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The King of Qarth II

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Qartheen f!reader (use of third perspective)

PART 1 | SERIES MASTERLIST | MASTERLIST

Warnings: mentions of child sexual abuse, mentions of child bride, p in v, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, grinding, handjob, knife kink if you squint, self indulgent use of sorcery

Word count: 11k

Author's note: Aemond and the Salt Queen gets to know each other and do some good ol' bonding on shared trauma(s).

English is not my first language.

Taglist: @zae5 @arcielee @multyfangirl @zaldritzosrose @succnfuccubus @kckt88 @venmondiese @mariahossain @miraclealignertlsp369 @ilikechocolatemilkh @credulouskhaleesi @bunbunbl0gs @alphard-hydraes-blog @gemini-mama @freyaniobe @toodlesxcuddles @youngestxhearts @helen06dreamer

“Don’t run from me, kori” he screamed as she ran into the night “Please! Come here!”

He tried to chase her but her feet were faster, barely touching the ground as the nine-year-old girl ran away from the Palace of Dust.

She felt she could run forever, that she could not stop, not until she had forgotten what she had seen. What were those invocations? Why was that woman naked and screaming? Why was her father slaughtering animals on a stone altar and drinking their blood?

“Knowledge comes with a great cost.” was all Fydor repeated when the jarring rumors about what was being done in the House of the Undying reached her young ears and her mother, when the Shadow of the Evening had already stained her father's lips and fingernails blue for good.

“What does it mean, Father? What knowledge?”

“Any kind of knowledge, kori. Everything that was, that is. Everything that could be.”

But she did not want to know. Knowing had cost her her mother. She just wanted to run, but the black-barked trees with blue leaves seemed to envelop her like shadows in flesh, a labyrinth changing its thousand deceiving paths with every step she took.

For a moment she turned, her father was running after her but he was far. Until he wasn't.

She went crashing into him as the other Fydor continued to run behind her. He had done this before, all the Warlocks of Qarth did, appearing in several places at once.

White as a sheet, she watched her father lower himself toward her in that strange embroidered tunic like one who performs a ritual. Even in the darkness of that labyrinthine wood, the blue stood out on his lips and in the sclerae of his eyes.

“You don’t have to be afraid...but why? Why did you come here?”

“I heard the screams.” the little girl said with her lower lip trembling “When is Mother coming back?”

“She won’t, kori. It’s only you and me now.”

It was the first and only time she set foot in the Palace of Dust. Visits to her father were rare, although he longed to see her. Sometimes she could swear she could hear him talking in her head, telling her that the shadows protected her, that he protected her through them. Other times she would give in and invite him to the Palace of Salt, almost glad to see him but not quite.

There were always two opposite grooves in her lips when she looked at him. He was the man who avenged her and lost his tongue for it; he was the man who drove her mother to flee, abandoning their daughter.

She felt like that right now as she walked away, as she ran away from him, just like when she was nine. She could hear him echoing in her eardrums, as she left the courtyard with Prince Aemond, with the voice of the past, as if he had regrown his tongue.

“What did he say?”

“Trees wail…leaves are bleeding…” she hears, not the Prince speaking.

Aemond pulls her arm and feels her tensing at his touch, blinking at him as if she wasn’t there up until now. “What?”

“Your father. What did he say before we left?”

"Nothing of your concern.” She says lightly and resumes her walk. He stands still for a moment, sure, as he is sure of the noble blood in his veins, that whatever the warlock said through his hands, did concern him.

Unfortunately, he’s forced to set that thought aside as they leave the Palace; Aemond halts his stride, narrowing his eye at the strange wheelhouse waiting before him. A wheelhouse without wheels, and not even a carriage; more like a bed waiting to be moved, with veils and curtains on each of the four sides. A palanquin, he recalls the word from some book he read. This is how aristocracy moved in the East.

He turns his head as air shifts behind him, and a moment later he’s almost growling at one of the Sorrowful Men, bold enough to lay hands on him. “What do you think you’re doing?”

The Salt Queen rolls her eyes and walks to him. “Leave it. I’ll deal with the Prince. He’s already accustomed to having my hands on him, am I right?” she says with a tight, luscious smile, and oddly enough, but perhaps not so much, he doesn’t flinch as she starts to search his blue silks for any weapon.

Her hand slips beneath the soft fabric, gliding on his bare skin, chest and ribs, and she stares at him deliberately, just like him. “Perhaps your Highness just couldn’t wait to get her hands on me again.” he retorts with the ghost of an obnoxious grin.

She says nothing, staring at him as she searches his waist and then through the blue folds underneath. “Ah.” she tuts at one point, slowly drawing his faithful dagger. “And here I thought you were just pleased to see me. You won’t need this.” she says, keeping the blade. “Unlike you, I don’t bite. Unless asked of course.”

He hears the stretch on the word asked and nods slowly, plastering a fake, chastened frown. “I see. My deepest apologies. I didn’t think I had to ask since you have been throwing yourself at me at every corner. Speaking of which, your husband seemed quite proud of your performance earlier at breakfast. Will you be rewarded for your noble services?”

She only blinks at his vitriolic remark, but there is not a trace of outrage on her face. “Someone might say it is not wise to insult someone, especially a woman, when she is armed.”

“Why, do you know how to use that?” he asks, lowering his gaze and tilting his chin to point at the blade.

“No, but how difficult could it be considering how little it takes me to get you to let your guard down? Just like any man, I might add.”

He has no time to bite back, annoyingly moving his jaw at being deemed an ordinary man who crumples at a woman’s touch, while she turns her back and moves the curtains aside to enter the palanquin.

Aemond follows and finds himself cursing internally as he tries to adjust inside that odd, restricted transport. He wouldn’t even call it that. It’s nothing but a mattress with soft cushions on it.

Were Qartheens accustomed to doing everything lying on those damn cushions?

He might just sit, but he is too tall, and the canopy of the litter is too low, greeting his head with a slight bump. The Queen stifles a smile, already settled on the cushions with her legs tucked under her, and she watches him sigh deeply, resigning himself with clear annoyance to lie down on the cushions, holding onto one elbow.

Aemond tries to look at ease, not bothered by the woman and how much she's close to him, as close as if they were to confide a secret to each other, and just as he thinks he has settled down, the Sorrowful Men are lifting the litter, and he is jolted forward, slightly on top of her.

She lifts her arm to hold him by the shoulder, and in that split second, Aemond ties his hand around her arm to keep his weight off her. She tenses, just as before, just as she did the night before in his room. To her misfortune, she is now the one who suffers from too much proximity, or rather, a total lack of space. She feels the long single braid dangling on her, tickling her chest. She can see the specks of blue in his iris, the small cleft on the tip of his nose, the way that vicious mouth flaunts a perfect shape.

If only she could actually read minds, she would know that that last thought mirrors in his head.

He shouldn't care, he shouldn't even linger on that thought. This woman has done nothing but trample on his pride, has done nothing but mocking and taunting, and she seems quite adamant on keeping doing so. But perhaps it's because her mouth is close now, and for once silent, slightly open; an offering hiding a thousand more. And he had not taken it. In the throes of rage and pleasure, he had not kissed her. And he wishes. He wishes to know. Would she taste sweet? Tart?

Would she taste like salt?

The thought slips to the back of his mind as she clears her throat and straightens up, forcing him to distance himself, although they are still uncomfortably close. With one hand she knocks twice against the canopy, and the Sorrowful Men start walking.

Aemond leans better on his elbow to curb the swaying of the litter, and sighs glancing at the woman beside him. “Never heard of horses in this part of the world?”

“Horses barely survive in the desert, ask any Dothraki. Besides, what you Westerners do with those poor beasts is barbaric.”

His eyebrow is raising, ready to rebut, but as he opens his mouth, she offers him a small plate full of dates and dried figs. He moves his hand to dismiss it, causing her to frown. “Do you ever eat?” she takes one fig between her fingers and bites. “You should try one. Perhaps it’d make you less…bitter all the time.”

He glares at her but in doing so, he stumbles upon her mouth and the saccharine juice pasting her lips. She reads this as if he is reconsidering, so she stretches the half-bitten fig, and given their closeness, it takes her little to bring it to his mouth.

Aemond tilts his head back to decline and sighs. "Do you always think about eating here?"

"God no, we have much more pleasant pastimes." she says, chewing the other half of the fruit. "Would you like to hear about some of them?"

Aemond is not looking at the woman, and yet he can feel her luscious smile like something vivid, prickling his skin. "I can imagine."

"Can you? It doesn't seem so."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, perhaps our intimate encounter misleads me, but...you seem that kind of man who fucks his wife only on all fours, to feel in power and all those manly excuses."

"I am not." he hisses.

"Really?” She tilts her head curiously and looks at him closely. “Ever let her be on top? Ever been tied up? Blindfolded?"

He looks away at that, scoffing. "So, it's either eat or fuck."

Aegon would have thrived here, he thinks dimly.

"Fine. What should we talk about then?"

"Why do we have to?"

"The war? I, for instance, think it's only your father's fault. He wanted a son, right? And he had three. People unfit to take a decision should not be allowed to rule, if you ask me. On the other hand, though, what your mother did upon his death—"

"Keep my mother out of your mouth."

She hears the threat in the hissing way the words come out of his mouth, so she hushes, and turns her head toward the bustle of the city blurred by the veils and curtains of the litter. “Silence it is.”

And silently, he thanks the Gods for a moment of peace, free of this constant enquiring and teasing. That same silence though, only makes him think of Alicent. Is she still in chains? Is she wondering about him day and night or did she choose to banish him from her mind as he banished her?

Perhaps now that he is in a rather civil city, he could send word to her? Let her know he’s alive and that he was…what was he doing here?  

But even if he did know, he could not trust any of these people.

“What is exactly your husband’s plan now?”

“What do you think? You promised them dragon eggs. They won’t let you go until they have their little lizards to play with.”

Aemond scoffs, glancing distractedly beyond the curtains “Do you think you can fool me? Speaking of them as if you are not into it as well.”

“I am not. We may have different customs, but even here women are pawns in the hands of men. Men choose what we shall do, who we shall marry…how they shall fuck us.” He drags his eye back on her at this, watching her as she adds “But I have no interest in keeping you here, or having a creature spitting fire as a pet. I prefer cats, if you must know, or snakes.”

“I see. So, you just follow his orders? He tells you to fuck whoever is housed under your roof, and you obey?”

“I fuck who I wish to. And if you don’t want to taste how sharp your dagger is, you might want to stop addressing me as a whore.”

“Who you wish?”

“Yes.” She catches a glimpse of his eyebrow raising in a rather boastful way and looks away, huffing. “Quit it, dragon prince. You might be handsome, but it wasn’t that special.”

“Why? It was hard to tell in the midst of all that begging.”

“Because I don’t like to feel like I’m ten again.”

The smug expression on Aemond's face disappears as quickly as the Salt Queen speaks those words, wrinkling his forehead as he grasps their meaning. But she looks at him with a passive face, and she speaks of this person, herself, and yet another, with the distant tone with which one speaks of the dead.

“I was raped when I was ten. Bent over my small table while I was painting seashells.”

Aemond looks genuinely startled, and why wouldn’t he? He is not sure he can trust this woman’s word, but something in the back of his mind, namely the way she was tensing like steel as he took her from behind, tells him she’s speaking the truth. After all, it seems her tongue is made of nothing else.

“Don’t look at me like that.” she says “I’m not telling you to make you say you’re sorry. Everyone knows. There is no such thing as secrets here. It helps the trades, makes for more honest negotiations.”

The litter stalls as Aemond barely registers they must have reached the walls, but he doesn’t move, staring at the woman, cautiously, enquiringly, as something unfolding right before him.

“And what are we trading?”

She was starting to move to get out of the palanquin, but she halts at his question, raking his half-lying figure with her eyes, the long slender hands laced together on his abdomen, the little smooth portion of chest peeking from the blue silks. “It depends on what you are offering…”

They share a long earnest look, unwavering on both parts, until the curtains are moved. “Your Highness, we have reached the walls.”

The woman blinks and takes a light breath. “Let’s go, shall we? Before your lizard starts chewing the walls.”

She barely moves and he’s seizing her wrist, drawing her eyes back on him instantly. The Queen witnesses something new curling his features, cracking his mouth open and then shutting it back—a reluctance, almost a regret that does not settle well on that ever-so-strict face; it seems unwanted, rejected, and yet it keeps coming back, twitching his mouth twice. “Had I known…I would’ve behaved differently.” He says staring down, whereas she stares right down at him, at the grimace twisting his lips, as if tasting salt. “I know how it is…to feel—”

“Powerless?”

In more ways than one.

He doesn’t utter the words, but the way his eye pierces through her is nothing but a confession. 

“You could have stopped me.”

“Yes, I could. That’s what troubles me.” She says in a hushed tone, and now she’s the one staring down, grimacing. “I didn’t want to.”

Being a dragonrider, one might think Aemond should be used to deal with strange creatures. And yet, his brow is furrowing steeply as soon as they’re out of the city walls. There are some men waiting for them, common men dressed in dark robes, acting as keepers for a four-legged animal that Aemond has never seen in his life. A camel.

The Salt Queen fakes a frown upon reading the confusion on his face and says “Surely you didn’t think we would walk in the desert.”

“Because it’s hot or because it goes against all the lying around you do here?”

She bursts into a short laugh, drawing his eye to her, and says “It seems you have found your humor. I’m glad. I like men who can make me laugh.”

It was not really his intention, rather a mere observation, but he says nothing, lingering for a moment on her lips curved up, before returning to look at the creature before him, slowly ruminating something as it stares at him with two dark, waning eyes.

“I don’t know how to ride this—thing.”

“Ah, it’s a bit tricky. You see,” she goes to stand right beside him, leaning against him so that he feels her bare shoulders against his arm, and as she gestures towards the camel, she says “You have to get on it and keep yourself balanced on the hump with one knee. Very dangerous, I must warn you. Most men die by merely trying.”

She turns to look at him with her lips cracking in amusement, but as she sees the earnest, not at all amused, face he’s wearing, she sighs deeply. “And it’s lost again.”

“It’s just a bit slower than a horse.” She explains taking a step away as one of the Sorrowful men hands her some blue fabric, like a scarf. Aemond sees her handing one to him and she speaks before he asks about it. “For your skin. To shield you from the sun if you don’t want to peel your face off because of burn blisters.”

He grabs the cloth, unfolding it between his hands as, out of the corner of his eye, he sees the Queen wrap her own around her head, leaving only a crevice for her eyes. He tries to mimic her gestures, but his braid gets stuck, so she walks to him raising her hands, and without a word she helps him, wrapping his head and face in blue.

“Come. Since it’s your first time, you’ll ride with me.”

Then, she moves towards the camel, while the armed men will follow on foot, dragging the cart of dead pigs and goats. With silent relief on his part, Aemond finds out that it seems even easier than riding a horse. At first.

The camel kneels on the sand on his four legs, and Salt Queen straddles it, sitting in the saddle. She swings each leg on both sides of the creature, her silks gliding like water, effectively baring her skin from the ankles to her thighs; she makes room for him, turning her head to beckon him to sit behind her and, inevitably, she sees him staring down at her bare legs. “So, you found something else to stare at other than my breast. Good.”

Aemond looks up and then away, moving to get this over with. He sits on the saddle, behind the woman, their bodies barely touching, at first. As she grabs the reins, she slightly turns her head saying “Follow my lead.”

She pulls at the reins and since camels stand up with their back legs first, Aemond is jolted forward, colliding against the Salt Queen who promptly instructs him. “Lean back…”

He does so, and she does too, resting her shoulders against his chest. “And now forward.” She adds when the animal gets onto its front legs. Aemond lurches forward, and having no handhold, he grips her left side not to crash his body on her.

“Pigaí.” She says in Qartheen and, slowly, the camel starts walking. Aemond briefly looks behind, watching the Sorrowful Men move accordingly, four of them dragging a wooden cart full of carcasses, but soon he finds himself too occupied with keeping balance to spare a glance behind.

A camel’s walk is nothing like the gait of a horse. It’s odd, irregular, jerky; it keeps jolting him backward and then forward, each time forcing him to bump against her back, to hold onto her, sometimes her arm, sometimes her hip, her thigh even, like a toddler who's just learning to walk.

Hearing his short and clearly annoyed sighs, the Queen smiles behind the tajel, keeping her gaze fixed on the dunes at the horizon, and softly shakes her head. “Always so rigid…”

“What” he asks without even intoning the question, because the camel and this hiccup-like swinging is getting on his nerves, not to mention the heat, sticking the silks on him, or the woman's body which, for all the right reasons but rather inconvenient under the circumstances, is making his blood flow down too fast.

“You are too rigid.” She says, slightly raising her tone. “You have nothing to prove to this poor beast, or me.”

She takes his hand that he held like an iron clamp on her side and turns her head a little, enough to catch his eye. "Let yourself sway, don't fight it."

Keeping his eye on her, his grip lessens, just as all the stiffness in his body. She feels him sway, brushing naturally against her without tensing every time their bodies touched. And yet her throat stiffens as he keeps swinging against her, and she’s glad she’s giving her back and wearing a tajel, so he cannot see her lips parting as air hitches in her mouth.

The camel’s hooves avoid human and animal remains in what is nothing but a Garden of Bones; the sun is scorching, the air so humid, heavy, it feels like cotton when swallowing. But fortunately for them, she is not late to come into view amid those white dunes.

"By all the Gods..." The Queen cries out in disbelief, widening her eyes as she sees a huge black spot in the middle of the yellowish-white desert; a mountain, of flesh and fire.

The camel must sense her agitation, or perhaps he’s wise enough to know what he is up against. He starts to flail, to paw, and the Queen is forced to pull on the reins, unbalanced back and forth. Aemond holds her by the arms with his eye strained on Vhagar, but the quadruped seems to have no intention of staying there a minute longer.

He screeches to the point that both Aemond and the Queen are thrown from the saddle, landing on the sand, one on top of the other. The camel flees, despite one of the Sorrowful Men attempts to catch him.

That little cackle, however, awakens the dragon, or perhaps she simply sensed her rider. Vhagar raises her huge head from the cat-like crouched position she was in, her amber eyes wide as well as her giant wings. Aemond is barely in time to stand and help the woman do the same when the earth beneath them shakes as if in an earthquake.

The Queen of Salt whitens like a sheet as she sees that terrifying beast advancing from a distance, a distance that drastically runs out because each stride of the dragon covers miles.

She freezes on the spot, her mouth wide open, because the dragon keeps advancing, and for a moment she seriously thinks she is breathing the last breaths of her life.

Aemond shields her with his body, and Vhagar stops, opening her mouth wide and roaring so loudly that the queen has to cover her ears. Even Aemond scrunches his face under the scorching gust that sweeps over him, so scorching that the glimmer of flames ignites at the back of her jaws. She's not happy to see him. Or rather, she's not happy about being abandoned to starve in the desert, even for one day. Ageing makes even beasts more irritable.

“Lykirī, Vhagar!” the Prince shouts “Lykirī!”

But she does not listen, not immediately at least. She continues to roar, intent on voicing her disappointment. Then, finally, she closes her jaws. The Queen looks at her with wide eyes, her chest rising and falling quickly, her hands laced firmly around Aemond's arms. Vhagar lowers her head toward him, still showing her fangs, and flares her nostrils, smelling something, someone, foreign.

“What is she doing?” the Queen asks in a whisper.

“Hush.”

She tilts her head back, looking at him from behind and still whispering, says “Need I remind you my father is a warlock? If your dragon eats me, I will come back to haunt you.”

