"You say my name with golden reverence, too molten hot for your tongue. Something intangible sets itself alight when I meet your eyes and your lips taste like hubris."

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

Aemond Targaryen found his wife quickly. Of course, he did. He always found his way back to her, both in his waking hours and in his dreams. Even when they were children, she would find new places to hide, secret nooks behind the grand table in the library, the concealed alcove behind some statue in the courtyard, or within the hollow cavity of the ancient weeping willow in the godswood. Aemond always found her, guided by an unerring instinct that seemed to weave their fates together like strands of the same silken thread. Each time he found her, she would grace him with one of her smiles, the one that spoke of her expectation, the smile that said she had been waiting for him, as if it were his sacred duty to seek her out and bring her back into the light of his presence. A duty he honoured every single time. 

It was different this time though.

He found her sitting by the fountain some distance from the central courtyard where the wedding was taking place, almost hidden in the shadow of a massive tree, its branches bending low with the burden of their lush, verdant leaves, practically brushing the top of her head as they swayed gently in the summer breeze. The air was thick with the sweet scent of jasmine and honeysuckle, the stars above barely providing enough light to see by. The fountain's water trickled softly, its melody a gentle counterpoint to the rustling of leaves and the distant calls of birds returning to their nests.

She sat there, a vision of forlorn beauty, angrily ripping the flowers from her hair, the dark petals drifting from her fingers into the crystalline water of the fountain. Each petal floated on the surface, creating ripples that distorted the reflections of the sky and the overhanging branches. Her composed demeanour had fractured, her movements sharp and decisive, betraying an inner tempest that Aemond could feel from where he stood.

He watched her for a while, his heart aching at the sight of her distress. He did not want to disturb her, knowing that this time she would not grace him with one of her smiles. Every fibre of his being yearned to go to her, to hold her, to whisper words of comfort and reassurance or to scream at her and demand apologies, and the alcohol he had consumed all evening was certainly not helping with his self-restraint. 

His mind achingly reached back to memories of their childhood, to the days when finding her was a game, a playful challenge that always ended in laughter and shared joy. Back then, her hiding places were sanctuaries of innocence, havens where they could together escape the burdens of their respective duties and shortcomings. He remembered the feel of her small hand in his, the sound of her laughter echoing through the halls, and the way her eyes sparkled with mischief and affection when he inevitably discovered her. Those were simpler times, times when the world seemed vast and full of endless possibilities.

Now, the stakes were higher, the shadows longer, and the games they played were steeped in the blood of their kin. He felt an almost physical pull towards her, an invisible thread drawing him closer, urging him to break the silence, to bridge the gap that had grown between them. He took a tentative step forward, a stray branch snapping under his boots.

Daenys's head snapped in his direction. Aemond stilled. 

"Go away!" she said hoarsely, and he could hear the tears in her voice. 

He approached her faster now, each step deliberate and measured, his heart a steady drumbeat in his chest. The closer he got, the more he could see the fine details of her distress – the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers trembled slightly as they released each petal, the glistening trail of a single tear tracing a path down her cheek. 

"I said, I do not wish to see you!"

"But I wish to see you. I always wish to see you."

"And I'm supposed to care what you want?"

Standing up, she forcefully pulled the last of the flowers from her, their stems pulling strands of her hair along with them, the wisps glinting in the moonlight like silver fae threads and Aemond winced on her behalf as she flung them into the fountain. Her hair haloed about her in a reckless tumble, and he had the strange urge to run his hands through it, to brush away the tendrils that fell into her eyes. Her filigree mask had been discarded, lost somewhere in the foliage of Prince Qoren's gardens but in the darkness, he could barely make out the wretched scar that marred her perfection and made her his mirror. In the darkness, they could just be their past selves, clandestine lovers out for a rendezvous in the gardens. 

If only their lives were that simple. 

"Go back," her voice was almost a plea now. "Go back and dance with your Dornish princess and leave me be. Please, just...please...you weren't even supposed to find me."

"But I always do," her husband responded softly, still stepping closer, still disobeying her demand. 

"Why?"

Aemond paused, considering his words carefully, "Because, no matter where you hide, no matter how far you go, you are a part of me. Finding you is as natural as breathing. It's not just a duty or a necessity. It's who I am."

"Then why?"

