#re prince of stride

[thegalaxysqueen]

I watch a lot sports anime for someone who knows next to nothing about the sports being played

(Free is the only exception as I did swim competitively for awhile)

#ao ashi #kuroko no basket #haikyuu!! #free! #re-main #big windup #prince of stride #anime #sports anime #prince of stride alternative #blue lock

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Now I’m Covered In You [Chapter 10: Chronology] [Series Finale]

A/N: This is a fic that was never supposed to exist. It yanked me out of my (ridiculously short) retirement and I was SO NERVOUS about diving into another series so unexpectedly! Thank you for giving NICIY a chance. I go back and re-read old messages, comments, and reblogs ALL the time when I’m feeling doubtful about writing, and my fics are only made possible by the support of awesome people like you. 💜

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

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

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

Word count: 6k.

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

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

Rain from the sky, blood from the earth: skulls and femurs crush beneath Vhagar’s hooves. Daeron and Tessarion stride alongside Aemond, always on his left where he was blinded. Daeron is different now. He’s not broken, no—and Aemond would recognize it if he was—but there’s something older about him, something severe and world-weary. One of Aemond’s hands holds the reins while the other swings his sword, though his attackers grow few and penitent. The Greens and their allies have beaten back the usurpers. The field is strewn with dead Scots and Northern Englishmen. Behind Aemond are soldiers—from the South, Milan, Castile, the Holy Roman Empire, Navarre—bellowing triumphant howls that meld with the thunder. They strip enemy bodies of rings, necklaces, coins, swords and daggers. They slice off fingers and scraps of skin to bring home with them as keepsakes. Look, wife, here is a piece of a man who fought for Daemon and Rhaenyra. Look, son, see what becomes of those who align themselves with kinslayers.

Behind the Blacks’ forces, on horseback and shouting to each other in frantic words that Aemond cannot hear over the cannons and the storm, are Rhaenyra and King Corlys of Scotland. Corlys is shaking his head and pointing back towards the direction they came from. He is advising Rhaenyra to retreat, Aemond knows. He is impelling the stark realities upon her: that her soldiers are fleeing in great numbers, that her cause is lost, that she has nothing to gain by remaining here except more deaths. Jace and Vermax—a bay Marwari who has always been dutiful yet placid by nature—are galloping at a dizzying speed towards his mother to join her in the now inevitable withdraw from the field of battle. As the would-be prince evades sword-wielders and axmen, an arrow loosed by a Navarran archer pierces him through the throat. He sways drunkenly in the saddle and then tumbles to the mud where he is immediately descended upon by Green soldiers like vultures on carrion.

���No!” Aemond can hear Rhaenyra wail, a sound like the shattering of glass. She is stopped by Black loyalists when she attempts to ride to her eldest son’s body, an instinct that in the haze of her grief she cannot understand is suicidal. They eventually resort to dragging her off Syrax, throwing her into the back of a supply wagon, and ferrying her away from the battlefield as Corlys directs their remaining forces to fall back.

Aemond spies Luke—untalented and doomed, yet brave—on Arrax and stabbing Milanese men who are clawing at him like a cat guts mice. Aemond sheathes his sword, wheels Vhagar around, and races for Luke, calling for the soldiers to disperse. They run from Vhagar’s immense, drumming hooves. Too swift for Luke to resist, Aemond grabs him by one arm and wrenches him out of the saddle; he can hear the bone pop from its socket. Luke drops to the drenched earth and lies there muddy, condemned, his sword knocked from his grasp.

“Go, Arrax!” Luke commands his horse. Tears stream down his face, indistinguishable from the rain. Lightning flashes. But Arrax does not obey. The small dun Marwari stands over Luke, his head shielding his fallen rider, until Daeron and Tessarion—who easily outweighs Arrax by a thousand pounds—force him back.

Aemond dismounts from Vhagar, his boots sinking into deep mud. He walks to where Luke lies helplessly in a sea of rain and earth and blood.

“Mercy!” Luke cries, shielding his eyes from the torrents of rain that blow into him. His hair hangs in dark, sodden curls against his boyish face. “Please, Aemond! I’m sorry for what happened when we were children. I was wrong. I was trying to protect Jace and I struck out without thinking. I did not intend to maim you. But then it was too late to take it back. It’s not too late to stop this bloodshed now. I was wrong. I beg you to have mercy upon me, mercy that the Blacks never showed you. I want to live. I want to see my mother again. I want to marry Rhaena someday, as I have sworn to. As I have dreamt of more times than I could number. I beg you for mercy.”

Aemond looks to Daeron. And it takes several long, slow seconds for Daeron to understand why. He is being given the choice. He is the man who lost Nico. Daeron says softly: “He’s not the one who murdered her. I have no use for his blood.”

Aemond nods. And then, as the wind tears dripping, silver strands from his long braid, he offers his hand to Luke. Luke seizes it with his good arm, sobbing openly with relief.

“You were in London when the princesses were slain,” Aemond says.

“Yes,” Luke replies. “But I did not know it would happen, nor did I desire it. I swear to God, Aemond, I swear on every god men have ever believed in. None of us knew, my mother had forbidden harm to come to them—”

“And Jace was there too.”

“Yes,” Luke admits, weeping for his dead brother.

“You and Jace were in London with Daemon, and now you’re here on the battlefield. But that beast isn’t. Not that I’ve seen. So where’s Daemon?” Aemond asks Luke. “Where’s Daemon?”

“Aren’t you going to ask me to spare you?” Daemon doesn’t move like a man. He stalks like a wolf, like a phantom, off-kilter, inhuman. He grins, white teeth and violent eyes. “Aren’t you going to beg for mercy?”

And for a moment, the words fill up in your mouth like blood in a wound: Please don’t hurt me. I’ll do anything you want. I’ll go back to Navarre and never return, you’ll never hear soldiers cheer for me, you’ll never see me again. Please, please, just let me go so the baby can live.

But Daemon would not be moved by your pleas. They would only give him wicked, ghastly pleasure, a high like the knowing touch of a lover. You cannot stomach the thought of it. You can only bring yourself to twist the allegorical knife deeper. “If you had taught Baela mercy, she would still be alive. If you had any within yourself, Rhaenyra would be winning this war.”

“Too proud,” Daemon says, but he doesn’t sound furious anymore. He sounds awed. And you realize that all along underneath that hatred had been something else too: a venomous admiration, a hunger that corrupts and burns. He lays the point of his sword against your throat. Rain flows down the length of the blade in cold, crystalline rivulets. You sob, unable to help it. Your mind is a tapestry of all the things you’ll never live to see. “Aegon is a nonentity. But you were different. I saw that from the start. Just a girl from a minor kingdom offered like a sacrifice to be neglected and violated by some drunken, ambitionless, catastrophically weak prince. Yet you didn’t seem to know it. You had that intractable, defiant ruthlessness. So much like Rhaenyra’s when she was younger. So much like Aemond’s. So much like mine. And I knew I could never call myself worthy of the throne without breaking you. Rhaenyra comforts herself with the notion that none of this is personal. That I would have had the same contempt for the Milanese girl or the Holy Roman Emperor’s daughter if either of them had been the one to marry Aegon. Rhaenyra feels sorry for you, I believe. She has a mother’s compassion. But this has always been personal for me. And now it’s finally over.”

There is a sound above you at the top of the gorge, huffing and stomping. Reflected in Daemon’s blade, you see Midnight, her legs and chest painted with blood from kicking through the walls of her stall and then the stable door. She takes a few tentative steps down the slope and then is forced to retreat. If she falls, she’ll shatter her legs or snap her neck and drown in the current of mud and rainwater. She can’t come to you. But if you can get to her…

Caraxes is dead. Daemon wouldn’t be able to catch me.

Time ticks by slowly, impossibly slowly; and you are reminded of all those nights you spent under Aegon waiting for him to finish, a long-clawed eternity lurking in the doorway between seconds. You are reminded of how each hour you spent pregnant felt like forever as the possibility of having a child of your own receded like a ship dropping over the edge of the horizon, and then farther, and then farther. You are reminded of how you counted the days until Kunigunde would marry Aemond and possess him in ways that you still have only dreamt of. Since your arrival in England almost two years ago, you have been a prisoner of time. Now—as you scavenge for a chance at a future almost too bright to imagine—you are grateful for it.

Too late, you think, but it’s not a statement. It’s a question. Too late?

“Do you know what, Navarre?” Daemon asks. He traces the point of his blade around the curve of your throat, drawing a half-moon of crimson as thin as a spider’s thread. Then he hooks his left hand into the white velvet of your gown—drenched with rain, stained with blood and earth—and wrenches you upright, devouring you with wild, wolfish eyes. You strike at him to no avail. “I think before I gut you, I’ll enjoy you in the way Aemond never could. That would hurt him best, wouldn’t it? He was always covered in it. That pitiful, dire hunger for you. Written on his ruined face as stark as ink. Now he can have whatever pieces of you are left when I’m done. Scraps, butcher’s cuts, your child, your eyes, your heart. If he’s still alive.”

Too late??

You don’t have a sword, you don’t have a dagger or a bow, you don’t have the physical strength to fight Daemon. You never have, even before your hand was crushed and shredded by his Scottish deerhound. At the crest of the gorge, Midnight paces and whinnies.

What DO I have? What the hell do I still have?

Suddenly you feel it, cool and unyielding against your chest: the ivy leaf necklace made of gold.

With your mangled hand, you rip it off you—destroying the clasp, drawing blood at the back of your neck—and stab at Daemon. He rocks his head back swiftly enough to save his eyes, but not his mouth; you shove your fist in as far as you can, pushing the jagged charm of the necklace down his throat to choke him. With your free hand, you cling to him like a lover so he cannot create enough space between you to swing his sword. He screams, and you do too, as the gashes in your hand are split wider and deeper by his teeth, as his jaws close around your wrist and he tries to bite through the flesh and into your veins; but you do not relent. The pain is dreadful but not disorienting. You’ve had time to learn how to think through it.

Daemon flings you away and—choking, retching, doubled over—tries to claw the necklace out of his throat. You bolt for the embankment and begin climbing up towards Midnight. You have to move quickly; each time you hesitate, the saturated earth begins to disintegrate beneath your palms and bare feet. Rain falls in stinging sheets. Rods of lightning break the sky in two. Midnight is stomping and snorting at the apex of the gorge, waiting for you. You are halfway to her when you realize you can hear Daemon behind you.

He’s wheezing and weighted down by his armor; when you glance back at him, there are tendrils of blood spilling from his mouth. Still, the insanity in his eyes is alight and glittering. You claw for the summit desperately. When you get close enough to reach out to her, Midnight lowers her head; you throw your arms around her vast neck and she drags you over the top of the gorge and onto flat, muddy ground. But there’s no time to catch your breath. You clamber to your feet and try to pull yourself onto Midnight’s back. It’s no use; she’s too tall, you’re too weak. She looks at you with her attentive volcanic-glass eyes and upright ears, and then she understands. With ungainly effort, she drops down to her knees so you can climb onto her back. When Midnight stands again, you steady yourself and twist your fingers into her mane, and then she charges towards the stone bridge—

There’s a shrill, glass-sharp roar and a hand on your gown. Daemon is yanking you off of her. Midnight is whirling and shrieking, trying to shake him. There’s not enough for you to hold onto, no reins, no saddle. Daemon drags you down to the earth. You hit hard, the breath knocked from your lungs, your vision stunned black. You can feel that Daemon is on top of you with his sword at your jugular; you scratch and shove blindly at him. And then Midnight is stomping and kicking and there is a new sound: a crack muffled by gelatinous flesh like the sheet around a corpse, a great fracturing like the world splitting in half. And Daemon is gone.

Your sight materializes: black to grey to color, shadows to shapes. When you haul yourself upright, the rain is slowing and Midnight is nudging your head with her velvet-soft muzzle. Daemon is ten feet away. He has propped himself up against the entranceway of the bridge, his legs splayed out in front of him. When you go to him and kneel down in the mud—thunder growling distantly, moving into the west—you see that his jaw has been broken from the impact of Midnight’s hoof. It hangs disjointedly, ruinously from his face. A moon-white dagger of bone juts from the torn flesh. His teeth are a garden of ivory shards and excavated pits. Blood pours down his throat and chest like a river, like a sea. He cannot speak. He can only gaze at you with glassy, vacant eyes, the knowledge dripping in slowly, piece by piece, like waking up from a dream: he’s dying. And it occurs to you that sometimes dying is the end, and sometimes it’s just killing the version of yourself that existed before, sacrifice, spring after frost, a blade born from a forge, resurrection.

You press your hands to the blood that hemorrhages from Daemon and then drag them down your face, palms and fingertips, coppery-tasting scarlet like wine, like rubies. “You once told me that I’d look better covered in red,” you say to him as the last vestiges of consciousness flicker in his eyes. “That was on Christmas, just before you murdered my son in the womb and I spent weeks bleeding fragments of him out of me. How do I look now, Prince Daemon? Now you’re the one who’s bleeding. Now you’re the one who will never grow old.”

He hears you. You can see that he hears you: horror, agony, disbelief, mourning.

“I want you to think about that as you lie here dying alone. I want you to think about all those things you wanted—those glorious, ruthless things—and how you stole them from yourself.”

You stagger to your feet. Daemon’s hand, weak like a whisper, juts out and grabs your muddied ankle. You rip free of him without looking back. You are the last person to ever see him alive.

Midnight follows you back to the palace. Your damaged hand hangs limply by your side; the other cups your belly. You wait for the cramping to begin, the razorlike severing, the blood. It seems unthinkable that your child could have survived, that Daemon could have departed this earth without stealing one last life from you. But for all the places where you hurt terribly, that isn’t one of them. When you reach the well, you brace yourself for what you’ll discover there. You grip the cool grey circle of stones and peer over the edge.

“Your Majesty?!” Criston exclaims, gaping at you. He’s wading in water up to his chest. “Oh, thank God! I heard the footsteps and thought it was Daemon!”

“He’s dead,” you reply in a voice that sounds very little like yours: cold like winter, hard like steel. The rain has faded to a misty drizzle.

Criston shakes his head, not understanding. “How did you…? What did you…?”

“I’ll find a way to get you out,” you say, and leave him.

You procure a length of rope from the stable and—with considerable difficulty, your wounded hand trembling and nearly useless—tie one end around Midnight like the harness of a plow. You toss the other end down to Criston. He emerges from the well with a broken leg but otherwise relatively unscathed. He limps, leaning against Midnight (an only semi-willing ally), to where Daemon’s body lies by the bridge.

