, to trail up and over your shoulder blade and to the delicate bit of skin hiding your rapidly beating pulse. “You deserve vengeance, my Dandelion. Let the world burn for the blood you spilt, just as our ancestors demanded in Valyria.” Aemond paused and the roughened pads of his fingers pressed into the base of your skull, an oddly soothing pressure. “Consider it a betrothal gift.” He then reached around you and made sure you curled your hand around the torch. Then, slowly, with deliberate but careful steps, he led you toward the first man on the right as everything faded to a high pitched ringing in your ears.

Betrothal gift.

You chanced a glance at the man tied to the pole and he snarled at you from beneath the gag in his mouth, eyes blazing.

Betrothal gift.

Then, with a gentle, guiding pressure of Aemond’s hand over yours, you dropped the torch into the pitch.

One by one white cloaks and gold cloaks stepped out from their formation to drop their own torches, each man set alight, consumed by licking red flames. Further on through the city, trailing up to the still-smoldering Dragonpit, the Shepherd’s men were strung. At the base of the ruins of the Pit stood the Shepherd himself.

Aemond had carefully set you atop the saddle of his favored steed, a Courser just as silver as Valyrian hair, and led you through the city so you could see all of it.

When the flames came for the Shepherd, he screeched like the hatchlings had in their tiny nests, drooling through the gag. But you couldn’t take your eyes away from the sight and the ringing in your ears had not ceased.

Betrothal gift.

Just as the smoke started to blot out the morning sun, you heard Vhagar’s distinct roar in the distance and your eyes rolled back in your head and you were lost.

The war had come again in the night. Boats had come ashore, striking under moonlight. They’d targeted the Isle of Tarth, Driftmark, Duskendale, Maidenpool, and Gulltown. Only Driftmark managed to push back the assault with Princess Rhaenys atop Meleys and Lord Laenor on Seasmoke, aided by Lord Corlys’ Velaryon fleet. The others were left in ruin and the marching bands of mercenaries and Triarchy soldiers pushed further inland, dividing the crown’s armies and raining terror down on low and highborn alike.

And you were shuffled off to Dragonstone with Vhagar and Aemond. From there, the Prince would help command the royal fleet which was now dispersed around the crownlands, to keep any other forces from arriving and to keep any from running back to Essos. Prince Daemon and Caraxes were there, too, and the Bloodwyrm had trilled happily when he’d noticed your presence on the island only to be snuffed at by Vhagar—just once.

And while you were happy to be away from the stench of King’s Landing and to say hello to Vermithor who still roosted in the depths of the volcanic mountain, you found it…boring. You had thought the war would at least be a bit exciting (and you knew you should use a different word but the notion still persisted) but it was strangely boring. There were meetings between commanders and the like with Aemond and Daemon and then more meetings between the Targaryen princes and the castle’s castellan and then the island’s sworn lords.

And you should have been thankful for it. You should’ve been happy that Aemond’s attentions were elsewhere. But it only left you more confused. He had called the pyres of the rioters a betrothal gift and then had said nothing else to give you even the slightest indication that he had meant it or was expecting something in return. And by the end of the first moon since you had relocated to the ancestral seat of House Targaryen, you had deduced that he hadn’t meant it and perhaps you had even imagined it, your mind altered by the Poppy. There was no plausible way a prince would be interested in you. But you were still thankful for the quality care you had been given for your injuries, the scars the only reminder of your brush with death with no other lingering aches. And something almost good came from the storming of the Dragonpit; it had been decided that the Pit would not be rebuilt and the dragons would no longer be confined to the stone roosts when not ridden and could roost anywhere they wanted outside the city. The Keepers would still tend to them and make sure they were well fed so no farmers would lose their livelihoods (and no one would lose their lives) because a dragon was hungry. It was good—dragons were meant to be free.

You also learned that Princess Rhaenyra and her son Prince Viserys had become the official dragon-riding guardians of King’s Landing. Helaena and Dreamfyre had taken to aiding Cregan and his armies in the northern border of the Vale and Riverlands. Aegon, Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Daeron had flown out to burn any enemy encampments that had cropped up and had been successful, from what you had learned, while Baela and Rhaena were stationed at Driftmark with their grandmother and uncle, as another line of defense between Westeros and the Triarchy. You wished them well. But still…you were bored. Even news of Daeron’s betrothal to a young lady of House Lannister and Lucerys’ betrothal to the only daughter of Lord Tyrell had you excited for just a moment.

In an effort to have a bit of adventure and escape the gloom of the island, you would swim to one of the small islets that surrounded Dragonstone every morning when you weren’t tending to Vhagar in between her and Aemond patrolling out toward the Stepstones. Your favorite was just a small stretch of land with sweetgrass and wildflowers and a handful of looming trees, barely big enough to withstand the crashing waves of the surrounding ocean. Bodies of Triarchy soldiers would intermittently wash up on the shore and you would drag the corpses further inland in an attempt to help the fisherman nearby—no one wanted a dead man in their nets or on the end of their hook. You took a sharp stick and stabbed at their tattered clothes or armor and pulled them onto the wet sands, one by one, listening as the dragons roared overhead.

In the growing light of dawn, you tugged the last corpse beneath the tree you’d dubbed ‘the grave’ and haphazardly shoved it toward the rest of the mess of rotting skin and sun-bleached bone before turning away, letting the tall grass lick at your legs as it moved with the wind. The rains from last week had dotted the islet with flowers, and you stooped to pluck a dandelion. The stem was almost warm beneath your fingers as you twirled the wildflower in your grip, watching the early morning dew catch the first bit of sunlight and start to sparkle.

What would you wish for now?

You nearly yelped when you felt a sliver from your stick gouge into your thumb. And then a dragon roared overhead. By the sound alone, you knew it was Grey Ghost, one of the wild dragons of the island. He was free.

You switched the stick into your other hand, letting the smallest bit of blood smear against the stalk. You pulled in a deep breath and readied to blow the small seeds away and watch them disappear over the water. But just as you were about to exhale, something prickled at the base of your skull. A sensation you hadn’t felt since you started your Keeper training and it had your breath stalling in your throat.

Slowly, lowering the stick in your hand to a less antagonistic angle, you turned. Every curse you could have muttered dried on your tongue as soon as you locked eyes on the dragon looming at your back. Angry, blazing green eyes were locked on you. The rest of the dragon was as black as pitch with gnarled, grey scars littering his broad neck and chest, leading up to a mess of sharp teeth, left exposed on the left side by a chunk of missing flesh. The dragon rumbled and you could not look away.

This was the wild dragon known as the Cannibal. The fact that he hadn’t devoured you yet was a miracle, truly. The dragon huffed, bathing you in a green-tinged smoke for a moment and blowing away the small flower in your hands. Through watery eyes, you saw the bodies you had pulled from the sea, stacked messily together. Had the dragon done that?

When it didn’t look like he was going to eat you or burn you to ash, you slowly walked backward, keeping your head down. Submissive posture usually did wonders for an unruly dragon—it had saved your skin half a dozen times when Sunfyre had thrown a fit when Aegon was raging about something—and it seemed it worked with the Cannibal, too, because all he did was huff again before turning to feast on the dead.

And then you went back, again and again, pulling more bodies from the sea. But now your intention was less selfless and more selfish. No one had ever been able to get that close to the Cannibal and live to tell about it, their demise only being whispered by unfortunate bystanders or when their burnt husk of a corpse was discovered weeks later. But you survived. You came back to do it again, pulling more and more bodies from the sea and eventually stopped jumping when the large, scarred dragon nudged at your stick, urging you to fetch his meal from the waters. As strange as it was, you considered the large dragon a friend. Mayhaps your only friend on this side of the Narrow Sea. You would speak to him about your duties, point out the other dragons and their riders, telling him anything and everything that came to your mind. And then, when you, as delicately as you could, fed him another arm, you nearly shrieked when his jagged teeth suddenly sunk into your sea-soaked robes and all but threw you onto his back.

The scream that bubbled in your throat was short lived when he swiveled his long neck to look at you, as if making sure you were secure. He was mimicking the other dragons. The thought that this dangerous, old, angry dragon was playing pretend with you almost had you laughing. You adjusted your seat, slotting yourself between the large barbs and ridges down the dragon’s back and then grabbed at two of the curved spikes just at the base of his neck. Then, you spoke the word that changed your life irrevocably.

“Sōvēs!”

Fly.

And then he kept letting you up onto his back, letting you suggest where to go—he mostly listened. But you never truly cared if he wanted to go South when you had hoped to go North that day. He was yours. Truly, strangely, you felt as if his heart had wedged itself beside yours behind your ribs. The bond you had studied and kept sacred was now yours. You were a dragonrider. A dream, a wish you had never voiced. And you knew that if anyone ever knew, it would cost you your life.

But then you had a terrible, bordering on stupid, idea. You could see Vaella again. You could fly your dragon to Volantis and see your sweet sister again in days instead of the months it would take you to sail to her city. You could be free of all this. Of your family’s waiting wrath. Of the boredom. Of Aemond’s confusing actions. You had never been given even the opportunity to think of such things; your life was a series of going and doing what was expected of you. Pondering the possibility of true, if not brief freedom, and the repercussions that would surely follow, you stroked at the Cannibal’s flank as he ate the corpses you had piled for him earlier. The waning sunlight cast him in dark shadows as you both found solace in the seldom used western beach outside the castle’s curtain.

“Would you like to go to Volantis?”

The dragon rumbled between bites.

“Vaella tells me they have elephants there. You’ll have to promise not to eat them.”

He rumbled again and you couldn’t stop the soft laugh from escaping your lips. You could do this. Somehow. You’d offhandedly learned that Aemond and Daemon were considering flying to Braavos to meet envoys from the city to possibly form an alliance. You had heard rumblings about Braavos and Pentos both claiming dominion over the Stepstones and the Targaryen princes had hoped to resolve the issue and strengthen their armies and naval fleets in the process. It could be the perfect distraction.

A large, dark shadow suddenly washed over you in a wave and you didn’t even need to look up to know who it was. But the angry bellow Vhagar let out had you freezing. You couldn’t fight her, you wouldn’t. Even if the Cannibal rivaled her in size and ferocity, Vhagar was still your charge: you wanted her happy and healthy. Having two dragons fight to the death would destroy you. You needed to leave now.

Vhagar landed, sand spitting into the air under her weight, just as you pushed at your dragon’s side and screamed at him to fly, starting to scramble up to your perch. But before you could even try to move or take to the skies, the great dragon’s maw opened and closed around Cannibal’s neck and bit down.

You screamed alongside him as you were thrown back down onto the sand from the force of the impact, green fire spitting out from between his teeth. It nearly burned you but just as soon as the attack came, it paused. The prince’s dragon held yours down against the charred and crystallized sand. Dark blood slithered down the Cannibal’s neck to pool near your boots as you stood on unsteady legs. In a singular moment, he had been subdued. Just as you had been. Atop Vhagar sat Aemond and even as the sun blotted his features out, you knew he was entirely focused on you.

“Please,” you whimpered. “Please, let him go. He has done nothing against you.”

“On the contrary, my dandelion. He has nearly taken you from me. Did you think I did not see you climbing on his back, day after day?”