He heard all the unspoken questions behind those two words. Why had he done what he had done, why had he betrayed her, why had he hurt her? He had no response, none that would suffice anyway.

She raised her head to look at him then, her eye meeting his, one half of the pair he had loved for as long as he could remember. In their depths, he saw the despair and misery, but in his drunken delusion, he also saw the glimmer of the girl who used to hide and wait for him to find her, the girl who believed in his ability to always seek her out.

"I am sorry."

"That is all you can say?"

"That is all I know how to."

"It is not enough. It will never be enough!"

Daenys felt a simmering under her skin, desperation and self-loathing, paired with an intense yearning for something she could not—dared not—name. Only pathetic fools had time for self-pity. From the hidden pocket in her dress, she fished out the flask she always carried with her, lifting her lips to swallow with shaking fingers. Milk of the poppy to numb the pain, even if it made her head swim, Corydalis for the tremours, and Ephedra to stay awake. 

Her very own cursed medicinal brew learned in the dank and foul-smelling workshop of some disreputable alchemist in the impoverished underbelly of Harrenhal in the dead of night. One of the many benefits of residing with Daemon was that he didn't care for any of her actions outside of her fighting the war. He never asked where she disappeared at night, or why she returned at ungodly hours jittery and bloodless. As long as the people he needed dead were dealt with—spies, enemy bannermen, the occasional traitor to make an example of—he was well satisfied, and Daenys gave him no cause for complain when it came to her duties. 

The maesters would never have approved of the concoction but it certainly helped her. It hollowed her out, stripped her of all feeling until she was nothing, until she felt nothing at all. It was better than the constant ache of guilt and pain and yearning for people who would never return to her. It also made her reckless, and prone to making self-destructive decisions to fill that great void. 

What an agonizing curse, to both wish to feel everything and nothing. 

She was surprised when Aemond strode forward then, snatching the flask to empty it out into the fountain. 

"I think you've had enough to drink," he reprimanded, thinking of all the cups she had downed earlier.

Daenys scoffed at his hypocrisy, being able to smell the honey wine heavy on his breath along with—she frowned—was that absinthe?

She only recognized the scent because the very same alchemist had recommended it to her for her chronic pain. She had stopped taking it of course, because it made her far too drunk to function, and she didn't fancy following in the usurper's footsteps. 

"You're one to talk," she sneered at her husband. "And that was not alcohol."

She reached out to retrieve the flask but Aemond dropped it into the water below with a shrug. 

"Why would you do that? That was the last of it!"

"Whatever it was, couldn't have been good for you, wife," he responded with a grumble. 

Daenys winced at the title he insisted on using, her lips curling in disgust, and then feeling a sudden rebellious sense of satisfaction that she had drained half the flask anyway. 

"Don't call me that."

"Why not? You are still my wife, aren't you?" His voice was low, but there was a dangerous edge to it, a tension that hinted at the storm brewing within him.

Daenys stepped back, her eye flashing with defiance and something else—something that looked almost like anticipation. "I could marry anyone else," she said, her voice rising. "I could ally myself with some lord to support my mother's claim. Do you think you can just find me and everything will be the same?"

"Don't—"

"I need not remain married to you," Daenys was babbling now, dredging up the name of any lord she could think of just to fling in his face. It did not matter that she had no intention of remarrying, no intention of ever tying herself to another man just to be used and betrayed again. She simply enjoyed the tortured look that crossed her husband's face at her words, a fraction of the pain he had caused her. She relished in it, swallowing it greedily almost as if she could have gotten drunk on it. 

"There is Lord Cregan Stark—"

Aemond's fury was instantaneous, a visceral reaction that seemed to vibrate through his very bones. He moved closer, each step deliberate and predatory, his gaze never leaving hers. Daenys took another step back, but there was nowhere to go. The rough bark of the tree pressed against her back, its branches dropping to the floor in weeping boughs, completely obscuring them from the view of any passerby.

He crowded her into the tree, the proximity between them electric and charged with a dangerous intensity. His breath was hot and heavy, fanning over her face, the scent of wine mingling with the night air, heady and intoxicating. His single eye, usually so composed and cold, burned with a fierce, barely restrained rage.

"Lord Stark in the North?" he spat. "You could not possibly wish to live there. You despise the cold!"

"Do not presume you know anything about me."

"I cannot unlearn you simply because you hate me now."

"You hate me too."