He doesn’t bother to retort, even more so because Vhagar makes a sudden movement, turning her head sharply as her nostrils smell what she has been craving for too long. Aemond follows her gaze, barely having the time to register the Sorrowful Men on the right, at a good distance but not far enough for a starving dragon.

“Get away from there!” the Prince warns them “Move!”

As soon as that last word leaves his mouth, Vhagar moves with impressive speed, given her size and age, but hunger quickens her limbs. Her head sinks on the cart as the armed men scurry away without logic, raising a cloud of dust and sand as her fangs pierce wood, flesh and bone.

She perches on the sand to enjoy her much-needed meal, which disappears by the second under the gaze of Aemond and the Salt Queen, still pale as a sheet and stunned by what she's witnessing, flinching every time she hears jaws snapping and bones cracking.

“Where are you going?” she asks as Aemond tries to take one step.

He turns, glancing at her hand gripping his arm, and looks at her for a moment before raising his eyebrow “Scared, are we?”

She gives him a flat look as if he has just informed her that the sky is blue. “Self-awareness is not cowardice.”

Aemond moves, circling the beast, and the woman dims it wisely to never leave his side, keeping a constant eye on the beast, unaware she’s still gripping his arm as she moves. The Prince stops somewhere near Vhagar’s left wing and the Queen watches as he seems to inspect it closely. Out of curiosity, she does the same, spotting a large wound toward the right end, healed but not quite. Aemond places one hand on the scales but as soon as he does that, Vhagar turns her head sharply, blood coating her jaws and fangs, and growls, clearly still annoyed with him or maybe just unhappy to be bothered during her meal.

“She’s just like you, isn’t she?” the Queen remarks “Sour and petty.”

Aemond ignores her, taking a step back, momentarily resigning not to tend to his dragon, as long as she’s in that mood. “Perhaps you could stop gripping me so hard now.” he says at one point, feeling the Queen’s nails digging through the silk.

She looks lost for a moment, and then withdraws her hand, looking away. She finds though that all she can look at is Vhagar, her giant dimension blocks her view entirely.

“How did you manage to tame such a monster?” she asks at some point, eyes full of dread, and yet wonder.

“She is not a monster.”

“No, of course not. She’s as sweet as a kitten.”

She observes the beast, her green and bronze scales, battered in several spots and frowns. “Correct me if I’m wrong, and I rarely am, did not dragons take decades to grow? She seems very old and you...” pausing, her eyes scan him from head to toe “you don’t look older than twenty-five?”

Aemond keeps his gaze fixed on Vhagar as he answers, that empty egg made of nothing but stone lost somewhere in the back of his mind. "My egg didn’t hatch. I claimed her when I was ten.”

"Ten?” she asks, disbelief and awe running together on her tongue.

He turns his head and tilts his chin down, and then up, as only pride can do. "Ten.”

She looks at him, not able to hide a righteous gleam of admiration, but then she’s crinkling her forehead, in that peculiar way of hers.

 "Was it worth it?” she asks, upon acknowledging that new piece.

"What?”

"The exchange. Was it fair? Your eye for a dragon.”

Do not mourn me, Mother. His mouth twitches as he remembers, almost relives it. It has been years and yet, he can almost feel the right side of his head numbed with too much pain, the stench of his own dead flesh. The needle going in and out but not actually stitching anything back together.

“How did it happen?” she asks, and her tone is different now. That constant veil of mocking in the way she phrases her questions is nowhere to be found.

“Do you want me to believe you don’t know yet?”

"I told you twice. I cannot control this…power, it comes and goes. I must admit though, it is coming quite often in the last few days…I wonder why…”

Aemond looks at her, sees her search on him a mystery to which he has no answers in the first place. He learned this from Alys.

Magic repels answers, it must live and thrive on mystery.

On chaos, you mean.

And what’s the difference? That’s what you really yearn for. Chaos.

He sighs to cast her out, and says “My nephew took it with a knife.”

"And you killed him. This is why they call you Kinslayer, is it not?”

She cannot see his expression behind the tajel, only his good eye, still, cold and unwavering, like a star, and beautiful in the most cruel way.

"We may have shared blood but he meant nothing to me. And he got what he deserved.” he said, trying a flat empty tone, but she hears the edges quivering, crumpling, like salt eroding rocks.

"And what about that boy? Did he get what he deserved?”

"What boy?”

"The ten year old you.” His eye seems to glow with new light at her words, like the sun catching the flashing steel of a blade, and even with the blue scarf hiding his face, she knows his teeth are grinding.  "I was never one for revenge.” She concedes, turning her head to the desert. "It may be the sweetest morsel, but somehow it never leaves you sated.”

"It sounds like you have tasted it.”

"Yes.” She admits, turning to look at him. "But it’s stuck in my throat.”

Aemond doesn’t need to ask, because as she said, there are no secrets in Qarth.

"You must have wondered why my father cannot speak.” she tells him, looking away, dredging up from her mind, from her memories, traces of a child who is no more. “There’s an ancient tradition here, when a wedding takes place. It’s called the sacred exchange. The bride and the groom can ask each other for one favor, anything, and they cannot refuse.” She returns her gaze to him, and says “My husband asked for my father’s tongue as my sacred gift.”

“Was it him?”

"No, not him…the night before our wedding, Irryo, Xavos’ brother, came into my room to give me his wedding gift. The purest silk I’ve ever seen. He made me wear it, stripped me bare with his own hands…said he wanted to see how I looked...”

She doesn’t need to utter the words. Aemond sees a little girl, a child, painting seashells, unfinished, falling from the table in a clatter of tinkles and choked cries.

"The wedding took place in a hurry an hour later. I said my vows with my silks still stained with blood. They were scared of my father’s wrath, you see. But it came anyway. Irryo died during the wedding feast. His eyes burst into his skull.”

“Your father’s doing.”

“Perhaps." she shrugs "I didn’t know what to make of it at the time, as I don’t know what to make of it now. I didn’t ask him to avenge me. All I wanted was for him, anyone, to say they were sorry for what had been done to me.”

Did he not want the same?

Apart from punishment, and then revenge, did he not want just one word of kindness from his father? Some sort of regret from Lucerys? 

She feels his eye on her, even if he’s not really looking at her, perhaps at some ghosts locked in his mind, so she glances at Vhagar, quite contented after her meals and currently resting on the sand. “We should go back to the Palace before it gets too hot out here. I will give orders to save more dead beasts for your dragon.”

The journey back to the walls is a silent one. It spreads, silence, like an oil stain as they climb back onto the litter; each of them has caught something of the other, something similar, different cracks etched with the same cruelty, and matching.

Their gazes match, as they remove the tajel from their heads, as she hands him some water. She looks around distractedly, but the curtains are closed and even if they weren’t, the sound of water rushing down his throat brings her eyes on him, and then closely, she watches his tongue flicking outside for a moment, she watches a drop of water running down his chin. And wishes to lick it off with her tongue.

Somehow, it’s like he can hear what she’s thinking, locking his eye on her. They don’t speak, it’s almost as if both of them are waiting for something.

"Your braid needs to be redone." She says at one point, and he turns, not looking at her face, not at first. She sees his eye trailing slowly over her until he speaks.

"Is that your offering?"

Closely, she rakes her eyes on his chiseled features, and she is not even aware she is imperceptibly leaning closer. A moth to a flame, they say. But she has always been the flame. And now, she finds she’s the one willing to bathe in the light, or burn.

“If you wish."

It comes out like a whisper, drawing his eye on her lips, unearthing that same desire from earlier, the thirst to know what she tastes like. "What If I wish for something more?"

“Such as?" she asks, raising one hand to touch his braid and undo it, smoothly, as if she had done this countless times before.

"Don't be shy now. Everything is a trade in Qarth. Even pleasure."

Swiftly, he clamps his hand around her wrist, stopping her, drawing a slight wince beneath her skin.

"Pleasure is not something to be traded.” He says, and it’s the flame now that is moving. “Only taken."

The short intake of air she breathes on his mouth is a seal. His lips meet hers abruptly, they part instantly and ravenously, like a starved man tasting a morsel, and then loosening to taste it, to taste her. Perhaps it’s desert, perhaps it’s herself, but she does taste like salt. She’s bitter on his tongue, in his nostrils; she muffles his ears until he hears only her sweet sighing in his mouth as he slips his tongue inside.

And he wants more of that, just as she wants more. He feels her unfolding beneath him as he towers over her, so differently from the previous night. She’s not tense. She’s loose like water, he feels her seeping in everywhere, around his neck and shoulders, in his mouth when her tongue darts in, in his blood when she softly rubs against him. His breathing becomes heavy, from lack of air, from hardening, and maybe he shouldn't, maybe this isn't really the right place. They could wait until they get back to the palace, but then she lies back on the pillows and reclines her head, offering her neck. Without thinking, he lowers himself down on her, in fact lying on her, and she instantly makes room for him by spreading her legs wide.

She gasps softly as he trails wet kisses on her neck, growing greedy as he travels down, to what he’s been secretly coveting since the first time he unapologetically landed his sight on.

Cupping her bare breast with his large hand, he holds it firmly, humming pleasurably as he takes the hard nipple into his mouth. Accordingly, she bucks her hips against him, feeling his hardening tease her center through that thin layer of silk. Between that and the swirling of his tongue, hot and wet around her nipple, she is panting, spreading her legs wide to cage his hips and push him against her, desperate for more friction.

Despite his ache for the same and more, he glances up, still torturing her nipple, hard and slick at this point, watching her as he grazes his teeth over that darker spot of skin, forcing a choked, loud whimper to escape her mouth.

“Careful, your Highness” he teases “lest you want to give your peasants a show.”

“What do you think these curtains are for?”

“You want me to fuck you here? Now?” he asks with a playful scorn in his voice, but she can hear his breath creaking, his tone lower and throatily.

She raises from the cushions, holding on one hand while the other slips between them, hovering on his groin, brushing feathery. “I believe you want to.” She breathes on his lips, parting as soon as he rocks his waist to catch her palm.

“We could wait to be in the Palace but…” she takes his hand and brings it between her legs, on that thin layer of silk, damp again his knuckles. “Would you be so cruel and leave me like this, for so long?”

He swallows something close to a growl upon feeling how wet she is for him, how her cheeks are barely flushed as she exhales heavily, her face scrunched lustfully for the little, shallow pleasure she finds from his fingertips.

Curtains or no curtains, Aemond is deaf and blind to anything else around him. With his fingers, he moves the fabric and twists his wrist, so that his palm is straight against her pulsing core. She sighs hoarsely as her wetness coats his hand, arching just as slightly, goading him to do more. She has been watching and coveting his fingers once too many times, the thought alone of having them inside her crumples her face in a pleading way, and she has no shame in voicing it. “Please, Aemond…”

Upon hearing his name, spoken in that exotic and alluring way, he bares his teeth and harshly slips not one, but two of his slender fingers inside, watching her tilt her head back, her mouth open and out of breath, but she’s looking at him and she’s quick to regain air, barely curving her lips up. “So you do know how to use your hands…”

“You never shut up, do you?”

“Well, make me.”

His cock twitches on its own at her words, and he kisses her, roughly, flexing his hand to start pumping his fingers in. She moans loudly on his tongue, lacing an arm around his neck, still holding herself onto the cushions with her other hand, angling her back so he can reach that special spot more easily.

“Oh God—yes---” she moans when he does, rocking her hips to meet his deft fingers in a sweet lewd sound that muffles any other coming from the fuss outside that litter. Her breath grows short and labored, mewling obscenely every time he curls his fingers, his gaze on her fixed and focused like on some holy mission.

He desperately wants to bury himself inside her, right there; he’s almost thankful for the much more loose clothes they wear here instead of the constricting breeches he was used to, even though he feels his flesh on fire, and he’s practically panting on her pleasure; his own is of no concern to him right now, not when she’s so close, not when he can watch a little more of her face distorting with wanton abandon, her neck lumped with sweat, the way her breast swings with her motions.

But she, on the other hand, seems eager to end this torture, and start another. The tensed muscle in her arm gives away, making her back fall on the cushions once more, but the other is still tied around his neck, so she drags him down with her and then she’s rummaging through the blue silks, eager to free his length, but he grips her wrist and holds it firmly above her head. “No…I have a score to settle with you.”

“What? You proved quite enough you know how to use your hands.” She says breathlessly, cracking half a smile “I swear on all the Gods, yours and mine, I won’t doubt you again.” 

Aemond is just about to retort but suddenly the palanquin stops, and they are abruptly brought back to the reality just outside those curtains. They hear a male voice and he looks enquiringly at the Salt Queen who visibly rolls her eyes and says something in Qartheen which, given her tone, Aemond is sure is some kind of curse.

She fumbles with her thin gowns, covering her nudity while he takes some distance, returning to lean on one elbow with once more clear annoyance, this time much more justified. And once more, he’s thankful for the loose silks, able to hide his otherwise plain arousal.

The Queen sighs deeply, to keep herself together, to stop the ringing in her ears and the aching stir below her navel; then she opens the curtains and smiles warmly. “Syradhor! I thought I recognized your voice.”

The man in yellow silks, with several sapphires embroidered in the fabric and worn on his fingers, bows for a moment saying, “Your Highness.” He takes her hand that she promptly offers and lightly kisses her knuckles, trailing his eyes on her with two eyes blind with admiration. “Any man who finds himself in the presence of such beauty can count himself as the luckiest in the world. What a blessing for me to be granted such fortune once more.”

Aemond is staring at the man, unimpressed, doing all he can not to scoff at the love sonnet-like speech, and a rather dull one. “Prince Aemond. A pleasure to see you again.”

Aemond recalls the man as one of the Merchant Kings who greeted him at the walls two days prior, but his face is all he remembers. “Which one is this?” he deadpans to the Salt Queen, evidently not happy to have been interrupted. She hears the annoyance in his voice and stifles a smile saying “This is Syradhor, the Ore King.”

The Prince barely tilts his chin down to greet him and the man in yellow takes a step forward, addressing the Queen. “Your Highness, since you are here, I am gladly extending my invitation to you as well.”

“Extending?” she asks.

“I—Yes, I was expecting Prince Aemond today, to formally receive him in my Palace.”

“Were you?” he drawls.

The honeyed benevolence leaves the man's face like a summer storm, because that's the way he is, as eager to please as he is quick to anger. “What is meaning of this? Did Xavos not inform you?”

“Of course.” Of course not, is what she means to say. But before she can utter another word, Aemond speaks. “Well, I’m afraid we have to delay this formal reception.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Syradhor.” The Queen steps in “you must understand, the Prince is new to our customs. He’s not aware of our welcoming traditions. As it happens, that was precisely what the Prince and I were discussing before you interrupted us.”

“Were we?” he says lifting his eyebrow.

She flashes daggers at him and continues with a broad smile. “I told him not to delay his visit to your Palace, for if ever a foreigner refused to visit one of the Thirteen—" she looks directly at Aemond, informing him at that very moment. “It would be considered the highest of insults.”

Aemond looks at her, unblinking, before sighing deeply, and deciding to play along. “Yes, I do recall now. Her Highness was quite vocal on the matter.”

She keeps smiling, for reasons entirely different from what the Ore King might think, and then he raises one hand towards the crowded street. “Please. My Palace is just around the corner.”

Aemond comes out of the litter, being careful to let the silks fall over all the right places.

“I hope you have a good time, my Prince.”

He whirls his head watching the Salt Queen stay still on the cushions and the Ore King looks just as stunned. “Will you not delight my Palace with your presence?”

“I am afraid I can’t, Syrhador. I was just asking the Prince for advice on some urgent matters I desperately need to attend to.” She pointedly looks at Aemond with a ghosting smile and then she shrugs, lightheartedly. “I suppose I shall take those urgent matters into my own hands.”

Her words and what they mean, stir something within him, more annoyance at the mere thought of wasting time with this little man —his shoulder reaches just above Aemond’s ribs— when he could be fucking her senseless on that litter, on his bed, hers, he’s not picky at this point. And more giddiness, making his blood boil at mere thought of her chasing her pleasure with her own hands.

But then she’s shutting him out, shutting the curtains, and ordering her men to move.

The sky is of a delicious pink-red shade when he returns to the Palace of Salt.

Four hours, that was the torment he had to endure in the presence of Syradhor and his family. Four hours in which he barely opened his mouth, and when he did, all that came out were monosyllables uttered from time to time in a manner closer and closer to snarling.

The Ore King had embarked on a soliloquy about alum, a precious mineral useful as mordant for dyeing wool, embalming animals and human bodies, and making wood fireproof. It would’ve been interesting for a former scholar as Aemond was, but it was difficult to think straight amid the chattering, duck-like squawking of Syradhor’s daughters, and even more difficult when he had brought the cup of wine to his mouth and sensed her intimate sweet-tart smell stuck on his fingers, awakening all the wrong thoughts.

In the end, he was so sick of the whole affair that he had curtly refused to be escorted to the palace of Xavos on another litter, and the Ore King had sent four of his guards to walk with him, along the streets of Qarth.

His spirits when he crosses the threshold of the Palace of Salt are at an all-time low. If only he didn't have to face another litter trip lying on cushions after spending four hours sitting on those same fucking cushions, he'd go straight to Vhagar. He's always been a solitary creature, just like her, and all these talks and pleasantries, fake or true, were like pouring a barrel of water into a narrow vase. He was toppling over.

Surprisingly though, as soon as he sets foot in his chambers, his foul spirits seem to instantly improve as he finds his room lit with candles, and not at all empty. The Salt Queen is sitting comfortably in an armchair, with her legs dangling graciously over the left armrest; a little book is clutched in her hold.

“My Prince.” She greets him as he lingers on the door, lifting her gaze from her reading.

Aemond closes the door, never tearing his gaze off her. It betrays nothing, only the faint irritation for the four hours wasted, but not the way his lungs swell upon seeing her.

“Did your Grace have fun?” she asks with sheer curiosity, closing the book with a light thud.

“Fun?” he repeats, as if she had just suggested she had proof unicorns from Skagos were real.

“Surely it was not that bad? I mean, yes, Syradhor is boring and yes, he has that annoying habit of touching you as he talks, but he has a great collection of wines. I should have told you. There’s no other way to survive him.”

“He has a litter of daughters” Aemond sneers, walking to her “each of them duller than the other.”

“Well, that happens when you fuck your relatives. You, above all, should know that.”

He looks at her questioningly and she leans forward to place the book on a little table, the soft fabric of her lilac gowns slips on her skin just as his eye slips on her bare thighs, glowing as gold under the candlelight. “His wife is his niece.” She says, looking up and catching his staring.

His eye trails slowly over her until locking her eyes. “What are you doing here?”

“You forgot this.” She says, raising her hand with his dagger held between her fingers.

Aemond stops before her, raising an eyebrow as he looks down at her “You were waiting for me, to give me back my dagger?”

She takes a good amount of time, while looking at him, feeling his eye, darkened due to the dim light and boring into her, to utter a simple “No."

“Then why?”

She rises, handing the blade, and says “I believe we had a score to settle.”

Aemond takes the blade from her hands, nodding slowly, and then circles her to go sit where she was a moment ago, placing the blade on the armrest, along with his hands. “And what was it?” he asks with a faint smirk. If she’s keen on playing games, he will let her play this one. “Somehow, it’s eluding me now.”

She watches him cross his long legs, tilting his head as he awaits, and she says “Your braid needs to be redone.”

“Hmm.” Aemond looks around, almost amused, and sees his bed, not exactly in order as it was when he left, but slightly crumpled.