Tears gathered at the edges of your vision as you shook your head. “I am not yours, my prince. I am not-”

“Enough.” Aemond’s voice cut over the grumbling of his dragon and the seething of yours. “You have tested my patience. It is time to put this charade behind us. You are mine. You have always been mine. Just as I have been yours.”

“When have I ever been anything more than a keeper to you? I have done nothing to warrant these feelings. You are misguided.” You tried to quell the tears to no avail. Not when you could feel your dragon growing weaker by the moment. “When were you ever mine?”

But the prince was undeterred and swung out of the saddle and down the ladder to step toward you, lilac eye nearly burning. “I have been yours since you placed that dandelion in my hand as a boy that night on Driftmark and swore to me that I would have a dragon.” His hand slid against Vhagar’s neck as he stepped ever closer. His dragon released her bloody hold on Cannibal’s neck but kept her head close to his, effectively keeping him pinned.

More blood pooled in the sand as you shook your head. “You just needed a bit of kindness. That was all it was. Nothing more.”

“But it was more.” His voice was ice. “It was everything.” He moved closer still. “My entire life I have been nothing more than a spare, falling further down the line of succession with each birth. No titles of my own. I have had to fight every day to simply have my father’s attention, to make a name for myself, to be anything more than a footnote in a history book. Tis I who studies histories and battle and who rides the largest dragon in the world and leads the charge against our enemies. I have pushed them back across the Stepstones and into the Disputed Lands to lick their wounds but it matters little. Everything I have ever wanted is beyond my reach or shared with others, divided up before I can claim what is mine.” His eye blazed as moved ever closer. “Why should I not have something that is entirely mine?”

Heat crackled down your spine at his words, at his unblinking gaze anchored on you. “My Prince…”

“Mine to have. Mine to keep. Mine. You always have been and you always will be.”

“Y-you don’t mean that. I am nearly a decade your elder! I am not… My family serves yours and your dragons. We do not marry,” you tried to argue, thinking of every reason why it should not and could not come to pass. “I have no court refinement. My family reviles me. You ar-are a prince! You are the one who rides the largest dragon in the world, and you are a learned warrior worthy of song. And I cannot be the one-”

Aemond was in front of you in a flash, long fingers curling around your wrist. “You are. No matter what you think of yourself, I have seen you. I have known you. You are my only equal. Your family will be dealt with and I will give you the option as to how for their mistreatment of you.”

Still, you shook your head. “Your family will never-”

“My family has known I would wed you since I was a boy. They knew you simply needed time to see it. While my mother and sister tie the Seven Kingdoms together, you and I will maintain the old ways. Valyrian. Fire and Blood. Do not try to hide yourself from me. I knew what you were since my time in Qohor and I remembered how your blood shone on that little dandelion in the dark. You said it that night: there is magic in our blood. You would not be able to tame this beast without it,” he said, inclining his head to your dragon. “And so easily. Just as easily as you calmed all the others. They sense it in you, as I did. As I do now.”

And what could you possibly say to that?

But Aemond did not care to give you time to formulate a response and tugged you away from your coiled dragons and toward the castle. And, just as soon as the heavy door closed behind you, your back hit the cold, stone wall of the corridor and Aemond’s mouth was on yours. The kiss was not kind. Not the stuff of songs and girls’ whispered dreams. It was all hard edged lips and searching tongues after his hand fell to your jaw, pressing until your mouth opened with a whine. He stole your breath in an instant, seeming content to have you gasp against his tongue as he plundered. And then he was tugging at the laces of your trousers until they fell loose at your waist before falling with a single twist of his wrist.

You turned your head as you felt it, letting his next echo of a kiss smear against your heated cheek. Fear and something else crawled up your spine like a slow-moving spider.

He rucked up the edges of your tunic to curl his long fingers over your smallclothes and pushed them down to hang uselessly around your ankles and join your trousers. The moment he touched your clit had you keening, your own hands fisting at the leather stretched across his shoulders. To push him away, to pull him closer, you could not know. “My prince, please, you will ruin me. I am not what you want.”

“But you are,” he said. “You are all I want.” His fingers trailed lower, gathering slick as he pressed into your folds and then curled them into you without preamble. Your body shook with the intrusion, a strange burning sensation bleeding out into a pleasurable pressure as he continued to push push push in and curl his fingers, then he retreated just enough to have you gasping before he pushed back in. Again and again he pressed in, dragging the flat of his hand against your clit with each pass until you were whining against his mouth. An embarrassed heat licked up your chest when you realized what you had done. How could you like this?

“There we go, my dandelion. You sing so sweet for me.” Aemond bent his head just enough to drag his lips across the hollow of your throat, the wet, sucking sounds of your cunt nearly drowned it out. A heat was coiling in your belly, winding tighter and tighter with each flick of his wrist but you felt him shift, just slightly, and his next press had your knees buckling, sparks rippling up your spine.

“My…” Your tongue couldn’t form the words. Every inch of you was buzzing, pulling tighter, inching towards something that-

You came with a cry and Aemond kept you upright by shoving his knee between your legs, his other hand coming up to press at the base of your throat. As he slowly, carefully pulled his fingers from your sopping cunt, you couldn’t look away as he pressed his fingers into his mouth. He let out a soft noise, eye closing as his tongue wrapped around the digits to get them clean.

“You are sweet everywhere,” he said before slamming his mouth against yours in a harsh kiss that tasted of you as he pried your lips open to lick inside.

Your tenuous grip on his shoulders tightened as your blood sang through your ears. A sudden, warm pressure against your thigh almost had you retreating but the wall and his grip falling to ensnare your waist halted any movement.

“I want it all,” Aemond murmured against your mouth. “And you will give it to me.”

“Aemond-” The rest of your rebuttal choked you, stalling like a rock in your throat, as you felt like you were being split in two as he sank into you. He pushed and pushed and pushed, seeming to go on forever, and punched the air from your lungs when his hips were finally flush with yours. The prince stilled for a moment as your body throbbed with an almost uncomfortable heat and his lips dragged against your pulse, humid breath wetting your skin.

“My perfect little dragon.” And then he moved. Sliding out just enough to punch back in, dragging a yelp from your throat, and then doing it again and again and again until your yelps turned into wet, pathetic keens as the coil returned. It looped around your stomach and pulled as Aemond’s thrusts had you shoving up onto the tips of your toes, completely at his mercy. Each drag and push of him was hitting that spot inside of you that you didn’t know could possibly exist, and brushed against your swollen bundle of nerves and sent more sparks up your spine. All you could do was hold on and sob as he took what he wanted and drove you closer to another terrifying euphoria.

And then it was crashing over you, seizing your body and making you shake in his grasp, but he was not done, continuing to thrust until he suddenly stilled and a scalding heat pooled inside you before you felt it start to slip down into the crux of your thighs.

Aemond did not pull out as you thought he would, but instead stood straight and smoothed a hand across the side of your face before pressing an almost gentle kiss to your quivering mouth, just a touch too firm to be truly careful. “Let us retire. I fear we have tempted fate too much by cavorting in such a place.” Only then did he pull out, hands squeezing at your hips as his release started to slide further down your legs. You burned with something almost like shame, but the residual tingling from your own kept it from truly consuming you. “Your body is for my eyes only, those little sounds you make are for my ears only. You are mine. And I plan to have you again before I call you my wife in front of the gods of our ancestors.”

And Aemond did. He took you apart on his featherbed and he had you screaming into the hand he cupped over your mouth as he drove into you until your legs were too weak to sustain your weight when you tried to stand afterward. But it mattered little because he still had you bathed and dressed in the traditional robe of a Valyrian wedding and he’d led you out to the beach like a lamb to slaughter where the priest wed you to Aemond in the Old Ways. He cut your lip and you cut his with unsteady fingers, knowing you could not run now.

Much had changed.

With the tenuous allegiance of Braavos and Pentos gained with careful political maneuvering by Daemon and Aemond, the war with the Triarchy was over in three moon’s time. King Viserys lived long enough to see it and welcome the entirety of his family back to the Red Keep again in victory before succumbing to his age.

Queen Alicent was the one to place the crown on Rhaenyra’s head and proclaim her Queen of the Seven Kingdoms in front of the crowds assembled.

Your lip scarred and your husband liked to press his mouth to it whenever you were alone and you could feel his smile against your skin. And, just as he had said he would before your wedding, he had his first heir growing within you. His warm hand would curl around your ever-growing bump at every opportunity, no matter the company present. Advisors, siblings, knights, low and highborn alike. All of them saw the possessive curl of his fingers over you. You had come to expect it, almost welcome it.

It was strange…to be wanted. And to be wanted to completely. It was stifling and terrifying and all consuming. When you had come into your shared chambers and murmured the news that you were with child, Aemond had taken you again but slower than he had ever before. It was almost as if he were nervous to move too quickly, despite the power behind his thrusts, and hurt you or your babe.

The next day, he had the tongues of your mother, father, and brother delivered to you, wrapped in the dress Aemond had gifted to you and your mother had stolen. Aemond had given you a choice as to how to deal with them. You had asked for them to never speak ill of you again but for their lives to be unaltered. Horrified, you realized he had done as you had bid. They would never utter a word against you. They would never try to use you as leverage in a scheme. Aemond had taken it a step further to have you known as a Targaryen Princess rather than your House’s name.

“You make him so happy,” Alicent said as she cupped your cheeks in her soft hands, a matching smile on her face. “I cannot thank you enough.” The Dowager Queen had been endlessly kind to you and the rest of the family had welcomed you with open arms.

As if they had always expected you to be one of them.

Your dragon healed, new scars to add to his collection. He still allowed you onto his back but only when Vhagar was near. Your freedom still had caveats. But you still felt the wind beneath you as you soared through the air with your husband at your side. You still knew what it felt like to fly. You still knew the taste of clouds after a storm. You still knew what the city looked like from miles in the sky. And Aemond had sworn that he would fly with you to Volantis to visit Vaella after your babe was born.

“I love you,” Aemond spoke the words first, just after your bump started to show, only a week before you were set to fly North to see Helaena marry Cregan under the heart tree in Winterfell’s godswood. “I love you,” he said again after watching Aegon happily kiss his wife in Sunspear under the blazing Dornish sun. “I love you.” And you wanted to believe him. One day you would. And, perhaps one day you would say it, too.

A few months shy of your suspected due date, Queen Rhaenyra summoned you both to the throne room from the chambers you shared. “You may have any land you wish, brother,” Rhaenyra said with a small smile. “You have fought valiantly for this kingdom, often without reward or gratitude. It is a paltry sum for what we and the crown owes you, but I hope this is a start.” She waved a hand and a serving man handed Aemond a small scroll. “If you wish to rebuild any castle or keep on that list, you will have any materials and skilled workers you may need. If you would prefer something built new, you shall have the same. You need only ask.”

Aemond unfurled it to reveal a list of islands, vacant lands, and ruined castles. You recognized a few; Red Deer Island in the Riverlands, Bloody Isle near Oldtown, and Whispers which was the ruined castle near the tip of Crackclaw Point. But the list was extensive. Aemond had his pick of lands. He could take you anywhere he selected. How far would he take you? And why did you hate that you didn’t care? As long as it was him? It would be just you and him—forever

A/N: thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think!