“Oh my God,” Criston marvels, staring down at him: ruined face, empty hands. “He’s gone. He’s really gone. He was the greatest weapon the Blacks had, and he’s gone. What the hell will Rhaenyra do now?”

You pry your sword from Caraxes’ corpse and then return to Criston. “I need you to help me. My blade is too small, and even if it wasn’t, my sword hand is practically unusable. I can probably do the first part, but I’ll need you to chop through the spine.”

Criston is horrified. “What are you talking about? The spine…?!”

And then you tell him.

You have just finished when you hear the rumble of hooves approaching. Vhagar and Aemond are at the front of a detachment of cavalry. The cannon fire in the distance has stopped; Daeron and Alonzo are doubtlessly overseeing the clearing of the battlefield. Aemond leaps down from the saddle and rushes to where you stand to meet him on the bridge, his gaze flying from your ragged hand to the streaks of red on your gown and your face. Your other hand is hidden behind your back.

“Are you—?!”

“I’m alright,” you say. “The blood isn’t all mine.”

And then you throw Daemon’s head—clutching it by his long, white, Targaryen hair—out onto the grey stones for everyone to witness. It rolls several times before coming to rest face-up, the last raindrops falling into Daemon’s vacuous eyes as the sky begins to clear. Aemond grins, a fiercely proud, wonderous grin; and the soldiers’ cheers are carried on the calm, cool breeze: “The Queen from Navarre! The Queen from Navarre! The Queen from Navarre!”

A physician is fetched to set Sir Criston’s leg and to tend to your hand. It is scrubbed with boiling wine (excruciating) and then the deepest gashes are stitched closed with a needle and thread (even worse). The process takes several hours. You are offered strong wine for the pain, but you don’t want to risk harming the baby. Aemond stays with you. He knows exactly what this feels like: the serrated agony now, the scar tissue that will grow through the rubble like roots. It will pain you all your life. You will never be free of it.

Aemond cleans Daemon’s blood from your face and allows you to squeeze his hand until your fingernails leave crescent-moon indents in his palm. And then he begins to distract you. He brings his lips to the curve of your jaw as one arm hugs your waist, and as he dusts your skin with tantalizingly slow kisses and teasing nips, you are reminded of the February night when he touched you beneath your nightgown for the first time, when he showed you how hot desire could burn and how kindly it could treat you. As your flesh is mended like a torn tapestry—the physician’s head bent low over his work—Aemond nuzzles you and murmurs to you and traces his fingertips lightly over your throat, your collarbones, the nape of your neck.

Miraculously, after a while you barely notice the pain at all. After a while, you are covered in nothing but weightless, glimmering desire for him.

In the room of Castle Rising that has become your bedchamber: back to the wall, hands in his hair, loose and wild and silver. In the starlight that streams in through the open windows, it has an opalescent sheen like moonstone. He’s kissing you like fire consumes forests; he’s breathing you in like smoke. You can feel him growing through you, flames licking, ivy climbing the trellis of your ribs and vertebrae. He’s tearing off your gown—once white, now red, impure and unrepentant—as you undress him and litter the floor with all the leather and fabric that once separated you. As Aemond’s hands skate up your bare thighs, you remember other moments with him: in the royal stables on a July afternoon, your miscarriage after the Christmas feast, on the bearskin rug in February, his wedding night at the end of April, here in the bathtub before the battle.

“Please, Aemond,” you beg as his fingers slip between slick warm folds of needful flesh, circle the place that raises euphoria in you like the moon pulls the tides. “I need all of you.”

“No,” he pants between fevered kisses. The ruby of his missing eye glints hungrily. “You first. I’m not going to last, I know it. You have to go first.”

Your unbandaged hand knots in his hair, tugging him ever-closer; his tongue darts into your mouth; his bare chest and hips press insistently to yours. You can feel his hardness, his length against your inner thigh, and this time there is no trepidation that roils in your mind like the waves of the sea. You want him with everything you’re built of, every minute and mineral and memory. You could not silence your moans if you tried. You can feel your shoulder blades bruising against the wall, heavenly pressure, delicious bites of pain, trapped blood that tomorrow will be swimming with recollection.

“Aemond, it’s happening—”

“Good, good,” he purrs through your disheveled hair. He slides one finger into you, and then another, kissing the slope of your cheekbone as your hips rock with his rhythm. “Come for me, Ivy. You wanted me to be the one to have you and now I’m here, I’ll be here forever, I’ll be here until the world ends. Let me show you how good it will always feel.”

You cry out against him, shuddering and rapturous. You can feel the past slipping away like a dream you can’t recall in the morning, a flash here, a phrase there, but otherwise indistinct, shadowy, the jagged parts sanded down until they no longer sting.

“I love you,” Aemond whispers, his fingers still inside you, buried to the knuckles in your pulsing warmth, your wetness, relics of the pleasure only he showed you was possible.

And you reply with his own words, cradling his face in your palms, half-scarred and yet entirely beautiful: “I would love you anywhere and at any cost.”

He draws you to the bed. He’s on top of you, he’s touching you, he’s tasting you, he’s stroking you until you plead for him to give you everything. But Aemond wants to be sure you’re ready. When he finally eases himself into you, it is a smooth and gliding action, overwhelming and unfamiliar but in no way painful. You hear his promise—I won’t hurt you, I’ll never hurt you—and you know that he has kept it. The intense fullness is a sensation you’ve never known before, never even imagined. When he moves, very carefully at first, it hits at an angle that rekindles your lust, somehow deeper, less pointed, more total than the peaks you knew before. You can’t catch your breath; you feel like if the wave doesn’t break, it will kill you.

“Again?” Aemond murmurs, stunned yet ecstatic.

“Again,” you gasp helplessly. He threads his fingers through yours on your good hand and pins it above your head, thrusting more powerfully as he kisses you, bodies and souls alike tangled up together, inseparable, irrevocable. When you come, it is an indescribable high; it is a force that feels like it could snap ropes of muscle and break bones. Aemond, unable to wait a second longer, empties himself with a trembling, reverent moan of the name he gave you: Ivy, Ivy, Ivy. And he holds you—tightly, to his chest, to his heart—for a long time before he pulls himself away, as if he is afraid that the moment he lifts his hands from you you’ll vanish.

Gently, he pushes your thighs apart when you move to close them. “Let me look at you,” he says. And he sighs, transfixed, as he watches his seed spill out. He takes a corner of the sheet that you’ve torn from the mattress and whisks the pearl-white river away. Then he smiles, his gaze flicking playfully to yours. “One day this won’t go to waste.”

You bathe together in water murky with steam and herbs and rose petals, washing away the past, cleaning the slate for the future. And when you return exhausted to the bed remade with fresh linens, neither of you stare up at the ceiling and wonder at the cruelties of time. You fold into Aemond—your head on his chest, rounded belly pressed against him, an arm slung across his waist—and you are asleep before you can begin to count the beats of his heart.

As soon as you arrive back in London, you and Aemond marry in the small private chapel, not illuminated by candlelight but by the sun, radiant afternoon beams refracted by stained glass scenes of kings and saints, colors on your skin like gemstones: ruby, sapphire, amethyst, emerald, amber, ruby again, treasures from the earth born only from suffocating pressure and the passing of time.

Two years to the day after you first set foot on English soil, Aemond is officially invested as regent pending either your deliverance of a daughter or your son’s coming of age in eighteen years. During the feast that follows, Alicent tends fretfully to Sir Criston: feeding him morsels of bread and meat, asking after the pain in his still-mending leg, forbidding him from rising unnecessarily from his chair. She finds excuses to touch his hair and his hands, and you observe them—furtively, from behind sips of honeyed mead, trying not to intrude—with warm blood blossoming in your cheeks. You are happy for them. You know exactly what it feels like to taste passion after a lifetime without it. It is better than a paradise, an oasis, a port in the storm. It is magic. It is a spell.

You and Aemond traverse the Great Hall of Westminster Palace to thank the Southern nobles for their loyalty, their sacrifices, their dead sons and widowed daughters. You collect wary apologies from Northerners who must now somehow be rewoven into the fabric of English society. You are offered praise for your heroism, condolences for your dead husband, well wishes for your unborn child who might one day be the king. And when, suddenly, you gasp and grab at your belly with your scarred hand, Aemond reaches fearfully for you.

“What—?”

“He’s moving,” you say, incredulous, beaming. And then you lay Aemond’s palms on your bump so he can feel it too. “He’s alright. He’s alive.”

“Of course he’s alive,” Aemond says; but you can see on his face that only now does he truly believe it, and that all along he was so adamant only because he knew it was what you needed.

The nobility—Greens and reformed Blacks alike—try not to raise their eyebrows too much when you and Aemond announce that you wed immediately upon your return to London. Yet they accept it, and so do the kingdoms of the Continent, and—after some adept persuading by your father and Alonzo—so does the Pope in Rome. There are far greater sins still fresh in everyone’s memory. And no one can deny that Aemond was built for ruling. He is the best thing for England, for all of Europe. So are you. You are beloved by the people. The name they call you—the Queen from Navarre—lives in the same breath as martyrs and saints.

Daeron is rarely left alone. Even the Duke of Hightower has compassion for him. Aemond takes him hunting and sparring, you walk with him in the gardens where Nico once sat and wept as she read his letters. He does not forget her—not at all, not even a little bit, not ever—but he does learn to remember her with more affection than bitterness. Bitterness does not come naturally to Daeron; he sheds it more swiftly than other men could. Someday he will have to marry, of course, but he is allowed time to mourn. The promise of the child you carry grants him that. And Aemond asks you to sew a new banner for the Greens: two roses, one red and the other emerald, entangled on a field of golden yellow like the flags of Milan and the Holy Roman Empire. Yellow for Nico, yellow for Kunigunde. Yellow for the dawning future they helped pay for in blood.

As retribution for his daughter’s murder, the Holy Roman Emperor demands that Rhaenyra’s three children with Daemon be sent to him as wards…including her only girl. And so Aegon III, Viserys II, and Visenya—still young enough for the memories of their true parents to be essentially obliterated—are shipped off to the Continent, never to raise armies or enlist poisoners, never to marry into the illustrious families of Northern England, chess pieces removed from the board. Luke and Rhaena relocate permanently to Scotland where they will one day inherit the throne; Aemond corresponds with them regularly, seeking to establish a rapport that will spare both kingdoms from further bloodshed. Joffrey is raised by King Corlys and Queen Rhaenys. Rhaenyra is banished to an abbey on the irrelevant, dreary, windswept island of Iona off the west coast of Scotland. As long as she commits no treachery, she is permitted to have visitors there. But she may never leave without forfeiting the lives of her children held as perpetual hostages by the Holy Roman Empire.

In the bleak depths of November, your labor pains begin as you are visiting the royal stables, feeding Midnight and Vhagar and Tessarion knobby carrots from the gardens and handfuls of oats. The midwives and physicians are baffled by Aemond’s insistence upon staying with you during the birth. He is similarly baffled by their assumption that he would rather be off somewhere else: hunting, sparring, writing, politicking, gifts he possesses in equal measure. And mercifully, for all that you have suffered in pursuit of motherhood, this particular trial passes as unremarkably as possible. Your labor begins one afternoon and ends the next with the birth of a small yet healthy, living, white-haired son. The midwives let Aemond catch him, cut the umbilical cord, and place him on your chest, a weight you have waited nearly two and a half years to feel.

“You did it, Ivy,” Aemond whispers, kissing your temple with tears in his eye, as if he had no part in it at all. And the rest of your life suddenly lines up in front of you like stars in a constellation: teaching your children to walk, to read, to ride horses, to fight for themselves and their country if the fragile peace the Greens have brokered ever crumbles.

When Daeron comes to see you, you tell him as he cradles the baby in tentative arms: “We’ve named him after Nico.”

“Nicoloso?” Daeron replies, pleased yet rather amused. It is a ludicrous name for an English monarch.

“Nicholas.”

“Ah. Yes. Grandsire won’t hate that quite so much.”

Daeron studies the infant king, his tiny flailing hands, his drowsy yawns, and when Nicholas grips his thumb Daeron laughs for the first time that you can remember since Nico was alive. And you think as you watch them that maybe time is less like a wheel—something that crushes and repeats—and more like a vine that climbs ever-higher. Maybe chronology is less like a prison than an open door.

Tonight, Aemond is cross-legged on the bearskin rug and holding Nicholas, smoothing his downy silver hair in the amber firelight, telling him the same stories he once told you: King Arthur, Beowulf, Robin Hood, the Rollright Stones, Saint George and the slaying of dragons. On the wall hangs the tapestry that Aemond moved from his rooms to the bedchamber you now share. In the trunk at the foot of your bed are his poems, your sword, the letters that Aegon sends from Navarre. You are reading the most recent one now. It is—peculiarly—written in Spanish.

Wife,

I have endeavored to compose this letter in the language of your homeland. (I’ve begun taking lessons with Alonzo. Am I any good yet?)

No, he’s not; he’s made at least six grammatical errors and has confused the word patria (homeland) with patear (to kick).

I offer you my most heartfelt congratulations upon your safe deliverance of a son. I am sure it has brought you and Aemond immeasurable relief. The court here has celebrated with a feast of traditional English food (a crime! have I crossed the sea only to still be tormented by black pudding and salmon pie?) and plenty of dancing. But don’t grow too proud. They still gossip about your hasty second marriage to a man whose own wife was barely cold in the grave. You should be thankful for Rhaenyra’s brazen mating with her loathsome, deranged uncle. Your supposed transgressions seem mild in comparison. No one mourns me much. I suppose that is the mark of a life not properly lived. I’m hoping to remedy that. I really am.

You wrote that the baby looks a lot like me. That made me smile, although I’m not sure why. I’d like to meet him someday, once you have fully recovered and he is old enough to travel. Summers are beautiful here, as you well know. You and Aemond should visit in June. It will be the anniversary of my death. We can celebrate with rosado and lamb.

I had this thought recently that I can’t seem to shake. It feels too insightful to be mine. Sometimes endings are more like beginnings…don’t you think?

Whatever the color of his hair and eyes, I hope Nicholas is more like you than me.

I’ll be dreaming of you. Both of you.

With great affection,

The King in Navarre (and Sunfyre)

You re-fold the letter and place it in your trunk. Then you look to Aemond and the child he considers his own. “Navarre in June?” you say hopefully.