Did she lie on his bed? Did she touch herself and peak, writhing on his sheets? The thought alone tickles his spine, but still, he betrays nothing, only the faint tapping of his fingers against the armrest. “You’ve been here all this time to give me back my dagger and redo my hair.”

She watches his fingers moving and she’s moving. She would like to take his hand and pick up where they left off, but she just sits on his lap, forcing him to uncross his legs, and spread them a little to make her room. “I deeply cherish my guests and their welfare under my roof.” She jests, although it’s partially true.

The only difference is that she never spent hours waiting for one of her guests, or any man, nor fantasizing about all the ways that man could take her, not as fervently as she did as her hand moved relentlessly between her legs, finding but a mere flicker of the pleasure he had just started to spill from her.

“And did you…” his tone is coarse, so he pauses to swallow. He hates that his voice is coming out so low, he hates that this woman can reduce him like this in a matter of minutes, that his cock is already stirring. “Did you eventually take that urgent matter into your own hands?”

She takes a long lock of silver hair between her fingers, running them through it while she quietly answers

“Twice.”

“Here?”

“Yes.” She looks at him, while her fingers start to work on that lock, making a little braid using only one hand. “Disappointing.”

“The room or your hands?”

“Oh, the room was quite fine.” she lets the little braid rest among the other locks and trails her fingers on his chest, and a moment later underneath the silk, like tentacles. “I only wished I had your hands inside me.”

Her touch licks flames on his skin, on his chest, collarbone, and neck; she touches him with intent, as if she wishes to know what he is made of. “You could have come with me.”

“I didn’t lie, I had some matters to attend to. Besides, coming with you would have left us in quite a situation.” She reasons with diplomacy, not making a blink as her other tentacle slides over his stomach, disappearing underneath. “Sneaking around the Ore Palace to find a place to fuck.”

Aemond exhales heavily as she takes hold of him, parting his lips as she palms him thoroughly.

“Did you think of that while you were with those pretty girls?” she asks, watching his eyelid flicker “I know they’re pretty. Dumb, but pretty.”

He has no idea who she’s talking about. He rests his head against the armchair and opens his mouth as her ministrations grow cadenced and yet unbearably slow.

“Did you think of me?” she asks, softly panting along with him for the mere sight “of taking me in some hidden corner? Of putting your hands on me if I had been there?”

His nails dig into the armrest, around his dagger, until his knuckles go white. Truth is that he did. Sipping that cup of wine, the smell of her on his fingers only made him think of her, and how she would squirm if he touched her right there, under the table. How she would bite her lower lip to swallow her moans as she came all over his fingers.

“I did.” She admits with almost religious honesty. “I came twice thinking of your hands.”

Not a moment later, they are both growling with need as he slams his mouth on hers in a mess of tongues and teeth, and then she gasps, because his hand is on her core, moving already, gathering her wetness and spreading it. “Did you think of this? Hmm?” he croons, watching her closely, rejoicing upon seeing her face scrunching just as it did earlier, wantonly, pleading.

“No…” she mumbles.

“What do you mean no?”

Her hand slips behind his neck, in order to keep his head firm and his face glued to hers. “Inside…” she cooes urgently “I need them inside.”

It’s almost shameful for a proud man like him, how swiftly he obeys, but even if he didn’t want to, she’s so wet for him, dripping and coating his palm, that his fingers would’ve eventually slipped inside.

He sticks them all the way in, flexing and curling, hitting that spot and spilling a loud moan from her, who instantly sinks her hips down, rocking to goad him to start moving. He grants her this other little mercy, pumping nimbly with a squelching sound, going rock hard as she arches on top of him, keeping one hand clamped around his neck and the other on his knee, to find the right angle.

“There you go…” he rasps, watching his fingers disappear inside, feeling her spongy walls hot and squeezing “’Tis what you wanted?”

She is too occupied with trying to catch a puff of air to be bothered to answer, but he wants one. He stops altogether, winning a whine of protest and a flashing glare before her face wrinkles with desperate need.

“Not talking now?” he mocks and then swiftly, he is curling his fingers in a cruel way, drawing a choked whimper out of her throat.

“Yes. Yes, it is what I wanted.”

“Hmm. Go on, then. Take it.” And he spreads his legs a little more to give her room “Fuck my hand.”

Exhaling a small breath of air, she talks almost to herself. “A woman must do everything these days.”

“You won’t be saying that later.”

“Why, what happens later?”

“I’ll fuck you until you can’t walk.”

“That sounds a bit pretentious.”

“And you should have learned by now not to doubt my word.”

And doubt him she won’t, not now. She starts to move, swaying her hips and arching her neck as soon as pleasure washes over her. She would like to savor it, to take this slow, as she likes it, but her low muscles are so tensed and aching; she feels the peak near and can't do anything but run towards.

Aemond watches with labored breath as she rocks and grinds on him desperately, growing frantic by the moment, feeling her arousal down to his wrist, dampening his own silks, spilling a faint unbearable pleasure from the way her flesh grinds against his cock. And he finds himself moaning out of pleasure and pain as she draws near to her peak, gripping his neck hard, pulling at the roots of his hair while emitting a string of short and sharp cries next his ear, until she’s trembling all over, coming with a free and loud moan on his hand.

She tries to regain some air, panting in his ear as she rides the last throes. This, this is what she’s been fantasizing, even dreamed of it. No man has ever made her feel like this, a pulsing heart pounding in every inch of her body, a living flame bathing in fire.

Slowly, she tilts her head back and he takes his hand off her hot, pulsing flesh. She looks down, at her pleasure wrinkling his fingertips, and then up, straight into his turbid eye. He brings his fingers to his mouth to clean them, to taste her, but she snatches his wrist and, staring at him, she engulfs his index with her lips.

He’s tempted to look away, and not wonder how her perfect lips would close around his cock, but he keeps watching as she keeps tasting herself, on his middle finger, and then the ring one.

“How do you taste?”

“Me? Oh, this is not me.” She draws close until she nudges her nose against his and says “Pleasure tastes like the ones we desire.” She kisses him, slowly, darting her tongue in his mouth until he’s humming, tasting bittersweet. “This is your doing.”

A moment later she gasps, holding onto his shoulders because he rises abruptly, lacing his arms around her to hold her and take those few steps that separate them from his bed.

They fall on the soft mattress and her hands fly to his silks, willing to tear them apart until he’s bare. And he helps her, moving his lean shoulders to let the slippery fabric fall. She had thought Qartheen silks suited him perfectly, but now she thinks she’d rather have him like this all day. Her eyes roam freely on his lean body, dented in a few spots by burns and scars of war, a soldier’s body and yet not burly: he’s all refined and graceful, like a sculpture. It makes her mouth go dry, pushing her eyes down, on the thin waist and the prominent v-shape of his muscles.

Willfully, she grasps the soft belt cinching his waist, but he stops her wrists.

“Do you know what this is?” he asks with short breath, and the candles around catch the flashing steel of his dagger, held in his left hand.

“Valyrian steel?”

“The sharpest blade in the world.” and deftly, he twirls it.

It catches her eye for a moment, but then she drags her gaze back on him, relaxing on the sheets with an ounce of challenge in her eyes. “You will have to show me.”

Something wild bursts in his eye, wide and piercing. “Are you offering?”

She cracks a half heated, half cunning smile and says “I’m demanding.”

Aemond lies beside her, holding himself up on one elbow, and with bated breath, she watches his other arm move, bringing the dagger, and its pointy end, to the lilac woven shielding her torso. Slowly and cautiously, he slips the steel under a stripe of silk, locking his eye on her as she startles from the coldness of the blade. He flicks his wrist up, and the steel cuts the silk instantly and smoothly. But he doesn’t stop there, dragging the blade down, cutting all, unraveling her body, and not missing the way her stomach jolts, her breath hitches, and not out of fear.

He trails his eye all over her body, glowing under the candles, lingering on the soft patch of hair below her navel; his mouth goes dry and his mind blank. He lets the blade go and drifts down, grabs her legs and forces them open, hardening impossibly more upon seeing her previous peak still coating her cunt in a glistening veil.

She sees him hovering right on her center, anticipation quickens her breath but perhaps also a faint reluctance for what he’s about to do. She would complain about it with Dora, saying most of her lovers just sat there lapping at it like some thirsty dog in the desert. Once, she had even opened a book while having a man’s head between her thighs.

It is therefore with great shock that she abruptly gasps, out loud, when he slams his mouth on her cunt, raising his eye to watch her. She tastes sweeter than he’d expected, and he’s not one for sweet tastes, but this one, he wants it all.

His tongue swirls up and down her folds, circling slowly, making her back arch, her  jaw slack open. “Oh God—” she moans once, and twice, unconsciously pushing her hips against his face, feeling the sharp bone of his nose nudging her bundle.

“If you have to sing my praises, then do it properly.” he rasps against her flesh, stopping, but not quite. He brings one hand on her apex, circling it with his thumb, torturing but not as she wants. “Please—” she begs freely, writhing beneath him.

“Please what?” he teases, licking his lips “You like to talk, don’t you? Then use your words.” He presses his thumb deeper and faster, and she whines, in pleasure and protest. “Please—with your tongue”

“Please…?”

“Aemond—”

“Again.”

He has half a mind to make her say his name until she loses her voice, but at the second time she utters it, her vowels even more open given her debauchery, he caves and grips her thighs harshly to keep them as spread open as he can. What happens next is a string of cries and choked moans as his tongue licks and sucks and pierces inside; he eats her thoroughly humming with sheer delight and occasionally groaning as, without being able to avoid it, he grinds against the mattress to gain some relief. 

Pleasure coils in her belly as it never did before. She’d never been able to reach her peak like this, whether the occasional man was not that good at that practice or maybe because she’d never longed for anyone as she longs for the Prince. She’s not able to control her voice as she comes straight into his mouth, she’s not able to control her muscles shaking all over, nor her hand, flying into his hair, pulling and pushing him against her as she practically rides his face in the last spasms.

She lies there for a moment, ears numb and heart pounding like a hammer, but she has little time to come to her senses; he moves, leaning on top of her, mouth and chin slick. It makes her strangely proud to see it. This time, her hands are free to roam, discarding the last silks until he’s completely bare. Aemond slips between her legs, hissing at feeling her moist flesh against his. He cannot wait any longer, as he moves to angle her hips and bury himself inside her, she grabs his face, forcing him to look up.

“Show me.”

It takes him barely a moment to get what she means. He freezes on the spot, and looks down with a grimace.

“You saw mine.” She says sofly. And it’s true. Even if he didn’t know, he saw, he touched, her wound.

And maybe it’s because he did, and he knows it to be true that this time there’s no reluctance, or rejection choking down his words. “I am sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter, you couldn’t—”

“No. Not about last night.”

All I wanted was for him, anyone, to say they were sorry for what had been done to me.

Air hitches in her throat as she stares at him with wide eyes. He has that unwavering stone-like look on his face and she knows he means it. No second purpose could ever force his tongue into saying that, because he doesn’t have any. He had her already, and he would have her again, whether he had spoken those words or not. But he means it. He chooses all his words too carefully to waste them on lies.

All she knows now, is that she wants him. A foreign, fierce willing like the one that possessed her the night before, urging her to stay right where she was, to goad him to take her harder, instead of begging him to stop.

She grips his neck and surges to kiss him, moaning with liberation into his mouth, swallowing his soft growl as her hand slips between them, grabbing him and guiding him against her entrance. He pushes in ever so easily, and she throws her head back on the sheets, gasping at the stretch while he rests his forehead on her chest, struggling to breathe as he buries himself inside her.

The bushes pierce through his feet, bleeding on the ground, a pain he is well accustomed.

One must walk barefoot in the Wood of Shadows.

The long blue robe rustles in the wind; it is loud in his ears, wailing, as it does nowhere else.

He stops next to a black barked tree and leans his ear against it. Glancing up, a mantle of dark leaves wave in the sky, bleeding blue.

He hurries up, resuming his path. His right hand trembles incessantly as it always does next to it. Fortunately, he holds the little vial in his other hand, safe.

The Palace of Dust is covered in dark, not even a torch lighting the way. They say there are no walls or ceilings there. They say there is no such thing as time in the House of the Undying.

He opens one door and enters a round room, clothed in dark, except for one, faint white light coming from a hole in the ground. A water well, translucent; soft waves curl the surface, rippled by no trace of wind.

There is only one man standing in the light, looking into the water. The others are scattered around the room.

“Is he Seeing?” asks the man with the trembling hand.

“Hush. Did you bring it?” answers another, coming into view under the faint white light.

“Here.” He hands over the vial. “I’ve never seen so much of it. Leaves are bleeding as we speak. It’s like an awakening.”

“It is awakening.” says the other, his eyes barely visible under the cloak.

“But why?”

He receives a long scornful look. “You are weak. That is why you’re reduced like that.” the other says, glancing at his hand “You cannot bear it.”

“We are awakening.” Says another voice from somewhere “We awaken in the presence of the most ancient and powerful magic.”

“Fire?” tries the trembling man.

The one with the vial turns his head, nodding. “And blood.”

He walks to the man standing before the well. He is looking into the translucent water. He doesn’t blink. Seems like he’s not even breathing. But there’s a strange curve on his blue lips, hardly visible. Almost a smile, a fond one.

“Fydor.”

Only then, the man blinks and turns his head.

“Freshly collected.” the other lifts his arm, showing the little vial. Under the well’s light, the liquid shines with a vivid blue.

The mute warlock takes it and swiftly lifts the cap. The other hurries to take a step back, while the one with the trembling hand widens his eyes with almost dread. His fingers start to shake maniacally, as he watches the man in the light drinking the Shadow.

All the others, at once, seem to emit a choked snarling sound, as thirsty men in the desert upon seeing a pool of water.

The empty vial falls to the floor, breaking in little pieces, the water in the well moves as rippled by an opposite wind, and Fydor makes a choking sound; his eyes rolls over like in a seizure, and then they stop.

The pupil is gone, all is left is the white, but it is not white, not anymore. Too much Shadow of the Evening. His lips, nails and white of his eyes are blue for good.

At times, it lasts for hours. Others, it’s barely a minute. But there’s no time in the House of the Undying.

When it ends, it could be morning outside, they do not know, and they do not care.

“Fydor?” the same one asks when the warlock’s pupils are back in their place. 

The man looks at him for a moment, and then starts moving his hands jerkily. “It is time.”

“Time for what?”

“Time to act.”

“What about your daughter?”

For a moment, Fydor looks into the well. “Kori is on her own path now. I cannot interfere. She won’t let me. But seeds must be sown.”

“What do you want me to do?”

Keeping his blue eyes on the water, transfixed, he moves his hands. “What do you do with an old forest so new trees can grow?”

“Burn it.”

The man with the trembling hand looks between the two, warily. “What does it mean?”

Fydor turns, slowly, a shadow falling on his face. “It is quite simple, acolyte. For there to be order, there must be chaos first.”

thank you so much for reading!! 💕💕

The Fall from the Heavens (5)

[ dark • Aemond x Strong • niece female ]

[ warnings: angst, arranged engagement, beheading, violence, swearing, humiliation, chauvinism ]

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

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

Characters & Series Moodboard

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

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

He wasn't sure how many years it had been since he had really cried. When he tried to remember it seemed to him that the last time it had happened was when he had lost an eye, when he had lost her, as he did now.

He was furious with himself, but he couldn't help the sobs that came out of his throat as he sat with his face hidden in his hands on his bed, his eye patch lying against his hip. Though he tried to calm down, convulsions shaked him.

You have done it now and you will do it again.

You abhore me and whenever you forget that I can give you pleasure, you will hurt me.

Something like a helpless, high-pitched, pathetic whine ripped from his throat as he once again recalled her words stifled in despair, the expression on her face, the cruel disappointment when she realised what he had become.

He cried because she had humiliated him, he cried because she had left him despite him asking her to stay, he cried because he loved her and he cried because he knew subconsciously that she had been right.

He was no different from his brother, whom he despised.

Although he wanted to think of himself as always being guided by cold reason and logic, it turned out that he was as thoughtless and impulsive as he was.

He couldn't erase from his mind her horrified expression, her loud sobs when he realised that he had held her cheeks between his fingers as tightly as if he wanted to break her jaw.

The thought that this could have all been planned by her mother, that she could have made a fool of him, made him want to cause her pain, to take his payment for the thought that she had deceived him.

However, when it became apparent that his forethought had gone too far, all that was left was her regret and his despair that he could not take it back.

At the same time, he wanted her to suffer and to be safe, to moan beneath him in pleasure and in terror, to smile and despair at the sight of him.

His disgust and adoration for her and her family fused into one in his mind and he couldn't separate it.

It was too late.

He was deciding that he would destroy her only to find, after a while, that he would attempt to reason with her, that what had happened between them had brought back those wonderful memories, had given him some kind of hope, although he didn't know for what.

They both knew that whatever they had shared as children had partly survived in this twisted, deformed, cruel form.

He only fell asleep in the morning, tired and resigned, terrified, trying to soothe himself with the thought of the warmth of her body, of their fingers brushing against each other in the air in the warm light of the fire.

In that one moment, he felt that it was like before.

He was awakened from his restless sleep by servants informing him that in a few hours there was to be a gathering in the throne room, to be presided over by his grandfather. With their help, he dressed in a simple emerald tunic, a gift from his mother, proof of whose side he was on, who he would support.

After what had happened during the night, he expected her visit.

Indeed, she appeared in his chamber as he sat thoughtfully at the table where his morning meal had been served, which he had not even touched, gazing thoughtfully out of the window.

"What have you done?" She asked with a grief and helplessness that frustrated him; he pressed his lips together at the thought of her comparing him to Aegon so easily, thinking that whatever his niece had given him, he had taken it by force.

"I don't know what you mean, mother." He replied emotionlessly, not even bestowing a single glance on her, in an involuntary reflex that he had inherited from her fiddling and plucking the cuticles around his fingernails, an expression of his subconscious anxiety and nervousness.

His Queen stood before him with her hands folded over her womb, looking at him pleadingly, as if she hoped he would tell her that what her guards had reported to her was not true.

"Your guards, Aemond. They heard inappropriate sounds coming from this chamber, and then they saw Rhaenyra's daughter running out of it crying." She said in a breaking, weak voice; he sighed heavily, rolling his eyes, licking his lower lip impatiently.

"She came to me alone to speak and express to me her… longing. Nothing happened." He said, choosing his words so that they were not entirely a lie, realising with embarrassment that he could smell her moisture, her taste on his tongue, and a shudder went through him.

He rebuked himself in thought, swallowing loudly, running his hand over his face, reminding himself that his mother was standing before him.

His mother looked out of the window, breathing loudly, knowing there was something else lurking in his words. She ran her hand over her neck as if trying to calm herself and not panic.

"Should…should she drink the moon tea?" She choked out at last in a low, desperate voice, and he lifted his gaze to her, heavy and dark.

"No."

His word hung in the air like a storm cloud; there was something final in his voice, ending the discussion in his mind.

His mother breathed a quiet sigh, as if relieved, but immediately doubt was on her face again, as if it only raised more questions and anger in her mind.

"Why didn't you send her away? Do you know how that might affect your future betrothal to Lord Baratheon's daughter? What would he say if he found out you were hosting another woman in your chamber at night?" She asked clearly losing her patience, but he was not sure if this was purely due to his behaviour or because she was taking it out on him for what Aegon had done and for not being able to reason with Helaena.

He turned away and answered nothing, looking out the window at the courtyard full of people – he heard her sigh of rage, felt her disappointment and dismay.

He didn't want to infuriate her further with words that he didn't give a shit about what Lord Baratheon or his daughters might have thought of him.