His wife glared at him defiantly, as if urging him to contradict her, but he couldn't. He did hate her, but she had her talons in his heart just the same. The one-eyed prince remembered the drink he had snatched off some serving girl's platter earlier in the evening, a vivid emerald concoction that had caught his eye, the colour of his mother's dresses. Without thinking, he had downed it in one agonizing gulp. The liquid had burned his throat, searing a path of fire down to his stomach. The sensation had been both painful and oddly exhilarating, a strange mix of pleasure and torment.

But now, as he stood here, he felt the effects of the drink coursing through his veins, amplifying his already tumultuous emotions. His thoughts were erratic, jumping from one idea to the next with unsettling speed. He felt a strange disconnection from his surroundings, as if the world around him had taken on a surreal, dream-like quality.

The sight of Daenys's mocking sneer sent a fresh wave of irritation through him, and he had the sudden, violent urge to wrap his hands around her throat, to squeeze until that infuriating expression vanished. The image flashed through his mind with startling clarity, a reflection of his ghastly dreams, and his fingers twitched against the tree's rough bark as if in anticipation. At the same time, another urge, equally intense, filled him: the desire to kiss her, to crush his lips against hers and wipe away that sneer with a different kind of fervour.

He shook his head, trying to dispel the chaotic thoughts. What was wrong with him? He had always prided himself on his self-control, his ability to maintain a cool, detached demeanour even in the face of provocation, but now, the combination of his wife's presence and the effects of the alcohol were driving him to the brink of madness.

He inhaled shakily, his senses flooded with her. The brush of her hair against his fingers, the heat radiating from her, the sight of her single glittering eye, unblinking as if daring him to say something. She smelled like bergamot and rose, lush and addicting. To distract himself, he reached out and plucked a stray flower petal from her hair, feeling stung when she flinched at the movement, as though she believed he would hurt her. 

Then he felt ashamed, because he had hurt her, dreamed of hurting her, thought of hurting her just now. 

"Go on then, say it. I know you despise me, so do not wear your cloak of self-righteousness and go on pretending as if you do not. Hasn't your pious mother taught you to be truthful?"

Aemond's shame evaporated, replaced by pure, unadulterated heat, loathing and longing. 

"Do you think you can just say such things?" he hissed instead, addressing her earlier comment about remarrying, his voice low and trembling with suppressed emotion. "Do you think I would ever let you go?"

"Do you think you get a say?"

"You would not...you cannot."

"And who, pray tell, is going to stop me?"

His eyes narrowed, his jaw clenching so tightly that a muscle in his cheek twitched. He leaned in closer, a sliver of space between them, his hands coming up to grip the tree on either side of her head, caging her in. 

"You are my wife. And you will not marry anyone else. You will not ally yourself with anyone else. You belong with me—to me."

And I belong to you.

Daenys should have stepped away, should have pushed past him and made her way back to the wedding feast, pretending that nothing was amiss. Perhaps she had consumed one too many drinks after all, and her dear departed grandsire did always say that milk of the poppy lent a dreamlike quality to his waking hours too. 

"There is Dalton Greyjoy too—"

"The Greyjoy runt is a mere boy of six and ten, and he is known to be violent and cruel!" Aemond interrupted again, almost desperately this time. 

"And you are not?"

"He already has over a dozen salt wives. You would truly marry a man such as him, one who would not grant you the loyalty you deserve?"

Daenys shrugged, enjoying his suffering, "And what would you know about loyalty? He has no rock wife as far as I am aware. What do I care if he has his mistresses? You mean to tell me that you have never strayed? Considering who your brother is, surely you must have taken a bedmate or two in our time apart. Or perhaps there were more, the gods know you have quite the penchant for one-night encounters."

She wanted to remain cavalier but the words were bitter on her tongue, the memories acrid and curdling her thoughts. He had used her and discarded her as if she was nothing. He hadn't even had the decency to stay, locking her in his chambers the very morning of their wedding night. 

She would never forget the feeling of waking up all alone, her nails bloody against the unyielding doors, feeling like a broodmare to be bedded, and bred. She had scrubbed her skin for days before she could even begin to forget the feeling of him. Now here he was tainting her all over again, and it was all her fault because she was letting him. 

It gave her all the more satisfaction that she had long ago ensured that she would never carry a man's children, and certainly not the Kinslayer's. Her womb was as rotted through as her heart, as her relationships, stained by her own hypocrisy and wickedness. 