Aemond smiles, warm like embers. He ruby eye reflects the firelight: crimson comets, red stars. “Navarre in June,” he agrees. “It’s been too long already.” And then he touches his lips to Nicholas’ tiny, flawless forehead before laying him in the cradle.

Once, as golden afternoon light poured into the royal stables, Aemond had asked you what brought you happiness here in England. Everything, you would answer now if he asked you again.

Everything.

#aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen x you

[nightfall-writer]

Spiders and Confessions

Prince!Thranduil x Reader

Word count: 1.3k (Things Clearing got out of hand)

Warnings: Best Friends to Lovers trope, Sleeping in the same space but not the same bed (they’re scouting together so near a campfire), Violence and a bit of blood warning (killing spiders), Fluff perhaps. If I forgot any please let me know!

“You know, I believe we should’ve brought more people” You breathed out trying to keep up with Thranduil's long strides. You two left early that morning to see if the spottings of spiders and orcs were true. Thranduil believed that as the Prince, he should check it out and save his father from worrying about doing it.

Although he told his father that he was merely checking out how the wild animals were doing and would be back in the morning. “You could’ve stayed behind you know, I could’ve just checked by myself. I’m more than capable” He answered. “And have my Best friend eaten by something, no way! Only you deal with my antics” You scoffed. “Those are rumors, there's no danger besides wild animals in these forests.” He replied. “What if it isn't?” you asked. He turned around quickly and stopped. 

“What are you implying? That we can’t keep our forests safe?” He spat. You gave him a look of pure shock, he never snaps at you, and it seems he even notices this. “Sorry, I can see that it’s getting to my father and stressing him. I don’t want to believe that spiders or orcs are here.” He vented. “I don’t blame you, it’s concerning to all of us. None of us want to believe that spiders or orcs are coming into these forests,” you say. “I don’t believe that spiders are coming here. They have no re-” You cut him off by shushing him.

You both look around and hear a slight tapping noise. You both pull out your swords and look around listening carefully. As you turn around in time, you see a giant spider lunging towards you both. You stab it in the head and it screeches as another one comes. You hear a screech behind you realizing that these are after the prince as well. You kill two more and start to kill another one. 

Until one comes straight for you and before you can react it smacks you across the clearing right into a tree. You drop your swords from the impact and turn over. You groan in pain and start standing back up realizing your head is now bleeding. You grab one of your daggers and throw it into the spider's skull killing it. You then pick your swords back up and kill the rest of them alongside Thranduil.

You both look around listening intensely to see if you hear any more spiders or anything else coming to get you. As you both decide nothing else is around, you turn around to see if Thranduil is okay but, as you turn around the prince is already in front of you looking at your head. “I’m Fine” you assure him. “Bleeding is hardly fine, when will you ever take care of yourself?” He replies. You start to reply before realizing he is correct. You cannot remember the last time you had even slept properly or took care of yourself after a battle.

 “I can take care of myself!” You gasp. “Never said you couldn’t I said you don’t. Now let’s leave here and settle somewhere so I can make sure you’re okay.” He replies. You nod and start following him. You started blushing slightly at the closeness that just happened and hoped he didn’t see it. After walking for about 5 minutes you both decide to settle down in a small clearing with dirt instead of grass. On the way to finding a place to settle you both picked up sticks and rocks to later make a campfire so you both could see. 

The cold wasn’t an issue as it was spring in Greenwood. “Hopefully it doesn’t rain” you jest. “Now why would you go and jinx it, if it rains you will be my umbrella now.” He joked. “Says the one who’s taller than me” You snickered. “Shortie” He chuckled. You gasped and smacked his arm. “I may be shorter than you but that still doesn’t mean I cannot Fight you” You added. He started laughing as you joined in. He started to get the fire lit, after it was started he walked over to you and started checking your head wound. “You’re Lucky it's a little wound,” he says as he grabs something out of a pouch on this tunic and puts a band-aid on your head. “What would you do without me” He jokes and you laugh along.

You grabbed both blankets that you and him packed and wrapped them both around you for the softness. “Stop hogging all the blankets.” He chuckled as he went over and grabbed one from you. “Hey, you don’t even need it! You can have the fire if you get cold!” You replied. “Never said I would be using it 'cause I was cold” He shrugged. You groaned and as you both were trying to make the fire a bit bigger, you decided to tease Thranduil. “Do you snore? Please tell me you don’t snore. It would make it impossible to sleep” you jest. “Me? You should be worried about yourself snoring.” He jokes. He starts to mimick you snoring and you both start laughing.

You both talk as the sun sets and hours after, talking about anything and everything. Most of the things you did talk about were total nonsense. “I am going to go to sleep, try not to be too loud, impossible task I know” You joked as you settled to your side of the campfire with Thranduil being on the other. “Ha ha very funny” He replies. You settle down and cover up before the fire becomes a blur and you fall asleep. 

Thranduil couldn’t seem to sleep, paranoid that more spiders would come. He couldn’t get out of his head that you could’ve died and he never told you his feelings. His father was aware of his affections but, he wasn’t thrilled it wasn’t someone with a royal title. He let it be realizing Thranduil was stubborn and wouldn’t just let it go. The more Thranduil thought about it, the more he didn’t like the thought of you being too far.

 Even if it was across the campfire that made it an obstacle to get across before getting to protect you. He decided to move to that side and just blame him for moving on the campfire dying out. You were woken up by someone poking you. “Hey,” Thranduil says as he's poking you, “Move over”. “What?” You asked as you swatted him away trying to fall back asleep. “Move over” he replied and continued to poke you until you moved over. “Why? Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping on the other side?” you questioned. “The fire is dying out and I’m cold.” You were sleepy and didn’t realize that elves can’t be cold. You groaned and shuffled over enough for him to sit down next to you. He was thankful that you didn’t question the cold part as he heard it when he said it. 

In the morning, you woke up and noticed Thranduil looking at you. “Morning sleepy head,” He says. “Did you not sleep?” you asked. “Couldn’t, you fell asleep easily though,” he replied. “Sleep is important you know,” you responded. “I am not judging you, you slept like a baby,” he says. You scoff and were about to reply before he added “It was kinda cute”. This caused you to let out a squeak and start blushing. After a few seconds, you hear him chuckle. “Thanks for the teasing,” you say. “It’s called flirting believe it or not” He laughs causing you to blush more. “I’m not that bad am I?” He asked. “Could be better” you chuckled. “Well, perhaps if you go out with me, it will improve.” He says and smirks.

You stare at him in disbelief for a moment before replying, “I do like you Thranduil but, I don't know.” He looks at you for a moment, “Why not? Everyone already believes we are dating” He responds. “What about the king?” You ask, “He’ll be okay with it trust me” he answered. You started smiling and replied “Alright, If I must” You joked.

#thranduil x reader #thranduil imagine #thranduil #the hobbit #friends to lovers #fluff #one shot #thranduil x you #mirkwood #thranduil oropherion

[linkspooky]

I am know this is an insanity broad question but do you have any specific thoughts on Revolutionary Girl Utena? or anything that you think hasn’t been said or just caught your attention? Your one of my favorite meta writers and I’ve been reading your blog since you were doing semi-regular AOT meta, so I guess I should have figured you had seen the series—RGU is a show so dense symbolism, metaphor, ect.—there was just so much to pick apart. Anyway, I would love to hear anything you had to say abt the series!

Sure, I've always wanted to do a meta on the Black Rose arc which is a totally underrated arc. I feel part of the reason it's not as discussed as other arcs is from a lack of understanding of it's role in the story.

The Black Rose arc is a moon arc.

You've heard of the hero's journey, now it's time to learn about the fool's journey. In Tarot, The Fool's Journey is a journey to self fulfillment where each of the 22 major arcana represent a stage on that journey - an experience that a person must incorporate to become whole.

The fool begins their journey at (0), fresh as a newborn, naive and unaware to the world. The fool is strangely empty, as is zero. Who better to serve as our analogue for the fool then the main character Utena Tenjou, characterized by 1) her naivete and 2) her emptiness.

Several years after losing her parents she lost the will to keep on living. Desperately in search for a reason to live a prince appeared before her and gave her one, showing her something eternal, and leaving with her a ring to lead her to him one day. That was all very well and good, but so impressed was she by the prince, that the princess made up her mind to become a prince herself!

Or so the story goes.

Utena is blindly striding forward (and right off a cliff) like the fool card, and also like the fool she's on a journey to fill her emptiness and become whole. At the start of the story she's not a complete person. She's 14 to begin with, but also look at how she reacts when Anthy is stripped away from her at the end of the first arc and the "purpose" given to her is gone. She becomes depressed and barely responsive, and only stands up again to get that purpose back but she's still clinging onto someone else for purpose. Utena is like the fool, on a journey to become a complete person by gaining knowledge of the world.

That is what I would say separates the Hero's Journey from the Fool's Journey, the Fool's Journey is a Jungian narrative in nature. It's not about battling obstacles like in the Hero's Journey, but about the process of individuation. Individuation is the process by which an immature and fragmented psyche, and the experiences of a person's life, become integrated into a well-functioning whole. You can integrate your past memories, your shadow in a jungian sense, your subconscious, into a well-functioning whole.

Utena is not whole however by the time the Black Rose arc comes around, and her lack of awareness of this fact and of her own shadow is exactly what allows it to overtake her.

So we're following Jung here. Jung, Jung, Jung.

Jung and Tarot go hand in hand because Jung believed in archetypes, sets of symbols that were universal across all cultures, that appeared in both dreams and mythologies and were deeply meaningful to us on a subconscious level. The idea of prince and princesses in Utena are a Jungian Archetype. The Moon card Tarot also has major associations with Jung's idea of the subconscious.

PIctured is the full moon int he ngiht sky, positioned between two large towers. The moon is the symbol of dreams and the unconscious,it's light is dim comapred to the sun and only slightly illuminates the path to higher consciousness leading between the two towers.

In the foreground is a small pool, representing the watery, subconscious mind. A small crayfish crawls out of the pool, symbolizing the early stages of unconsciousness unfolding. A dog and wolf stand in a grassy field both howling at the moon, representing both the tamed and wild aspects of our mind.

The moon is a card heavily tied to Jung's idea of the subconscious, or the shadow. If the persona is our outer face to the world, what “what oneself as well as others thinks one is” [CW9 para 221], the “shadow is that hidden, repressed, for the most part inferior and guilt-laden personality whose ultimate ramifications reach back into the realm of our animal ancestors…If it has been believed hitherto that the human shadow was the source of evil, it can now be ascertained on closer investigation that the unconscious man, that is his shadow does not consist only of morally reprehensible tendencies, but also displays a number of good qualities, such as normal instincts, appropriate reactions, realistic insights, creative impulses etc “ [CW9 paras 422 & 423].

Jung believed in a separated consciousness, the conscious mind is the persona the light we can see and the shadow is the subconscious mind which consists of all that we are unaware of and/or is hiding in the dark, quite literally the shadow of our conscious minds.

In Fool's Journey the Moon Card is the stage at which the light is so dim that our shadows become the longest. When I say a Moon Arc in any kind of story, I mean a story arc where characters are essentially caught in the Moon Phase of the fool's journey, which is a special time of confusion and illusion.

Essentially, the Star which is the card preceeding it is the card of temporary inspiration. The star's light is what makes the fool vulnerable to the moon's illusions.

The light that illuminates this for him is The Star (17) which provides hope and a sense of renewal; this is the light at the end of the tunnel. The Fool feels inspired to start shining as his true self. However, its opposite – The Moon (18) – represents any fears and subconscious programming that may prevent him from enjoying this new state of bliss. Light casts a shadow and the shadow, in this case, is the old anxiety and fears which may rise to the surface when attempting to shine brightly as The Star.

The light of the star makes the fool vulnerable to the illusions of the moon. His positive emotions aren't subject to mental clarity. In his dreamy condition, the Fool is susceptible to fantasy, distortion and a false picture of truth.

So that is the moon arc in a nut-shell, an arc where a character gets too close to the light only to be trapped in shadows. How else can you describe the confusing Black Rose Arc but the characters themselves being trapped within a mage of illusions? Much like a dream the characters are trapped in, there's no sense of direction, time flows strangely, and the events of the entire arc are forgotten by the time the characters wake up.

I'm not making up this Tarot symbolism either, in the first episode of the Black Rose Arc we are introduced to Akio, Anthy's older brother who likes to gaze up at stars in an indoor planetarium. A figure who gives advice to Utena all throughout the arc, but who is also clearly hiding another agenda and misleading her on purpose. The light of the stars leads to the illusions of the moon. He even discusses the moon with Utena in Episode 15.

Utena:  Akio-san, you really think about your sister a lot, don't you? Akio:  Do I? Utena:  I probably wouldn't understand since I don't have any siblings myself, Utena:  ...but what does it mean for a girl to have an older brother? Utena:  What's this? Utena:  The moon? Akio:  Normally, it's something useless and of little concern. Akio:  But, every now and then, you look up at it and feel a certain degree of comfort

In this context he uses the moon as a metaphor for a sibling, someone who's always there but you don't usually notice them, but those words could describe the subconscious mind as well. Also, one final instance of star / moon symbolism within this arc the stars made by Akio's projector are fakes. The stars themselves are illusions.

The Back Rose Arc follows a formula to a T. Every episode a duelist comes to the Mikage Seminar for help (which is specifically a therapy seminar more Jung symbolism right there), they begin talking about their problems as an elevator descends down an elevator shaft and the voice listening urges them to go deeper.

Utena later rides an elevator up to the dueling arena too, because the elevators are symbols for traveling to different areas of consciousness. The three levels, the dueling arena at the highest, the academy on the ground floor and the bottom of the elevator shaft era a metaphor for Freud's iceberg theory of consciusness which similarly divides the human mind into three levels.

Not only are the characters physically descending down an elevator shaft, they are also plumbing the depths of their own unconscious minds and revealing to themselves what they have intenionally kept hidden and repressed by trying to bury it that deep.

On the wall there's a specimen of a butterfly that slowly reverses its metamorphosis, from a butterfly, to chrysallis, to caterpillar, and then to a leaf with eggs on it. This too is a symbol of the unconscious, but this time of Jung, because Jung believed the unconscious mind was made up of our most primal instincts. The butterfly regresses to its infantile state while the characters in the elevator regress with it.