Even standing in the throne room they were separated from the others; he stood behind his brother and sister with his arms folded behind his back, pretending he felt nothing at the sight of Rhaenyra and her bastard son holding her hand as if he were an infant.

Something about the sight made him feel like he was going to vomit, the thought that Luke was pretending to be innocent, unaware, hurt.

Yet he was the one who had lost everything.

He tried to look only at him, but failed miserably, his gaze fleeing to his side, searching for her. He only found her, to his surprise, by Daemon's side; he was saying something to her with amusement and mockery, looking ahead nonchalantly. Even though she was pale, he noticed that there was a small smile on her face, from which he felt discomfort in his lower abdomen.

His would-be betrothed was dressed all in black, her gown fitted to her body, a single ruby ring on her finger, her bare neck and shoulders devoid of any adornment seemed even more shameless to him, by being exposed it focused his attention even more, coming to the fore surrounded at the back by her long dark hair.

He thought of her and Rhaenyra standing similarly, both of them playing with the rings on their fingers with their heads slightly tilted.

He pressed his lips together thinking of how not long ago he had kissed that beautiful long neck, how he had drank from her and licked her there, deep between her thighs, her forbidden fruit that he had tasted and by which he was cursed for eternity.

He swallowed hard when he saw that her gaze lifted to his uncle as if something he had said had surprised her and she laughed, sincerely and genuinely, revealing her teeth for a moment, then lowered her eyelids, still smiling, her eyes framed by her long black lashes.

Look at me, he thought with rage, not even seeing that his grandfather had already sat on the Iron Throne, that he had begun his speech – she, however, was looking at the stone floor in front of her.

There was something between them, he could feel it, some sort of bond from which fury rose in his throat.

He felt discomfort, he felt disappointment, he felt uncertainty.

His gaze shifted to Daemon, who also did not seem interested in what was happening around them.

He felt an unpleasant chill at the back of his neck at the thought that perhaps he had made the wrong assumption in thinking that he was the first man to have seen her bare body, to have touched her, and he felt a fury bordering on madness overwhelm him.

He had the feeling that none of what he was seeing was really happening.

Vaemond's words, then the sudden entrance of his father, who, though dying, found the strength as usual to defend her, his favourite, only child. He felt himself grinning, felt like laughing at this sight, so pathetic and saying everything about who they were for him.

An addition, a background.

He never felt important, loved or wanted in his eyes.

He was proud of him only once, when he commanded him to marry his niece and he agreed, but even in this he managed to disappoint his hopes.

He felt his breath stuck in his throat as he glanced at her involuntarily at the thought and their eyes met.

It seemed to him to startle her, as if he had caught her in the act.

She lowered her gaze, her eyebrows arched in pain, as if she was suffering at the sight of him.

Why?

Why couldn't he get her out of his thoughts and heart?

"Her children are BASTARDS!" He heard someone's enraged shout and turned his gaze towards him, looking at Vaemond with disbelief and awe.

"And she. Is. A whore."

All gathered made horrified, shocked sounds as the blade sliced through the air and part of Colrys Velaryon brother's head fell to the stone floor.

"He can keep his tongue." Said Daemon with some sort of boredom and disapproval, wiping his Dark Sister, Visenya's sword, against his tunic before the guards could reach him.

It seemed to him that everything that happened around them always came back to her words.

Aegon the Conqueror thought otherwise.

Out of ten nights, nine he spent with Rhaenys.

Standing beside the table before the supper that his father himself had insisted on, his older brother began showering him with questions that he had no desire to answer.

He was glancing once in a while at his niece, his uncle and his eldest daughter, Baela, who was standing on the other side of the chamber, looking at him sinisterly, playing with her necklace.

Whore.

He grinned at the thought of how he'd punched her in the face when they were children and thought he'd love to do it again.

"Our niece has quite a pleasant curves, don't you think, brother? Is she tight, or has uncle Daemon managed to stretch her out properly already?" He muttered while taking a deep sip of wine from his goblet – he looked at him with a gaze from which his elder brother merely rolled his eyes and fell silent.

As the King was carried into the chamber everyone took their seats; he felt his jaw clench at the sight of her sitting at the end of the table to the left of Daemon, as far away from him as possible. His impatience and gloomy musings were interrupted by the voice of his mother, who had decided to pray for Vaemond, and then make a toast.

"I would like to raise my cup for Jace and Baela and Luke and Rhaena, hoping that their marriages will be prosperous and blessed. I would also like to raise my cup to my son, Aemond, who will soon marry one of Lord Baratheon's daughters." She said softly; an uncomfortable silence fell around her, his heart pounding like mad.

He looked at her, but her blank gaze was fixed on her plate, her lips pressed together, her face pale; he had the impression that her body was trembling almost imperceptibly.

Say something, he thought, although he couldn't tell if he was directing his thought to himself or to her.

"I do not recall my brother's decision to marry Prince Aemond to my daughter ever being called into question." Said Daemon, startling him completely, he and his niece cast quick, horrified glances at each other, shocked.

Oh fuck.

Alicent laughed nervously, shaking her head, glancing at her husband for support.

"We've made a mutual decision that it's not worth stinging an old wound, haven't we, my love?" She asked, but his father remained silent.

He pressed his lips together, feeling the rapid beating of his heart as his King looked at him, breathing heavily through his mouth, looking at him thoughtfully, his gaze weary.

"You have made it, Alicent. I never had a say in the matter. But the House of the Dragon will not remain strong unless it is finally united." He said impatiently, in a hoarse, broken voice, slamming his fist on the table, complete silence all around him.

"I do not want my decisions to lead to another misfortune. I am allowing our children to decide." He said with difficulty, his mother shook her head saying that it was impossible, that everything had already been settled.

There was a commotion at the table, Rhaenyra stood up saying that she would not force her daughter to do anything, however, she had already begun courting her to marry her cousin. Aegon laughed out loud, covering his mouth with his hand trying to hide his amusement, glancing at him with raised eyebrows.

He looked at her at last, the woman he had spent the night with, her eyelashes, her dark, wise, warm gaze, her lips parted in pain and fear, her cheeks flushed with emotion, her hair, her neck, her breasts that he caressed with such devotion, her thighs and what was between them, what could only be his if he said the word.

What the fuck was he supposed to do?

"Aemond." His mother's pleading voice snapped him out of his thoughts; he looked at her with wide eye, in her gaze a plea for him not to let her down, not to betray her, to stand by her side.

He swallowed loudly, looking at her again, at the woman who was his curse.

"My niece is disgusted with me, is she not? Tell us what you think of me, my Lady Strong." He said coolly, wanting to shift the burden of this choice onto her, not willing to embarrass himself or show himself as desperate if she were to respond that she would never marry him.

He figured he'd give her a chance to end it once and for all, and then when she left him for the next and final time, he'd kill her with his own hands.

"My place is with you, uncle. It always has been."

Her answer, her expression, her plump lips parted in anguish, the tears at the corners of her eyes, her breasts rising and falling rapidly in horror at what she had just done made him simply stare at her in disbelief, silence all around them.

My place is with you, uncle.

It always has been.

He felt his heart squeeze so hard that he had trouble catching his breath – he lowered his gaze and, with a trembling hand, raised his cup to his lips, taking a deep sip from it, feeling that chaos reigned in his mind.

Despite the fact that for years he did not answer her.

Despite the fact that she was afraid of him.

Despite the fact that he hurt her.

Despite everything.

He looked at her and licked his lower lip, feigning indifference, raising his cup to his lips again to hide the thrill that lurked in his voice.

"So it is decided, father. We will marry."

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@its-actually-minicika @notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @randomdragonfires @apollonshootafar @padfooteyes

Your writing is sooo good, i especially love the suggestive's one. And the smut 🙈

I really loved your story with the reader showing skin et flirting. Do you think you could do the same with War (my fave) and Time pretty please? ✨💖

And sorry for any mistakes, english is not my first language

Anon 🐎

I love Time so much, he helps with the daddy issues

𓇢𓆸.𖥔 ݁ ˖

Wars

Being a Captain was difficult in so many factors.

He had to be precise, smart, authorative, put together.

And right now, he is the complete opposite of those things.

After a messy run-in with some enemies from Legend's Hyrule, most of the group was covered in blood, monster guts, mud, you name it.

So Time suggested they all go wash up in some nearby hot springs, specifically the more private ones for your sake.

By some blessing or curse, Wars was allocated the same hot spring as you, the hot mist of the spring already getting to him

You told him that you'll go on the opposite side of the spring to avoid any awkward eye contact or body's touching.

You both turned around to give each other privacy, stripping all of your clothes and setting them on the side to be washed after they were clean.

You got in first, sighing at the hot water encompassing your entire body. You kept your back turned as Wars got in, letting him have some of his dignity

At the go-ahead, you turned around propping your back against the rocky wall, lazily scrubbing away at the caked-on blood and mud on your forearms.

Wars followed your motions, trying to distact himself from the growing bulge under the water. It was impossible considering the curve of your breasts was very visible through the water and your bare shoulders looked a little too unmarked-

"Wars? Can you get the mud off of my back, you know how unflexible I am."

He nodded, knowing if he said a word his voice would crack, giving away his little problem

Just half a foot away from him, he gently scrubbed the mud off, not going any lower than the surface of the water, after all, he was a gentleman he didn't want to be

You suddently spinned around, your face meeting with his chest

"Why don't I help you out...?"

Pardon-

Did he hear you correctly?

Did you want to...

"Turn around! I'll get your back, you stink!!"

By the Three, he needed to keep his mind out of the gutter.

Time:

He wasn't sure the last time he saw himself wearing the Hero's Garb.

It must've been, what, 5 years ago? 10? He lost track of time.

So when Wild showed him the outfits he had stashed in his Slate, he was suprised to see that it was the very same tunic, and not a replica.

He was suprised a second time when he saw the whole set being worn by you: his Sunflower

You walked back to camp, entranced in a flower you were holding, too preoccupied to notice the eldest taking your form in

By the Three, he forgot how skintight those tights were... but you made them look tailored to you

You look up, a slight blush on your ears, "O-oh, hey! Wild gave me your old tunic to wear, I hope you don't mind."

"I don't mind at all, Sunflower."

He wish he could've taken a picture of how cute you looked, stuttering and blushing.

You walked up to him, the curve of your ass being just barely visible for him to see. Something about you in his clothes made his darker side ignite.

You were called by Wild, needing you to taste something by the fire. You jumped up, jogging up to wild as the short green tunic flounced at your movement. Your chest bounced slightly as you skipped to the cook, Time's eyes slightly lidded at your form.

You leaned over, hands on your knees, giving Time the perfect tease. You looked back at him for a second before biting your lip, giving him the thought that you were doing this on purpose.

You were gonna end him-

𓇢𓆸.𖥔 ݁ ˖

I got this ask on main but thought I'd pick it up here, my comics history/fashion ramble blog. I'd been wondering this exact same thing recently, and Google initially wasn't much help—Rocketeer replica jackets describe themselves only as "Rocketeer jackets" and the one Lobster Johnson cosplay thread just suggested ordering one of those.

The most curious part is the double seam and horizonal row of buttons that mark out the entire front as possibly being an unbuttonable "bib", like a plastron front. (Please don't ask how late in the game I worked out that "plastron" is the right word for that.)

The closest genuine Golden Age example of a plastron jacket I found was the military tunic style uniform of Blackhawk, created in 1941.

(Pics from the '52 movie serial (right) really show how awkward it is to combine open lapels + plastron. On a double breasted coat, that chest panel IS the bottom lapel, folded shut.)

Here's the thing: This outfit mirrors that of the Nazi ace pilot he fights in the origin issue, von Tepp (middle). And compare further to the far right: real life WWI flying ace Manfred von Richthofen, AKA the Red Baron, in imperial German Uhlan (lance cavalry) uniform.

"The Germans had designed such great costumes, we decided to use them ourselves," co-creator Cuidera is quoted as saying in Steranko's History of Comics, which (more dubiously, in my opinion) compares the look to the Gestapo or SS. Breeches or jodhpurs weren't strictly a Nazi thing at the time, but they do add to the overall effect.

Compare two other military tunic themed costumes from 1940, on Captain Marvel and Bucky Barnes. These are asymmetrically buttoned, and switch to a more classic circus strongman look below the waist.

But somewhere around 1975, with the Invaders book, Bucky gets a buttoned bib! There's something infectious about it—the symmetry, maybe. (Even re: the characters we started with; Mignola didn't draw Lobster Johnson with buttons down the right side, but every artist after does. And Spider-Noir wore a sweater under his coat until Shattered Dimensions introduced the double-breasted vest.)

If it didn't reach his belt, Barnes' button-on front + shirt collar combo would resemble a bib-front western shirt, like the one that became the Rawhide Kid's signature look in '56. (Or Texas Twister's in '76.)

This shirt entered the old-West-obsessed public imagination in the 1940s/50s largely because John Wayne wore it in several cowboy movies. In reality it was rare among cowboys, more common with firefighters and civil war era militia.

Military tunics, Western shirts, alright, but does anything match the style and material and era, or are these jackets a total anachronism? I tried looking into 1930s leather flight jackets and was surprised when the closest-looking results were marked as Luftwaffe.

It took me a bit to work out why: USAF and RAF issued standard flight jackets with a center closure. The Luftwaffe instead let their pilots buy non-standardized ones. The 'weird' double-breasted black German flight jackets were in fact fairly normal (but repurposed) motorcycle racing jackets.

Far left is an English biker's jacket that dates back to the 1920s. Even without the bib, this may be as close as you'll get to an authentic Rocketeer. The jodhpurs were pretty common to complete the look. (What was an early motorcycle anyways, if not a weird metal horse?) The first biker jacket with the now iconic off-center diagonal zip was designed in America in 1928 and yet as far as I can tell, not a single actual pre-war pulp hero wore one.

The greatest weakness of this post is that I haven't been able to find any of these artists' notes on how, exactly, they arrived at similar versions of this iconic Pulp Front Panel Jacket. I'm sure I've missed some things. But as far as I can tell, this jacket is an odd bit of convergent stylistic evolution from the above influences that's picked up enough momentum to now be self-perpetuating.

The problem with pulp heroes is that for the most part, they just wore clothes. The appeal of this jacket is actually very similar to what the 1940s thought the appeal of the bib-front shirt in westerns was: It's alien enough to feel "old". It looks like something invented before zippers or synthetic fabrics. It looks formal and militant but also renegade, rebellious. It also looks a little mad-sciencey*. It's a costume, but you can nearly fool yourself into thinking the past was weird enough that you could find something this cool on the rack.

If I wanted to end on some grand point, I could try to argue that there's a thematic throughline between fascist fashion, John Wayne movies, and throwback pulp. A manufactured aesthetic valorizing the violence of a fictional golden age... but I think the noir stylings of the post-Rocketeer comics in this lineup mean that, at least on some level, they know the "good guys" didn't dress like this.

*If I had another couple weeks of time to burn, I'd try to trace the visual history of the Howie coat in popular culture and investigate its possible connections to this. Alas, I do actually have a life.

Every day I love more "sorry, but I think I lost your plot", I really enjoy reading updates <3

I wanted to know if Stoick will force Hiccup to have a talk about girls after all

Or hiccup overthinking about the attempt of kiss while our reader doesn't know how to continue in denial

Sorry for my bad english, I tried my best :(

Sorry, but I Think I Lost Your Plot pt 22

Pairing: Onesided!Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III x Modern!Fem!Reader

Words: 1,846

Stoick ends up arguing with his son when all he wants to do is talk. Hiccup is mad.

Tags: Time Travel, Reader into Movieverse, Dragons: Defenders of Berk, Fright of Passage, post episode, Hiccup’s POV, Reader’s POV, unedited, half-fill

<Previous - Next>

“Son.”

The sounds of the chittering of bugs and animals and leaves were lighter by the village, much lighter than when he’d been walking in the woods with you.

He wasn’t sure how long he stood there standing before he had been approached.

Knowing who it was was enough to immediately sour his mood.

Hiccup didn’t have to look over to tell who spoke, as his father was the only one with a presence large enough to sense from a mile away, at least when he was aware of it, and there was no one else with as heavy or confident a step on Berk.

“Dad?” Hiccup held in a deep sigh, looking crossly out over the village, purposefully not looking towards his feet, brows dropping into a furrowed line. He had the idea his Dad was looking out over Berk in the same way. He didn’t have to look.

He remembered a time they spent staring in a much similar way, out over the docks just before his Dad had gone after the nest and he’d gone and tamed Toothless.

“Where have you been?” Stoick asked gruffly, staring down at his son. 

He wished he had gone now and gone fast.

Hiccup shot a quick glare to his right, where his father stood, eyes making contact with his large, turquoise tunic, metal kilt and furred boots.

“Busy,” he said, after a long moment’s silence.

He still had blueprints laid out across his desk in the forge. He could have gone and tried to sleep in there, clinging onto the whisps of the nice evening you had had.

Hiccup was more a do-er than an organizer. He was having a hard time trying to figure out how to organize the pipes. If they ever clogged…The lower tunnels were prone to flash flooding when it rained.

Maybe he just needed to make more space, do some excavation, give the rainwater time to pool off. 

But he’d been spending a lot of time with his Dad recently.

He was still upset with his Dad, though he wasn’t sure the large man realized it.

He remembered Fireworm island, when his Dad had played pick-up, scrutinizing you the whole time in a way that made you so obviously uncomfortable. And he looked positively incensed as he did it.

He definitely remembered before that, when he’d gone asking you questions about responsibility and after when he and Hiccup had been eating dinner over the fire and his Dad had some questions to ask and words to say about you then.

He was going to chase you away before Hiccup could get a word out about how he really felt. That wasn’t funny or fond; he hadn’t been involved enough in Hiccup’s life to care, or to judge.

He shouldn’t judge you at all, anyhow. He didn’t know you; not at all.

Hiccup liked you a lot.

He didn’t want to rough you up like the other Vikings did to each other and he didn’t want his Dad sizing you up the whole time you were around as if you were the last, tiny piece of meat on a stick.

He didn’t want his Dad to waste your time when he wasn’t even sure if you liked him.

Hiccup grimaced.

Stoick looked down at his son, face impassive, though for him, impassive meant stormy, “You missed family dinner.”

A spear or, as it felt the most like -a jolt, a sudden itch of irritation made itself known, jabbing through his gut, to his heart.

He knew that.

He didn’t want to say anything, but the, “Yeah,” came unbidden.

He shifted, not really feeling the cold as anything more than a passing breeze. 

The fur lining the neck of his vest tickled his nape, the tufts that used to stand fluffy on top of it matted and uncomfortable. They didn’t bother him enough for him to replace it, yet.

“Hiccup,” His father said sternly, in a tone that made Hiccup rile, “From now on, I expect you to-”

“Well, unless you and Gobber start making out, I don’t think we’re much of a family,” Hiccup regretted it nearly the moment he said it, but he kept his jaw stubbornly set, glaring outwards, keeping his eyes painfully focused on a vague discolored roof. Was it painted? 

It was too dark to tell, all the houses the same shade of muddy blue in the dark.

It was times like these he wished he had a mother instead of a Dad.

He’d spent many nights eating dinner on his lonesome with no problem, and so had his Dad. And they’d both been fine.

Hiccup wished his Dad would leave so he had more time to ogle off into the village. Or that he would step away far enough for him to complain about his Dad to himself in relative silence.

“You like… the girl,” Stoick spoke again, finally, “Were you following her?”

Hiccup was reminded quickly of the talke they had at dinner before and wrinkled his nose, cheek twitching and he fought down a disgruntled glower.