#Aemond Targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen fic #aemond x oc #Aemond Targaryen #aemond Targaryen x ofc #House of the dragon fic #house of the dragon #hotd #female reader

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mingyus-blackcard · 2 months

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ੈ✩‧₊ Paint an immortal love ੈ✩‧₊

Paring : Xu Minghao x Male reader

Word Count : 0.8k

Song : Strawberries and Cigarettes by Troye Sivan

Genre : Immortal au, angst to fluff

TW: Implied homophobia, death

A/n: This was requested, I got the inspiration to write this after such a long time!!! Feedback is much appreciated! Questions and requests are always open !

It was a losing game but he still chose to play.

Immortals falling in love with mortal was not forbidden, but looked down upon. It was considered to be crumbling a dried rose. A rose which once smelt of warmth, reduced to pieces of angst. Y/N and Minghao promised to stay together, yet they both knew it was promise which couldn't be kept. Those sneaky escapades of Minghao and Y/N had to be said goodbye, yet one wouldn't remember and one could never forget.

Minghao was an immortal who would just roam around the streets of the mortal world. The mortal art decepting how the they perceived the world, be it with a field of dandelions or a court full of thorns. The museums he visited displayed a pulchritudinous array of art, portraying god and mortal emotions.

It was one of those lonely nights, when the museum did not have much rush, the gale could be heard, a sign of the winters approaching.

Minghao was staring at the painting, the painting decepting two souls with intertwined hands, it was rumoured that the painter had painted it for him and his lover, homosexual relationships being a sin in the society. Minghao never understood the reason about being in love considered to be a sin.

"It's pretty, isn't it?"

Minghao looked back to see a guy staring at the picture as well, a small smile resting on his face.

"Indeed it is."

"If only the painter was a female, falling in love with him wouldn't be a crime."

The two of them stood in silence, the silence speaking way more than words could ever speak.

Minghao glanced at the guy next to him, features no less than a angel.

Brown hair which matched his caramel eyes, small lips with a settling smile, a rouge tint to his cheeks, probably due to weather.

"I wish I could relive this painting."

Minghao looked at the guy, confusion written all over his face. The guy seemed to understand that and gave a light chuckle.

"Experience the love of an artist, become someone's muse. Get my love immoratalized for this world. Let the world know what love can be."

"This painting depicts a relationship between two men, would you want that as well?"

"If love can cross borders, it can cross languages, why can't it cross genders?" The guy turned his full attention to Minghao, replying with a slight spark in his eyes, waiting for his response.

"Not all borders are meant to be crossed, exepcially when the other side has thorns."

"If no one crosses border with the fear of thorns, the path will never clear. Someone needs to cross the border and remove the thorns."

Minghao just smiled, never meeting a mortal with such solitary thoughts. He lent out his hand, a friendly gesture he hoped the guy would reciprocate.

"Minghao"

The guy gladly shook hands, flashing a bright smile," Y/N"

The hands which shook, created a bond which could only be broken by time. The two young men, ignorant of others around them, fell in love with each other deeply everyday. Be it reading the newspaper together, snuggled together in the bed, the noises of the coach in the background or their late night escapes in the pub, a beer in hand, flushed cheeks and eyes full of love.

Minghao was hesitant to start this relationship, knowing he will live on with just memories, but for Y/N, he was ready to give the happy memories and carry on with the bitter memory of losing the loved one.

Relationships are built on trust, yet Minghao could never have the courage to tell him that he was an immortal, that he would indeed keep the promise of loving him forever.

Yet as the leaves turn brown, the sky turns grey, the lover's blood lost the warmth, lost the red tint. Y/N passed away young, a death not deserved, a death placed upon him for fighting for his love, shot at a rally for letting men love men, for letting the seven colours fly, only for him fly away as white dove.

The color of Minghao's life left, the monotonous routine taking over. A whole lifetime at his disposal, yet he longs to be with angel. Years passed, yet that smile could never fade away from his mind. Minghao lived on, visiting the museum every fortnight. Staring at the painting which made his lover immortal.

The night was nothing special, the museum being empty at night, Minghal standing carelessly in front of the painting, remembering his lover when his trance was broken by an another guy, voicing his thoughts.

"It's beautiful isn't it? Only for their love to be forbidden."

Minghao snapped his neck back to see a guy, black hair, pale lips, different from his lover, yet the same glint in the eyes which he could identify in thousand other eyes, those eyes which made him smile like never before. The eyes which made him love, which made him realise the importance of a heartbeat, those eyes which stood before him

again, life giving him a chance again, a smile creeping on his face in years.

"Till death do us apart, yet the same eyes, the same I love you stands before me."

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eleanor-bradstreet · 1 year

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The Field: Dandelions (Benedict Bridgerton x Reader)

Benedict Bridgerton x fem!Reader Modern AU Rated: G - mild suggestiveness, fluff and romance Word count: 2.7k

Part 2: Lavender Forever Masterpost

Summary: When you visit Aubrey Hall to celebrate an important day in your career, Benedict offers some new experiences.

Author's Note: The first in a four-part series based on songs about fields/nature that I associate with Benedict. This part is based on the song Dandelions by Ruth B

Today was the day. The day you were announced as Creative Director for Bridgerton House Enterprises. The day your life took a turn for the extraordinary. Even though you had known you would reach this tier and even though the man doing the announcing was one of your oldest friends, the enormity of the milestone still toyed with your nerves. The announcement was being rolled into the company’s first corporate outing at the CEO’s family home, Aubrey Hall. An embarrassingly large ancestral estate with sprawling grounds, it was a picturesque retreat for you and your colleagues to be feted while celebrating your successes and paving a roadmap for your future.

You had been there before of course, several times. It had actually been your idea to move the company outing to the spot. You found something reassuring in the calm grandeur of the place. Maybe it was the grounds themselves or maybe it was just your relationship with Anthony. Friends since uni, you had joined him and his innumerable siblings there for a few shooting weekends and holidays over the years. After chatty meals and some raucous nights that involved climbing out of windows, the latter of which you hoped his mother would never learn about, being there filled you with happy memories.

You and the Viscount had stumbled upon one another in your first year, headed home from late night parties arm-in-arm, singing and shouting with that unfiltered, instantaneous friendship that can only be formed by two people who just met and are both obliterated with drink. After an extremely messy mashing of tongues and unsuccessful attempt to bed each other, you both woke with embarrassment, headaches and quick realizations that your personalities were not romantically compatible. You would either have ended up murdering or driving one another off cliffs with your shared obstinance, but it was exactly that challenging streak that bound you tightly as sardonic friends and academic rivals. You cheered one another through school and then cheered one another through life as he took his rightful place within his father’s company, and you carved out a career in marketing and design. When his former Creative Director had left, you were the first person he called. Even though your preexisting relationship was no secret, you had still wanted to prove yourself and learn the culture before being handed departmental reins, so for the past year you had worked in a lower level role, getting to know the team and the company’s needs until you had told Anthony you were ready to step up.

As excited as you were, several factors were amping your anxiety. The concern that you would be seen as little more than a nepotism hire. But you supposed there was nothing you could do about that. The details of the event had fallen under your purview too, and you had been juggling caterers and florists and groundskeepers until your head spun. And then there was the brother. Benedict Bridgerton. As a show of support the Bridgerton clan were in attendance at the outing too. It was their home after all. But that left you in constant danger of bumping into Benedict and experiencing the unavoidable effect he had on you.

The first time you saw him when Anthony invited you to Aubrey Hall years ago, it felt like an engine kicked on somewhere in your chest. A new, secondary energy source powering you through life simply by knowing he existed. It drove you to spend as much time as you could in his presence, roared with electricity whenever he was near and sputtered whenever you saw him with a paramour du jour. It was problematic how often he visited you in dreams and how you would flush with heat whenever Anthony mentioned him offhand at work. Benedict was mischievous, funny, and too charming for his own good, with all of the heart and soul to make up for Anthony’s acerbicism. Over the years of your acquaintance you had become friendly if not exactly friends, but you admittedly had never known anybody like him. You knew he did something artistic for a living but not exactly what. You knew he had his own place in London but not exactly where. You knew you had caught him looking at you at recent gatherings but weren’t sure exactly why. What you did know was that your eyes were incapable of looking at anything other than him when you were in the same room, and he was only making it worse by wearing a canary yellow button down to the outing.

You had moved through the event spaces trying to avoid him, not needing anything to fluster you more. That was why you were somewhat hiding in a distant hall of the house, one of your favorites where the family displayed a portion of their considerable art collection. Pieces were always changed out and you found yourself drawn to a new one, a landscape. It was a field on a spring day, windswept with rolling hills in the distance. The lush grass was dotted with flowers - yellow, white, and blue. You felt as if you were standing inside of it, a cool breeze tickling your skin and rustling through the bordering treeline.

You were lost inside the painting when someone spoke next to you, startling you out of your reverie.

“Ah! Dreams in Kent. Like what you see?”

It was Benedict. Of course it was. Beaming at you with that grin that you thought should be criminalized, but which always made you feel better somehow. Your evasion efforts had failed and your heart was now racing somewhere in the vicinity of your throat.

“Yes,” you smiled, trying to act casual. You turned back to the painting - the only safe place to set your eyes. “It’s beautiful. Your family has quite the collection. I’m sure it took generations of curation.”

His eyes followed yours to the canvas. “Oh, we didn’t find this one. We know the artist.”

“Lucky for you. They’re talented.”

You could hear the smile in his voice. “Mmm. And he does commissions, if you’re interested.” He shuffled to stand closer at your side, both of you keeping your eyes on the gallery wall. You tried to school your breathing, focusing on the weight of the champagne flute in your hand, something solid unlike your legs.

“About how much for something this size, do you think?” You gestured to the painting mostly to humor him and keep the conversation light. You weren’t sure you were in the market for commissioned landscapes.

“For you? No charge.”

It took your reeling brain a moment to process what he said. Then you realized he was facing you and smiling broadly. “You didn’t paint this?” you gasped. The cheeky devil. He lowered his head and blushed. Something inside you ached. As if he weren’t beautiful enough on his own, now you were forced to witness the multiplicative beauty wrought by his talented hands. You most certainly wanted to commission a piece now. “Oh my god, I had no idea,” you marveled. “You’re a real artist.”

“Real?” As soon as his brow knotted you wanted to kick yourself.

You sputtered, hoping he wouldn’t take offense. “Oh, I just mean…I knew you were an artist but I didn’t know what kind of work you did. I was thinking more pop art or abstract…”

“Like sculptures made out of cotton balls?” His grin widened, creasing the most delightful lines around his bright eyes.

You breathed a sigh of relief. You should have known he would be good humored. “Exactly.”

“Is that what Anthony says about me?” He arched a brow.

“No,” you said firmly, and it was the truth. “He’s obviously proud of you. He just left out the classical landscape bit.”