These characters become shadow possessed. In the story quite literally possessed as Mikage uses a black rose to turn them into duelist. However, Jung theorized that traits in our lives we repress or refuse to acknowledge are still there, they just come out in other ways.

“That which we do not bring to consciousness appears in our lives as fate.” (Carl Jung)

In the Curios Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde the good doctor Jekyll is a philantrophist who has lived a good life, but makes a potion to bring out his worst traits and transform himself into a hideous monster, so he can commit barbarous acts and get away with it. He just needs to drink the potion again and return to being Jekyll and all of his cruel acts will be blamed on Mr. Hyde. Over the course of the story the potion stops working and Jekyll can no longer drink a poition to neatly divide between his philanthropic good side, and his ugly bad side which robs and murders. He becomes Mr. Hyde all the time, his shadow gains dominance over him making him shadow possessed.

"With every day, and from both sides of my intelligence, the moral and the intellectual, I thus drew steadily nearer to that truth, by whose partial discovery I have been doomed to such a dreadful shipwreck: that man is not truly one, but truly two.” - Robert Louis Stevenson

Not only are the Black Rose Duelists possessed by their own shadows, the repressed qualities that are brought out in the Mikage Seminar's evil therapy session but they themselves also serve as shadows figuratively in story to the duelists they steal the sword from.

Kozue is the fixation of her brother the chaste and knightly Miki's madonna-whore complex, while Miki appears to be the most harmless of the boys he has an obsession with purity especially in his childhood days that he projects onto his sister and also any woman resembling his sister like Kozue.

Juri is the calm, cool, and collected female of the student council. Immediately seems like the most decent student council member. Just as looked up to by all the female students as Utena is. Until you find out she's a lovesick puppy reduced to a total emotional wreck over her unrequited love, unable to do little more than pine over her in secret. Then you meet the person she's in love with and her fixation on her friend Shiori just makes her look even more desperate.

Nanami is desperately attempting to stand in for her brother as the student council president, yet another one of the many ways she tries to earn his affection as his little sister. Nanami's desperately trying to recreate the closeness her and Toga had as children, but Toga's already left her behind for the world of adults, so now she's stuck trying to prove she can join him there when she's not even close as an incredibly high strung and spazzy thirteen year old who's more naive then even the younger student council members. She also has a kid tagalong who is three years younger than her, the same age gap between Nanami and her brother, who's also desperate to enter the same age group as her and be her equal but for the most part just gets treated like a pet or toy.

Kozue takes the sword from Miki, because Miki's issues revolve around his relationship with his sister which is a constant problem that plagues him in his life but something he chooses to ignore rather than address and fix.

Shiori takes the sword from Juri because she too is a shadow archetype, the object of Juri's affection but someone she doesn't talk to, or attempt to mend their relationship, and she especially doesn't seem to understand the real Shiori to the point where you wonder why Juri is so hung up on this person in particular. Is she even hung up on the real Shiori or is it just a fantasy because the real one falls far short of the romantic ideal that has Juri wandering the gardens at night and composing poetry like she's Lord Byron.

Mitsuru takes the sword from Nanami, because Nanami can't see the fact that the way she's treated by her brother, is ultiamtely the way she treats Mitsuru. No matter what Nanami does or how hard she tries to earn it, nothings going to close the gap between her and her brother and she can't force it the same way Mitsuru can't magically become thirteen.

Toga's is the hardest to fit into this category because he's not really around this arc and Keiko isn't much of a character, but it's interesting nonetheless one of Toga's many groupies is convinced of this cinderella like fantasy that Toga's evil sister is getting in the way of her true love with Toga and only if Nanami were out of the way Toga would be hers and hers alone. Just completely unaware of the way Toga treats women and just who Toga is in general. .

It could be a shadow archetype in two senses, one just the bright image of the prince has caused everyone even Toga himself to not notice who Toga really is as a person. They're too caught up in the romantic fantasy of Toga. Or maybe since Keiko taking the sword from Toga practically looks like she's assaulting him in a hospital bed, it could be showing the darker side of the way Toga views sexuality, that it's not necessary something he even likes or wants and has harmful connotations with him. Two it could just be another shadow archetpye for Nanami, there's really no becoming Toga's special girl. Toga's not really going to treat you any differently from everyone else, because he is for reasons completely emotionally unavailable.

Oh, while editing this post I realized I skipped Wakaba and Saionji. Very quickly Wakaba's relationship with Utena mirrors Saionji's with Toga, and Saionji similiarly wants to be someone important / a main character / special like Toga is because he believes it's the only way they can be equals. Wakaba's inferiority complex similiarly drives a wedge in the friendship between her and Utena. Wakaba also kind of uses Saionji as a rose bride of source to validate her feelings and make her feel special when he's relying on her for a place to sleep, whereas Saionji really only seems to want possession of Anthy and the Rose Bride to get one over on Toga so he won't have it.

Not only are the black rose duelists shadow possessed people, but the student council duelists have their swords stolen (symbols of agnecy, power, etc) by their shadow archetypes within the story. Other characters in the story who embody their repressed issues.

They confront their Mr. Hydes and then lose to them. They are temporarily made aware of the moons in their lives, which as Akio describes is someone normally useless of little concern but is always there nonetheless. He was using that to describe himself and Anthy, and by association Miki and Kozue but it applies to almost every duelist / black rose duelist pair, someone who is usually there but they take for granted, or ignore, or in Juri's case just don't want to confront. The Black Rose Arc forces a confrontation for each character with both their shadow, and their shadow archetype.

I could go list the similarities and differences with each set of character but I don't want to go on forever, so maybe in a post for another time. Instead I'm going to focus on the main one at the end of the arc and precisely why this arc is so important Nemuro Mikage, the shadow archetype to Utena.

In all mythologies there appears a trickster, a character which challenges the current ruling authority.

From mythology it is the character of the Trickster “…a collective shadow figure, a summation of all the inferior traits of character in individuals” [CW9 para 484], whom Jung thought could save us from ‘hubris’ and free the conscious mind from its fascination with evil. The trickster is usually thought of as atrocious, unconscious and unrelated, but someone who can nonetheless transform the meaningless into the meaningful. Often encountered at cross-roads, s/he is always moving, duplicitous, sexually rampant and a joker. The trickster is best portrayed, perhaps, by the figure of Hermes, who gave Pandora (‘the all-gifted one’) audacity and cunning.

From the shadows, and quite literally from nowhere appears Nemuro Mikage, a character who believes he can take the power of miracles for himself and also replace the Rose Bride by killing the original and making his partner Mamiya into the new Rose Bride. Can he even do that? How does that work? Who knows, this is Utena we don't explain anything.

The important part is Mikage is the manipulator who challenges the rules at Ohtori, and the established order attempting to subvert things. That's what Utena hates him the most for, being a person who willingly manipulated people who came to him with their issues, twisting them into thorny black roses to lash out at Anthy, and therefore Utena as well. Not only is Mikage made up of inferior character traits he's also an evil therapist who makes you act out on your worst impulses by bringing your worst insecurities to light.

Mikage's not just serving as the temporary trickster archetype however, he's also a shadow archetype of Utena made up of all of her inferior character traits. His name literally means "One's true nature"

根/Ne: lit. 3. “root (of all evil, etc), source, origin, cause, basis” or lit. 4. “one’s true nature” 室/Muro: lit. 1. “greenhouse, icehouse, cellar”.

Nemuro, like Utena is a duelist attempting to seize the rose bride and the power of miracles / eternity / the shining thing for the sake of someone else rather than themselves. They do so because saving Anthy / saving Mamiya gives them purpose.

Nemuro, like Utena is someone who doesn't have friends or family or any connection to the world but suddenly becomes involved in another family consisting of a brother and a sister. He becomes obsessed with the idea of them as a family of three because it fixes the lack of love or connection to other people that is missing in their lives.

Utena becomes obsessed with the idea of playing house with Anthy and Akio, to the point where she completely ignores the true nature of Akio and Anthy's relationship and misses very obvious warning signs. She sees them as a trio especially after moving in with them the next arc. Utena even urges Akio to get in the picture he's taking to commemorate her and Anthy's friendship.

Nemuro also believes he is in love with the older sister, an adult (Nemuro is a child, a child genius but a child nonetheless) but also experiences queer subtext with the younger brother. Nemuro fawns over Tokiko like she is some lost love and makes her the central figure of her motivations, but it's Mamiya he hallucinates actively as being his companion and flirts with when it's Anthy pretending to be him.

Utena is obsessed with a prince from her past driving her actions who is actually Akio, but who she's memorialized in her mind the same way that Nemuro memorialized Tokiko. She also believes there's a relationship between her and the older brother Akio, but that relationship isn't real because she is a child and Akio is an adult. Meanwhile she also experiences the same queer relationship between herself and Anthy who like Mamiya and Nemuro are actuall the same age.

Utena and Anthy's relationship also mirrors Mamiya and Nemuro in that Nemuro's main motivation is to give Mamiya eternity to cure his sickness, something Mamiya has said he doesn't want.

Nothing in this world is eternal, although a heart that longs for eternity could be considered beautiful.

Utena is also attempting to use the duels to protect Anthy, something Anthy never asked for her to do, and something that is actually just Utena selfishly using Anthy to give her some sense of purpose in life.

Nemuro and Utena both imagine themselves as main characters in a narrative, fighting for the sake of their loved ones, and at the end of their hero's journey they will be rewarded with everything they've fought so hard to earn. They're creating stories of their lives and making a narrative to give themselves a reason to keep going after death. For Utena it's a symbolic death, the feeling she should have died alongside her parents. For Nemuro it's his likely literal death, as apparently the Nemuro Memorial Hall and everyone inside died fifty years ago and Mikage has been stagnating for fifty years as a ghost in Ohtori unable to remember the fact that the Mikage hall burning is the long past and he hasn't changed in all this time. They are figuratively and literally dead, and in need of a reason to keep living create a story where they are the main characters.

They also imagine themselves as noble, selfless heroes sacrificing for the sake of their loved ones. Yes, even Mikage when he's playing the villain role of evil therapist and messing with people's minds he's still talking about it as some great heroic sacrifice on his part. It's a bit extreme yes but it's to point out how ridiculous Utena's own hero complex about her duels over Anthy is, especially in Anthy's mind. Nemuro burns down a hall and declares himself a hero for doing so. Utena gets in swordfights behind the school gym class and declares herself a hero. Neither Mamiya nor Anthy ever asked for them to do this, in fact when Anthy starts to genuinely like Utena she asks for the opposite for Utena to run and save herself it's just they decide to do these things on their own while imaining it as some great sacrifice on their parts.

Even your brother's crime! Souji... Come and see now? Back then, in that place who was there. Who wasn't there? Who was it that really set that fire?

Mikage makes it like he's a hero who took the heat for Mamiya's crime of burning down the hall when really he's the one who burned down the hall, and he simply blamed Mamiya for it in his memories.

Everything Mikage is fighting for is based upon unreliable memories, lies, and illusions because you know moon arc.

Anthy openly mocks him for his misguided notion and his hero complex that he's doing this to save someone, by unraveling the memories he thought was guiding him right in front of his eyes, sabotaging him in his fight against Utena.

Souji, you're going to lose. Mamiya! She will scatter the rose you wear. What? Where are you? Mamiya! Mamiya! What the? Who's? You can't beat her. You will never beat my sister who dwells in your memories.

We see this exact same thing happening when it's time for Utena to fight Akio, just when she's about to win Anthy sabotages the fight, mocks her for playing hero and says it's impossible for her to have ever won against her older brother Akio. The way Nemuro cries out Mamiya's name in pain and confusion before realizing Mamiya has been dead for years and the person he's been talking to all this time wasn't the real one, even mirrors Utena calling out Anthy's name in desperation as she realizes she never once understood the true Anthy.

Akio calls Nemuro to tell him shortly afterwards that he was using his unreliable memory of the past in order to further his agenda at this school.

Akio:  I exploited the illusion you cherished in your memory so much that you even halted your own time. Akio:  The period where you hid the possibility in your heart, not growing up, was useful.

Akio similiarly takes advantage of Utena's vague memory of the prince within her heart, in order to manipulate her into the dueling games even perfectly playing her prince later on to both lead her on by the nose and try to poison her relationship with Anthy.

Which is the greatest connecting thread between Utena and Nemuro. They both are creating fiction in their heads by imagining themselves as heroes in a storybook, and they have both built their entire motivations out of unreliable memories. The foundation they are standing on is a misremembered past. A past they've made into beautiful stories in their own minds.

Mikage:  You sound like you're yelling out, "Don't touch my precious memory!" Utena:  What did you say?! Utena:  Don't even talk like you understand me! Utena:  My memory is... Mikage:  I see. It's that memory that's been supporting you up until now. Mikage:  No need to be ashamed. Mikage:  Because the memory you possess is a worthy one. Mikage:  Only those with beautiful memories are allowed to wish, Mikage:  "If only those days could last forever, if only I could still be what I was back then." Mikage:  I know that you're the same as myself. Mikage:  Your eyes are like those people who can't help wanting to make memories last forever.

What is a story but a lie? A fiction? The lies they are told by tohers and the lies they tell themselves are what manipulate them into going forward, straight off of that cliff. After all is there any character with less agency over themselves than the main character of a story? A character in a story doesn't have any free will after all they just go where the author tells them to go, and do what the author writes for them. However, to Mikage and Utena that doesn't even seem to matter because they're both so desperate they need something, even something they subsconciously know is a lie or doubt themselves to keep moving forward. If they don't even have that, then they're dead.

Mikage:  I knew since the first time I saw you. Mikage:  You met the person important to you long ago, right? Mikage:  And so, that person changed your life forever, right? Mikage:  You're standing here on the strength of that illusion. Mikage:  That's why you were able to enter the Duel Arena. Mikage:  Am I wrong? Mikage:  After all, you're just like me.

The fools who are the heroes of their own stories, and characters in Akio's stageplay just keep moving forward until they walk off that cliff. They try to be storybook heroes from beginning to end, unable to see the problem in that until it's too late. Mikage represents Utena's own journey through the labyrinth of illusions that is the moon and what's waiting for her at the end.

The Black Rose arc foreshadows exactly what happens to Utena at the end of the story. Nemuro graduates from the academy, disappears, and all trace of him is gone and people quickly forget about him.