“I can… I can help,” Stoick spoke again, resting his hand on Hiccup’s shoulder. Hiccup was hit with another spike of irritation at the idea. He didn’t want to admit it but he was sure his Dad knew, and he knew that Hiccup knew exactly what he was referring to, “But these things have always been… difficult.”

His Dad’s hand was meaty and thick, warm not in a comfortable way, but in a palm sweat sort of way, which he could feel even through his fur vest.

He might’ve felt proud another time, to have his father do something that would usually be symbolic of his pride, but.

He didn’t like it.

“Then don’t,” Hiccup snapped again, though his tone of voice was sort of questioning, which perhaps made it sound just a bit more snarky. Hiccup threw his arms wide as he spoke and then dropped them again, “I wasn’t following her and I’m fine on my own. I don’t want your help, if it means you’ll just be glaring at her the whole time.”

He was sure that really didn’t win him -Hiccup or Stoick- any brownie points. It definitely didn’t win his Dad any with Hiccup, not that that mattered. 

He wasn’t sure exactly why his Dad was doing this; there really didn’t seem to be a point. What was there for him to vet?

His Dad sighed heavily, “You’re not… friends?”

Hiccup looked down, straining and grabbed his collar to look on the part of his shirt on the inside by his beck.

There it was.

There was a bead half hidden under his collar where the twine keeping his collar closed looped into one of the few purposeful holes in his tunic, the string emerging facing outwards, towards the world, on the other side.

The wooden one.

It pressed against his collarbone uncomfortably, pressed gently closer to his chest by the fabric, but he didn’t care.

He let go of his collar frustratedly and he tried to come up with an answer for his Dad.

“We’ve been friends. Acquaintances, ” Hiccup insisted, clenching his jaw a bit harder than he perhaps had to afterwards.

The tension between the two was palpable, and like a clogged pipe, and as it usually did, Hiccup was certain it was bound to explode soon.

He wished his Dad would get the message, the hair on the back of his neck standing up, the same way he was sure Toothless’ would when he was frustrated if he had any.

Just as Hiccup expected things to hit a mild and subtle crescendo and as he expected to meet face to face with the mildest version of his father’s temper, Stoick spoke again.

“...I’m sorry.”

Hiccup was startled, “What?”

His father wasn’t one for apologies. Even after he’d tamed Toothless, he’d never gotten an apology. No, just an ‘I’m proud,’ though for him, that was all they needed.

Stoick sighed exhaustively, then spoke gruffly, yet slowly as if choosing his words with caution, the same way he did during a dispute with the other villagers, instead of in the commanding way he spoke to Hiccup,  “I’m… I apologize. For how I behaved, earlier.”

Like most things, all the other words that needed passing between them went unsaid, but as it went since the Red Death, Hiccup got the message anyways.

His Dad started listening instead of standing immovably, commanding Hiccup more than he ever opened his ears, which was never. For the most part.

But, something tickled at the back of his mind, and with exhaustive clarity, he came to a sort of realization.

The way he said it, it kind of reminded him of the few times he’d let Gobber coach him on what to say, and the few times he’d let Gobber reenact his ideal family make-up scenario; Which, of course, Hiccup himself had never put much stock in.

Hiccup remembered all the times he’d taken advice from his mentor; when he was a kid, putting eggs in his shoes to deter trolls, Gobber telling him to drop his socks in the forge furnace because they’d be fine, just cleaner after; using Yak for everything…. Hiccup was pretty sure the whole yak thing was a hoax.

“It’s alright, Dad,” Hiccup said reluctantly though not without honesty. He was still too sour to apologize, which was one thing he and his Dad usually had in common, at least when it came to each other. 

He had no idea how it started, but they were both equally as stubborn, and he had a hard time feeling sorry right then, anyways.

Flirting, dating advice form Gobber when he was still into Astrid, which never worked, friend-making advice, dad-talking-to advice, which seemed to be the only kind of advice Hiccup could take from him without it blowing up in his face, not that he’d ever actually tried it yet. 

It was just the principle of it; things usually ended up going wrong anyways the moment Gobber opened his mouth, something Hiccup seemed to pick up from him just the same.

This had Gobber written all over it. And Hiccup was sour at the fact that it was beginning to work.

“Still,” Hiccup said, slouching and grumbling petulantly, though he was slightly pleased at being on the other end of thai conversation for once, “...You should stop taking advice from Gobber.”

You covered your mouth with your hand, trying to keep your legs from giving out.

You propped yourself against the cool side of another hut, deep in Berk’s village, trying to keep quiet in case there were any Vikings inside sleeping, as if you were trying to creep around a set of thin tripwires.

Your hands were shaking as you went over the events of the last few hours in your mind as you stumbled through the village, face heated.

The vial, you pulled gently from your waist wrappings. It was glowing slightly where some of the water had soaked into the cork stopper

I'm not sure if you completed Totk yet, so I'm gonna try and word this in the most spoiler-free way possible.

There is a tunic that you can acquire referred to as the "Challenger Leathers" and according to Purah, it was a gift made by Zelda for Link to wear. But she was sent back in time before she could give it to him. Now imagine how Link would feel learning this after finding Zelda's memories and what became of her

So I finished Totk so don't worry I don't risk spoilers 😊

I assume you're referring to the new Champion's tunic, right? I don't know what the name is in English but it's the only tunic that Zelda hides because it was a gift for Link.

Now I state that I found that tunic just opened the very first tower, going to explore the castle was the first thing I did when I set foot in Hyrule 😅. I don't know why I lit the torches but as a result I found the tunic right away.

I read Zelda's diary later and it made me so sad to know that she hadn't been able to give him this surprise gift. I think this game has shown how much these Zelda and Link in particular care about each other, and I love that so much!

I imagine that Link felt very sad, I dare not imagine what he might feel, since it is very clear that they have more than a friendship relationship, it is useless for Nintendo to try to disguise it, is clear as day and the clues are many.

I like to think that Zelda hid it in the castle because actually Link was always next to her, this makes this gift even more special, I just love this detail so much! 🥹💖

I hope you like the sketch! Thanks for this ask!

You Were Marked: Day Four.

pairing: din djarin x fem!O/C    

word count:   2.1K 

summary: Din cannot stop laughing, Marathel ends up in a tree, and eggs are thrown with extreme prejudice 

warnings: Mando'a and English cursing, violence to unborn ovoids 

You Were Marked: Masterlist 

<- You Were Marked: Previous Chapter 

Din was still somewhere between dreaming and waking. He could only see soft, fading images in his mind: a gentle curve of a jawline, a slope of a pale-skinned shoulder. He heard a soft voice, quietly saying, “No . . . we can’t . . .” This denial made him furrow his brow even as he dozed, still gently supported in the herbal-scented clouds of sleep. Whyever not? He thought in his sleep. “No . . . don’t . . .” the soft voice pleaded again. No, don’t say ‘no’, he dreamed, but his dream was cut off like hitting a brick wall when he heard Marathel say, “Grogu! No, don’t!”, and Din felt the pounce of the little green goblin on his lower abdomen, not quite his area but close enough to make him grunt loudly with an “URGH,” and struggle to a sitting position with a babbling Grogu in his lap. 

Marathel, outside the dark curtained cubicle, stammered, “I’m so sorry, Bounty Hunter! I told him not to wake you . . .” 

“’s all right,” Din muttered as he pushed himself to a standing position, Grogu in the crook of his arm. “Time I was up. What the shab is so important, huh, buddy?” He stepped through his curtains and looked up to see Marathel standing primly in the center of the room, her hands clasped over her stomach. His first thought was that she was doing her best to look anywhere but at his face – well, helmet -- and his second thought was that she looked quite pretty today. Instead of her usual tunics and pants of dull tans, greens, and greys, she was wearing a gown of sunset yellow that fell into a swirl of fabric just above her ankles. Over this she wore a smock of deep charcoal grey, embroidered with yellow flowers around the neckline. Her silver hair was pulled back in a matching yellow scarf that was twisted around her shock of hair and tied off at the end.  

Marathel looked dismayed that Din was awakened in such a startling manner. “I told Grogu that I needed his help this morning, but we couldn’t leave until you had awakened. I did not want you to find him missing. But . . . he is impatient.” 

“Where are you going?” 

“To collect eggs.” 

“Eggs? Already?” 

She looked at his helmet for the first time, confused. “What? Oh . . . no. Not Dahl eggs. It is not quite time for those. Chook eggs.” Din tilted his helmet at her in his quiet way that she already knew meant that he needed more information. “Chooks are, uh . . . fluttery, rather stupid ground birds. They lay lots of eggs that are good for eating. I thought it may be fun for him.” She gestured to the table, where a covered plate waited. “I made you some breakfast. Grogu has already eaten. We will just be past the vegetable garden, if it is acceptable to you?”  

She had returned to her nervous formality of a couple days previous, Din noticed, as she dropped her head, and her hands began to go up her sleeves. Din stepped over and placed Grogu in her arms before her hands disappeared. “That is fine with me. That is within shouting distance, I think." 

Marathel turned a light shade of a very becoming pink having Din so close to her. She nodded, and said, “We will not be long. You will have privacy, and I will shout as we get near.” She turned towards this kitchen, cooing to Grogu, “Yes, we can finally go now, little one.” The two stepped off the platform and disappeared around the rock ridge. Din waited a few more moments, and sure he was alone, removed his helmet and gloves. He lifted the cover off the plate: toasted slabs of bread with soft cheese and fruit, with some pan-fried meat. A fresh mug of her herbal tea. He had been eating better these past few days than he had the past few months – not that he was complaining – but food was not a high priority for him. He could get too used to this kind of treatment. And the bread. Osik, she made good bread. He shoved a slab into his mouth before he even sat down.  What a good wife she would make, he thought idly, before he quashed that idea. He was not in the market for such an arrangement. He had all he could do to keep the child safe from the Imps, as well as keeping his Creed without entangling with a woman or any partner on a long-term basis. He had told Omera essentially that, and he hoped that she had found the person she needed. 

And what – or whom – did Marathel need? He scoffed, and muttered, “She got what she needed last night,” under his breath with a smirk, and then silently chided himself for such an unkind thought. He finished eating, and then took the opportunity of being alone to clean himself up, washing his hair, cleaning the bite wound again with a fresh layer of salve – this brought a small grin to his face -- and changing out his thermals and flight suit for a fresh set he had brought with him from the ship. He was in the process of reattaching his cuisses when he heard a distant shriek. Certain that it came from the direction of where Marathel and Grogu had gone, Din leapt into action and was already running that way, strapping on his jetpack and two of his most favorite blasters as he went. He heard Marathel scream, “Bounty Hunter! Bounty Hunter!” making him panic. He was already thinking the worst: Grogu was hurt in some way, a chook had pecked him in the eye, a rabid Dahl was making off with the both of them – as Din tore past the vegetable garden and leapt over the fencing that enclosed the chooks, noticing that the chooks she spoke of were indeed some sort of chicken. Skidding to a halt in the middle of the enclosure, sending chooks fluttering and clucking in all directions, Din saw that Grogu was fine. Grogu, in fact, looked perfectly pleased with himself, sitting on the ground, the basket beside him, as he held an egg in each hand. He looked quizzically up at Din and then ate one of the eggs whole. But Marathel was nowhere to be seen. Din spun around, shouting, “Marathel? Marathel! Where are you?” 

“I am . . . oof . . . up here!” 

He followed the sound of her voice, looking about 10 meters up the large tree that shadowed the chook pen. There was a distinct rustle of branches and some leaves fell, as he finally saw her perched up in the tree, balanced on her belly on a branch, reaching down to the next branch with her swinging feet. “What . . . what are you doing up there?” 

Marathel struggled a bit with a grunt, but finally made it down to the next branch. “He put me up here!” she yelled, pointing at Grogu. 

Din was finding it impossible to hide his amusement. “Why?” 

“Because you have taught him no manners!” She began to try to climb down to the next branch and was not succeeding at all. “Oof . . . I told him to stop eating all the eggs . . . I scolded him . . .” Marathel scraped her bare foot on sharp piece of bark. “Ow, ow, damnych! I scolded him, and the next thing I knew, I was up this tree!” 

Din gaped at her, then looked down at Grogu, who grinned cheekily at him, and then back up at Marathel, who was glaring back at him in fury. The laughter burbled up from deep in his gut, from a place that had not been so tickled in such a long time, and he could not help it, he burst into peals of laughter that made his sides hurt. He held his sides, bent over, trying to get control of himself, but he looked back up at Marathel standing so haughtily in that tree, and then she stamped her foot, shouting, “It is NOT funny!” The sight of her stamping her foot set him off again, and tears were rolling down his face at how ridiculous she looked. She clumsily scrambled down to the next branch, and then yelled down to him, “Are you going to help me down or not?” 

Din could barely catch his breath. “You . . . look like you’re doing just fine on your own!” 

Marathel struggled down from branch to branch, cursing at Din in her old language and muttering. “Just as bad as Grogu, you are . . . just like a child! You aren’t doing that boy any favors . . . putting me up a tree . . .” and then her gown caught on a twig and tore a large rip in the back of the skirt, effectively shutting Din up instantly. Marathel gasped in horror, twisting to see the back of her dress, crying out “Oh, damnych and double damnych!” She was close to the bottom of the tree now, so she set herself hanging from the lowest branch she could by her hands. Din went to her, putting up his hands to catch her as she came down. Unfortunately, his hands were on her smock over her waist, and the smock slid up against her dress as she slid down, and his hands ended up bracketing her breasts and holding them high against her chest, accidentally -- mostly. Marathel gasped in outrage and shoved Din as hard as she could. “Why, you . . .” She stomped away from him, spitting over her shoulder, “Y mallawer perlys, on chydich mown dynion!” 

Din chuckled quietly. “What does that mean?” 

Marathel grabbed the basket. “It means, ‘there is much virtue in herbs, but little in men!’” You’re not wrong there, thought Din. She swept a chook out of the way with her foot, sending it fluttering away, Grogu giving chase. She grabbed two eggs out of a nest with too much force, smashing the shells. Disgusted, she threw the broken eggs on the ground, snapping, “Now look what you made me do!” 

Din tilted his helmet. “Why are you so mad?” 

“I am NOT mad!” This, of course, was a lie, and Marathel grabbed another egg, this time throwing it into her basket with enough force to annihilate both it and two more eggs in the basket. She grunted in rage and picked up some more eggs.  

Din shifted his weight to one hip, crossing his arms over his cuirass. “You know, for someone who’s not mad, you’re sure making one hell of a mess out of those eggshells.”  

Marathel glared at him, and chucked an egg right at his head, where it exploded on his visor. Din fell about laughing again, wiping the egg mess off his helmet. “Whoo! Look out, Empire, we have a Stormtrooper who can actually hit something!” 

“Oh, shut up!”  Marathel stomped off through the gate of the pen, slammed it shut behind her, and began marching down the lane back to her hut. 

“Seriously, they could use someone like you!” Din shouted at her back. She whirled around, throwing another egg, which he tried to catch against his hip in his hands as it smashed into mush. “That’s what I’m talking about, lady!” he said, laughing even harder. 

“RHAFF CODIEH!” Marathel screeched over her shoulder. 

“And what does that mean?” 

“It means PISS UP A ROPE!”  

Marathel continued to march away so fast she was kicking up clouds of dirt at her ankles, her torn skirt swaying with each step, arms pumping at her sides. Din continued to laugh until he was certain she was out of earshot. He stood there, hands on hips, chuckling. “Ahhhh . . . Haar’chak.” He looked down at Grogu, who was covered in feathers and holding another egg, completely nonplussed by all the activity around him.  Grogu looked back at Din, grinning. Then he ate the egg. With a sigh, Din picked up the little green morsel, brushing the feathers from his tiny robes. “I think we’re in trouble, kiddo.” 

You Were Marked: Next Chapter

Made Of Steel

Chapter 1: Get Into It

- Clark Kent (Superman) x Female Reader/You -

-> 18+ readers only!

-> English is not my native language, so bear with me because there will probably be some grammatical mistakes.

Summary: Desperate times desperate measures. Until the bargain becomes too much for you to handle, can you survive superman?

Rating: Mature, Explicit.

A/N: Ahla Bikom! I’m very excited about this fic—shoutout to @lokisbxtches​ for her support. I’m very lucky to have such amazing readers. This is for you. Please let me know if you think I should keep going. ENJOY.

Before you and Agent Abdul reached his vehicle in the outdoor parking lot, the rain began to fall heavily. You would have brought your umbrella if you had known. To keep up with him, you extended your strides while holding your bag above your head. Raindrops stung your cheeks as they lashed across your face in the wind. Finally, the agent opened the door for you while your tunic and shoes were drenched. You squeezed the water out of your braids and shut the door, trying in vain to save the leather seats from becoming ruined. Great, your hair was going to frizz.

"Thank you again for coming , doctor," he declared, getting inside the car with you. 

"You said you needed my help, so here I am."

He quickly buckled his seatbelt before launching the engine and accelerating out of the hospital parking lot. You sat in silence, trying your best to get acclimated to the cold AC inside. You shivered as the breeze brushed against your arms and legs. Your wet clothes clung to your body. 

"Oh, sorry," he apologized, noticing you quivering. He turned the AC off and zipped up the vents to blow warm air inside.

"It's alright," you answered, rubbing your arms. After that, the car was silent except for the steady rain tapping against the outside of the windows. 

The city of Metropolis was quickly left behind, replaced by a growing grassy slope and a robust variety of old-growth trees. You recognized them from the many trees walks you had attended and the many summer camps you went to when you were just a little girl. The whole area was a common place to hike. The view was soothing and relaxing. 

The agent drove thirty minutes through the forest. He finally began to slow down as you reached a massive building. The thick cemented walls and dark gray color gave the impression that what was inside was highly classified. The high-rise tower had a dizzying number of floors. The structure was guarded by four armed guards who stood at attention at the entrance. Once agent Adbul identified himself and displayed his badge, they let you through. 

What is this place? You asked yourself as he parked the car. The purpose of your visit was not fully disclosed. A strange feeling started bubbling in your chest. It almost felt like dread.

"Here we are," agent Abdul announced, stepping out of the vehicle. 

— — — — 

"You want me to do some tests on superman?" you frowned. "No, I want to make sure I heard you right," you cast a doubtful look at the men in front of you. "Superman? The one who flies around Metropolis and stops supervillains? You want me to conduct tests on him?" 

"Yes," one of the men, who introduced himself as agent Richards, nodded. "We need to understand his DNA, how his system works, the toiling of his body, the limitations-"

"Absolutely not," you firmly protested, cutting him off. 

A serious look came over Richards' face as he removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. "We don't have time for this," he huffed. "If you don't comply, I'll have your medical license revoked."

"Excuse me?" 

"We are aware of your prior drug addiction, doctor. You talk a lot in those NA meetings." 

You froze, stunned by his threat. His words reverberated through your mind.

"You have been monitoring me?" 

"Just call it safety precautions," he replied, shrugging. "Do as you're told. You are not permitted to discuss this matter with anyone. I'm sure you understand it is a confidential case. Governmental affairs. Otherwise, I'll be forced to use extreme measures and you don't want that doctor, right?" 

───────── ∙ ~εïз~ ∙ ──────────

- Masterlist -

- Taglist -

Childhood Follies

England sat down with a thump, old but faithful springs groaning under his weight as he joined Wales on the lounge. “Australia is in the tree again.”

Wales looked up from his reading, some clichéd murder mystery that he’d picked up on the advice of Scotland, but was increasingly finding too outlandish for his tastes, grateful for the distraction as he raised an eyebrow.