The warmth that radiated out of his smile finally put you at ease. Yes, you had a crush on him but you were a grown woman. You could hold yourself together during some friendly banter. You didn’t know why Benedict alone seemed to reduce you to a babbling schoolgirl. Interactions with him felt more poignant, more significant somehow. Whenever he looked at you, even though it was hard to breathe, paradoxically you felt alive, free. You felt happy. You’d probably be in closer proximity to him once you stepped into Anthony’s C suite, so it was time to relax and get to know him better.

You turned back to the painting. “So was this plein air?”

“Yes,” he nodded. “A field on the edge of the property. It’s a quiet spot which is…hard to find with my family.” He shoved his hands into the back pockets of his jeans then his voice dropped to a register you had never heard before. “Speaking of, you’ve been here before but you haven’t seen this spot. Do you want an extended tour? To survey for a vista you may want to commission?”

His eyes leveled on you, glinting. There went any attempt at keeping your composure. This was blatant flirtation. An invitation to…something. A private tour to a secluded spot? Your heart was doing its best to make itself heard again, thrumming to the point you worried it was visible. The evening’s scheduled events wouldn’t begin for another two hours, and you reasoned that some exercise may help settle your nerves. Was there any way you could decline this offer?

“Alright.”

True to his word, Benedict showed you features of the Bridgerton property that you had never seen before. A far flung rose garden filled with statuary, agricultural outbuildings that had fallen into picturesque stages of disrepair, and the looming stone orangery that you had always observed from a distance but never approached. Unlike the goat barns it was still in use, housing an array of palms and warm weather plants in rows across the chess-tiled floor. Even though you had known the Bridgerton family for years, the trappings of their old money lives still gave you pause sometimes. You had hobnobbed with the higher classes your entire life but your middle class roots still caused you to gawp at and ridicule certain things. You each plucked an orange and ate them as you hiked past the lake in which you had swum before, crossed a fallow field and rounded a copse of trees.

Then you saw it. Benedict had captured the field so perfectly, you knew you had arrived before he even spoke. The idyllic fantasy his painting had conjured in your mind was now fully realized, grass tickling at your ankles and breeze brushing through the nearby treeline. Fields rolled out before you to the horizon, beyond the Bridgerton property line but unbroken by any structures or barriers. Just a sea of peaceful green dotted spectacularly with the bright yellow of countless dandelions. It almost felt as if you had stepped out of time into some pocket dimension that only Benedict knew how to access.

“It’s stunning.” You suddenly realized that he was dressed perfectly to match the surroundings, looking like an overgrown dandelion himself in his yellow shirt. It was adorable and endearing. You smiled. “Have you ever made dandelion wine?”

“What?” He chuckled. “What on earth is that?”

“Ah, of course not. Someone whose family has an orangery wouldn’t have tried such a peasant recipe.” You smirked, unable to resist the jab. The field was invoking memories from your childhood. Hazy summers at your grandparents’ cottage in Cornwall where they taught you to gather and ferment the blooms into a sweet concoction. With their ample supply, you couldn’t help but feel that the Bridgertons were missing out.

“I’m not classist toward anything that can take the edge off.” Benedict slowly moved deeper into the field, dragging his feet through the grass.

“Why is there an edge?”

He huffed a sigh, staring out at the horizon. “The usual. Quarter life crisis. Searching for a direction. Posh boy twat who dreams of being a starving artist.”

His crooked grin didn’t mask the plaintive look in his eyes. Blessed as he was with good looks, wealth and talent, the idea that Benedict may have anything less than a perfect life had never occurred to you.

“From what I’ve seen you’ve more than accomplished the artist bit. And consider it a blessing that you don’t have to starve. It appears to me that you have everything you need.”

“Some things perhaps, but not everything.”

His tone was so uncharacteristically serious, his gaze so weighted, you worried he had found your comment dismissive. Now you had to make him smile again. Scanning the ground you quickly found a flower that had tufted into a perfect white orb. You picked it and held it out to him. “Then wish for what you want.”

He brightened and walked back toward you with a playful air. “Do you think it will come true?”

You shrugged. “Can’t hurt to try.”

He bent and picked another tufted stem. “Only if you wish too.”

Something lodged in your throat. The last thing you had expected on this already monumental day was to be cozying up with your friend and boss’s younger brother for whom you had carried a candle for years. The heady excitement coupled with the beautiful backdrop was making everything feel surreal. The event at the house could have been taking place in another world entirely. All of your focus was here.

Smirking at each other, you stepped close and simultaneously blew on the flower held in the other’s hand. The gauzy seeds rose and swirled around you both, heightening the strange magic of the moment. You fought not to react to his proximity and the warm gust of his breath over your hand. Closing your eyes you made your silent wish - that this flirtation would continue; that Benedict perhaps saw you as you saw him; that you could call him your own, even if just for a short while. When you reopened them he was smiling at you.

“What did you wish for?”

You backed up a step, laughing. “No, that’s not how this works. If I tell you, it definitely won’t come true.”

“How do you know?” he lilted, closing the space between you again. “What if I’m the person who can deliver what you want?”

Oh god, was your wish that obvious? Was it so easy to read how much you wanted him? You supposed it was a common occurrence for a man like him but wanted to chastise yourself nonetheless. You would have if your mind wasn’t already paralyzed by the knowing look on his face.

You somehow managed to find your voice, deflecting meagerly. “You first. What did you wish for?” “Ah, I see how it is,” he chuckled. Then everything about his demeanor grew soft and intent. His blue-grey eyes searched yours and you were transfixed by their depth, as if within them you could see forever. “I wished for something just out of reach. Something I’ve been thinking about for a long time. Or someone I should say.”

“Someone?” You asked, your voice tremulous. Your heart was pounding. There was no mistaking where this was going but you could scarcely believe that it was actually happening. Everything around you started to fall away, scattering like the dandelion tufts. Everything but his eyes, his lips, and the tender words that escaped them.

“I suppose my wish was to know if they thought of me too.” He peered up through his dark lashes, a calculated move that you knew was designed to devastate you.

“How funny,” you croaked, your voice barely above a whisper as you swayed toward him. “I wished the same thing.”

His eyes lit up and the engine within your chest roared. “Well look at that,” he leaned in, looping an arm around your waist. “My wish came true.”

You moved with equal enthusiasm, pressing your lips together in a moment that was soft but fervent, carrying the weight of hidden feelings and the desire to explore further. He tasted of oranges and comfort; he felt so correct. You wound your arms around each other, warmed by the sun that shone bright across the field. You had been kissed many times in your life, but nothing compared to the breathless wonder of this one. This felt like once in a lifetime. A distant corner of your mind remembered that you needed to get back to the house soon but you were finding it difficult to care. Benedict began to hum happily as he kissed you over and over, winding a hand into your hair as he playfully nipped and sucked at your lips. Pulling back, he smiled and twirled the dandelion stem between his fingers. “These things do work.”

Tagging: @angels17324 @bridgertontess @broooookiecrisp @secretagentbucky

#bridgerton #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x y/n #bridgerton x you #bridgerton imagine #benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x y/n #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict bridgerton imagine #female reader #modern au #romance #fluff #dandelions

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staticl0ve · 11 months

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Connor x Fem!Reader (18+, 3.5k words) 💙 Part One

Part Two. Inexperienced lovers. Friends to lovers. Human AU. Fluff. Soft smut, oral (f!receiving)

(18+)

Sex & Lemonade 2

Summer winds sweep through dandelion fields, pulling soft tuffs of white fuzz into the air. Grass flows in waves, as do the large starry leaves of an aged oak tree. Sunlight bleaches the canopy gold and lime green.

You’re resting on your back beneath rustling leaves. Against your skin is a thick, knitted blanket with multicolored geometric patterns, protecting you from the sharpness of fresh cut grass. Picnic treats are laid out around a basket, half eaten sandwiches, washed fruit, and cold packaged juice boxes. Past the tall grass and wildflowers, cottony swirls of clouds drift lazily across the vast blue sky.

“I spy… a unicorn,” you say to the man beside you.

Connor lies on his side, tucking an arm under his chin and legs bending just enough to have his knees brush against yours. His cheeks are a little sun kissed and flushed from your proximity. Brown eyes track your tongue as it flickers out to wet your lips between words. The action brings forth thoughts of you in his bedroom with a glass of lemonade and reminds him of what your tongue can do or how good it feels curling up and stroking his—

“Connor?”

Shit. He’s stammering, lashes fluttering and cheeks reddening. “I… I… uhm. Is it that one?”

A pale hand raises over your face, index finger pointing at a tuft of two clouds with a vaguely horse shaped head connecting to a pointy, wind blown horn. Your teeth flash, eyes squinting from a silly grin. Connor leans in closer, fingers busying themselves with a stray ribbon from your crop top. It’s attached to a corset center of criss-crossed satin and while you’re lying back, bare middle in view, he’s distracted by the thought of what might happen if he… pulled.

“Yes!” you say, dragging him out of his reverie. “You’re so good at this.”

There’s nothing in your sweet voice to imply anything else and yet he feels a bolt of heat, a twitch of interest from your words. Connor’s been thinking about you nonstop for the past few days. Ever since he learned how good you could make him feel, he’s been wondering whether or not he could make you feel the same, if not, better.

Your thighs shift as you arch your back for a quick stretch, skirt pooling around your mid thigh, leaving Connor with a tempting view of vast amounts of skin. Why did it have to be summer? He’s cursing the weather and wishes for snow, thick layers, and warm blankets for modesty. Although… he’s quick to imagine what could be done beneath a blanket and he’s already yelling at his single tracked mind.

While Connor’s busy fretting about the temperature, the wind picks up, taunting him by lifting your clothes further from your skin and the same colorful ribbon wrapped around your chest beckons him. You seem to catch that he’s not quite present with you and laugh softly. A cool and damp green grape presses against his lips, your fingers wrapping around the other end.

“You look like you need a snack,” you tease. “You’re… staring into space.”

He bites into the delicate flesh and tastes a burst of sour and sweet. Caramel eyes find yours as his tongue flattens against the bitten fruit to catch the juice which drips. There’s a flicker of wet, warmth against your skin and you wonder if Connor’s tongue grazing your fingers was an accident. You think you get your answer as his tongue curls around the grape and pops it from your hand and into his mouth.

Smiling, he lets out a content hum when he finishes chewing. “So sweet.”

All that exists is the small space between you and him and like the clouds above, the breeze pushes and pulls you two into one shape. Connor leans in closer, hovering over your laid out form, his nose brushing over your bare shoulder. Softly, he says your name like he always has since you were a little girl and he a little boy. You blink back at him, returning his smile.

“I… wanted to ask…” His eyes track down your chest and towards your knees where your thighs are pressed tightly together. “If… if you don’t mind that I returned your favor?”

“Favor?”

You go to sit up a little, but he stills you with a gentle press of his palm to your abdomen. The contact means your bare skin meets his hand and a flush of heat rushes down his back. Gulping, he smiles sheepishly, aware of how the tips of his ears must be turning as red as his cheeks.

“Y-yes, I… I would like a chance to make you feel good.” He looks at you then, large honeyed eyes dripping with sweetness. He’s the picture of dreamy, young love, his thick lashes fluttering, cheeks dimpling with another anxious smile. “Would you like to experience that with me?”