Akio:  However, that's all over. Akio:  From now on, the path before you is not prepared. Akio:  You, graduate now. Utena:  Oh, darn it. Utena:  What a weird place we ended up in while searching for Himemiya. Miki:  There was a really big fire here a long time ago. Utena:  Really? So there really was that kind of trouble. Miki:  It seems there weren't any casualties, but since it was before the time of the Student Council, no records remain. Miki:  Let's see... What was the building called? Kushiro Memorial Hall... Miki:  Sounds wrong. Noboribetsu Memorial Hall? Argh! I hate it when I can't remember!

Utena similiarly leaves the academy and Akio comments that just like Nemuro she'll fade quikcly from people's minds.

Akio:  It hasn't been that long since then, but everybody's forgotten about her completely. Akio:  She didn't cause a Revolution after all. Akio:  Now that she's gone, she was just a dropout to this world.

They also reach their tragic end for similiar reasons, they couldn't stop playing the role of the hero until the very end.

It's pretty much spelling out to us how the series is going to end in the second arc. Utena / Nemuro are brought into the dueling games on a false memory that's manipulated by Akio to give them a reason to participate. In their final duel, they're betrayed by Anthy and sabotaged in the middle of their fight causing them to lose. Afterwards they struggle against the truth. The result of them learning the truth is them being exiled from Ohtori Academy forever, and they are unable to save the person they want to save by playing prince, Mamiya was never alive, and Utena never got to know the true Anthy. All because they decided to play storybook prince in the first place rather than look at the reality.

Utena's however, ends on a much more hopeful note. As she's at least escaped the fiction of Ohtori Academy and Anthy insists that she is still there somewhere out in the real world. Just like the world in Tarot is the last card of the Fool's Journey, where as a whole person the Fool is now ready to join the rest of the world.

However, the Black Rose arc doesn't just foreshadow the ending of the story perfectly with Mikage's ending, it also is just the nature of the moon tarot card itself. People call it fillerly because there doesn't seem to be any real substantive change to the story, but illusions are illusions they're not supposed to be substantive. The characters don't change after the confrontation with their shadow selves.

You think so? Huh but she's. She hasn't changed. Not a bit.

Number one there's no real end in the conflict between the shadow and the conscious mind and number two that's what happens with dreams they fade in the daytime and are forgotten when you wake up.

That's the moon in general too. Always there for you. You don't usually think about it and it doesn't serve any real purpose, but from time to time you look up at it... and it makes you feel better.

#askspookies #rgu meta #revolutionary girl utena #utena tenjou #nemuro mikage #akio ohtori #anthy himemiya

[luvistqrzzz]

'i hate him so much that sometimes when i look at him i can hardly breathe.'

03:47 niki x f.reader wc- 0.3k genre- timestamp au, cruel prince au, enemies to ??

an- so i was re reading the cruel prince and honestly i couldn't stop thinking of niki as a fae,,, this isnt good but i kinda wanna experiment writing in a more descriptive fantasy way!

They are as pretty as pearls, cruel in all ways that it makes you hate yourself for even looking at them, enchanted and mesmerized by their beauty, at the royal elegance surrounding each one of the Folk.

But maybe the one who makes you hate yourself the most is Prince Riki… the youngest born of the Royal House of Fae.

Because everytime you looked at him, every glance at his sharp sculpture- like carved face and every small look at his deep brown cruel orbs, you felt yourself falling for him some more. 

Foolishly falling for his cruel demeanor and snarky behavior. Though, being the stuck up mortal you were, you would do anything but accept the butterflies in your stomach or the way your breath caught when his feline fae eyes met with yours across the hall. 

For you, it was their charm because all the Folk could do was wrap the humans around their sharp claw- like fingers and make them dance to their rhythm. It wasn’t easy to be unaffected by their magic, almost impossible. Even though mundane charms helped, they couldn’t protect you or rather stop your emotions.

However, you so badly wished that there was something shielding you from them. Shielding you from how you were feeling about one particular tall dark haired male making his way to you.

He walked proudly, as if he owned this place which is technically correct. ‘Wow, you look surprisingly normal for a mortal like you’, he mutters, smirking.

‘You don’t look bad yourself, prince’, you said through gritted teeth, bowing down as part of some stupid tradition.

‘In all honesty though, Miss Mortal, you look prettier than most people in this hall’, he casually says. Your head shoots up meeting with his dark eyes boring into yours.

You stand up straighter, in an attempt to calm down your racing heart. He must be playing some cruel joke on you. The cruel prince.

Riki chuckles, shaking his head before bending down. ‘I meant it, mortal’, he whispers into your ear before lazily striding away from you. 

reblogs and feedbacks are appreciated!

#enhypen x reader #enhypen fanfics #enhypen timestamps #— works ! #niki imagines #niki x reader #enhypen imagines #niki fanfic #niki enhypen #enha niki #enhypen #enhypen fanfiction #niki fanfiction #niki x y/n

[ownworldresident]

Side by Side Chapter 8: Custody

Book: The Royal Romance.

Premise: With new additions to their family, King Liam and Rayne must re-evaluate their relationship dynamic.

Themes: Found family, hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, family.

Word Count: 3.2k per chapter, 18 chapters. About 60k.

Note: This story started just after TRR3 ended, and isn't related to TRH. See also Side by Side Masterlist & Master Masterlist Link

Rayne

The room darkened a shade as Rayne locked eyes on the open doorway. She tightened her shaking grip on Liam’s shoulder, then released him and strode from the room. Blood rushed past her ears as she moved through the halls in careful, measured strides, every muscle tightening. One goal. How dare she…

“Rayne?” said a voice she recognised, but they could wait. Footsteps followed. “Rayne, wait. What…” Leo appeared before her and blocked her path. “What happened?”

“Move.” Rayne avoided his gaze and began to push past but Leo held her shoulders. She tried to pull away but was unsuccessful, and only when she was still did he drop his arms.

“Really,” he said, concern in his brow, “has something happened?”

Now she met his eyes. He searched hers for some explanation, as the darkness closed around the hall.

“I need to get to the council meeting.”

“Why?”

“I don’t have time for this,” she growled, then pushed past him. A moment later he fell in step with her, easily keeping pace with her shorter strides. He asked no more questions, and they walked in silence, with faint footsteps the only sound past the ringing in her mind. The meeting room door appeared, and her mind zeroed in on it, a spark of tightness in her chest at the guard out the front.

“I need to get in there,” she muttered to Leo, angling toward the guard. If he replied, she didn’t hear him, stopping only just before the guard, who bowed his head, but looked wary.

“We need to get inside,” Leo’s authoritative voice registered with Rayne, but the guard was reluctant.

"There is a meeting in session, Lady Rayne, Prince Leo. I cannot allow you to enter.”

“Think again.” Rayne clenched and unclenched her fists, the hold and release of tension doing nothing to clear her mind enough to reason.

“By order of the Queen, my Lady. I cannot—”

Rayne’s knuckles connected with his throat, and he stumbled back, gasping for air, and clutching his neck. She didn't need reason. Rayne turned immediately to the door as the guard wheezed. Leo’s shock was lost on her. The door was locked.

“Fuck!” She rammed it with her shoulder, the force knocking the air from her lungs. “No… this can’t be happening… it can’t…” She rammed the door again and stumbled back breathless. A firm hand grabbed her arm and she looked up at Leo, his face coming into focus. He nodded, released her, then stepped away from the door, and before she could wonder what the hell he was doing kicked out hard just above the lock. The door shuddered but didn’t move. He kicked out two, three, four more times as the door cracked, splintered, and flew open.

Rayne rushed inside and locked eyes with Madeleine, who stood at the other end of the room holding a document to show the council. Everyone looked up when the door slammed open. She advanced around the room.

Madeleine narrowed her gaze. “You aren’t authorised to be here.”

Without answer, Rayne stormed up to her, ripped the document from her hands and tore it to pieces. “How dare you,” she seethed, voice shaking with barely contained fury. “You had no right.”

Madeleine glanced at the full room, then back to Rayne. “I had every right,” she said with a wicked smile, working to keep the anger off her face. “What you’ve done here is exemplify why. Treason is not a good colour on you. But nothing less tha—”

Rayne slapped her. Hard. The sound echoed around the room followed by a sharp, collective intake of breath. Leo called her name from the doorway, but he could wait. When Madeleine looked back she looked furious, with an angry red mark across her cheek.

“Shut the hell up.” Her voice cracked, the room blurring. “You will never, ever take them away from me, you understand?” Rayne sucked in a breath and blinked away some of the tears. “What have you done to Liam? Why did I find him unconscious in his office?” The fury was evening out and she felt sick. Leo swore but the room was silent. Madeleine’s anger was limited to the fire in her eyes. She smiled, too sweetly for Rayne’s waning patience.

“Why would I do anything to harm the King?” she asked coldly, “and the heirs were never truly yours to beg—”

Rayne slapped her again. “Shut up, fucking shut up. Forcing him to sign that form, that’s treason. What have you done to him?”

The Queen drew herself up to her full height, forcing Rayne to look up at her. “I would never force my husband to sign anything, and I will not suffer his mistress to force an entry on a private meeting. This assault, after the kindness you have been shown, is proof that you cannot be trusted with the care of the future leaders of Cordonia.” She turned slightly to address the room as well. “I informed King Liam of the best course to ensure that the Crown Prince and Princess are given the best possible care. As Rayne has refused to accept my assistance, I had no choice but to intervene.”

Rayne lifted a hand to strike her again, but Leo’s hand rested on her shoulder, and she balled her fists instead, drawing in long breaths to try and clear her mind. The danger was partially over, but not entirely. She gestured to the assembled council. “Why don’t you tell everyone that you drugged your ‘husband’ to strongarm him into signing that form? He’s still unconscious in his office!”

“What?” Leo stepped up beside her, pressing against Rayne’s shoulder. “You did what, Madeleine?”

No one drew breath as the Queen wiped drops of blood from the corner of her mouth. The document was in pieces, but Liam…

“I had hoped you would realise in time, Rayne, that not every action can be achieved through talk alone.” Madeleine fixed her with a sympathetic gaze meant solely for the council. “Spending all their time with someone not trained in childcare or educated as a leader, not to mention prone to violent outbursts, will only have them fall short of their potential.”

Turning to one of the guards near the door, Leo instructed them to find a doctor and take them to Liam, then placed an arm around Rayne protectively and squeezed her shoulders. Rayne felt some of the tightness in her chest lessen at the action. Leo’s focus turned to Madeleine.

“You know Rayne is right. What you’ve done is a crime against the crown. And if that form had gone through…” He looked down at the torn document that now littered the carpet, squinting to read them, then exhaled and looked up. “This motion gives you complete guardianship over Leo and Evelyn…”

“Until they’re legally adults, yes.” Madeleine glared at Rayne. “You have only worsened your position here. Assault of a monarch and destruction of classified documents is a capital offense. There will be consequences.”

“No, there won’t.” Leo stepped between them. “You know he won’t let this go.” He turned to address Rayne. “Go to Liam. I’ll take care of this.”

Still shaking, Rayne stared at the document she barely remembered ripping, then up at the entire room, all watching for her reaction. Finally she met Leo’s determination, swallowed the lump in her throat, and nodded.

Tears still tracked down Rayne’s cheeks as she rushed back to Liam’s office. At the last hall, Olivia turned down the opposite corner toward the same door.

“Rayne." Olivia frowned. "Leo said… what is it?”

“It’s…” Rayne pressed a hand over her mouth and pushed the door – still ajar – completely open. Liam was where she has left him, still unmoving, and rushed to his side. “It’s… oh god…” He was still breathing.

Some time later, Rayne couldn’t tell how much, she woke up curled in an armchair beside her bed. Cold, it was cold, and she reached for the blanket that had fallen off her as she tried to rest. When that didn’t work, she went to her walk in robe and picked out something heavy.

Coming back into the room, where the curtains didn’t fully conceal the morning light, her eye fell upon the single still form beneath the heavy blanket, a flood of relief to see his chest slowly rise and fall as he slept. She returned to the armchair, curled up again, and positioned herself so she could watch him. Liam’s steady breathing was calming and an incredible relief. She could almost forget the horror of the day before, but not entirely. Her heavy eyelids began to close again, and she returned to a restless doze.

Shuffling sounds woke her not long later. Still warm, she blinked open her eyes to see Liam moving in his sleep. After an entire night almost completely still, he was returning to some kind of consciousness. A little more alert at this change, Rayne watched him more intently. A few minutes later, he opened his eyes.

“Liam…” she breathed, rushing to sit beside him. He closed his eyes again, frowning, and Rayne held her breath, silently pleading for him to come back to her. Groaning, he turned his head and opened his eyes again, squinting toward her. “Can you hear me?” she asked, remembering some of the aftereffects that the doctor had described.

He didn’t answer, slowly turning his head to look around the room, settling back on her then opening and closing his mouth a few times. His eyes widened, breathing becoming erratic. Rayne ran her fingers gently through his hair, smiling.

“The doctor said you might have trouble speaking, but not for long. You’re back in our room. You’re safe here, I promise. Safe in our room. Do you understand?”

Liam’s breathing steadied as she spoke, and he nodded, squeezing his eyes shut with a deep frown. When he looked back at her, his expression was calmer, and he brought one arm from under the covers to hold a warm hand against her cheek. Rayne sighed, eyes falling shut as she held his hand there and leaned into the touch.

“God, I missed this,” she whispered.

“Rayne.” The first word she had heard from his since the previous morning passed his lips. “Are you okay?” His voice was quiet and raspy, but Rayne let out a shaky laugh.

“I’m not the one who just woke up.” She blinked back tears, then reached for the insulated bottle on the bedside. “Water?”

Liam nodded, and she helped lift his head enough to take a drink, struggling to keep tears out of her eyes. She returned the bottle and clasped both hands over his.

“I was so worried,” she admitted, voice trembling. Liam offered a sympathetic smile, squeezed her hand, then lifted his to wipe the tears from her face with his thumb, resting his hand on her cheek again.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. He met her gaze for a few moments, then shuffled over beneath the blankets. “Lie with me?”

Rayne swallowed the lump rising in her throat, and nodded, discarding the heavy jumper. A moment of cold, then she joined Liam beneath the blankets, lying where he had been just before. She moaned at the warmth and intoxicating familiar scent. Liam brought an arm around her to rub her back.

“I should be doing that for you,” she managed, curling against his chest.

“This is more than enough.” Liam pressed a kiss against her temple, and she drifted off again.