“What, again? Isn’t this the third time-”

“This month? I know.” England sighed, normally sharp edges and quick eyes lulled to softness in the face of thoughts of his children, as exasperating as they could be. For not the first time, Wales thought about how much Fatherhood suited him, how children seemed to bring out a strange calmness in him, especially fascinating after long centuries of watching his brother divulge in non-stop warfare, covering himself in blood and cruelty.

“You’d honestly think we were starving the child of all entertainment.” England grumbled, unknowing of his brother’s thoughts, and Wales blinked, tilting his head up.

“Maybe Australia is just adjusting to the different environment,” Wales suggested lightly, although Australia had been “adjusting” to Britain for around five years now, and showed no signs of stopping any of his antics, tree climbing or otherwise.  England grimaced, the pointed furrow of his brows indicating he had come to the same conclusion, and crossed his arms, looking skyward as if any answers had ever come from heaven, despite the numerous bloody wars fought in his name.

“Right, and I’m sure the mud the maids found poured into the bathtub was just Australia “adjusting to the different environment” as well.” He said with a snort, back straight in a way that betrayed how much he wanted to sink down and join Wales in his relaxed position, but couldn’t for the sake of propriety.

English manners, honestly, Wales thought in exasperation and with a well concealed smirk, before blinking at his brother’s sentence.

“Did he really?”  England grimaced in reply. “Apparently, a toad managed to find it’s way in with the mud as well. It gave Edna quiet the fright.”

Edna was the head maid of the household, a quiet but dutiful women, stern with the children but an old hand at dealing with the follies of childhood. She was good at her job, made better by asking very little questions about the nature of the master’s she served. Wales had trouble picturing anything frightening her.

He grinned at his brother instead. “Playing with mud? Climbing on trees? I wonder who he got that from.”

England raised an eyebrow in response, frowning as if to dismiss the idea entirely. “I haven’t the slightest clue what you’re talking about.”

“Oh really? No memories of skulking through the trees like a particularly determined monkey, or shoving mud down the backs of our tunics? I remember mother-”

Wales stopped suddenly, shutting his mouth at once and looking at his brother, whose frame had grown as tense as a bow string at his words, his eyes darkening. He cursed himself slightly. 

England’s warm veneer of companionship these past few months had lulled him  into a false sense of security, despite all the practice he had had after the long years he had been by his brother’s side. A conquest, not a partnership.

Childhood, or as close to it they could get as nations, was a tricky subject to approach, especially without the presence of alcohol already at hand, and doubly so for mentioning their mother. 

Wales cleared his throat, trying desperately to come up with words to soften the blow, or change the subject.

“Well,” He said instead, awkwardly. “That is to say-”

“I suppose I was a bit of a brat.” England interrupted, and Wales blinked, whipping his head up from where he had dropped his gaze to the floor to avoid looking at his brother.

England was staring incredibly hard at the window, a faint tint of red down his cheeks, his body still stiff but slightly curled in on himself, and Wales realized that this was England attempting to be civil.

“You-” He started, unsure of what he was going to say himself before England cut him off, defensive but undoubtedly calm.

“But really, most of the time you all deserved it. And it was ever so funny watching Rome stumble about in the forest, trying to find me but with never the presence of mind to look up.” England delivered this with a certain smugness, and Wales found himself smiling, just a little.

Sometimes through the centuries, that comment would of gotten him poisonous looks and sharp rebukes, other’s still a decade of silence. At very bad times, violence would be had. 

Now the only thing it got him was England, slightly embarrassed but still characteristically himself, stubbornness and all. 

Wales hoped fervently that it was a sign for the times to come. He would always love his little brother, (a trait that had betrayed him in the past) but sometimes it was easier than others.  

“You’re admitting that tree climbing is a useful skill? Why, I should go find Australia now and tell him the good news!” Wales made to stand, as if to physically go find the boy right then and there, but was foiled by his brother’s pale hand shoving him back down with a huff.

“Oh, focus on that why don’t you.” England grumbled, the tension of the earlier conversation washed away with the familiar banter. “Besides, I was hardly the only one who used such tactics.” This was said with a significant look at Wales, and he grinned.

“Yes, but I never denied it.” 

England aimed a bony elbow into Wales’ gut, and Wales laughed, shifting himself on the lounge and picking up his book to once more try and struggle through it’s ridiculous plot. With a role of his eyes England also picked up his own project, a lovely piece of embroidery that absorbed all his attention as they continued on in comfortable silence, a pleasant night made possible only through the years of understanding between them.

The next day, after nervously presenting himself to England’s study for the deliverance of his punishment, Australia was baffled to find himself waved away without rebuke, only a small reminder to apologize to the maids.

“But why?” he asked Wales later, confused and a little skeptical.

“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, lad.” said Wales with a shake of his head, a knowing glimmer in the corner of his eye. 

hello! maybe Samson/Thalia (always love some messy Samson lmao) with the otherwordly prompt of "Numinous (English, origin Latin) - (adj.) Describing an experience that makes you fearful yet fascinated, awed yet attracted — the powerful, personal feeling of being overwhelmed and inspired."

OH BOY what a dynamite prompt!! So perfect! I tried hard with this one tho tbh I'm not sure I quite got there in the end? Ah well.

@demarogue also had similar designs:

For @dadrunkwriting

Set in some far-flung point in nightmare au, whence Thalia has already agreed to join Samson as a hostage.

WC: 1581

CW: Samson is a creepy sad sack; referenced past non-con/dub-con situation; non-consensual touching

---

They lie on the bed in the old Orlesian emperor’s quarters — her in a shift, he fully clothed. She was on her stomach, clutching a pillow, sprawled perpendicular. He had propped himself up against the ornate headboard, pulled her leg into his lap, and absently massaging her bare foot.

He seemed to prefer things this way. She learned to let her hair down before he summoned her, to appear comfortable with him and interested in what he had to say. In return, his touches were gentle, and he never attempted a repeat performance of the first night. 

Thalia worried he was biding his time, to capture her with her guard down. Then she wondered if he would dare, or whether the humiliation had proved too much. Or maybe, deep down, he was ashamed. It was difficult to tell. Samson carried on as a man in the midst of a delusion — as if she had chosen him from the start. As if the name Cullen did not exist. 

“You seem far away.” The words slipped from her mouth without her permission. She could have done with more silence. Sometimes he talked, but was careful to reveal only broad strokes: his men were restless, Empress Calpernia was trying his patience, Corypheus had not done him the courtesy of returning his messages. He did not trust her, nor was she sure he ever would. Thalia knew someone braver would try, would do whatever it took. She did not possess that fortitude.

“Hmm?” Samson roused, blinking at her with languid eyes. How much of the red had he taken today? Enough to keep his hands from shaking. His fingers were warm as they encircled her ankle. The knuckle in her sole felt almost pleasant. “I’m right here. Nothing to worry about.” 

Playacting, that’s what this was. She had to feign concern, so he could believe in the version of her that existed in his head. Thalia sat up, frowning. One side of her shift slipped off her shoulder and she didn’t bother to pull it back into place. “Are you sure?” 

No, he wasn’t sure. He was too taut, like a bowstring about to snap. “I’ve got to address the troops tomorrow. They’re being sent off to—” Samson caught himself at the last moment, grimacing. “Don’t matter where. They should hear from their general before they go.” 

You can tell me. That’s what she should say, drawing closer to him. Maybe if she sat in his lap again, and played with the plum collar of his tunic, she could pry it from him. 

No. He would see through that. Maybe he’d get angry and backhand her. The force of the blow from one so fueled by red lyrium could crack bone with little effort. 

“A speech,” she said instead, and Samson nodded. 

“To boost morale. Morale is so bloody important, when you ask your men to lay everything down for you.”

He ought to know, she supposed. Thalia had seen Sahrnia quarry, had seen Maddox die for him. Cullen had called him a friend, once. Samson inspired something in people, that much was obvious. She drew a little closer, dipping her head demurely. “You could practice, perhaps. On me?” 

Samson’s eyebrows shot up into his high forehead, but his eyes betrayed the desire. “You wanna hear it?” 

She nodded. “If you wish to share it.”

“It’s not — well. It’s sort of something that mostly exists up here.” He tapped his temple. “Comes out best in the moment, I think.”

Embarrassed? Thalia wondered. He’ll run his mouth to rally the Red Templars to his cause, but he won’t let his guard down in front of a woman? It tracked, but she still found it curious. 

She could tell him she did this sort of thing with Cullen frequently. Brainstorming sessions often lasted late into the night. And sometimes, they’d adjourn up the ladder to his quarters, where she sunk into his bed and he showered her with soft kisses—

Best not. 

“I’m sure it’s very inspiring,” Thalia said lightly. 

Samson smiled. Most of his teeth were quite grey. He reached out a hand. “C’mere.”

Thalia slid closer. He encircled her with his arms and she settled against his chest. He liked this. She suspected she could fake this better part than paid company. The only part. 

He wound a finger in her hair. Thalia closed her eyes and pretended it was Cullen. She could endure this, just for a little longer. Dorian was due in Val Royeaux soon with his retinue of Venatori, and then… maybe…

“What are you thinking, little lamb?” Samson put his thumb under her chin and turned her head, gently, to face him.

“Just wondering if you could tell me a story,” Thalia lied. 

“What? Like a bedtime story?” He let out a raspy guffaw. 

Thalia shrugged. He liked her docile and meek, now that he had her. Should she not play into his perception that she was a child? “I don’t know. You didn’t want to try your speech on me—”

“Oh, she’s very cross about that, is she?” 

“—I’m just saying, it might be useful to workshop your ideas.” Maker, what was she on about? She should leave the stupid speech alone.

Now he was practically in hysterics, doubled over and laughing so hard he went into a coughing fit. Thalia slapped him on the back without thinking; then, horrified, withdrew. He recovered a few seconds later, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. 

“You are something else, love.” 

“All right, fine. Tell me something true, then. Tell me— why you decided to become a Templar.” She grasped the topic out of the air, though deep down she had always wondered. Cullen had been scant on the details of Samson’s origins; just that they had been friendly before Samson’s expulsion. 

He narrowed his eyes at her, as if to gauge whether she was serious. “Why do you wanna know that?”

“Because.” It implies you had a shred of honor once. “I’m curious.” 

Samson sighed, scraping his hand down his narrow face. “Fine. It were a long time ago now, twenty years or more. You must have been a babe at the breast at the time.” The thought didn’t seem to trouble him. “I was, shall we say, a man of humble means back then. I had nothing, came from nothing. Classic story of Lowtown through and through, see?” 

Thalia nodded. “A beggar?”

He smirked. “Nah, nothing so noble. Young men don’t have the patience, neither. Easier to take the coin than ask.” 

“So a thief?”

“Cutpurse, more like. Thieves tend to plan heists, join guilds or the Carta. Kids are less organized; just trying to eat, usually.” 

Thalia swallowed hard. She found such an existence difficult to imagine. Samson nodded, as if reading her mind. “Don’t expect you know much about it.” 

“I’m sorry, I… that sounds challenging.”

Samson snorted. “Not looking for pity. Just telling you how it was.” 

“How did you go from that to a… Templar?” She had always assumed Templars usually came from noble stock, given her own family’s history. Cullen had been a notable exception. 

Samson chuckled. “One day, I got too bold. I tried to pickpocket Knight-Commander Guylian himself. Caught me red-handed.”  

Thalia’s eyes widened. “And? Did he… let you go?”

“No!” Samson laughed heartily. “Had me arrested on the spot, o’ course. I spent a few days languishing in the city jail, thinking I was gonna lose a hand, or worse.” He paused. “Till Guylian came to see me. He was in good with the city guard. They owed him a few favors. I still don’t know why he bothered. I didn’t give him any reason to see potential in me. But he said a few things.  He didn’t sugarcoat it, mind. I never would have gone for a bunch of platitudes. There’s always someone in that city trying to save degenerate souls from themselves. I dunno.” Samson shrugged. “He said, ‘I’m looking for people who understand Kirkwall. There’s too many coddled nobles in my ranks. Come see me if you want to put your skills to better use.’ And then I was released.” 

Thalia’s mouth was agape. “Just like that?”

Samson nodded. “Just like that. I thought about it for a bit, nursed my wounded pride, went on a couple benders…. Then a few weeks later there I was, standing in the Gallows courtyard, asking to be let into recruitment training.”

“That is… quite a story.” Thalia sat up, shaken. It felt too easy to root for the young man in the story. She could see him, quite clearly, as a heroic underdog.

“What’s wrong?” He brushed the hair from her shoulder. “You think I made that up?”

“I don’t know.” She wanted to call him a liar. It would be better to believe he had invented the tale, striving to impress her with a cultivated persona.

“Well, I didn’t. For what it’s worth.” Samson sighed. “’S just a shame, you know. Guylian really believed in what he did. Thought he could make a difference. He didn’t realize, and me neither, until it was much too late.” 

“Realize what?” Thalia breathed.

Samson let out a weary chuckle. “That ambition will stamp out honor every time, love. Those who want power — they will take it, by any means necessary.”

“I suppose that was a lesson hard learned,” Thalia said softly. 

“Indeed. But I’ll never make that mistake again.” 

Nor will I, Thalia thought.

Feeding Alligators: Ch 3 - PANTS!

And chapter three is up! You find pants! And disappoint your ancestors! Also, Astarion is here now, but with the language barrier, all communication is in charades.

On AO3

Whoever thought up camping needs to get their teeth smashed out with a brick. You’re pretty sure Hammurabi chiseled that into a stone somewhere.

Your ragtag squad of weirdos bustles around a clearing they found just off the trail. You’re far enough away from the wreckage of the butthole ship that traces of the stench only occasionally drift over you when the wind shifts. As night falls, your mental states unclenches. The python strangle the panic has eases enough for you to be aware of how your left side hurts. You’ve been laying, unmoving, for a while now.

But it’s your bladder that does it.

You’ve had funks before, hence the medication (and there’s a fun thought: brain zaps out in the middle of nowhere/space). This episode is shorter than most. You can’t tell if that’s because of all the progress you’ve made (yay, therapy!) or because you’re still very much in a survival situation in which a freakout is entirely warranted (yay, therapy).

Mumu glances up when you push yourself to your feet. He’s got a tent with rugs and baubles all set up. Goth Girl is making a little tipi out of sticks, and Pasty is nowhere to be seen.

There’s not going to be any bathrooms around.

Or toilet paper.

Jesus christ.

Then Mumu is crossing over to you, holding out a pair of pants, and suddenly, he’s your favorite person in the world.

He says something. Smiles. Holds them out.

“Thanks,” you say. You’re sure he doesn’t understand English any more than you understand pigeon, but he seems to get the gist of it.

Now, how to pee in the woods.

*

Which is a ghastly business. Fancy word, “ghastly.” But accurate! The tunic hitches up easily enough, and you have the foresight to set the pants aside until you’ve finished. Unfortunately, you’ve not super athletic (or flexible), and balancing while squatting and trying not to touch anything ends with piss all over your right calf.

“Kill me now.”

There’s got to be water, somewhere? People camp near water?

That water is the ocean—it is salt water you’ve crashed into. You glance around, find nobody, and shuck off the tunic to give yourself a scrub that almost takes off a layer of skin. There’s no snakes in the ocean; at least not this close to shore. Right? Too late. The salt is going to wreak havoc on your hair. But hey, no more slime or soot or blood, so that’s worth something.

One leg into the pants and you wonder when the last time they were washed. They don’t smell bad? Just neutral? But someone running around with archaic weapons and sleeping in archaic tents is not going to have a washing machine, you fear.

You try really hard not to wonder if Mumu goes commando, and where his junk might have rubbed in here if he does.

The fire’s going when you get back. Goth Girl digs around in a pack and produces what looks like thick crackers. She gives you a cool once-over when you ease yourself down nearby. You’re barefoot, toes dusted in drying sand, your thankfully short hair dripping onto the neck of your tunic. Good thing the night breeze is warm.

She hands you a cracker. You take it and thank her. Eating is a small task you can focus on, an easy achievement.

You smell vaguely of seaweed. No one says anything to you. Mumu talks enough for everyone, it seems. When Pasty slinks in, he doesn’t join your little campfire circle, retreating to the edge of the firelight instead and propping himself up against a large rock.

How does one sleep outside, you wonder as seven generations of Cherokee ancestors stare down at you in Disapproval. Which is rich, considering Cherokees lived in towns for a reason. That reason being that they knew camping was bullshit.

*

You sleep in the dirt, it turns out. Mumu and Goth Girl both pull a tent out of literal nowhere—magic bags? Is that a thing here?? Some kind of space-warping, bigger-on-the-inside alien tech???

Mumu offers you a sleeping bag, of sorts. It smells a little musty. The night seems clear and warm, so you opt to lie on top of it while the lucky two retire to their individual tents. Leaving you and Pasty outside.

He seems to be about as out of sorts as you. Shifts against that rock of his a few times. Frowns at the dirt and grass. Until he meets your gaze.

Mumu had offered him a sleeping bag too, which he’d declined. He cocks his head at you now. Says something you choose to interpret as, “Greetings, fellow dirt napper.”

You nod back.

He’s not laying down. Seems content to sit cross-legged against his slab.

Now that your head is clear(ish), you can actually look around. One moon hangs in the sky. A lot of stars, but you don’t see any of the three whole constellations you know. And there’s no Milky Way.

When you look back down, Pasty is watching you. His hair is a goofy-looking fluff of silver. His eyes catch the firelight just so, like a camera flash, and reflect back a red glow. Super pale, red eyes. An albino elf? (Elf??)

His clothes look fancy. Spirals of embroidered lines curl around his jacket—is it a jacket? Your schooling sucked and you haven’t sent yourself down a “historical fashions” rabbit hole yet.

Except it would be “alien fashion”, wouldn’t it? And how the fuck do aliens, hell, and what you’re pretty sure is a fucking wizard all mesh together?

You rub your face with both hands.

Pasty says something. “Pasty” is probably insensitive, isn’t it?

“Hmm?” you say.

He repeats himself, gestures to the sleeping bag you sit on. You try hard not to stare blankly at him—”you look like such an idiot when you just stand there”—and end up flapping your hands around in a way that makes even less sense.

Pasty—no, Fancy Pants—stands and dusts himself off. Motions to you—lay down, you think, sleep—and presses a palm to his chest. Then waves to the area around you and then up to his eyes.

Lookout, your brain chimes in. Staying up to keep an eye out.

You really should have realized that sooner. A bunch of UFO survivors camped out near the wreckage need to keep watch. God knows what else could be out here or looking for y’all.

(If you’re all abductees, why do these three all speak a shared language?)

No. Fancy Pants is right. You need to sleep.

“Thank you,” you say, though his vague, unwavering smile shows he didn’t understand.

You’re done thinking for today. You’ve been through enough. It’s time to sleep. Slip into nice, safe oblivion where everything is fine and nothing is wrong and you’re not always two seconds away from another breakdown.

About two hours before dawn, the sky opens in a downpour.

The Dragon Prince & The Sun Princess

Chapter 2

Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Warnings ⚠️: some misogyny, use of the word whore, my English, a shorter chapter, fem!reader

Word Count: 1387

Summary: it's 126 AC, after 6 years, you're finally going back to King's Landing, but only this time you'll bow to no one.

126 AC, Dorne, Sunspear, Princess (Y/N)s Chambers 

"Another gift for you, my Princess." Ella said, in her hands holding a wooden chest. 