You stare back at your best friend, a little lost for words. There’s a distracting throb at your core as you mull over his offer. Your chin lifts and lowers in a small nod. Receiving your answer, Connor moves to lean over you properly, lowering himself to his elbows until your faces are inches apart.

“May I kiss you?” he asks.

You wonder if you’ll taste fruit on his lips.

“Please,” you reply.

He makes a soft noise, an almost whimper at your gentle pleading. Lips gently press against yours and his moan grows in volume. He’s been replaying how you’ve kissed him over and over, and he’s realizing his memories don’t hold a candle to the real thing. You fit perfectly beneath him, hands roaming up his chest, fingers kneading into cotton.

Connor loves how you shyly explore the planes of his muscles. Growing more confident, your hand wanders further up, tracing his collarbone and strong, taut neck muscles. He leans into your touch, hips bucking when you pull at his hair. His lips tug gently at your bottom lip and his nose bumps into yours— asking— begging silently and he hopes you can feel the need radiating from him.

Your mouth opens and welcomes him to explore, his pink tongue licking at your pillowy cheeks and scraping against sharp teeth until he finds your tongue. You can taste grape on his lips and smell the sunscreen which coats his skin. Connor drinks in your moans, lets his hand wander further down. Mischievously, his thumb catches on a perk nipple hiding behind thin cloth and you gasp his name beneath him.

He parts from the kiss to study your face and the golden glint in his eyes turn darker than molasses. It’s a look you’ve seen when he’s concentrating and plotting his way to victory at a board game or when he’s chasing you in tag… only a different hunger lurks around the edges of his eyes, causing a thrill to run down your spine. Connor blinks and it’s gone, replaced with another blush of his cheeks.

“May I?” His fingers catch onto the satin holding your shirt together. You nod again, lips curling in anticipation.

Nimble fingers pull at the bow wrapped around your chest, slipping in between to loosen the ribbon until your breasts spill from your top.

“Fuck… you’re so pretty,” he moans, dipping his head to your chest. He swirls a tongue around one nipple and uses his hand to rub faint circles over your other one. It’s a ticklish sensation and you’re caught between a giggle and a moan. Connor’s on a different planet, mouth latching more tightly on your breast as he moves his hands to your thighs, strong fingers pushing your skirt up higher.

“Connor…” You squirm as cool air hits damp lace. His thumbs rub into your inner thighs, tracing the seam of your underwear.

“May I… use my mouth on you?”

It’s your turn to stammer and your cheeks instantly feel hot. “No one has— I mean— I’ve never…”

He’s earnest, understanding and smiles back at you from between your breasts. “Neither have I. I’ve always wanted to try this with...” He corrects himself and glances away, suddenly too shy for direct eye contact. “Please, may I taste you?”

“Y-yes.”

Sliding down, his hands are on you, fingers squeezing reassuringly at your hips. They roam further, pulling down your panties and you lift your hips to help him. It gets tossed nearby, somewhere between the edge of the blanket and onto the grass. With both hands, he pushes your skirt up, letting the material pool over your hips. Connor groans at the sight of your bare sex, teeth capturing his lower lip.

“Will you show me what you like?” he asks while pulling your hand lower. His cheeks are warm when he rests the side of his head on your thigh.

“I… I’m not sure…” you stammer back.

Of course, it wasn’t like you haven’t spent time getting to know yourself on nights when your core ached, keeping you from a peaceful night’s sleep. There were also a few curious nights in college with some cute guys… but this was Connor, the boy who had the worst, squeaky voice in puberty, now a man asking you eagerly, voice low and tempting.

He’s still watching you with all the intention to study you like you were a topic he had to ace. As you blink back at him, his hand intertwines with yours.

“Guide me. Please,” he begs. “Use my hand.” And my tongue, he hopes, but there will be time for that when you’re ready.

You listen because, god, Connor’s never sounded this desperately enthused before. You’re getting flashbacks to prom, when you both went as friends, his cheeks pinched in excitement as you joined him for a slow dance. It’s hard to know when it happened, the moment you both stopped being friends and something more. Was it then? Was it earlier this week when you had his cock down your throat?

Or is it now?

With your hand above his, you trace the bumps of his veins and large knuckles before guiding two of his fingers where you need it. He takes in a shuddering inhale when his skin makes contact with your wet folds, collecting your slick. You’re wet, warm and teasing him by letting him trace the seam of your sex, not quite letting him in. Connor swears he can feel a faint pulse and lingers, hoping he may get a chance to feel more of it.

Moving his hand back up, you bring him to your swollen clit, coaxing him to add pressure, allowing the pads of his fingers to manipulate soft, smooth skin. A moan escapes your lips when he manages to find an angle which makes your toes curl.

“Here?” His eyes are bright, brows raised curiously. He rubs in tight circles around that spot, cheek dimpling when your back arches off the picnic blanket. Your name leaves his lips. “How does it feel?”

“G-good. Mmm! Really good.”

It’s not enough, you’re feeling awfully empty and fluttering around nothing. You squirm, hips twisting and he accidentally brushes past your folds. He’s quick to apologize, the sharp sound of an S reaches your ears but you’re already pushing his palm lower, guiding him into you.

“Oh…” he gasps at the wetness that floods around his fingers. Connor’s done this part before, felt the warmth of another partner on his hands. He thought the experience meant he wouldn’t be fumbling nervously with you, but he is because you’re soaking from the anticipation of his touch. Cheeks red, a moan parts his lips as he watches his fingers slip in deeper. Tightness and heat pools between his thighs, the space in his jeans feels more restrictive with each passing moment, a need he ignores to satiate a different curiosity. His mouth feels parched and well, his tongue is already halfway out…

“Mmm! Connor!”

Your hand instinctively finds the back of his head, nails raking through soft hair. His tongue is warm and wet, applying light pressure with broad, flat licks. Connor’s inexperience shows, his motions unsure as he experiments with a variety of directions. He watches for your reactions, corrects his movements to find the areas where he should lavish attention to. And when he sharpens his tongue on one spot, really curls his tongue across it, you let out a wrecked moan. It’s music to his ears so he keeps at it, swirling at your nerves until the hand in his hair becomes conflicted with pushing him away while your thighs cage him in.

Abruptly, the feeling is gone as his head pops up. You’re expecting furrowed, worried brows and large, blown out brown eyes. Instead, he’s leaning over your pelvis with a dark shimmer in his eyes and a small quirk in the corner of his lips. His pale skin is shiny in the sunlight, chin damp and he flicks his tongue out to catch remnants of your taste.

“Was that… okay?” he asks, voice small and seeking affirmation. There’s a glimmer of pride in his eyes that tells you he already knows your answer.

“Yes, yes—” Your words slur and get swallowed by a stifled moan as he returns to his place between your thighs. You think he’s pretty like this, too. His dark hair is a mess, curled bangs in his face as he searches for new ways to make you feel light and airy and taut all at once.

How well you react to his touch makes his heart swell with pride, knowing he can make you breathless in the way that you’ve done for him. He wonders if it’ll always be like this, you and him casually hanging out, exchanging long glances until the tension breaks into something more intimate. This is the second time in a week that the limits of what constitutes as platonic activities has reached the point where his chest aches for something more.

He’s lived through summers with you as a boy, has spent them riding bikes across miles of suburbia, grabbing refreshments filled with ice, and huddling close together on a couch to nap away the day… only for him to peek an eye open as you slept while he wondered what it’d be like when you were both older. As an optimist, he’d like to think that this summer is where he’ll find that answer.

“Oh, god! Connor… yes!”

A smile quirks his lips up and he’s laughing a little to himself as he licks at your clit.

“It’s not too much is it?”

It’s that damn sweet voice of his, dripping with sincerity but his tone never matches the almost cocky twitch of his lips. You can hardly focus on the leaves scattered above you, the clouds blending into the blue skies. All you feel is Connor, your best friend’s tongue, and his thick fingers which begin to move slowly from within.

“N-no, s’perfect,” you reply, one hand still lost in his hair and the other fisting the picnic blanket so as to not hurt the brunette between your legs.

He tests how pliant you are, stroking you open and feeling up similar nerves that make your thighs tremble. It stokes a warming sensation in your lower belly as he fills you to his knuckles, crooks his fingers in time with his licks around your clit. When you clench tightly around him, he groans, tongue vibrating as it laps at your swollen bud. He can hear the squelch of your slick by his ears and can’t resist moving his free hand to grind his crotch into.

“Sweetheart,” Connor coos, lips pressed to your sex while he talks. “Please, let me taste you. Please.”

You barely squeak out a “yes” before his wet fingers leave you, sliding up to replace his tongue in rubbing circles. His face digs in, nose pressed beneath your clit as his tongue shyly prods at the seam of your sex. He runs his tongue up your slit, catching the slick that drips. You hear a muffled “fuck” and he’s suddenly, merciless, completely forgone the notion of a slow pace. It’s an exchange of trust between friends, although lovers almost suits you two better. You’re laid out for him to taste as he’s sprawled out for you to use and Connor feels incredibly lucky to be the first to discover how sweet you are.

His name leaves your lips, his brown hair pulled by your fingers as your hips rise to meet his tongue. It encourages him to push in deeper, his wet and warm appendage stroking silken muscles. He’s using the quake of your thighs, moans, and squirming hips as his guide to all the right spots.

“God,” he murmurs between breathy breaks. A groan, halfway to a growl vibrates his tongue. He lays a kiss to your inner thigh, sharp teeth nipping playfully. “You taste so sweet.”

Connor plunges back in before you can reply, filling you once again with his tongue. You tighten around him as his fingers move faster, coating your clit in the combined mess between your thighs. In the background, you catch him bucking his hips into his hand like a desperate teenager.

“Are you…?” You moan again, distracted by a talented flick of his tongue. “A-are you touching yourself? God, you’re such a good boy.”

Connor nearly spills into his denim, hips stuttering. He doubles his efforts, swapping again to fill you with his fingers. When his mouth wraps around your clit, a sucking pressure pulls at your nerves, making your back arch off the blanket. Brown eyes rake over your exposed breasts, the filtered sunlight kissing your skin and the wrecked, half lidded glance you give him. He thinks it can’t get better than this, lying under clouds with the summer sun hidden through dense leaves, and his childhood crush making a mess of his face.

“I’m close,” you whimper.

Oh, so it can get better. Connor whines from the combined friction of his hand, your tightness and imagines how perfect you’d feel surrounding him. He can see it now, you with your legs around his waist, back arched the way it is now— fuck, you’d feel so much better than the dull friction he’s getting through thick denim.

“Baby, please. I want to… I… I want to come with you,” he pants breathlessly.

A string of please’s connects until it’s melded into one unintelligible word and he’s mumbling it while desperately fucking you with his mouth and fingers. The strand of reality keeping you on this plane snaps and you suddenly feel like you’re drifting in a warm ocean, basking in the glow of the sun. Your body sinks into the water and bobs back up, dipping in and out of euphoria in waves.

The sharp cry of Connor’s name leaving your lips is all it takes for him to follow shortly after you. He works you through the afterglow, tongue lazily dragging over a swollen bud of nerves. His hands, wet as they are, drag up your legs to grip your hips. Arms outstretching, you try to coax him to lie on top of you and he rises up from his knees until his face hovers over yours.