"Do not even say such a thing!" 

Aemond was enraged at her accusation, at the insinuation. How could she ever even think that he had bedded another, especially when she was all he had ever wanted, all he ever desired? 

"Why? Did I hit a nerve? Or perhaps the truth is too much for you to hear. You are just like the whoremonger brother you used to curse for his tendencies. Is it too difficult to bear after all?"

Aemond's grip on the tree tightened, his knuckles white. He was not his brother. 

"Did you then?" he finally gritted out, his teeth grinding themselves to dust. 

"Did I what?"

"Take bedmates Daenys! Did you fuck other people while your husband has spent hours agonizing over you?"

Daenys blinked. He had said her name. It was so startling that it left her agape. It had been so long since she had heard her name tumble from his lips and said with such golden reverence too, such desperation as if the syllables were too molten for his tongue to hold on to for very long. 

Then the rest of his question registered and she scowled, raising her hand to strike him. He was quick though, catching her fingers almost immediately, keeping them trapped between them. 

"You will not speak to me like that, with such disrespect!" she snarled. "I am—"

Your wife. A princess. The Queen's daughter. Your wife.

She stopped because she did not know how to end her statement, and no title felt right. 

Without warning, Aemond moved. His hand shot out, gripping her chin with a firm, almost bruising force. Her eyes widened in surprise, her sneer faltering as his gaze bore into hers. 

"Oh, I respect you enough, but I will have my answer. Did you?"

Daenys stared at him, her heart pounding in her chest. She wanted to lie to him, wanted to see the hatred and fury blaze in his eye when she told him she had. She wanted to rattle off a list of names, every man in her mother's retinue of guards, and the servants too. She so badly wanted to lie, to torment him, to see him writhe in the agony of betrayal. But she couldn't. She had her own dignity too, a sense of self-worth that she refused to sully for his stupid games. He may have bedded a hundred women, but she would not stoop to his level.

She scoffed, her eyes flashing with a mixture of defiance and disdain, "Of course not. I am not some common whore. You and your brother may not care for your reputations, but I am the daughter of a Queen."

What she really meant to say was, as if I'd let another man hurt me like that. Because only he had that privilege, that twisted right. Only he could break her heart time and time again and she like a fool allowed him to, until the wretched day one of them slipped the blade between the other's ribs and put them out of their misery. 

Her words seemed to alleviate some of his distress, a flicker of relief crossing his features, but then that relief was replaced by another kind of intensity, a raw, almost primal hunger that darkened his eyes and tightened his grip on her, her jaw throbbing with the pressure of his fingertips. He said her name again, his voice a rough whisper that sent a shiver down her spine.

And then, suddenly, he was kissing her.

It was not a gentle kiss, not the tender caress of lips that spoke of love and affection. It was harsh, bruising, rough—a clash of teeth that poured all his pent-up rage and longing into her. He tasted of licorice and anise, absinthe with a touch of honey, sweet and intoxicating. His hands threaded into her hair with a fierce urgency, pulling her head back as he pressed her harder into the tree, the rough bark biting into her back through her silken gown. 

Worst of all, she let him. At first, she was utterly still, her poppy-clouded mind not registering what was happening. She was in a state of shock, her body frozen and unresponsive. Her fingers were clenched into white-knuckled fists, gripping her dress with a desperate, almost mechanical intensity. She did not push him away. She did not strike him as she should have. She did nothing at all, and for one shameful awful moment, all she could think of was how much she missed him. 

Aemond's mind was a whirlwind of emotions. The mere thought of his wife with someone else gnawed at his sanity, a dark and consuming fire that threatened to burn him from the inside out. Images flashed before his eyes, tormenting him—the memory of her dancing with the stupid Dornish prince earlier, her slight laughter and grace as she moved with someone who wasn't him. Each thought was a dagger to his heart, a wound that festered.

He wanted to kiss her so hard, so fiercely, that he could erase all memories of anyone else from her mind, and from his own. He needed to banish the ghosts of all those who might have touched her in his absence. The intensity of his emotions spilled into the kiss, a desperate, almost violent attempt to assert his place in her life, to reforge the bond he feared was slipping away.