"Thank you, Ella, you can put it by the bed" you told her, still looking at the letter before you, the content inside filling you with excitement. "Ella, could you please send for my parents, I wish to speak with them." Ella bowed before leaving the room. The wooden chair creaked slightly as you stood up, going to the mysterious chest.

The room wasn't grand, but it made up for it with its vibrant green walls, and the most beautiful iconography of all the Dornish women like Nymeria Martell, made by yourself.

Your footsteps echoing softly across the cool yellow stone floor. Upon a closer look the chest had carvings in the shape of a Dragon, just one Dragon. Grabbing the hair pins from your hair you decide to unlock it. The inside of the chest was full of straws, and on top of them, a silver key with a red gem in the centre. This cannot be all, you thought to yourself, immediately pulling out the straws until you've reached the bottom. There was nothing. Now what? You asked yourself, anger rising, slamming the chest on the side, when the bottom drawer moves up slightly. You hit it again, it moves. Grabbing a small stick you put it under the drawer in the hole, slowly pulling it up. Under the secret drawer was a smaller silver chest with red gems pressed into its front. Inside was a letter, you decided to read it. 

"Princess (Y/N),

I've just gotten your generous gift for my son. 

My Aemond and I are grateful, I'm sending my gratitude  with a little gift of our own.

Which is why I must extend an invitation to King's Landing during the social season.

Yours Sincerely, 

A.

Your mouth slowly stretches into a smile, no matter how much you want to stop it. It's been six years since you've left King's Landing for Dorne, and six years to become a woman from the child you left. You're now seven and ten, which makes you at the ideal age for marriage. Time had transformed you into a woman, you no longer had the body of a child, you were now with fuller breasts, and fuller hips, but no matter how many times men have proposed, you've always rejected them. Your parents wouldn't approve if you weren't willing. It's the start of the social season, where girls and boys would have their debut into the noble world, while looking for a marriage.

"(Y/N)? My little chickpea, are you inside?" Asked the deep voice of Mors Nymeros Martell, your father, coming into your chambers. "Ah, you're still awake, good, your mother and I have something to tell you." He looked relieved to see you, his dark eyes immediately softening. 

"Now, you know how much we respect you so you have your private space, right?" He asked, sitting on the floor, cross legged, his silver-green tunic spreading out. "I've noticed you have been receiving more gifts from an admirer…?" He asked you quietly, leaning in towards you slightly.

"I'll tell you, if you promise not to get angry." The answer passed through your lips. 

"Why would I get angry about you exploring love? I was once your age, don't forget that."  He said offended with a hand to his chest.

"Alright… I've been exchanging gifts with Prince Aemond Targaryen…" You trailed off quietly at the last part, turning your eyes away to look at the VERY interesting fly on the wall.

"Aemond Targaryen…. You've been communicating with a Targaryen?" He raised his voice in shock, standing up from his seat on the ground.

"That's why you've been missing supper, because you're always writing HIM." He made sure to put his anger on HIM.

"You can have everything else, but this. This I won't allow." He said, his voice firm.

"I've been there before, and no harm has come to me, I promise, I'll be alright." You looked to your father with determination in your eyes, his hands clasped yours.

"You can't promise that, sweetling, I'd hate to see you get hurt." He looked into your eyes frantically. "Remember what happened the last time you were there, and they did that to their own family, I'd hate to imagine what'll happen to you." He whispered desperately, putting his forehead against your own, his tears sliding down his face.

"I'll be alright, I have you and my mother." You told him, putting your hands around his body.

"If you're sure… I'll go speak with your mother." 

The preparation for your journey to King's Landing had left your whole family in distress, your mother especially. She didn't like her little girl to be far away from her, into enemy territory, not after last time.

Your mother's tears hadn't ceased to stop as you held onto each other tightly, dreading to see the other go.

"You must write to me once a week at least, and you must be smart." Your mother grabbed your face, while looking deeply into your eyes, her own watery. She kissed your knuckles for the final time.

"I know you don't want to leave, but the ship will sail without us." Ella said softly, gently pulling onto your open hand. Your chambers on the ship were small, with just a king sized bed, a table, a bookshelf, and a chest to put your belongings in. Your slim golden dress dragging on the wooden floor. 

In your palm you see a crumpled piece of paper. Opening it, you read:

"Little Blossom,

I know I can't do anything to change your mind, for you've made your own. 

All I can do is offer you my support.

Of you get hurt I would curse them with the strength of a thousand Suns.

If you want to survive you have to play smart, King's Landing is full of dragons ready for blood.

Yours Always, 

Mother"

You let out a sigh,  I will survive, no matter what.

126 AC, King's Landing, Flea Bottom

You had been walking through King's Landing for a few hours with your lady-in-waiting, Ella, hoping to catch sight of something interesting before being locked into the Red Keep.

The streets of Flea Bottom had been the poorest of all the streets in King's Landing combined. All the petty crimes were happening here. The building's weren't as tall as those of the richer areas, but they still let out a menacing aura, being showing weakness in those parts of the world meant the worst.

All around were people with malnourished bodies, they were so frail that the only thing they were wearing under those rags were bones and skin. Sometimes they'd come up to you for a scrap of coins or some food, of which you had plenty, taking pity on them, you'd given them some of the coins you had on your person. 

After walking for a while, Ella and you had found yourselves at the foot of a sketchy and dark alleyway at the end of Flea Bottom. You barely turned around, when you heard voices from your left side, with you coming to investigate. The people weren't what interested you, but WHAT or WHO they were talking about. That topic was Princess Rhaenyra, whom you haven't seen in 6 years. One of the thugs said "That whore had decided to come back from Dragonstone." Turning to the other. "I 'eard that the lil' Princess had her ex-husband killed, so she and her uncle, Prince Daemon, could marry." The other one whispered back, chugging the wine.

"That's one way to end a marriage, hah!" The others cackled at their funny joke.

"There is news of those Velaryons comin' to see the King!" Shouted the now drunk thug, with a smile on his face. "Apparently, he wants to name himself heir to the funny chair." Whispered softly to the others, not aware that there was someone listening at the window.

"- some people believe that Princess (Y/N) was so disgusted by what she heard that she never spoke of it to anyone. Others on the other hand believe that she may have started those rumours to go against The Black Faction- Princess Rhaenyras supporters- that she fully conspired to put Rhaenyra's younger half-brother on the throne, therefore joining the The Green Faction."

You have a choice:

To leave and to forget this happened

Or

To start gathering intel

Tunic spoilers

I found the page that breaks down how the words are formed, but for the life of me I can't figure out how they translate into letters or words

There are two different types of radicals that create the characters, outer and inner; there are 18 outer radicals and 24 inner, meaning that there are 432 combinations of these radicals

Each word has a horizontal line to it with a group of radicals above and below, though sometimes there's nothing on the bottom row, meaning that there's actually a 433rd state that the bottom can be in, giving us 865 possible "characters"

There's also occasionally a circle thrown in, which I have to assume is some kind of punctuation or an alternate phoneme, so perhaps it's more like 866

My best guess right now is that each pair of outer and inner is a combination of two letter sounds; if we assume that, even the normal alphabet has 676 possible combinations of any given 2 letters, so there's definitely more than enough leeway for Tunic's combos to fit into English

The inner radical seems to be the one that's read first, since the example word (which I assume to be "sword") is broken down into three radicals total; [Inner+Outer]+Inner. With that in mind, I assume the word is [SO]D, vaguely creating the pronunciation of sword

Actually...could it be the International Phonetic Alphabet? That would certainly make translation into other languages a lot easier, since it would mean that you could change the target language while still using the same imagery. The numbers still don't match up, though, IPA has over 30 vowel sounds, meaning that neither the outer or inner radicals are explicitly vowels...

I feel like I must be overcomplicating this, and I'm not even sure I need to translate anything to progress, I've just kind of hit a wall and knowing what the booklet says feels like it would be helpful

BORUTO ALTER: Last Shinobi by SongofVedas

Anime » Naruto Rated: T, English, Adventure & Fantasy, Naruto U., Sasuke U., Boruto U., Sarada U., Words: 112k+, Favs: 48, Follows: 49, Published: Dec 2, 2020 Updated: Jul 19

21Chapter 25: HIMAWARI AND BORUTO

BORUTO/ALTER

BORUTO leapt building to building-

Sirens screamed within his ears, while smoke rose from the streets below. Himawari's chakra-

Boruto stopped mid run, skidding backwards upon roofing while bracing arms into a cross. Chakra.. vile, repulsive, and violent, bellowed at him from nearly all directions. Despite all of this.. Boruto could tell that the chakra was Himawari's.

The density of it.. it's almost like it's physical!

Boruto knew that dad was somewhere- but he couldn't sense anything other than Himawari's screaming chakra.

"Boruto!"

Mom?!

Boruto turned to see his mother zip down beside him in a blip of trained speed. Her Byakugan were active, veins strained beside eyes that bore almost hidden tears.

Despite this- her face was resolute. Amidst the chaos of everything, Hinata was the one calming figure amidst the storm.

"I can't sense your father or anyone else. My Byakugan seems to only work from close distances- what happened, Boruto?!" Hinata asked, looking down at him.

"I'm not sure, Mitsuki said she woke up but that something was wrong. I-.." Boruto shut his eyes.

"I can feel her, mom. This chakra.. She's in pain. We have to help her!" Boruto began to sprint into a run once more.

"Boruto, wai-" Hinata called after her son-

Only to see him fall to his knees, then flat on his stomach.

Why is this happening now?! Hinata bit down the panic that screamed within burning lungs. The sounds of destruction rung around her-

She moved forward, glaring at the cruelness of fate that afflicted both of her children.

I won't let them suffer like this! Hinata knelt beside Boruto, turning him over-

Boruto's right eye was entirely black, while a glowing white pupil, reminiscent of the Byakugan, seemed to flex to look at her.

For a moment, the world, despite the hell abundant within it, was silent.

PAIN.

Boruto opened his eyes-

He felt himself jump into the air, the ground exploding below. The sky was filled with stars- and a red moon hung amongst them. Boruto landed, sliding backwards across craggy ground that was sprinkled with tufts of dying grass and scattered black flames.

Is this.. a dream?

Boruto felt himself moving, but he wasn't controlling his actions. Further.. while he still remembered his family, remembered Konoha.. speaking with Hinata even..

It all seemed so far away now. And as Boruto moved, it was almost like he was beginning to slowly forget them.

A laugh rose from within the smoke of whatever attack was meant for Boruto. A slim silhouette stood before him, stepping forward with a loud, almost comical clack.

The smoke parted.

The figure bore eyes like Hinata's, and long white hair that was tied behind a slim fitting black tunic. The figure's face-

It's the same one from.. before? The one inside the burning house!

Yes. The figure didn't seem to have the scars over his eyes as he did then, but this was no doubt the same man.

Everyone is dead..

"Disgusting.." the man began.

"Such a corruption of our power. My power!" He sneered.

Boruto felt his mouth open- and a voice came from it that wasn't his.

"You're starting to bore me, Amakushiki. You're not as powerful without your Master toiling ahead of you."

The voice that spoke for Boruto chuckled before finishing.

This should be over quickly, Otsutsuki."

another being spoke beside Boruto. This one was warmer, kinder.

A friend..?

"Don't let your guard down, Ninurta."

That name again! Boruto thought.

"He's buying time. We didn't fully seal Vayushiki. If we lose here, then everyone will be in danger. Make no mistake, Ninurta- they mean to kill us all." The voice cautioned.

A howling, cracking sound suddenly creased into the air. Boruto felt the sensation of falling over.

"Ninurta!" The voice called, Amakushiki's laughter echoing in cruel retort.

Boruto felt hands around his shoulders.

Then he saw blackness.

Then.. that same onyx sea, stars spinning above.

The voice that warned him of Amakushiki was heard over quivering and bloodlike waves now.

"Wait- where are you? Ninurta?!" The voice screamed.

Ninurta!

Ninurta! No!

"Boruto!" Hinata's frantic calls jolted Boruto upright.

Hinata gave Boruto a somewhat relieved expression.

"Boruto.." Hinata looked away from him.

"There's no time right now. Can you stand, Boruto?" Hinata asked.

Boruto nodded, dazed as the memories of his own life came flooding back to him.

"I wish I could sense your Father.. I can't even see him amongst this chakra-!" Hinata spoke as her eyes darted right to left, momentarily distracted by a volley of debris hurtling from above them.

A spinning shield of expanding blue chakra flushed from Hinata. It sloughed off pieces of stone and building, adding to the mounting bedlam of Konoha's destruction.

"We have to keep going mom. This feeling.. it's not just pain she's in.. it's more than that. Something is trying to take her!" Boruto rasped.

Hinata shut her eyes, opening them as tears fell freely down both cheeks. However, she did not scream or yell out in anguish.

"You lead the way, Boruto. You're twins. You'll bring us all back together. You'll be the one who keeps Himawari safe." Hinata nodded towards Boruto.

"I believe in you, Boruto. More than anything." Hinata smiled-

It was a sad one, a smile of a woman who had dealt with a lifetime of loss. But it was also one that inspired Boruto-

Boruto's black hair flashed across blue-silver eyes. He gave Hinata a stern grin.

Stepping forward, Boruto narrowed his eyes across the burning city.

Sirens still blared, while heavy smoke began to obscure Boruto's vision.

Boruto turned to Hinata-

"Yes, I sense it too." She said slowly.

The smoke wasn't just natural-

Some of it was the work of jutsu.

Was it the byproduct of Himawari's condition? Or was it something else?! Someone else?

Boruto shook his head.

I need to find Himawari. Whatever's next comes after.

It was then something sparked across Boruto's mind- through his skin, pulsed within his veins.

It was that strange.. moon again, the moon that hung behind a fog of black mist. It spoke again in that horrid, garbled language that Boruto somehow understood.

Cursed.. Eye!

He saw the field of humans kneeling before a glowing, horned idol, offering sacrifices of their own flesh to it.

But then-

"I know where she is!" Boruto's eyes shot open. He sprinted to the edge of the roof they were on, Hinata following close behind.

Boruto and his mother dashed into the smoke, blind save for Boruto's direction.

As they ran they passed various shinobi- some were running too- others on the ground, coughing up smoke amongst dead and dying civilians.

The damage seemed to be localized to the entertainment district of Konoha.. but still- it was a vast area.

All this from Hima..

Boruto continued.

They peeled down a cramped alley that coughed dying flames and plumes of ash. Himawari's chakra seemed to be roaring within the next belt of buildings ahead.

"Boruto.." Hinata whispered. Boruto grimaced-

This feeling.. it wasn't like anything he had ever experienced before. The chakra carried an immense weight of dread, as if it was beckoning fate itself.

Despite that, they continued, as any family would.

Boruto and Hinata rushed from the alley, then leapt across a series of burning buildings.

They flashed across rooftops, using chakra to supplement their speed so as to appear to the untrained eye as simple strikes of black across a foreboding horizon.

But then-

Boruto saw Naruto.

Hinata gasped.

Naruto was seated within a garden courtyard, the Kyuubi's chakra blazing about him as if he himself were aflame.

His hands were pressed together, while a chain of chakra linked him to..

Himawari.

But if it weren't for whatever sense was directing him, Boruto wouldn't have known the being across from Naruto was actually his sister.

Himawari herself was cloaked within a cruel chakra- it distorted her appearance. The shifting mirage of colors fashioned itself around her head as if a fox's mask. Her once blonde hair was now red, while tassels of chakra flew from the overflowing tendrils that whipped themselves into tails around Himawari's body.

She writhed on the ground, thrashing about as an alien scream emanated from the mask that encapsulated her.

"THIS IS BAD, NARUTO."

Naruto grimaced, sweat beading down his forehead.

"I know it is." He said gruffly, palms aching as chakra drained from his body.

Kurama offered a low, rumbling laugh.

"Do you, boy?"

Naruto was seated upon Kurama's snout. The fox demon dipped its head towards Himawari- or whatever was within her.

The being was comprised of a strange, new chakra. It was almost like..

No, that's impossible.

"This chakra seems to be some mixture of your natural chakra and my own. I'm surprised that woman's seal held for as long as it did."

Naruto frowned, his arms shaking.

It was taking almost all of their power to hold Himawari's own chakra back from taking her over- it's not that her chakra matched Naruto's or Kurama's-

It's just that it was powerful enough that if Naruto misapplied his chakra for even a second, Himawari could die.

But just as Naruto began to lose hope-

Something happened.

It stopped.

Both Kurama and Naruto widened their eyes in surprise as the orange waters of their inner world calmed.

The vortex of chakra that consumed Himawari receded back within her, before finally curling deep into the recesses of her consciousness.

"What.. what happened?" Naruto asked.

Kurama laughed- an almost disarming sound.

"That brat.. she really is like you. It seems.. she subconsciously re-sealed the chakra within herself, using the seal that was already upon her. The difference is.. she used the same chakra attacking her body for the seal."

"But to do that without direct fuinjutsu-"

"Like I said Naruto.. this chakra is a mixture of the both of ours. Due to this.. it's as if it's a much weaker variation of paths chakra. To think a human could be born with the powers like one of us Bijuu.."

KIBA STEPPED BACKWARDS.

The Jonin attendants Naruto had assigned to him both lay dead. One of them was currently being eaten by a large, wolffish black dog with long, shaggy fur. A red eye glowed from this dog's forehead.

But the dog that had his attention and fear was a much quieter one.

Its fur was white, beautiful and snowlike. It had a foxlike face, soft with wide eyes.

But it was the girl stitched to the ninken's body that filled Kiba with dread. That damnable survivor from the Chinoike clan- thought extinct after Sasuke's mission years ago.

Now she was a victim of one of Shota's experiments upon his own partners- an act that was unthinkable amongst the Inuzuka.

It was this very man that lurked past Junban, striding before Kiba as Kiba himself pressed against the wall. A tear fell from his eye-

Akamaru-

Naruto had agreed to keep Akamaru within the Hokage's grounds-

Thank you, Naruto.

I'm sorry. For everything.

Kiba gave a frustrated, despairing chuckle.

After all of that.. all this training, all the war.. this is how I die.

Kiba raised his head.

"Are you responsible for what's going on out there? That chakra?" He said finally.

Shota narrowed dark eyes.

"No. Though it was a providence that I used to my advantage. I'm here for you, of course." Shota whispered.

"Where did I go wrong, Shota?" Kiba asked breathlessly.

A tear fell from Shota's eye as the man formed a jutsu sign.

"You didn't do anything wrong, Kiba Inuzuka." Shota said.

"..Ketsuryugan.." the man's ninken lurched forward, the girl's motions mirroring Shota's own as red and reptile-like eyes glowed from a sheen of scarlet hair.

Kiba opened his mouth to speak, but as he did, a trail of blood dribbled from his teeth and onto his chin.

Kiba staggered backwards, sliding down the wall that became his last and final embrace.

With one more gurgling sigh, Kiba's eyes glossed over in silent, unceremonious death.

LOG rushed to the scent. He pounced from tree to tree, green hair whipping across his forehead.

He had been tracking Shin for nearly a month now- the man seemed to be moving for the land of Rivers.

But now.. something else caught his attention. The sense of a barrier being erupted within the deep woods of Konoha that bordered Rivers.

It only took a whiff of it for Log to tell that this was not only abnormal, but of grave danger.

However the feeling only lasted for a second.

But then, Log heard an explosion. That sound was closely followed by the smell of fire-

And burning bodies.

Log was nearly upon it now. He crashed through a gate of leaves, eyes instantly flexing upon a simple home with its entire second story blown away.

Chunks of charred wood were planted about the house, embers coiling with bright red heat within them.