“My face is quite messy, I’m unsure if…” he begins when you wrap a hand around his neck and pull his face lower. Shaking your head to disagree with him, you crush your mouth to his and taste yourself on his lips.

Sweet and tart, like summer fruit.

Your hand wanders, cramming to fit between a small gap in his jeans and bare skin and finds the sticky mess in his clothes. Connor moans softly when he feels your fingers caress his cock, catching a sample of his release. You bring your hand to your lips and he’s watching you intensely, mouth parting around another curse word. Your tongue wraps around your fingers, lips sucking his slick off your hand.

“You taste like summer,” you tell him, smiling softly.

The light catches around his hair and shoulders in a golden halo as he hovers over you. Evidence of your afternoon together is marked on him and Connor wears it proudly. Slowly, his lips spread, eyes softening and you swear you can see your futures in them.

“You, too,” he whispers back.

An arm wraps around your waist and hugs you to him, his face lost in the crook of your neck. Your eyes close, enjoying the cool breeze, his warm body on yours. Connor turns to kiss you in a way that tells you summer is only the beginning of something new between you and the boy you’ve known your whole life.

Leaves drift overhead, carrying themselves across fields of wildflowers. A train sounds off in the distance as he reaches over your head, plucking a dandelion from the grass. White tuff clings to a stem as it’s brought to your lips.

“Make a wish,” he says.

You think of Connor, lips picked up at the corners, freckled cheeks turning tanner by the day and make your wish.

💙 To Connor’s masterlist.

#my writing #sex and lemonade #detroit become human #dbh fanfic #dbh connor #rk800 #reader insert #connor x reader #rk800 x reader #connor rk800 x reader #connor x y/n #connor x you #dbh smut #rk800 smut #oh my god this wasn’t supposed to be this long #then I had to go and add FLUFF to the smut #will there be a part three?#lmaoooooo

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doctorhouse5343 · 3 months

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Fields Of Dandelions (Chapter 1)

The door slammed open as a teary eyed Dream ran into his room, throwing all of his clothes and belongings in a suitcase while trying to calm his racing heart as he glanced nervously behind himself. His hands kept shaking as he tried to steady his breathing, giving up on trying to fold his trousers and shirts. There would be plenty of time for it later, right now the main priority was to make sure that he had everything necessary. Dream shut his suitcase closed with a shaky sigh, taking a look at his surroundings one last time before discreetly walking out of the room, making sure to not make a sound as he made his way down the hall. The laughter that came out of the study made him clench his teeth in rage as he walked at a faster pace, determined to get out of this hell that he once called a home.

The minute that he was outside of the family estate, he ran for the train station, not once stopping until he had arrived at his destination. It was only after after purchasing his ticket and , after waiting, sitting in the train that would take him to a safer haven that the ravenette allowed himself to cry. Dream Endless' life was perfect stable, until Roderick Burgess came along and twisted it with his machinations and schemes

From the first encounter the older gentleman seemed sinister, always trying to get too close for comfort to the third eldest of the Endless siblings, going as far as to feel him up a few times. Dream had to refrain from backhanding him during those times, afterall he was an 'esteemed guest and therefore must be treated with respect' so he held his tongue and remained courteous towards the man. Burgess' visits then started to happen more frequently and soon he began to ask a lot of questions about the younger man's love life, which raised a lot of red flags about the nature of the cordial relationship his parents had with Roderick (his parents weren't great so it wasn't out of the ordinary for them to get along with bad folks but he sensed that there had to be an ulterior motive). Dream's hands shook as he tried to still them by holding on to his knees, remembering what he overheard in Time's study. "Your son Dream is quite a lovely lad, it's a shame that he has such a...fierce temperament" Roderick Burgess said, with that sickening smile on his face as he took a sip of his wine. The hum of appreciation that he did after brought a nod from Time as he folded his arms "He always was like this, refusing to behave correctly and abide to the simplest rules. Every suitor we introduced to, he lashed them with his sharp tongue, reducing them to pathetic worms" He gritted his teeth, a scowl on his face as he went on "He is nothing but a disappointment to the noble Endless name"

Night chuckled in amusement as she stroked her husband's arm to ease his fury, giving the gentleman seated in front of them a sugary smile "I heard that your eldest son Randall is doing quite well for himself, does he have any suitors throwing themselves at his feet?" She asked, leaning forward as she cradled the wine glass in her hand. Roderick smiled "No, he is quite single. Which is precisely why I am here" He pulled out an envelope out of his suit-jacket and placed it on the table "This is payment in exchange for your son to marry my Randall. I am quite sure that he'd adore him plenty, I know I do". Time and Night both looked at eachother, pondering for a moment the money was tempting but the possibility of getting rid of the ungrateful son that had been a thorn in their sides since the day that he was born was what made them say "We accept your proposal, Roderick. We will have Dream prepared for his wedding very soon" They then celebrated with more wine, not aware that their son heard everything and was making his escape. The pretty goth took a deep breath and shook his head to shake the thoughts of what happened, turning his attention to the window to admire the view outside. The landscape soon calmed him down and he soon drifted into a well needed, dreamless sleep.

It was a beautiful sunny day at The White Horse farm, the sheep were bleating happily, the chickens were pecking away at the ground while the farmer that took care of them was sipping a glass of lemonade with an axe at his side. He wiped off the sweat from his brow, a relaxed smile on his face as he stared at the sky. Hobo Heart had been a farmer since the day he reached the tender age of 18, it was a life that he loved dearly : he'd wake up early to the sound of Ricardo, his beloved rooster, croaking at the sun to start up his morning of tending to every chore and tasks, sometimes he'd go in the town for a bit to buy seeds for his farm. His presence there was rarely a welcome one, his appearance scared many of the locals due to how dead he seemed : his skin was blackish grey with a white full-body tattoo of a skeleton that started as a half skull on his face before going all down his neck, fingers, chest, legs and toes (yes, he went full-body with it), white hair that kept going into his eyes that were a shade of blue that unsettled them the most. They swore that the minute that the farmer looked at them, they could feel their souls being forced out of them and only when he turned away did it stop. He paid no mind to them, preferring the company of a lovely old lady named Hettie, who always made jam out of the berries he'd give her on his trips. She also would give a lot of casseroles and the likes, insisting that he needed 'more meat on those bones of yours boy, you are about to be a real corpse!'. An amused smile tugged at his lips as he thought about her, she truly was a lovely woman "I should visit her more often..What do you think, Mathilda?" He asked the sheep, who was walking past him. She only gave a bleat in response as she went on her merry way, getting a chuckle out of the farmer as he grabbed a stool and went over to the barn were his special someone resided in "Sugar plum!" He called out "It's time for yo-" He didn't have the time to finish his sentence until he was tackled to the ground by his cow, who soon covered his neck with kisses

"Hello, Hob" The white haired male said fondly as he ran his fingers through the cow's soft brown hair, kissing his floppy ears a bit before smiling at the sight of those gorgeous brown eyes peering at him "Missed you" Hob whined, rubbing his face in the crook of his beloved's neck. He took a deep inhale, he loved the way his love smelled : lavender and sunlight, he smiled more as he felt the cold lips of the farmer press a kiss between his horns "I know Hob, I know..I am sorry that I didn't came sooner" He muttered as he continued to press gentle kisses until the cow got off of him and sat down on his own stool, face flushed as he waited for the milking to begin. His chest felt so full and heavy, it was getting uncomfortable but he refused to do it himself. Hobo Heart soon sat down in front of Hob, his hand gently touching the bovine hybrid's chest, earning a stifled whimper out of the latter "I'm here, I'm here" He soothed as he began to milk the cow's chest, pressing and rubbing while balancing a bucket on his thighs, muttering sweet words as he looked at his sweet cow's flushed face. After it was done, Hob brought Hobo Heart in a passionate kiss, holding the farmer very close to him as if he was afraid that he'd turn into dust if he didn't. "I wonder if we will get an applicant for the job soon" The white haired farmer's comment brought a frown to the cow's face, prompting him to nibble at his neck "Do we really need a farm hand? Can't we just ask Mervyn to help out?" He whined, despite already knowing why it wasn't possible : the gardener's back wasn't doing so well lately and he knew how much his lover would blame himself if something happened so he went on "What about Johanna?" The suggestion brought a laugh out of Hobo Heart, a sound that the brown haired beauty fell in love with the day that he first heard it "She had a croaky voice for a week after challenging Ricardo to a death metal match, she won't take care of the farm even if we paid her a lot of money. Besides", he pressed a kiss on Hob's stubbly chin,"We need all the help we can get" He ran his hands through the cow's chest hair, earning a blush from him as he finally agreed. The farmer pressed another kiss to his forehead before heading off to the wheat field to see the ravens that frequently visited that spot.

Meanwhile Dream was getting settled in his new place in the country side, the place was small and cozy, it was just what he needed. The only thing that he needed now was to ask question's about the location mentioned in the job advert he saw in the newspaper, it caught his eye immediately due to how he was looking for a job to sustain himself in his new life. So he began to ask the locals but to no avail : no one wanted to give him directions to the location of the farm. Just as he was about to get annoyed at someone that kept asking him to reconsider, a small old lady walked up to him "So you are looking for The White Horse farm, heh? Go down the dirt path to your right, turn left and you will see it, boy" She then leaned in "Don't believe all the nonsense that they say, boy. They're all a bunch of ninnies". He thanked her and soon went down the direction that she pointed to, he soon arrived at the location :the farm was quite charming in it's simplicity and seemed well maintained, the animals were quite happy and well fed. He took in his surroundings before walking around in the hopes of finding the farmer so far it seemed like he wasn't there. The dark haired male frowned as he stopped in the wheat field, staring at what seemed to be a scarecrow with ravens perched on it's shoulders. Just as he was about to take a closer look, the 'scarecrow' lifted up it's head to look at him "Can I help you with anything?" The not scarecrow asked, startling Dream as he stared at the half-skull tattoo on the male's face. He took a bit to calm down before answering "Yes, I was looking for the farmer. It's about the farm hand job, I would like to apply for it"

The farmer tilted his head to the side as the ravens flew away "I am the farmer. My name is Hobo Heart, pleased to meet you" He extended his hand for a shake, which Dream did but to his surprise the hand felt cold and bony. After the introductions were made, the farmer took the city boy on a tour around the farm, explaining each of his tasks as they went along. "This is Gertrude, the nicest chicken of the bunch" He pointed at a brown chicken, clucking near the coop. He then introduced him to the sheep, pointed out the one named Mathilda before moving on to the rooster named Ricardo "I put death metal music for him a lot, it calms him down and makes him quite happy" Dream nodded, giving up on trying to decipher anything over the guttural screaming of the lyrics "Are there any cows?" He asked after a moment as they stopped walking. Hobo Heart looked at him "We do have one" He then turned around and called out as loud as he could "Sugar cube!". Not long after, the clattering of a bell could be heard as the farmer was suddenly knocked off his feet, a rather odd laugh leaving his lips as he was kissed all over by the cow. "Hob, please!" Hobo Heart laughed in protest, lifting up the cow's head. Dream's heart fluttered at the sight of the bovine hybrid : beautiful brown eyes, soft looking hair that matched the eyes, tanned skin, the cutest floppy ears and two small white horns peeking out of his hair. The cow's smile is what doomed him, it was so soft and gentle "You must be the new farm hand, I'm Hob! "I'll be helping you from time to time" That voice turned the city boy's knees into jelly as he sputtered a reply "I am Dream Endless, it will be an honor to have you help me"