Liam

There was nothing casual about Liam’s journey two afternoons later, the papers his assistant had brought him held tight in his hand. Rayne had explained in controlled rage what Madeleine had done, which he couldn’t remember, and what she had done in retaliation. He had only been slightly surprised, then impressed, that Rayne had taken it far enough strike Madeleine. He could be frank that he personally found no fault in her actions. They both knew he couldn’t condone it publicly. Madeleine had gone too far this time, and what Rayne had done, in his mind, was completely justified.

It was an old law she had used, barely noticed and, since it only applied to heirs that were not the children of the queen, rarely paid attention to. He should have, he knew that now, and he had work to do make sure nothing like that ever happened again.

Much like her entrances many times, Liam did not knock before entering Madeleine’s rooms. No one was permitted to enter, and sure enough, he found her sitting alone. It had been months since he was here, and the last time had been just as unpleasant. From her desk by the window, the queen leaned back in her chair and surveyed him. Her lip was red and swollen on one side, for which he could not dredge up any sympathy.

“Husband.” She raised an eyebrow at him. She had been allowed to finalise documents and settle some personal affairs. This wasn’t a public case. Bail wasn’t an option. Without speaking, because he knew speech would compel his honesty of what he really felt, Liam strode across the room and threw the folder on the desk.

“Sign it,” he commanded. Madeleine opened the folder and scowled. “You have until tomorrow morning to read through and sign. Failure to do so will add another charge to your trial.” He left the room.

The moment he stepped into the hallway a huge weight vanished from his shoulders, leaving him almost giddy, and he released a huge sigh of relief. Everything was lighter, brighter, and he walked with a renewed buoyancy to prepare for his more exciting plan.

“Rayne?” he called from the lounge of her suite. Despite living here himself he still called it her suite and wondered why that was occurring to him now. She came down the hall with her hair and makeup done the way she only did it for them. It had been so long, he realised, gaping at the cut and fall of her lilac dress. He hadn’t seen it before, and now felt underdressed. She smiled at him, and the rest of the room faded. “You are so beautiful.” Her eyes crinkled as her smile widened.

“Isn't she?” Liam blinked back to the room as Clair appeared down the hall, looping an arm around Rayne’s shoulders. Rayne smiled and hugged her back.

“Thanks for looked after Leo and Evie. I really appreciate it.”

“All you owe me is a slice of cake from whichever restaurant your dashing beau takes you to.” Clair winked at Liam, who chuckled.

“I think that can be arranged.”

“I can allow my masterpiece to go, then. Enjoy yourself, Cinderella.” She squeezed Rayne’s shoulders again, then turned to Liam. “Take care of her, King Charming.” Still smiling, Clair returned down the hall.

As soon as she was out of sight, Liam closed the distance to Rayne, lifted her off the ground and spun around slowly. Before he put her down she linked her arms around his neck and pressed her lips softly to his. He put her down slowly and closed his eyes to kiss her more urgently before she slowly pulled away.

“I like where this is going,” she breathed, “but you said we have a reservation?”

“Being the King, I could easily delay it,” he said huskily, and she chuckled.

“Later, but right now I’m starving. I was promised food.” Rayne leant up to kiss his cheek, then moved toward the door, leaving him standing and watching her. As perfect from the back as the front. She turned back from the doorway, raising an eyebrow. He smiled and followed her out.

Rayne found his hand and threaded their fingers together as Liam closed the door behind them. He lifted the joined hands and pressed his lips briefly to the back of hers. As they walked down the hall to their waiting car, he mused over how he was going to approach the first hurdle at their dinner.

“Something on your mind?” Rayne asked as they walked, squeezing his hand. He sighed, smiling at her.

“I have something I need to tell you, when we get there.”

Rayne frowned, searching his face as they neared the exit. She must have caught the nervous excitement because she mirrored the latter. “Food first.”

---- ----

Side by Side Tag List: @tessa-liam @twinkleallnight @umccall71 @kingliam2019 @indiacater

Permatag List: @leelee10898  @umccall71  @indiacater  @speedyoperarascalparty  @brightpinkpeppercorn  @riseandshinelittleblossom @bella-ca @custaroonie  @thequeenofcronuts  @lodberg  @kuladekiwi  @mfackenthal  @carabeth  @romanticatheart-posts  @blackcoffee85  @whenyourheartskipsabeat @fromthedeskofpaisleybleakmore

(If you’d like to be added or removed from this list please let me know)

#choices the royal romance #trr liam #the royal romance #choices trr #trr fanfic #trr mc #trr #liam x mc

[zae5]

Thinking about a few headcanons inspired by this lovely post by @barbieaemond

So I'm guessing since we see Criston training the boys here he was probably their primary instructor in swordsmanship and other combat skills. Aemond probably grew up hearing about his accolades, how he was almost unbeatable at tourneys knocking men to the ground in melees and wanted to learn everything there was to be like him. Criston also took this opportunity in his stride, with the young prince taking such an interest in him and decided to teach him with pride, probably also using it as a bonding exercise , which makes the Driftmark incident even more tragic, imo.

Imagine Criston seeing Aemond in pain for years later on, having to re learn everything from scratch. Maybe he finds him crying in silence, alone and angry and vows to push him, to teach him everything in his power to help him regain his confidence. Perhaps the only way he knows how to show he cares is through their mutual love for excellence, which happens to be training for battle. He grills him hard thereafter, pushing him to his limit, not letting him back down and Aemond revels in it. He finally finds someone who isn't treating him like he's made of glass, who still sees his potential, who isn't afraid or disgusted by him and he learns to open up again. I also imagine Criston monitoring his progress and gifting him his first valyrian steel sword. I don't think the white cloaks ever got paid so maybe he hatches a plan with Alicent to gift it to him as a reward a few moons later and every time he succeeds and manages to beat him he looks on in pride as Aemond grins or smirks at his little victories.

#house of the dragon #the green family #aemond and criston #aemond targaryen #criston cole #the greens #ser criston #young aemond

[the-desilittle-bird]

Author's Note- Hiya after a long time! I just needed some time to think. Hope you like it.

Requests are always open and well appreciated

Thank you and Enjoy your reading!

The White Dragon

Close Were They (Chapter 7)

Summary- the argument follows with an important announcement...

Tag List- @eliseline, @little-moonbeam-666, @blackhoodlea, @omgsuperstarg, @shopping, @lizlovecraft, @dayane, @bbgmonsay, @michelle-26, @all-things-fandomstuck, @hc-geralt-23, @chevelledahuman, @morganastrucker, @shrexy, @helloitsshitzulover, @daringboba, @minaxcarter, @b-tchymoon, @stargaryenx, @hukio, @targaryenmoony, @moon-light1415, @eudximoniakr, @themaze13, @candypurplebutterfly, @5moremin, @yariany02, @issybee0611, @beefbaby25, @shine101, @hopebaker, @andlizeth, @hyacinthus007, @lightdragonrayne, @prettykinkysoul, @mcam623, @marvelescvpe, @severewobblerlightdragon, @let-love-bleeds-red, @thatgirlthatreadswattpad, @ultrav0lence, @random-shit-i-like-2, @sunmoon-01, @savagemickey03, @kishie8, @watercolorskyy, @cherryaemond, @chaotic-fangirl-blog, @praline357

Warnings- Daemon being himself, Arguments.

Chapter 6 Chapter 8

The room sat silent as everyone stared at the sniffling princess, a shawl belonging to the sister of his betrothed wrapped around her shoulders. The queen mother strided around the room, her eyes staring at her good brother.

"Is that true? What Aemond said," she asked, glancing between Aerea and Daemon, her eyes glaring holes into the being of her good brother. Aerea could see Cregan sitting on the edge of his seat, his hand clasped in front of him.

The Rogue Prince laughed, his skin crinckling at the corner of his eyes. "I admire your ability to judge me as a womanizer," Daemon commented, standing up from the chair to walk to the pitcher of wine. "You have time and again proven your ability to be that, brother," Alicent hissed.

Pouring two cups of wine, Daemon sipped from one while offering the other to his niece. "Kepus, paktot sir?" (Uncle, right now?) Aerea asked, her violet eyes widening gazed at him. Daemon only smirked in reply, his eyes taunting Alicent as the princess took a hold of the cup.

"I might be a womanizer, sister. But your daughter is too sweet to be ruined by me," he replied, casting a glance at Aemond who was seething in the corner. "But it seems, your son has evil eye on her," Daemon continued, his fingers carefully caressing Aerea's platinum hair.

Sara squeezed the Targaryen princess' shaking hand while looking at a distressed Cregan. She could sense the Wolf Lord's stress, prompting her to become more and more anxious.

Alicent huffed, turning to the Wolf Lord of the North. "I apologize for my son's behavior, my lord," she started, voice trembling as she thought of the possible outcomes of this scenario. "Nothing shall be forced upon you. If you wish to dismiss the betrothal, we understand."

Cregan was in a grim state. While on one hand, he knew that maybe what the One-Eyed Prince accused of the princess might be true given the Targaryen tendencies; he couldn't find it in himself to believe it.

"May I speak with Lord Stark before, mother?" Aerea asked, standing up as she addressed her mother. Daemon watched with curious eyes as Cregan nodded, standing up as well.

Not even a few moments later were they standing outside the room, in the empty corridor with no one to eavesdrop their conversation.

"You wish to speak, my princess?" Cregan asked, his hands clasped behind his back stiffly. Aerea nodded, her hands clinging onto the grey shawl belonging to Sara. The Wolf Lord nodded, his grey stormy eyes watching the dragon princess carefully.

Aerea gulped as she turned around, her eyes skimming over the courtyard. She could feel the towering figure of her betrothed behind her, his warmth caressing her body.

"My princess," Cregan rasped, his eyes glancing at the little gap between them. The bare skin of her neck was enticing enough for him but he reminded himself that they were still yet to be married.

Aerea turned around, her eyes meeting the broad chest of the Northerner Lord, a gasp escaping. His warm breath caressing her face softly. Piercing stormy gaze ready to look into her soul.

"Cregan," she murmured, eyes staring into his. His calloused hands circled around her waist, gripping them possessively. "Princess," his voice rasped, lips too close to speak properly.

"I..." Aerea's eyes tried to look somewhere else but she found herself wrapped around him; only finding him. "No." His hands caressed her waist, beard tickling her cheek as she inhaled and exhaled.

They stood there for a long time, staring into each other's eyes to find whatever answer they were looking for and for a split second, it all made sense.

Cregan found in her deep amethyst eyes, innocence. Aerea found in his grey cloudy eyes, devotion.

They didn't know how leaned in first, only coming to realize their actions once their lips touched each other, soft and slow, taking each other in. They savored the moment and each other in an intimate way none had expected to come so fast.

It was Aerea who stepped back, gasping for air. The sensation of his lips lingered on hers, a blush reddening her skin as she looked up at the Wolf Lord, who had turned on his feet, marching inside.

Once Aerea had composed herself, she strided in as well to a completely silent room. Everyone stared at either her or Cregan, trying to decipher their cold looks.

"My Lord," Alicent called softly, making Cregan stand up as he glanced at the princess. "The marriage shall place within a fortnight, after which I shall leave this place with my wife," he announced, making Alicent sigh in relief.

"Let it be known." Cregan stepped closer to Aerea, his fingers touching hers.

"That Princess Aerea shall be Lady of Winterfell."

#house targaryen #hotd imagine #house of the dragon #daemon targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #cregan stark x reader #cregan x targayen #cregan stark fanfic #cregan x reader #cregan stark #the white dragon

[ghostshadowmx]

This is called let's use the motivation of PEOPLE to hopefully help ease the social anxiety of SHARING WRITING.

Here's a snippet from what I'm writing, inspired by that post on the Hanahaki. It's not Red Son centric but he's got the part I like the most right now, so. I don't think what I have on it (outside of this) is good but the point was to write and share something tolerable so, that's what we're doing. Enjoy.

   Red Son was enjoying his “secret evil lair” just the tiniest bit too much.

   Well, if the tiniest bit meant he hadn’t left for the past 48 hours.

   Red Son’s pencil swept across the sheet of paper swiftly, riding on the feeling of being the most relaxed he’d probably ever been.  It wasn’t that he didn’t like his family – his father and him had made huge strides together lately, after all! – but he certainly didn’t mind the space to simply…relax.

   Mei and MK borderline kidnapping Red Son to give him their old “sea-crate” base due to their lack of usage had been the last thing he’d expected when he woke up that morning, but, despite all of his complaining, the way he could soak himself completely into his work without the constant worry of someone looking over his shoulder, or alarm shooting up his spine when he heard footsteps down the hall was…nice.

   Not that he would tell them that. 

   Red Son hummed as he drew, erasing and re-drawing lines, checking what would work and what wouldn’t.  It was only when his phone dinged and he saw a text from his mother, which resulted in an unbearable tightness in his throat, did he remember he’d left his medication at their base.

   Red Son turned away from his work and coughed loudly, pushing green petals out of his throat and letting them fall into his hands.  He grunted softly and pulled a jar out of his pouch, half-full of green petals.  He raised it up to eyeline as he screwed the lid off and let the new petals fall inside.  Just a little bit closer to the black line Nezha had marked near the top of the jar long ago.  “If the petals ever cross this line, tell me, and I’ll handle the rest.”

   Red Son sighed and put the jar away.  He wasn’t stupid.  He knew Nezha meant something by that, but what exactly the Third Lotus Prince had been planning he didn’t know. 

   His thoughts were pulled by a ding at the elevator, and he turned with a sigh.  “No, I did not mi –“ He started, then stopped when he realized who had stepped into his new base was not the noodle boy or dragon girl.

   It was the Monkey King.

#I know I should tag this #but anxiety #frrr I'm not gonna tag this #just gonna do this snippet and hope I can get over the anxiety to post the rest bc I do think this is tolerable and want to share it #I'm just #scared #lol #enjoy

[fictional-birthdays]

Happy Birthday! (February 28th)

Ayumu Kadowaki (Prince of Stride: Alternative)

Ben-K (Pop’n Music)

Chiyo (Senran Kagura)

Kai Shimako (Muv-Luv)

Meroune Lorelei (Monster Musume)

Naomi (Animal Crossing)

Kuon Amamiya (Boyfriend Kari Kirameki Note)

Ruki (Code Geass: Genesic Re;Code)

Nero (Pop’n Music)

Ingram McDougal (VA-11 Hall-A)

Odile (Pop’n Music)

R.Q (Pop’n Music)

Star*Nyan (Pop’n Music)

Souka Tsukihime (Tsukihime)

Takumi Kashima (Big Windup!)