Log rushed down to the scene. He strode through-

Before his eyes fell upon a young girl. She was burned too, but she was breathing. Half of her face seemed to be raw and beaten, but the other half was fine. Marks of a battle covered her- superficial wounds, but clues as to what happened nonetheless.

He knelt downwards, turning the girl over.

"Can you hear me..? What's your name?" Log asked softly.

The girl's eyes opened, revealing wide purple pupils.

"I'm.."

A tear fell from her eye. She seemed.. confused.

"I'm…no..no..Sh-.. I'm..no..t…Sh-..Sho..still.. Sumire.." she said as more tears fell from her eyes.

For a moment, her expression changed- it shifted from one of a confused, hurt child and to one of a cruel, violent entity.

The girl then fainted- her head softly hitting the ground behind it.

NEXT TIME: JEISHI, SAGE OF ENTROPY! THEN, THE RETURN OF SASUKE AND SARADA

Tender - Azriel x reader - Pregnancy fic. Fem! reader. LONG!!! 

Prompt -  Hi! I just read most of your imagines, and i loved them!  You have me as your faithful follower, I don't comment much because English is not my first language. Could you write one where az manages to perceive that reader is pregnant right in the middle of the war?

You woke to yelling. Not screaming. Not fear or pain, but battle cries that you'd grown to love. They made your blood sing in harmony with the Illyrian voices. It made your heart hammer in your chest, and your muscles tense - ready to fight. Azriel groaned beside you, curling around your waist like a vise. You managed to break free from his muscled arms. Pale light shining through the tent tinted his shadows a light gray. They wrapped around you, drawing a chill down your spine. The war cries grew louder. "Get up. It's time." You shook him, pulling on your light armor. He covered his face with his hands, and did not leave the cot. He groaned again when you pulled the blanket off his mostly naked body. He was never a morning person.  Cassian rushed in when you were putting the last of your gear on, and Az froze. His grip on his pants went white knuckled. Cassian's face was pale, and before he could say anything Azriel was hurriedly pulling on the rest of his clothes. Your stomach dropped at the sight of the Warlord. "It's a diversion." You said, voice hollow. Cassian's slight nod was enough to make the breath leave you. "It's going to be fine." Azriel grunted, pulling his tunic over his head. "We just need to move the troops. Get Rhys here." He waved a hand at his brother dismissively.  Cassian grabbed Az's wrist.  He forced the male to look at him, to see his worried eyes. You tensed, ready to defend your mate even against Cassian's might. "Rhys is on the battlefield already. We're on our own." His voice was low, and the warning in his eyes was enough to make the hair on your arms raise. Azriel pulled away from him, slowly.  He began strapping his weapons belts on, pushed his hair back and sighed. "Where do you need us?"   The air was cold, and the howls of battle echoed across the hills. Azriel's shadows curled around your legs, comforting. Then they slithered their way across the valley where the battle was beginning.  + You could barely raise your sword by the end of it. The mud had been the most challenging part of the entire fight. The enemy horses had done a good job of making obstacles when they fell in the mud, lame with broken ankles and necks. You wished to put them out of their misery, but there was no time. The forces seemed to come in waves. Like a test against your small unit.  Few were lost from your side. The dewey grass steamed in the morning light, carrying up the reek of enemy blood with it. You wiped your face, trying to get the taste of dirt and blood out of your mouth. Sharp stinging pain seared your ribs under your arm. You hissed. Then, you felt the warmth of your own blood. You swore, and looked for a medic that wasn't tending to wounded on the ground.  Some Illyrian bodies were being lifted away, high into the air for burial at their homes. You dared not take a healer away from more critically injured soldiers. You nodded grimly to the ones that you passed. They were covered in blood, and yet still gave you fierce grins when you went by. They respected you. More than any other Illyrian Female before you. It was sad, but you hoped to forge a new path for other females of Illyria. You held an arm under your side and limped your way out of the mud. The packed mess inside your boots made moving your feet hard. You couldn't wait to shower.  You spotted Cassian far down the field, and watched as he raised his sword high over his head. Your stomach twisted in pity for the suffering animal under him. You looked away before you could see the lifeblood drain from the horse's neck. He sent a blessing to the Mother for the animal, and continued on to the next suffering soul that would meet its end via his blade.  + You hadn't seen her in a long while. Too long for a friend, but she gave you that same look she always did when she saw you hobbling up to her for help. Jeva was your favorite healer, and one you knew could keep a secret. She was round, and her voice was light and comforting. She smelled of nutmeg and berries. Something you had appreciated about her since you had met. "What is it this time?" She waved you inside, holding the tent flap open for you while you dumped your battle stained gear on the wood hutch beside the entrance.  The tent was light and airy, filled with small plants of different varieties and cluttered with boxes and books everywhere. Her desk and bed were shoved to the corner, and a long wood table took up the majority of her area. As if she had known you were coming, she already had potions of different types laid out on the end of the table. "Probably nothing." You said, pulling off your armor as gingerly as you could manage. The soft light flickered and changed to a harsh beam when she laid you down on her exam table. "I'm not supposed to be healing anymore you know. I'm retired." She clicked her tongue at you, earning a pained grin. It was hard for you to bother a healer for any amount of time for something that you were sure was so small. But something about it stung too much for it to be just a scrape. And you knew Cassian would lecture you about it being infected if he saw through your mask to the pain. Az would force you to see one anyway as soon as he learned of it.  "You know I wouldnt be here unless I had to be, Jeva." You said through your teeth as she cut away your muddied undershirt.  "Oh, I know. That's why I have my best potions ready." She laughed, then paused. Your shirt lay limp on the table. Her eyebrows knitted together at the sight of your open wound. "Is it bad?" You asked, craning to try to look for yourself. She held you down.  "Metal. Fragments are still in here, likely why it hasn't healed yet." You relaxed at that, grateful that it wasn't worse. "Thank the Mother. Az would have yelled all night." You rolled your eyes, and sighed as she started working on you. The first part was always the worst. The stinging hot potion that made the nerves around the wound numb.  "One-" She began her countdown, then poured. You growled at her, gripping the end of the stained table hard enough to crack. "Easy..." She warned, and smoothed down your hair. She knew how to take care of her patients, that was certain. You relaxed as the stinging eased. The dull ache that it left behind turned into a bad memory.  "I'm going to extract the blade then we can close you up. Simple and easy." She picked up her tools and began tugging away at your side. You could have fallen asleep with the relief the numbing potion brought. And with her humming in the air around you, it was a struggle not to. The time seemed to pass quickly, but when the clank of the metal tools jolted you from your dozing, the tent was lit in orange from the sunset outside. "Relax, we're going to close it up now. Once the potion wears off you will still be sensitive." She placed her hands over you, and the familiar warm vibrations of her healing magic set in. Then it stopped abruptly. You cracked open an eye, then narrowed your brows at her. "What is it?" You said gently, then again when she didnt reply. She stared at you, mouth agape. Her eyes locked to yours, even when you sat up to demand she tell you what the problem was. "Am I dying?!" you took her hand gently, in case she was going to push you away.  Then she started laughing, her hand gripping yours back. The warmth glowed in your palm, the light radiating out from it was starkly contrasting the tent walls bedecked in orange. The light she emitted shot through you, and you felt the wound tingle, and seal. You stared at her in shock. That amount of healing power was incredible. Especially for field medics.  "Youre not dying, no..." She waved a hand, fanning herself. Her eyes were glassy with tears. She sniffed and clutched your hand tighter. "Quite the opposite, darling." She pulled you in for a warm hug.  + You spent the rest of the evening with Jeva. Until she got a hurried message about student healers needing help on the battlefield. You stayed in her tent as long as you could manage with the ringing in your ears. You stared and stared at the mirror across from you, showing you the bloodied warrior that you wanted to be. That you wanted to stay.  The warrior that carried the Shadowsinger's child.  The thought made tears sting your eyes. You refused to let them fall. You had been ignoring his tugs down the bond for well over an hour. You knew he was concerned, but you couldn't bring yourself to shout back down. The only thing that echoed in your mind were Jeva's words "You're pregnant..."  Pregnant. Pregnant. Pregnant.  You nearly punched her when she told you she wasn't joking. The only reason you even believed her was because of that powerful zap of healing she sent to you. That she sent to scan your body and make sure the fetus was okay before you even knew about it. You could barely hear half the words she said as she told you your options.  You roiled with the thought now. The Mugwart she left on the table was daunting. You desperately wanted her back. Jeva would be able to deliberate with you. You knew she would tell you to do whatever makes you happy. You knew that. But you wondered how ethical the choice that made you happy was. Bringing a child into a world of war seemed cruel. Even if it made you happy. You distantly noticed Azriel as you passed him, walking to the forest edge just passed your tent. Worry laced the bond between you. You tried not to show anything back. But you knew he felt the tension, the void there. "Where the hell have you been?!" Azriel's eyes were furious when you passed him, his wings flared out slightly. You couldnt even look at him with anger back. Your emotions ran wild. You were frozen, and as numb as the potion Jeva had given you when she began removing the blade.  "Do you know how worried I have been?! I sent Cassian to-" He tried to grab for your hand to stop you, but you flicked him away. He stopped for a moment, stunned. Then returned with more energy than before. That yawning abyss in your bond was growing darker with shame, worry and anxiety. His shadows roiled around him as he caught up. "You dont get to-" "Azriel..." You stopped in the edge of the clearing. The small meadow was silent in the darkness, not even the monsters of Prythian dared roar tonight. Your mind did all the roaring you could handle, anyway. You tried to focus on the swaying grass, on the soft smell of wet bark and pine hanging in the air.  "Dont try to excuse this I need to know you're okay and-" He stormed in front of you, ready to burst with rage. His fear always made him angry. And for good reason after losing so many close to him.  A tear ran down your cheek, your face burned hot with hundreds of feelings at once. Fear, pain, shock, joy, hope.... elation. You wanted his children. You wanted to help raise his child. You wanted to see Azriel be a father. You knew he would be the best damn Illyrian father there had ever been.  The thought hit you like a well placed punch.  He saw your paleness, your tears and stopped his yelling. You fell to your knees, the mud splattering all around you. You wanted to lay down. Lay down and think about the implications of carrying his child. Would it be good for the baby to be born at all? Just because you wanted it didnt mean it needed to happen. You knew that Jeva would give you a potion to extract it without hesitation if it was what you wished. "I'm-" You choked out, fighting the panic that flooded you. Your mind roiled with the conflict of your mind and heart. It turned you into a muddied, dark ocean on the bond. A turmoil that he couldn't see past. If you were an ocean, he was your lighthouse on the cliffside. Signaling you home.   His eyes darted to your body, to your hands and how they wrung together in front of you. "I'm sorry. I just-" He sighed and took one of your hands. "I'm sorry." He kissed the back of it and brought his forehead to yours. He normally needed a lot longer to cool down after a fight, but seeing you in tears shocked him out of his pride. "I shouldn't have said that... I know you can take care of yourself." his voice was low, and he ran a hand comfortingly down your back. A hysteric laugh bubbled from your throat. It sounded like a sob. You didn't know exactly which it was. He sat back and pulled you into his lap, despite the grass being dewey and damp. He rocked you there for a few seconds before you had to tell him. Before he could be too close if he didnt want you anymore. The doubt crept into your head, and the nerves ate at you. Your heart raced, you could feel it in your neck. "Azriel..stop." You pushed away from him, to catch his beautiful dark eyes. They were painted in a silver hue by the moon above. You took in his face, the curve of his cheeks and lips for possibly the last time. You had to consider the worst possible outcome. You braced yourself for the rejection, for the pain of his reaction. You knew it had to come out. You knew you had to say it now or you never would. Your stomach flipped over and over.  You opened your mouth, a soft sob wracking out of you before you began. He froze. Went utterly still, his shadows even stopping for a second before whirling faster than before. Your eyes went wide. His nose flared, eyes narrowed. He held you closer, sniffing at your neck. He pulled back and his eyes were even wider than before. His mouth fell open when you nodded. "I'm-" "Youre-" his face went through a whirlwind of different emotion. Then, he broke out into a small laugh. He couldn't stop. You felt the tears running down your cheeks and didnt bother to wipe them away. "Honey... I'm sorry." He stopped laughing suddenly. "What do you want to do?" His eyes were masked, his expression the most serious you'd ever seen him. His aura on your bond seemed to go completely gray and still, as if he didn't want you to see him. He masked everything. In preparation for whatever you decide. The gesture made your heart squeeze in appreciation. You stammered, resting your forehead on his. "I dont know." You muttered, voice cracking. Then, he was wrapping his arms around you in a smothering hug. When he pulled away, he cradled your face in his hands. The hands that had seen so much cruelty in his life. The possibilities of the same thing happening to your child made your heart race. "I'm here for whatever decision you make." He brushed your cheek with a thumb. You nodded and let him hold you like that for a while. Quietly rocking back and forth with you in his lap. + You were near falling asleep when the war cries rang out again. Illyrians howling for their leaders to join them. Another onslaught of death coming their way. The calls were distant, but Azriel tensed the second he heard them. Your blood went cold. He buried his face to your chest, as if he wished he could hide there. "I'm not going." He said when you tried pushing him away. "I wont leave you." He promised, locking his muscled forearms around you. The echoes of battle cries faded. He stroked your hair, and traced his fingers along your back. Then he swore. "Let me take care of this." He said, voice edged with anger. Nerves pricked at your stomach, but you stood, wobbling on your feet slightly. He took off into the night sky painted in silvers and blues by the full moon. Then came racing back down right behind Rhys. the high lord took one breath and then he was hugging his brother. Azriel shoved him off, and they shot into the night sky. Well, Azriel did. He dragged Rhys with him. Grunts of pain and fleshy sounds of punching rang out.  You followed them high into the air where they had their conversation. Your wings led you around them with ease. "Stop fighting and use your words, boys." You warned. You recognized Azriels growl and smiled to yourself as they broke apart. Rhys adjusted his tunic and cleared his throat. "I need you there. Cassian is handling the Western front, the others need a leader."  Azriel began protesting against the high lord. "I cant with my mate-" "I know it feels impossible right now but-" "I will not, Rhys-" You set your jaw. If they wanted to fight over if you needed protection or not, you would take the option off the table all together. "I'll go." you said, voice strong since hearing Jeva announce what grew inside you. Pregnant, pregnant, pregnant. You shoved the thoughts away as far as you could. They both turned to you, horror striking Azriels features. "Absolutely not. No." Heat and rage flared down the bond. It made you want to defy everything he said. You locked eyes with him and glared. Rhys glanced between you with tense shoulders. He cleared his throat. "It would be a good compromise, Azriel. You can go together to the Eastern front. Think about it." He placed a hand on his brother's shoulder and gave him a grim smile.  "I wont say a word." He said, summoning the darkness around him then winnowing away. Azriel's cold eyes made him look like a statue. "Let's go." He said, and started circling lower. Back to the meadow.  "I'm going, you cant stop me from following you." You said, expecting a fight. He said nothing. You were met with that silence that drove others crazy tryin to find out what he wanted from them. The bond seemed to snap taut, then go into a relaxed state. He was hiding. You knew it, but would rather have silence and peace than him trying to fight you again.  He walked you back to the tent, and exhaustion took you under before you could remember him laying down with you. You hoped it it was exhaustion, and not whatever the baby was doing to you. Despite your best efforts, you couldn't resist the urge to cradle your belly while you slept. There was no bump, but it felt like the most natural thing to do now that you were aware of the being inside you. You slept hard, and awoke to the breakfast bell chiming. The sounds of slow footsteps marching through the mud kept you awake. Azriel was gone, but the candle on the table was lit. A note lay there waiting for you. His messy scrawl made you smile, the familiarity of his writing reminded you of the notes he would leave you when he had to leave early for meetings with Rhys. "Back by nightfall, lover. A guard is at the tent, ask her to bring you anything you need. -A" You peeked outside the tent to see Jeva there, her long fur coat shimmering in the morning light. Her breath clouded in front of her when she gave you a soft smile. "Good morning." She pulled a muffin from her coat. "Your favorite." She winked, and you pulled her inside. She had a fire roaring by the time you finished your food. "How are you not freezing?" She complained, blowing into her hands to keep them warm. You brushed the crumbs from your shirt and really took into account the changes you'd noticed lately. How hungry you'd been, how tired after the easiest days.  "Do you know... How um..." You gestured to your stomach. She gave a small smile and nodded. "Only a month or so." She said quietly. You stared at your stomach, as if waiting for something to answer you. To give some sort of affirmation that Jeva was right. She continued warming herself by the fire, and soon the tent was filled with her warm chestnut smell. Cassian entered the tent when you were starting to doze off again. The wool blanket on your lap reminded you of a time when you first met Az. Your heart squeezed at the memory of those long nights shared together by a fire. Taking your turns on watch duty. You shook yourself from the memory. Cassian froze. His face scrunched up at the sight of you. The scent, you realised. You swore to yourself, and Jeva only nodded when he looked to her. "Youre pregnant?" He asked breathlessly, and you could smell the fear and excitement coming from him. In fact, you could smell the smoked meat on his breath. And the cold air that clung to him from outside. It was refreshing, like a cool drink on a hot day amid the dry heat inside the tent. "I'm sorry, I shouldnt have.." He ran a hand through his hair, trying to remain focused.  "Its okay, Cass. What's going on? Az left me this note." You handed it to him. His lips moved as he read it. He went white as bone. Your stomach dropped.  + Azriel had gone in the night to take out the entire eastern flank with a small group of Illyrians. You felt your world skittering away as Cassian told you. Your vision went blurry, and tears fell, dripping on your hands that clenched the wool blanket.  "He's on his way here now. He had to answer to Rhys first."  Cassian waited for you to say anything. But your lips just couldnt form the words. The hurt, anger... the betrayal you felt for him going to battle without you. And defying a direct order from his high lord like a fool. "I suggest you leave before Azriel comes back. It may get messy." Jeva spoke for you, and you were grateful. You gave Cassian a nod of thanks before he turned and left. The cold wind that blew in from the door gave you goosebumps.  "Take it easy, you dont want to be too stressed." Jeva handed you a mug of tea and gave you a small squeeze. You could smell Azriel before he entered. Jeva shot him a glare, but said nothing. "I'll be in my tent if you need me." She promised, gave you a look that said 'find me after' and left. Azriel took off his armor plates one by one. A bit too slowly to be considered normal. Stalling. You said nothing. You let the tension roil out of you, let it hit him down the bond. Like a wave getting ready to break. He rolled his shoulders, stretched his wings.  The mask he wore cracked when he saw your fists balled in the blanket. "I couldnt risk you... or the babe." He tried to hide the fear that shone through. The fear of his mate or child being hurt in battle. He wouldnt be able to stand it. The fight was needed, anyway. He needed to get out his instincts to protect protect protect.  You said nothing. You let that looming wave grow larger. He sighed, and sat at the end of the cot beside you. "I'm sorry. I needed....I needed to get my head straight. I should have told you. I'm sorry." That wave crashed, not on him though. Internally, guilt and fear melting in on yourself. "I cant lose you, we... We cant." You said through your teeth, trying to hold back the tears that begged to spill over. He tried his best to hold back his surprise. "We?" He asked, a small smile playing on his full lips.  You gave him a grim smile. "If you're...ready to be a father. I like imagining you, with my child."  "Our child." He said with a bubbling laugh. You laughed with him, and it turned to hysterics.  He wiped tears from the corner of your eyes. "We're going to have a baby?" He cradled your face, looking into your eyes. You took one of his hands, and placed it on your flat belly. "Yes. We are." You said, voice quivering.  He wrapped you into a hug, and you cried together in the cot.