The cow smiled even more, his tail swishing happily as he got off the farmer before getting close to him "That's a beautiful name, it suits you" He said as he leaned into Dream's hand, mooing in joy as the male petted him between the horns, his hair was very soft. The pretty goth looked at him with a smile before turning his attention to the farmer, to his surprise he was also smiling. It was a smile that lit up his features, making him look less fearsome than how he first saw him "You can take the time to relax in the meantime, you'll start tomorrow" Hobo Heart explained to him before walking off, leaving the pair to enjoy eachother's company. For the first time in his life, Dream felt safe and happy, feeling right at home in this farm

#fields of dandelions au #farm hand! dream #cow hob gadling #farmer! hobo heart #farm hand! dream x cow!hob x farmer! hobo heart #dream of the endless #hob gadling #the sandman #dreamling #the sandman fanfiction #spooky throuple #cow!hob #cw lactation #cw hybrids #cw male lactation #hobo heart

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meadowofdarts · 5 months

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[𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐄] 𝐒𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐎𝐟 𝐆𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐤 | 𝐎𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐔𝐩𝐨𝐧 𝐀 𝐕𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐒𝟏

OUAV masterlist part one, part two, part three

[Cinderella AU][Albedo x Reader]

PAST MEMORY 1 - A DAY LIKE ANY OTHER

A little child was giggling as they ran around in shapes around the gorgeous green and white field, touching the flowers with their hands outstretched to feel them as they ran around. The gentle wind breezes through the trees and grass, making them slightly dance for a moment before staying still in the light meadow.

The beautiful field consisted of yarrows, daisies, white poppies, and dandelions. Along with the sunlight being not too soft and not too bright, just a perfect amount of light makes this beautiful grassland with only the colors of white and light green that just makes it perfect. The said child plopped themselves onto the soft grass, looking up at the smooth, neutral sky. Luckily, the sun wasn’t up there to blind their own eyes.

“[Name]! Where are you?” The voice of a man shouted through the field, big footsteps coming through the grass.

The said child, [Name], sat up as they yelled back. “Here, father!”

The said father, a male adult figure entered the scene, his appearance consisting of similar traits to the child. [Name] grinned as they got up and ran to hug his legs the adult smiled as he kneeled to their height to give them a proper hug. (I really can’t describe the parents in this since everyone has their appearance so pls imagine how they want to look lol)

The two stayed like that before [Name]’s father, [Father Name], pulled away and gave them a small grin. “Now, little one, what are you doing in the field… without me?”

“Well, I was waiting for you but you took too long!” [Name] pouted.

[Father Name] raises an eyebrow with amusement. “Doesn’t excuse you from running away.”

“I wasn’t! I was extremely bored! I couldn’t wait!” They stuck their tongues out. “You are too slow~! Ne-ne-ne-ne-ne!” The child said through giggles before running around more on the fields at a high speed

“Hey, get back here, you little munchkin!” He laughed as tried to catch up with his child.

The father chases his kid, both of them running in circles and around the poppy white field. Their heavy running sways the grass to dance along with the flowers moving their petals all around.

This continued for a while before [Father Name] managed to grab hold of his kid, wrapping his arms around their waist, stopping them which made the two of them laugh wholeheartedly. They enjoyed this moment as they both lay down on the grass, still laughing as they both caught their breaths from running so much.

[Name] smiled as they looked up at the clouds again, spotting various shapes and animals on the shape of the clouds which made their eyes sparkle with excitement until their father’s voice shouted across the field.

“Come on, [Name]! Your mother wants to see you!” “Coming!”

[Name] got up as they dashed toward the male adult figure, who had similar features to them, who was standing and waiting for them. The father smiled as the little child grasped his hand. They both began to walk hand-in-hand back to where they came from.

[Name] yelped when they felt their father take hold of their tiny waist, picking their whole figure entirely, which made the kid laugh in surprise. The man put the child behind them in a piggyback carry, intending to carry them for the rest of the walk. They smiled as they looked back at the gorgeous field behind them, and the beautiful view slowly faded away from their vision when they started to be far away.

[Name] eyes brightened when two birds were flailing in the sky as they looked down at them with their wonder eyes as they persisted in flying past them. To mimic them, the child spread their arms behind their father’s back. The man notices this, letting out a small smile as he watches his beloved child having fun with nature.

...

A woman was coughing softly into the palm of her hand whilst leaning against her pillow. Despite having many covers and blankets on her, she still felt sick as her coughs echoed in the room that she was alone in the peaceful birch-wooden bedroom. [Mother Name]’s head was still aching as ever like the past few days, and her mood had also worsened.

But when she heard a familiar voice call out from the entrance of her home, her mood brightened slowly. “Honey, we’re home!”

She smiles weakly as she hears the sound of her two favorite people in the world. The sound of footsteps grew closer before the door burst open. [Name] smiled brightly as they quickly went over to their mother. “Mommy!” The child gently wraps their waist, but still gently tries to keep their distance away. She smiled, stroking her kid’s hair as she gave a kiss back to her husband.

“How are you feeling, dear?” [Father Name] said, smiling.

“Alright, just need more rest…” She responded.

“Here, mommy.” The child brightly smiled as they pulled out a small flower. A simple white poppy from the white flower field earlier.

Even though it was simple, the sight of her kid gifting a small flower was cute and absolutely melted her heart. [Mother Name] smiles as she takes the flower from their small hands and kisses their forehead. “Oh, sweetie, it’s wonderful. Thank you…”

[Name] frowned. “Mommy, I hope you get better soon. I miss playing with you and Dad in the fields.”

The woman’s smile dropped, she looked at her child with a sad expression. “Oh, sweetheart, I feel the same way. Don’t worry, I promise… I’ll be better soon. It just takes time.” [Father Name] nodded, before kneeling beside them with a smirk. “Besides, you still have your best dad in the world.”

“What Dad?”

The woman laughed as she watched her child and husband start to bicker like always.

...

Somewhere Far Away…

A small pale blonde-haired boy looked out of the fancy curved glass window, his bright teal eyes focused on the bright blue birds that were fluttering their tiny feathery wings around the exquisite tower wall nearby. The kid was fascinated by such creatures and the earth itself as he never got the chance to go out of the grand palace.

He watches in surprise as the tiny flying creatures go over near his window, sitting as they chirp on his window sill. He couldn’t touch them as the glass was locked and he didn't want to open the window either to scare them away. His very teal eyes kept locked on the small blue ones. The child noticed that their little wings had an accent of bright yellow in the end.

The coloring reminded him of something similar in his body. His tiny fingers lingered on the golden diamond marking on his neck.

He suddenly flinched, grabbing the window tightly as he turned around when the grand door behind him knocked loudly. His sudden movement in the window caused the little birds to flutter away.

“Your majesty. Queen Alice requests you in the dining room.” A soft voice said outside of the room.

The child expressed a neutral face. “Tell her I’ll be right there.” As soon as he said that, the footsteps then began to fade away.

The young boy looked outside one more time, seeing the bluebirds flying away before leaving the room himself.

...

PRESENT - A DAY LIKE ANY OTHER

The dark blue sky was turning lighter, the grim indigo slowly fading into a bright orange color of the sky as a glowing star came onto the horizon that would soon later turn the whole sky to morning. As it was a golden sight, a flock of birds exclaimed chirping as their wings flew across the air space.

The sunlight shines through many windows in the world that were open or uncovered. That amongst the glass panes was through the bedroom of a person, sleeping in their [Favorite Color] bed.

[Name] was sleeping peacefully in their bed, cuddling with their [Favorite Stuffed Toy]. Despite the white mattress, their blankets and sheets were a color of cozy and fluffy [Favorite Color] making the bed as a whole a lot more special to the sleeper.

Whatever was going on in their head, they smiled whilst still sleeping to show that they were having a good dream.

A few moments later, as the sky gradually turned to its blue hue, a pair of bluebirds flew over to their windowsill, the window just beside the bed, chirping loudly through the glass.

…

Your [Eye Color] fluttered open from hearing loud chirps heavily muffled by the glass that woke you from your good dream. Sitting up, you let out a series of yawns while rubbing your eyes to clear your vision.

You put your [Favorite Stuffed Toy] aside as you kneeled in front to open the window. The cold breeze filled your room, but you didn’t care and just simply put your blanket over your shoulders to cover yourself. You lay your hand out, and as one of the birds leaped into your palm the other bird stayed aside, chirping as it looked at both of you.

You pat its feathery and fluffy head, seeing the bird nuzzle to your warmth. For the longest period in your life, these birds that you once mimicked as a kid and that you thought would never see again have brought themselves regularly in your life. From that day when your mother was sick, the birds always go to your windowsill, chirping cutely through the glass pane. Besides your father, these birds have brightened your day many times, despite them being just small creatures.

You pull out a small bag of seeds. They were vegetable seeds that you’ve always kept in your room, in case you ran out of seeds in the shed to plant in the garden. You’ve released the seeds from the bag in your hands, realizing you only had the last of it. You hoped you didn’t run out of them when you checked the shed today.

You shrugged as you put the seeds in front of the two birds. They fluttered their wings happily as they bent down and took the seeds with their pointy beaks.

As they did so, you immediately got out of your sleepwear to put on your regular clothes for the day. You went over to your bedside table, pulling out the list that was put in here last night for you to do today. You sighed tiredly, seeing about numerous tasks that are around twenty-five or more.

You see that the birds had just finished eating their seeds and now flying out from the window. You went over to close it before leaving your room to start the day.

...

You rolled your eyes as you could hear the sounds of multiple footsteps coming downstairs along with giggling. A woman with two other young ladies stepped down with them trimming and playing with the hem of their outfits.

The older lady turned to you with a grin that displayed amusement, but you knew underneath was a sign of pure wickedness. “Why, good morning, [Name].” Your stepmother said. Her hands were curling a piece of her ginger hair

“Good morning, madam.” You nodded at her with a small smile. It seemed she bought it and didn’t consider it as fake as she poured herself a cup of tea.

Lady Avis, your stepmother. Despite her being your guardian, you don’t really consider her a mother figure. It didn’t have anything to do with the fact that she wasn’t actually related to you, but it’s all because she treats you horribly. You even thought it was because you weren’t related to her. by blood. After all, she certainly treats her real daughters better.

Your stepsisters: Leni and Gisela were just like her. They sometimes do ignore your existence but whenever you bump into them, they use their chances to pick on you every time. You didn’t know but didn’t care why they disliked you.

All you needed to know was that you also didn’t like them either.

You brought a plate of pancakes to each of your stepsisters, they giggled as they began to eat. They didn’t even thank you, but whatever.

“...[Name], pass me the syrup,” Leni called out, already gesturing for it with her hand, expecting it.

You put the entire bottle in her hand as you knew that she would ask you the moment she sat down. Immediately, you pulled out the butter as another voice chimed in.