Woop Slap (One Piece)

Yumikage Tsukimitsu (Servamp)

#animal crossing #big windup #boyfriend kari kirameki note #code geass #monster musume #muv luv #popn music #one piece #prince of stride alternative #senran kagura #servamp #tsukihime #va 11 hall a #birthday #february 28

[jq37]

Okay, that went well. They've got the goose, some people who will hopefully be able to provide some kind of help. Alphonse was a prince this whole time, still need to unpack that. I wonder if the Golden Harp has any interesting mojo going on. Things are still less than ideal but they're making some strides forward. Or as the Gunner Channel would say, the ball is rolling up.

What a wildly different tone this episode had than the last one. Everyone came in hot. Roz set the tone with a brutal opening volley and Ylfa tanked so much damage. I'm mildly surprised it went as well as it did. 

I felt really bad for Tim re: Jack because, much like Ger with Elody, the dice simply weren't on his side. He didn't play it really dumb or anything. The dice just wouldn't let him have it and he didn't have his book at the absolute worst possible time. Tragic. 

On the absolute other end of the spectrum, Brennan pulling that nonsense with Alphonse was absolutely WILD. He was like, "I see your insane series of events. Allow me to put a cherry on top of it." It retroactively makes everything Alphonse has done so far even crazier. Also, I'm sure this isn't what he intended, but in a world that seems mostly devoid of princes (at least in the limelight), it's an interesting thing for him to be.

Speaking of royalty, Thumbelina's title card says she's a princess and I wonder if that factors into the princess math of the daughters of the crown. We're still not clear if this is a "We need any 7 princesses" thing (a la the 7 maidens in Fantasy High) or if they just know that in the timeline they succeed, there are 7 princesses and they are specific princesses (in which case, Roz can't be replaced).

I do think it's absolutely *crucial* they were able to save the Goose because I have a feeling that Brennan is going to take this as a chance for a lore dump that they sorely need. I feel like there's a LOT of information that the PCs just haven't even gotten close to because they've been focused on other things and the Goose might have some of it. As a DM, this is a great chance to start bringing things together. And Brennan already did that a bit by dropping Tomas and Henry into their laps, which are crucial parts of the backstory of PIB and Tim we haven't really explored yet. Seems like we'll be getting it in just under the wire. 

Anyway, the Goose will likely be a good and trustworthy source of information. Maybe she'll be able to help them get back into The Lines Between since it's the Gander stopping them. That would also be a good source of information. Failing that, as a last resort they could talk to the Fairies under an enemy of my enemy understanding because at least they know the Fairies don't want to end the world (and we know they have information that the PC's don't have--for instance, Turq knew stuff about the wolf but the PCs ran from her and didn't follow up on it). And as a last LAST resort, if they REALLY want to they can do what I know Emily has wanted for weeks now and talk to the Baba Yaga but they couldn't even handle talking to the princesses so I am let's say dubious of their ability to get through that encounter with all of their souls intact. 

But hey! Things are definitely looking better than they did at the end of LAST episode (though that's a low bar to clear. I felt more confident after the TPK than the end of last episode) and I'm very excited to see what their plan ends up being because folks, we are in the endgame now. Every story eventually reaches it's The End and we're pretty close to ours. I hope they make it count! Let's keep that ball rolling uphill!

#asks #neverafter #neverafter spoilers #farmer 10 #dimension 20 #dimension 20 spoilers #d20 #d20 spoilers #i have never wanted a lore dump so bad #brennan what is the nature of this world #please tell me #it's ok if they PCs don't want to know let me roll Int checks for it IRL #send me your notes brennan

[secondjulia]