In his fury and desperation, it did not register that she remained utterly motionless under him, her body stiff and unresponsive, and suddenly he was deeply afraid that this was one of his dreams. His head was cloudy, and he wondered if this was the part where his fingers drifted to her left eye on their own accord, prying into her delicate skin, ripping her open, grasping her eye and wrenching it from her still and breathless form. Was this the part where this became their bloody altar and he tore her apart, much like a grotesque haruspex attempting to make sense of his twisted insides by examining hers. 

He was drowning, and he was dragging her down with him, hand in loathsome hand. Being drunk made him selfish, or perhaps he had always been that way. 

Taking, taking, taking. 

He sucked the very breath from her lungs, and then he bit her lip, the sudden sting sharp and jarring. The flood of iron in her mouth brought her out of her stupor, snapping her back to reality.

Daenys gasped against his mouth, her hands instinctively coming up to push against his chest as she tore her mouth from his. He stepped away instantly, at the slightest hint of her discontent. His cheeks were flushed, his breathing erratic, and she could feel the uneven stutter of his heartbeat through his tunic. 

Time stopped for the next few moments and they simply stared at each other. Aemond's hands were still in her hair and hers still clutched the lapels of his jewel-toned Dornish robes, trying to will herself to push him away but unable to find the strength. 

"Aemond..."

The one-eyed prince closed his eye and inhaled sharply, almost as if wanting to savour the way his wife said his name. He waited. One beat. Two. And then when she said nothing else, his mouth claimed hers again, his hands tightening around the strands of hair at the base of her neck. 

Daenys felt empty inside, an emptiness that threatened to pull her under into a sea of nothing, so she drank and drank, and then drank some more from this cup of hedonistic indulgence. A pathetic drunk fool. In the morning she would go back to loathing herself, and she would once again scrub the memory of her husband from her skin until she bled. Nothing at all would change. Perhaps she really was a harlot of the worst kind, greedy beyond belief, gluttonous for what she could not—should not want. 

In kissing her, he swallowed her heart, and in kissing him back, she made him spit it right back out. 

Then Aemond dropped to his knees, his movements sudden and desperate. He clasped Daenys's hands in his, their warmth feverish against her cold skin. His grip was tight, almost pleading, and she flinched at the intensity of his touch. His eyes, filled with a wild, desperate light, looked up at her as if she were his last hope, his very own fallible god. He was on his knees at her altar, a supplicant begging for mercy.

"Daenys, please," he implored. "Return to King's Landing with me. Bend the knee to my brother. Please, I beg of you."

"Get up, you're drunk."

She looked down at him, her pupils dilated, her chest heaving with the effort to breathe. Her lips were swollen and slightly parted, and he imagined he could have worshipped her forever if she let him. She could see the raw desperation in his eyes, the way his hands trembled as they held hers. He was a man on the brink, teetering between hope and despair, and as the night embraced them in its quiet, star-studded splendour, Aemond knew that he would always find his way back to her, no matter how far or how long it took. For in finding her, he found himself, and in being with her, he was home. 

"Please, come back," he repeated, his voice a broken whisper. "I'm so sorry for Luke. I am so sorry for everything, but please, come back with me."

Her brother's name broke the spell Daenys was under, slicing through the fog of emotions that had clouded her mind. She grimaced, pulling her hands from his grasp. 

"I cannot."

"Why?"

"I cannot forgive you."

I cannot forgive myself. 

To torment him was to torment herself. To spend the rest of their days apart was as much a punishment for him as it was for her. Neither of them deserved to be happy, to continue with life unburdened. 

Aemond's hands fell to his sides, his shoulders slumping with the weight of her confession. He reached out to her again, his fingers brushing against her dress, his touch a silent plea.

"I promise you," he said fervently, "you will be forgiven. Aegon is furious, but I will ensure that he forgives you if you just bend the knee and accept him as your king."

"I will be forgiven?" Daenys scoffed, her eyes flashing with a sudden, fierce anger. "What right does Aegon have to be angry?" she demanded, her voice rising. "He is the one who celebrated my brother's death with a fucking feast!"

Aemond's anger flared, his desperation morphing into a burning rage at her judgement. Her derision and ignorance stoked the flames of his ire, each word she spoke a spark that ignited his volatile emotions. In a flash, he rose to his feet, his movements swift and furious. He slammed his fist into the bark next to her. His fist landed a hairsbreadth from her face, but she did not even flinch. Her gaze remained steely and firm, unyielding and resolute, and her calmness infuriated him even more.