“[Name]! Where’s the butter!?” Gisela said, dramatically before you came over, putting the butter near her plate.

Before your stepmother could open her mouth, you already put the teapot filled with warm milk along with lemons on her plate. Without saying anything, she gives you a surprised smile before resuming her meal.

You’ve lived as their maid long enough to know exactly what they demand of you now. But they still never failed to make you angry inside.

Before you could walk out of the room, Lady Avis turned to you. “Ah, dear. Here is the list of tasks we need you to do today.” She handed you a relatively long scroll. Another scroll, seriously? Apparently, the one in your room wasn't enough.

You sighed as you took it silently, she gave you an amused smirk before focusing her attention on her other daughters.

You silently glared at her, grabbing your broom nearby before walking out of the room.

You entered the cottage’s living room, seeing the obvious bits of dust here and there along with a bunch of your stepsister’s stuff all over the room. It was obvious they did it to give more work for you.

It’s just like any other day, basically chores, eat, and repeat for you. That’s how it has been for you ever since you were under the care of your stepfamily. It wasn’t pleasant at all, but… you really had no other choice since mother and father were gone.

You sighed, as you already were sweeping the floors.

You aimlessly wandered around the room, while your arms moved the broom, the bristles swaying around to clean up the dirty dust. Once the head is filthy enough, you put the broom in a water bucket you’ve always used to clean the grime off of the head for a bit before you resume sweeping the room. And this was only the first task of the day.

...

Somewhere in a tall tower of a palace, an adorable little girl with light pale blonde hair and the softest red eyes as she scribbles and doodles in her notebook. She had a bright smile on her face, her hand holding her red crayon that was coloring inside of the very thick lines.

After coloring a big heart in the notebook, she beamed as she finally finished her drawing of her wonderful family and a big red heart in the middle to symbolize just how much they all love each other.

The little girl smiled as she got up and quickly went over to another person in the room. Tugging her brother’s clean white sleeve, she exclaimed. “Bedo, look what I made!”

The said male looked down at her notebook, his teal eyes softened at the sight of the adorable drawing of his little sister, himself, and their mother holding hands. The background all colorful in his and her favorite colors added such a nice touch to it along with the giant heart on top of them.

“Klee, this is beautiful,” Albedo said down at her, patting her pale blonde hair.

Klee giggled. “Thank you, Bedo! Do you think Mommy will like it?”

“I’m sure she will love it.” He smiled in response. Albedo kneeled to her height, dusting her flowy red dress, his fingers also fixing the little stuffed toy in her skirt. “Be careful with your dress, Klee. Alice wouldn’t want you to ruin it.”

“Don’t worry, brother! I’m being extra careful.” Klee beamed with a bright smile.

As if on cue, a woman with similar exquisite features to the little girl enters the royal room. Her gorgeous long dress added simplicity and youthfulness to her character but her whole smile was filled with amusement and playfulness.

She beamed, smiling. “Good morning, children.”

“Mommy!” Klee beamed, running up to hug her. The woman hugged her back, giggling in response.

“Good morning, Alice.” Albedo smiled, bowing.

“Hi, Albedo.” Alice greeted back. “And no need to bow, dear. You are family to us, y’know? Ah, but that’s just how polite you are.”

“I know, Alice. But thank you.” He said in reply.

“Mommy, what do you think about my drawing?” Klee showed her notebook to her.

Alice gasped in awe, taking a good look at it. “Oh my! Klee, this is wonderful!” She smiled brightly, pinching her cheeks and the little girl giggled. “This is pure art! I think this would go wonderful in the gallery.”

“Mommy? You think so?” Klee beamed.

“Oh, I know so.” The woman gives her daughter a smile before standing up. “Anyways, children… I have an announcement for both of you.”

Albedo and Klee looked at her, curiously as Alice continued. “As per the tradition of Hexenmpire, we will be hosting a royal ball in the next few days in honor of the kingdom being its 290th birthday and the Hexenzirkel’s anniversary!”

Immediately, Klee was jumping up and down, cheering. “Yay! Another royal ball!”

“That’s wonderful, Alice.” Albedo smiled.

Alice turned to the pale blonde-haired male. “Albedo, I have invited other nations across and around Hexenmpire, and I think you would get along with the other kingdom’s princes, maybe you might even find talented artists and alchemists such as yourself.”

“Well, I’ll see for myself, Alice.” He nodded. “I would want to see and discuss with Zhenyu again.”

“I hope I’ll get to see Yoimiya again!” Klee beamed.

Alice giggled. “Well, I’m glad you two are excited like I am. I’ll be having a reunion tea party with the others.”

The prince smiled before his eyes glanced at the hanging royal pendulum clock, realizing the time. “Ah, excuse me. I have to go now.”

The little red girl looked up to her big brother. “Where are you going, Albedo?”

Alice responded to him. “Don’t worry, Klee. Albedo will just be out of the castle for a scenery change. I assume you’ll be painting something once again, dear?”

Albedo smiled, nodding. “Indeed. I plan to paint the village this time, but I’ll paint whatever I come across that is interesting. I could also hope to have discoveries to study.”

“Can I come with you, Bedo?” Klee asked.

“Sorry, you can’t dear. Albedo managed to finish his duties for today and you still have your duties to attend to. Maybe next time when you finish.” Alice reassured her daughter.

She pouted but nodded. “Okay.”

Her brother kneeled to her height, patting her hair. “Don’t worry, Klee. I’ll get you some fried fish for you. I know how much you love the grilled ones from the markets.”

She beamed, exclaiming happily. “Yay! Thank you, Bedo!” Klee hugs him and he hugs back.

...

Later On…

You walked out and entered the garden of the cottage. After sweeping the floors, washing endless dishes, and washing them by hand, your next assignment was to tend to the plants and flowers.

You walked over to one of the garden’s planter boxes that consisted of beautiful roses. Noticing how some of them looked unwell, you quickly grabbed the watering can nearby and poured water above all of the roses and you fixed some of their leaves.

You put on some gloves, get the garden’s bug spray, and spray the bushes to repel any bugs in the plants. Whilst spraying, you noticed an empty planter box. You remembered that you were also meant to plant some new vegetables today.

After watering the roses, you went over to the garden shed to get vegetable seeds to plant. You went over to the shelf, checking the bags of seeds but realized that there were no more vegetable seeds.

You looked confused, you were so sure that there was some in here last night. But when you heard giggling in the garden, you realized what had happened.

You went out to see Leni and Gisela through the window of your house, they were holding the missing vegetable seeds before scrambling away to hide them from you.

You glared and sighed. And to make it worse, you had already finished the extra vegetable seed this morning to feed the birds.

You frowned even more when Lady Avis stepped out to the garden with a strict tone. “[Name], dear, what are you doing standing there?” She glances at the planter boxes. “I see you’ve already watered the roses, but by now you should be planting the vegetables.”

You spoke up. “I apologize, madam. But there are no more vegetable seeds in the shed.”

She hummed in response. “Well, that seems to be a big problem, right?” You immediately felt uncomfortable when she started to circle you. “And what do you suppose you should do, [Name]?”

“Uh… I don’t know.” You said.

“Foolish person.” She spat. “Think harder through that non-existent brain of yours.”

You gulped. “...Well, I could buy myself fresh vegetables from the market?”

Avis nodded with a soft smile. “Very good.” Her smile dropped as she began walking back inside the house. “Now, go on, rat, before I lose my patience.”

As she enters inside once again, you give her an annoyed look without her noticing.

…

Stepping out of the cottage, you did feel relieved being out of that house, even if it was just for an errand. You’d take five minutes of peacefulness without your stepfamily any day.

The gentle wind breeze right through you as you walk down the hill from where your cottage was, stepping down the stairs of the cobblestone path. Brushing past the lilies and daisies in the grass, you walked over to the direction of the main town.

You noticed the familiar houses and fields, you smiled as you entered the entirety of the village. Immediately, you can see just how lively and crowded the place is. Many children running around playing, various shops exchanging trades, farmers planting their fields, etc. It reminded you how much your family enjoyed going outdoors and visiting the village.

Walking over to the nearby market, you smile up to the familiar worker. “Hi, Brook!”

The said girl with brown hair and an orange and white dress smiled up. “[Name]! Glad to see you again!”

“You too, Brook, I see business for you has been going great?” You responded.

“Definitely. I hope all is well for you and your stepfamily.” She said back.

You nodded. “I can manage.”

“Anyways, what can I do for you?” Brook smiled.

“I was hoping to buy vegetables from you.” You said, walking over to her basket display.

Brook was already preparing a wooden basket. “Sure, which and how many would you like?”

You pointed at the cabbages, cucumbers, onions, and potatoes. “I’ll have five of each.” You watch as Brook puts five of each of the vegetables you requested in the wooden basket.

“That’ll be twenty-five coins, [Name].” She said to you as you immediately get her the amount. “Thank you.”

You smile at her. “Thank you, Brook. Have a nice day.”

“You too!” You waved her goodbye as you walked away.

Instead of walking back home, you decided to walk further into the town. This was one of the very few chances where you could escape from your cruel household and knowing you might get a scolding later for staying out too late, you wanted to at least take advantage of this.

Humming a tune, you decided to sit down on an empty stone bench to take a deep breath. You closed your eyes as you relaxed peacefully on the bench and it brought a big smile to your face by hearing the lively atmosphere around you. A soft breeze brushes past you as you look around at your surroundings seeing beautiful flower beds in the grass and the cottages and shops, etc.

You recognize that familiar chirp. You look next to you and smile, seeing the familiar two bluebirds next to you. You’ve known them since you were a child to know exactly that they are the same birds and how much they are attached to you.

You open your hand for one of them to jump on. The blue bird wearing a little pink bow ribbon in their feathery head popped onto your hand. But suddenly, you see that the other blue bird with a green ribbon flew away. Surprised, the one in your hand flew to follow it.

Confused, you watch as they fly to a nearby strawberry and cherry tree, they are just sitting by themselves in one of the branches. You got up, walking over to the trees curiously.

The two bluebirds looked down at you, jumping and chirping happily as the one with the green ribbon this time flew to your open hand this time. You look up, seeing the one with the pink ribbon still in the branch and looking at you with its eyes.

You were about to focus your attention on the other when you noticed someone standing nearby with noticeable clean white clothing. You raise an eyebrow as the other bluebird flies past you once again to the direction you were looking at past the tree.

Confused, you followed the bird but stopped once you saw a male with bright teal eyes and his unique pale blonde hairstyle. He seemed a bit fascinated by the blue bird that was on his easel.

You had never seen this person before, he was a total stranger yet his appearance appeared noble based on his outfit and demeanour. He wasn’t a villager or commoner.

You only took one more step and that was enough to get his attention as he looked up in shock to finally notice you. Your [eye-colored] eyes meet his gorgeous teal eyes, and the two of you just stare at each other with curious, surprised, and confused glances.

...

authors note: phew! finally finished the first part on the first ever fairytale. second part is already in progress and I'm really excited to hear any of your guys thoughts, criticism, or questions. I'd be more than happy to hear what you have to say

hope to see you guys in the second part! :)

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