Just in case you forget me -Dream/Hob

~~~So I dashed off this one-shot while working on the Tonight & the Rest of my Life video because I kept thinking about how when Dream came back, Hob has to adjust to the fact that when Dream walks out... Hob can follow?! Like it's not just, well, that's it for 100 years! And Dream is so excited to show Hob the universe that, like... he just keeps striding off, which is confusing to everybody. (Also on Ao3)~~~

Dream could still feel Hob’s lips on his, his warm hand reaching across the table at the New Inn to curl — both tentatively and bravely — around the back of Dream’s neck. That one kiss had brushed away years of heartache. In that moment, there was only Hob. 

And then there was so much. 

The mind of the Prince of Stories exploded with all the things he wanted to show Hob. The palaces of stars! The wines of the most sensitive sommeliers and the best they could offer in the waking world! The dreams of kittens! Everything, basically. For hundreds of years, Hob had so generously shared his experiences with Dream, and Dream now yearned to return the favor. As he now strode through the manicured, but still pleasantly verdant park, Dream thought of the dramatic, rolling hills and falls of Fiddler’s Green and the vast stretches of the Dreaming, his mind reeling with all the things that he could show—

“Hob?” 

Dream’s strides had paused as a flock of pidgins resolutely refused to yield the path. He’d turned his head, ready to take the moment to tell Hob about the dreams of the park’s designer, which were truly far more spectacular than the vision he’d been allowed to execute.

But Hob wasn’t there. 

Dream looked to his other side.

No Hob.

He whirled around.

But Dream was all alone in the park with an obstinate flock of pidgins.

Panic rising, Dream retraced his steps. His head whipped right and left, searching every face, every shadow. His sand was already in hand, the power he had re-gathered since his imprisonment brewed hot inside him, and all the beautiful visions of a moment before had vanished — Dream was ready to cast into the darkest abyss of the Dreaming whoever had stolen Hob— 

Hob, who was sitting in the grass under a tree across from the New Inn.

Dream stopped short. For a long moment, he just looked down at Hob searching for any evidence  of who had detained him; if they had harmed a single cell in his body, Dream would…

Hob looked up from the book on his knee. His eyebrows rose. His lips parted in a small, surprised o. He did not appear unwell. A wave of relief hit Dream so hard that, for a long moment, he just stared at the man who had brushed away a century of hurt from Dream with a single kiss.

“Hello, there,” Hob said.

“Hello, Hob.”

“You left.”

“Oh,” Dream said. Still reeling from the aftershocks of panic and relief, he struggled to regain control of his thoughts. Something had gone wrong, and the Prince of Stories, Shaper of Form, Lord of the Dreaming and the Nightmare realms, third eldest of the Endless, brother to Destiny, Death, Destruction, Desire, Despair, Delirium, Dream who had seen the world made and the dreams of the sun when it was young, was confused.

So was Hob, apparently. His eyebrows had contracted towards each other. He raked a hand through his hair. His forehead wrinkled. “Dream?”

Dream looked at his feet.

Hob stood. He tucked his book under one arm then brushed a wild chunk of hair out of Dream’s eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“I thought you would come with me,” Dream mumbled, feeling foolish. His fantasies of showing off the universe to Hob seemed to taunt him now.

“Really?”

“If you do not wish—“

“Oh I wish. I mean, I really wish.” Hob’s hand slid down Dream’s jaw to cup his chin. He pressed gently, until Dream looked up. Hob was beaming. “Of course I want to come with you!”

Dream forced his thoughts to slow down and not wander too far. He kept his eyes on Hob. “You would let me show you things beyond your imaginings?”

“I have a big imagination.” 

“I could expand it.”

Hob gave Dream’s chin the tiniest squeeze and then dropped his hand. “Lead on,” he said, the challenge clear in his voice. 

Dream turned just the slightest bit, then paused. He did not want to take his eyes off of Hob. “Are you sure you wish to come with me? Before when I left, you did not follow.”

“Dream!” Hob gives a sudden, short laugh, like he’d just realized something. “I didn’t not want to go with you! It’s just you always leave and then that’s it for a hundred years. Or so.”

“Oh,” said Dream. This was true. 

“I’m used to watching you walk away.”

“I am sorry.”

“Its alright,” Hob said. “That was our bargain.”

“You… need not wait a hundred years,” Dream said tentatively, still feeling like Hob might disappear at any moment. “If you do not wish.”

Hob stepped in and planted a light kiss on Dream’s lips. “Of course, I don’t wish to wait a hundred years to see you, you silly, incomprehensible wonder. Next time you want me with you, just ask!”

Dream allowed himself a little smile. “I believe I could manage that.”

Hob’s smiled rivaled the sun above. He made a go ahead gesture. “So where are we going?”

Dream took a breath. “Nearby, there is a brewer of ales which surpass even the rather decent varieties of this era. His dreams are quite vivid. I can show you his establishment in the waking, which, while not up to all the exacting standards he can dream up, remains impressive. And tonight you can sample the menu he wishes he could offer.”

“Lovely,” Hob said. “I like a good brew, even if it’ll ruin me for all others.”

Dream smile broadened, but he did not move. 

���What?” Hob said, stepping closer and brushing another disobedient strand of hair from Dream’s eyes.

“I would like you to go first,” Dream said quietly. “I can tell you where to go.”

Hob nodded. As he stepped in the direction Dream had turned, he reached back, opening his hand. “Take it. Just in case you forget me again.”

“I could never forget you, Hob.”

“Well, then,” said Hob, wiggling his fingers invitingly, “so you won’t ever lose me, not even by accident.”

Dream took Hob’s hand, and for the entire time they toured the universe, he did not let go.

#Dream of the Endless #Hob Gadling #Dreamling #Sandman #Fanfic #Ao3 #archive of our own #my fanfic

[just-another-blog-of-fluff]

I am so excited for Skill of a Valkyrie Part 2!!! I requested it and have been watching it move up the list! I fell in love with the first part as soon as you posted it! I just love young Loki before all the self loathing. And he deserves all the love and happiness!! So I re read part one and then went on a binge through a lot (almost all) your stories and they all are still just as good the umptienth time I’ve read them… as they were the first time 💕. When I’m having I a bad day I come to your blog to feel better… So some of them I’ve read a lot. Ok sorry I’m done rambling. I really just meant to express my excitement! Hope all is well in your little growing world!!! 💕 🥰 💕

Oh you are so lovely kind anon 🥰 Thank you for your words of appreciation! I love that you enjoy reading and rereading my stories 😊

I am so excited to get back to the Skill of a Valkyrie storyline! It's a very different version of Loki, the young and mischievous prince - he's so much fun to write!

I'm already getting ahead of myself with the story for part 2, so it may be another somewhat lengthy part 😅 but in any case, here is a preview under the cut:

"How are you feeling, Loki? Is that shoulder troubling you at all?" you asked, gesturing toward the location of the former spear wound.

"Not one bit. You're truly a miracle worker, Valkyrie," he responded proudly, rolling his shoulder a couple of times as though to prove his point.

"Heed caution, Loki. Overconfidence is what got you into this mess in the first place."

"I'm not being overconfident." He took a few strides closer to you, that characteristic smirk overtaking his features. "If anything, I'm singing you praises. Don't let it go to your head, now, love."

"Come, now. You know I know better than that." Loki lifted his hands to cup your jaw on either side, tilting your face up toward himself as he leaned closer, your noses nearly touching. "Loki... you have duties to attend to," you warned half-heartedly, melting into his touch all the same.

"Mm, indeed I do." He closed the few inches of space remaining between you, capturing your lips with his. You instinctively wrapped your arms around his waist, hands coming to rest against the small of his back. He hummed in approval, one of his own hands falling from your neck to your waist so he could tug you impossibly closer. Gods, he was intoxicating. Your willpower to resist his charms and keep him on task crumbled so easily with the gentlest touch.

Regretfully, you pulled away, resting your forehead against his. "Loki, I'm serious! You must not shirk your duties as prince just to spend the afternoon kissing me."

"Why ever not?" He tilted his head slightly to steal another swift kiss. "Kissing you is far better than any council gathering. They shall barely notice my absence."

"No, no. I won't allow it." You leaned back slightly to evade his advances. With a guttural growl, Loki tightened his arm around your waist to pull you closer once again, his lips finding yours despite your protests. You couldn't help but laugh against his mouth. Cheekily, you slipped your hands from his back to his waist, pinching rapidly at his sides for just a moment.

"Mm-hm-hehey!" he spluttered, breaking apart from your lips as his hands shot down to capture yours.

"Attend your council meeting, or I'll tickle you senseless," you threatened with a smirk, digging your fingertips into his sides once for emphasis. His grip on your hands tightened in an effort to still your tickling fingers.

"This is entirely unfair, you know. Holding this over my head in such a way."

"I never said I was playing fair."

#sweet anon asks #the skill of a valkyrie #Jessa gives a sneak peek

[edupunkn00b]

Spring Ahead

Gift exchange fic for the incredible @december-rains Rated T: swearing, innuendo - WC: 2201

"Thanks, Popstar," Virgil muttered from the top of the fridge, accepting Patton's proffered coffee and a plate of scrambled eggs. He raised his mug and gave the Paternal Side a little nod. "Cheers."

"Oh, holy Hera's hair clip," Roman cried, striding into the kitchen late, sash askew and hair less than perfectly coiffed. He sent a sad smile up to Virgil and filled a bright red mug with coffee. "It's not Daylight Savings Time already, is it?"

Patton slipped his hot chocolate and nodded, slipping an arm over the Princely Side's shoulders. "Afraid so, kiddo." He sagged against the counter and took a long draw of his coffee, wincing at the bitterness.

"Hey!" Remus appeared across the room and Roman fumbled  his cup, spilling coffee on his tunic. Hunched cross legged on the stove top, his morning star Lucie slung over his shoulder, he unconsciously mirrored Virgil's pose. "What did you all do to Logan?" He glared at each of them, pausing only to wave away the spreading stain in his brother's top. 

"He won't open his door and he’s blocked it." He stuck his finger in the pot of simmering oatmeal on the back burner and tasted it. He retched and conjured a bottle of dried habaneros, but Patton was fast enough to pull it away before he could dump it in. Remus scowled, dropping the peppers on the still-lit burner instead. “He won’t let me in.”

The quiet click of Janus' heels on the steps were their only sign of his arrival. He wordlessly glided into the room and clicked off the burner before disappearing the peppers from Remus hand back to the spice cabinet, then hoisted him off the stove and into a seat at the table. The moment Janus' back was turned, he crawled under the table and sat leaning against one table leg.

Janus gave Patton a tight grin of thanks when he offered him a cup of chai and he sipped at it quietly, a bit of color returning to the human side of his face. Patton gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze, then began to serve the oatmeal.

"Whoa, who died?" Lucas asked, moving around the corner and loosening his tie. Janus responded first, flinging his arm toward the calendar pinned to the wall, a large fluorescent blue circle around today's date. "Oh, fu—

"Fuck is right," Patton finished his sentence as Lucas kissed his cheek and slid into the seat next to him. All eyes shot to the Paternal Side. It was then that his barely concealed exhaustion became apparent to the others. His eyes were sunken behind his smudged glasses, dark shadows hiding behind the frames. His shoulders were tight and he moved a little stiffly, without any of the little twirls or excited hand clasps that ordinarily punctuated his words. His mug was less than half-filled and when Lucas drew closer, he could see the way the cocoa rippled as his hands shook.

Lucas stood and moved behind his chair, took off his ever-present cat hoodie, and started to knead his shoulders. “How late were you up with him?”

“Does somebody wanna tell me what the fuck is going on?” Remus banged on the underside of the table. “It seems like everyone knows but me!

Virgil jumped down from the top of the fridge and crawled under the table to sit with him. “It’s Daylight Savings Time, Re,” he answered as though that explained everything.

“Yeah? So what? It's just fucking timezone shit.” Remus shouted in his multi-tonal voice. Virgil conjured Algernon, one of the rats Logan had gifted Remus for his birthday last year and placed her in the Creative Side’s hands. He stroked the smooth spot at the top of her skull. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. “What does that have to do with Logan?”

Virgil shifted, pulling up his knees and hugging them close to his chest. "Y'know how Logan really likes deadlines and scheduling and when everything just fits on the calendar?"

"Yeah…" Remus' mustache twitched and he brought Algernon closer to his face. "He gets all blushy and happy and does that little dance…"

"Exactly," Virgil said, nodding as he slid just a little closer. Remus moved Algernon between them so Virgil could stroke her back. "So what do you think happens to him when we lose an hour during Daylight Savings Time?"

Logan's room was dark, the glow of his laptop screen the only illumination and the floor was littered with crumpled daily, weekly, and monthly calendar pages marked April. The bed was unmade and the window open, letting in the loud patter and occasional crack of thunder from a spring storm that raged outside.

The Logical Side was hunched over his computer, fingers flying frantically over the keyboard, typing faster than should have been possible. His shirt was untucked and his hair stuck out on the left side, tangled and twisted, and a little thinner than the right. Clumps of his typically shiny dark brown hair sprinkled over the smudged surface of his desk.

He tapped through multiple screens before throwing his computer against the wall with a hoarse roar.

"No, no, no, no! It's gone! It's just fucking gone and I'll mever get it back!"

Outside Logan's door, Remus and Janus exchanged a look with Lucas. "Are you sure about this?" Janus murmured, his voice cracking as he frowned at Logan's brother.

Remus shook his head, "We don't hafta be sure. We just hafta help him."

Signing heavily, Lucas nodded."The Kraken's right. Go ahead and knock."

Nodding curtly, lips pressed tightly together, Janus knocked three times. "Lo?" he called through the closed door. "Lo, may we come in?" At first there was no response, just the familiar creak from Logan's desk chair.

Finally, Logan spoke. His voice was hoarse but calm, and he spoke a little slower than usual. "I am quite satisfactory. I apologize for missing dinner, but I'll see you both in the morning"

The three exchanged another look. “Um, Lo Lo? It's morning now.” Remus leaned against Logan’s door, both hands pressed flat against the cold surface as though he could reach through the wood and hold him. “Have you been up all night?”

Logan looked around his room with barely focused eyes. He gazed at his unmade bed, visible evidence that he must have slept at some point, but couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually laid down. The layer of crumpled papers strewn across the comforter and pillows led him to believe it had been longer than he thought. “I… Perhaps I have.” He cleared his throat and lifted a loose pile of papers to search for his tea cup. Surely there was a bit left to relieve the lump in his throat. “I have simply lost track of time a bit… I am fine.”

Janus and Remus had fallen quiet on the other side of the door, so Logan returned to his work, attempting to find a way to make the numbers line up. After several minutes—hours?—he thought he’d gotten it and was double-checking his math when the numbers fell apart before his eyes and he ripped the calendar in half and threw it across the room.

“Lo Lo?” Remus’ voice filtered through the closed door.

Logan’s eyes flew wide open. “Meus?”

There was a brushing sound against the door and the shadows at the bottom shifted. “Can we come in now, Lo Lo?”

“We?” Logan’s voice rose in panic, glancing around the disheveled state of his room, but he made no move to pick up the papers, and instead sat as though bolted to his chair.

Janus’ quiet sigh shot right through his heart. “Of course ‘we,’ Lo. Remus and I are right here.” His voice grew a little lower. “And Lucas is running interference with the others. Unless…” Logan froze, the sadness in Janus’ voice made his hands shake. “Unless you’d rather we sent Patton in to check on you?”

Logan crossed his arms over himself. It wasn’t like that. Patton just… as Thomas’ heart, he just knew about Logan’s struggles at this time of the year and he’d kept his secret for so long. He didn’t want anyone to see him like this, but the same way Patton couldn’t block Logan from entering his room, Logan was powerless to lock out Patton. And, of course Lucas knew because, well, even though their split had left this dysfunction solidly in Logan’s domain, he remembered what this time of year had been like.

But so much had changed in the past year. He looked around his room again. They might as well see how disorganized he really was now before he got too attached to their relationship and attention. With a heavy sigh, he slouched back in his chair and released the lock on his door. “You can come in.”

Logan stared at the floor, unwilling to see their faces when they finally came inside.

Remus’ hand had been gripping the doorknob when Logan finally released the lock on his door and he swung open the door, bright light from the hallway spilling into the room, a pile of ripped calendar pages swept aside by the movement of the door. “Lo Lo!” Remus cried as he rushed toward Logan, kneeling in front of his chair and flinging his arms around him. Janus’ movement was more measured as he closed the door quietly behind them and scanned the room.

Logan still hadn’t raised his eyes, his gaze fixed on the papers at his feet.

“You look like you could use a break, Lo,” Janus murmured from the corner. “And perhaps a meal?” He spotted a few empty coffee and tea cups, and a crumpled empty plastic water bottle, but no other dishes or evidence that the Logical Side had eaten at all since the last time they’d seen him for breakfast two days ago.

He shook his head and started to pull away from Remus’ arms. “No, I… I have to work out how to cope with the missing hour. I just need to—”

“But, Lo,” Janus was by his side, one suddenly ungloved hand cupping his cheek. Logan started at the sudden warmth and goosebumps broke out over his skin. Remus conjured a heated throw and draped it over his legs, patting it down. “Lo,” Janus continued with a soft smile as Logan finally looked up to meet his eyes. “The time has already changed. It’s happened. You don’t need to do anything.”

“But I have lost—” his voice cracked with a rough sob. He was so dehydrated that, though his eyes grew red, no tears would fall. "I failed."

Remus leaned forward and laid his head in Logan’s lap, hugging his legs. “You’ll get it back in the fall.”

“But I must try…” he said weakly.

“What you must do is rest, my dear Logan.” Janus took his hands and Remus stood, as well, vanishing the papers from Logan’s bed and changing the sheets, remaking the bed with extra pillows and a heated blanket under the comforter. Janus pulled Logan to his feet and helped him settle in under the covers as Remus stacked the papers on Logan’s desk and vanished the remaining bits and torn and crumpled papers.

“Just a short rest,” Logan said sleepily, his eyes already droopy. Janus nodded slowly, sitting on the bed next to him, back against the headboard, as he opened one arm in invitation. Logan curled against him as Remus sat on his other side, rubbing little circles into his back.

“For as long as you want, Lo Lo,” Remus murmured to the already sleeping Logan. “We’ll be right here.”

Lucas grinned as he passed a bowl of salad to Logan across the table at their next famILY dinner. “You’re looking a little better there, Lo.” He smirked at Logan’s light blush. “Imagine that, a little rest, a decent lunch, and you’re back among the living. Mr. Self Preservation, do you have anything to say about that?”

“Never,” he purred behind his water glass. “I would never ssstoop ssso low as to sssay ‘I told you so.’”

Laughing, Logan kissed his cheek, “I can’t tell you how grateful I am for your restraint.”

“I’m just glad you’re feeling well enough to edit my script,” Roman said, winking at Logan across the table. “Do you think you’ll have it ready by next week?”

“No,” Logan said simply, enjoying the shocked silence. He looked around the table, one eyebrow raised. “I’ve already finished my edits and sent them back to you.” He winked back at Roman. “You need to be more conscientious about your inbox.”

“He's gotcha there, Princey,” Virgil murmured, bumping gently against Roman’s shoulder with a smile. The Sides were mostly quiet for a few minutes, passing dishes of vegetables and chicken, and filling glasses but soon the relative peace was broken.

“So… Papa Bear," Remus leaned over and whispered loudly to Patton. "I’ve been meaning to ask you, does he make you call him 'Captain' in bed?" 

"Remus!" cried everyone but Patton, who simply smiled, then refilled his water glass and took a sip before answering.

"Who says Lucas is Captain?"

#Spring Ahead #ts logan #ts remus #ts janus #ts patton #ts virgil #ts roman #logan sanders #remus sanders #janus sanders #patton sanders #virgil sanders #roman sanders #ts lucas #ts orange side #lucas sanders #intruloceit #prinxiety #Patton/Lucas #cw innuendo #cw swearing #Side by Side in the Mindscape #Pirate Orange

[scytheral]

dear angel bennett ,, the goddess wishes to become friends with ywou ,, unfortunately che can not access kist phone ( && ki is not allowed to post !! ) but ,, ki hopes ywou will want to be friends with cherish after cher break !! regardless ,, ki with the loving voice has a request for his angelicity ; the blessing was wondering if ywou had any titles that fits the cute girlfriend? of course ,, they would be free to use by the public as its the prince's work rather than the little nun's own !! apawlogies for the lengthy message ... -- best wishes ; killia

Ah , The angel of Winter would Want to be Friends with The Goddess , too ! .. He will Try its Best , Hx will be Right here Anytime ! .. And , The other Wishes are Actually closed .. But , His angelically of Seas had a few That seemed right For The Lovestruckness. Hope they ' re Pleasant enough. 🤍

The adoration of Earth.ㅤThe love of Eternity.ㅤThe wielder of Adzes.ㅤThe one of Heart and Mind.ㅤThe one blessed by Divine.ㅤThe divinity of the Skies.ㅤThe cherished Mercy.ㅤThe Mercy upon Inferno.ㅤThe Benevolence.ㅤThe sunny Voice.ㅤCher soothing Benevolence.ㅤThe good nature of Heaven.ㅤThe loved of Compassion.ㅤThe Prioress.ㅤThe prioress of Divine.ㅤThe heavenly Soul.ㅤThe lace of Bones.ㅤCher frills in The Undead.ㅤThe pure Malice.ㅤThe Angelical and Whimsical.ㅤThe goddess with Scythes.ㅤThe rabbit of Ichor.ㅤThe maniac of Pixels.ㅤThe invisible Touch.ㅤThe one of Heaven , Hell and Halos.ㅤThe madness of Endless.ㅤThe miss Eclipse.ㅤThe moonlight of One.ㅤThe one intwirled between Chaos and Cherishment.ㅤCher thought of Sweetery.ㅤCher altruistic Acts.ㅤCher philanthropic Soul. Cher decorated Skulls.ㅤCher air of Benignity.ㅤCher power of all Divinity.ㅤChe with the cherished Soul.ㅤChe with the Cherished Mind.ㅤChe who sang with Doves.ㅤChe who tears Diamonds.ㅤChe who will stay Tall.ㅤChe who ' ll never Leave.ㅤCher stardust of Heaven.ㅤChe whose mortal is Friend.ㅤChe whose steps are Light.ㅤCher strings of Cruor.ㅤCher stride of Purity.ㅤCher steps into The Void.ㅤCher stride of Endless Existence.

01 : Pronouns can Be swapped with Anything.

02 : "The" may Be replaced With "My" / "Your" / Pronouns .. Anything as Long as it ' s Fun.

03 : Any of These titles Can have Things Customized. For example As adding or Removing.

↑ ( Example : Cher strings of Cruor -> Cher strings of Light and Cruor. | Che who will Stay Tall -> Che who will Stay .. Etc. )

#🦷ㅤ⦂ㅤLosing Frequency. #titles

[cowboyjazz]

sorra's concentration is broken by a familiar ki outside the gym door. a moment later, the roar of her music cuts off, and the barbell over her chest becomes weightless in her hands. she re-racks. when she looks up, vegeta is standing in the now open doorway, a deli sandwich in one hand.

"what are you doing?" he asks, mouth full.

"bench. obviously."

vegeta takes another bite, wraps the sandwich back up and sets it just outside the door before closing it again. he returns the gravity to sorra's current working weight, then turns it up a few times. he crosses the room in (relatively) long strides, shooing sorra away. he finishes chewing, swallows, and wipes his mouth with his arm before lying down, fussily positioning himself on the bench.

"i am so honored that the prince should humble himself before the weight-lifting common folk, uncle vegeta, but i thought you were playing with your lasers today." sorra lines up behind the bench to spot him. she already knows that he won't need it, but it's still good etiquette.

"i'm resting." vegeta adjusts his grip on the bar carefully before lifting it. he pushes it to its apex at a torturous, languid pace. vegeta pauses for a moment before deviating entirely from the bench press that sorra had expected. instead, he pulls the barbell backwards to his forehead in a slow arc. no. you sick fuck. vegeta locks eyes with his spotter, drinking in her devastation. satisfied with his dramatic display, vegeta switches gears, cranking out a dozen no-nonsense skullcrushers, arms moving entirely unimpeded through their path each time. he re-racks and rises from the bench unceremoniously, flashing a smug grin as he returns to the control panel. he opens the door, grabs his sandwich, and turns back around to face his humiliated protégé.

sorra stands in horrified silence for a moment before remembering herself, snapping to with a vengeance. "you stupid cuck!!! you're just gonna waltz in here and put your old, sweaty ass all over my shit and-- aw, and you got mayonnaise on the bar, you fucking degenerate!!!! what is wrong with you?! go away!!!"

vegeta takes another bite, flips her off, turns off the light, and leaves the door open behind him.

"AT LEAST PUT THE GRAVITY BACK, DICKHEAD!!!"

i am REALLY enjoying having a place to dump my character shit that isn't my friends' dms haha

#dbz oc #sorra #writing #vegeta #dbz #dragon ball #oc