He wanted to take her by the shoulders, to shake her until she understood the depths of her mother's cruelty, the monstrous nature of what had been done in her name. His mind was a storm of rage and grief, the memories of his nephew's death, of his sister's torment, fueling his wrath.

"How dare you act oblivious!" he fumed, his voice shaking with fury. "How dare you pretend not to know! Aegon's son is dead! My nephew is dead! Helaena's boy is dead! Jaehaerys is dead!"

Tears welled in his solitary eye as he spoke, the memories too painful to bear. He could still see the shattered figure of his sister, clutching the headless body of her son. Her screams echoed in his ears, a haunting chorus of agony and despair. 

Daenys stumbled, her heart stopping at the news. Her mind reeled, struggling to comprehend the enormity of what he had just said. "No," she whispered, her voice trembling with disbelief. "No, it cannot be."

Not Helaena. Not her child.

"And your mother ordered it! Your mother and Daemon."

Daenys shook her head, refusing to believe it. Her mother would not... could not do such a thing, not even after Luke's death. She was not capable of such cruelty. She would not put it past Daemon, but she wanted to deny it all the same, to believe that neither of them would make such a command. However, the pain in Aemond's eyes, the raw anguish in his voice, told her otherwise. She staggered back, her hand covering her mouth as she tried to suppress a sob.

"You are lying. You must be."

Aemond's anger flared again, his hands shaking with the intensity of his emotions, "Oh do not pretend not to know. She played a part in this, and so did you. You cannot deny the blood on your hands. You are her favourite lapdog after all."

He had held himself back for so long, in the hopes that he could convince her to atone for her crimes by declaring support for his family, but now he flung the accusations in her face with as much cruelty as he could muster. 

"Jaehaerys is dead," he repeated. "Do you understand what that means? Do you understand the depths of our loss? Are you even the slightest bit sorry? Do you feel guilty at all for what your family has done?"

Daenys's eyes flashed with anger, her mouth setting into a hard line. "What do I have to feel guilty for?" she snapped, her voice rising with each word. But in truth, a torrent of emotions churned within her. She felt awful, her skin crawling with the grief of yet another loss. The weight of Jaehaerys's death pressed down on her, suffocating and relentless. Yet, she also felt an anger that burned just as fiercely as her sorrow. Aemond's self-righteous fury, his relentless accusations—it all stoked a fire within her that threatened to consume her.

"Where was all of this at the death of your other nephew?" she demanded. "The one you killed?"

Her words struck him like a physical blow, his face paling as he recoiled from her accusation. She pushed past him, her movements sharp and determined as she headed deeper into the gardens. The shadows swallowed her up, the darkness of the night offering her a temporary refuge from his searing gaze.

"I will gut you if you follow me again," she warned over her shoulder, her voice cold and hard. She ignored the fact that she had no weapon, her hands empty and trembling. In that moment, she felt as if she could tear him limb from limb through sheer willpower alone, sending him to answer for his sins in the afterlife. She imagined him facing the judgment she believed he deserved, a twisted subversion of her morbid dreams where he was always the one to kill her first.

Aemond stood frozen, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. His heart pounded in his chest, his mind a chaotic storm of anger, guilt, and sorrow. He wanted to chase after her, to drag her back and force her to confront the reality of their losses and the parts they both played in them.

"Do you think I don't suffer for what I've done?" he shouted after her, his voice breaking with emotion. "Do you think I don't carry that guilt every single day?"

She paused, her back to him, her shoulders stiff with tension. "Your suffering does not absolve you of your sins," she said quietly, and then continued in a whisper meant only for herself. "Nor does it absolve me of mine."

He watched as she turned away again, her figure gradually disappearing into the depths of the garden. The shadows closed in around her, swallowing her up until she was nothing more than a distant memory against the backdrop of the night.

⋇⋆✦⋆⋇

A/N: little medicinal background: ephedra is modern-day amphetamine, and poppy milk is an opioid (taken off google, don't come for me for medical inaccuracies lol). Don't take them together folks, you'll probably die, or do some very stupid shit. also don't be getting drunk around ur ex u have feelings for lol.

As usual, don't be a ghost reader. I live for yalls comments/questions/concerns/reactions, even a keyboard smash is highly appreciated and encouraged!