#Ivy doesn’t actually show up | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

caraphernellie · 4 months

Text

thank you for the venom // e.w.

summary: suffocating in a small religious town, drowning in your own misery, your own thoughts in which you were led to believe are dirty, disgraceful, unholy - where else can you turn for support other than the church? where else would you want to turn to, when ellie williams, so knowledgeable of the beliefs and teachings of the church, is there to take care of you?

a/n: oh god please don’t hate on me for this 🙏 here’s preacher!ellie. don’t come at me i have religious trauma and am also a big mcr fan so obviously. i am so nervous to post this. i cannot stress enough if this is not ur thing do not read it lmfao. closing my eyes and posting this i wrote it ages ago i dont even remember what it goes like ive been too shy to post it. part 2 where they have rough sex in the church is coming eventually when i get over being shy about that one too. bye

word count: 3.7k (i know.)

warnings: preacher!ellie , fem!reader , religious imagery/references , internalised homophobia (both e and r) , christianity/catholicism , she is so blinded by internalised homophobia , dom!ellie , oral(r!receiving) , fingering(r!receiving) , tribbing , virgin!reader but not innocent , ellie’s actually nice and has good intentions she’s just clouded by religious trauma , sinning , definitely ooc but i tried to make it as 'ellie' as possible , use of pet names : sweet girl , sweetheart , angel , good girl , cutie

“you are aware of the three hail mary devotion?”

ellie looks down at you, kneeling before her by the altar. there’s something unreadable in her gaze. though she looks utterly sympathetic.

“each day, you can seek guidance from the lord by honouring the blessed virgin mary, and you will say three hail marys. you’ll begin each day with a saying.” ellie clears her throat, her gaze unwavering. not even a blink, eyes green as ivy almost sickening you. “i do this everyday myself. ‘o my mother, preserve me this day from mortal sin.’”

“thank you, ellie.”

“you understand that i can’t speak to the lord on your behalf. i am simply the preacher, i am here to provide you comfort and guidance. and i do promise you, if you continue to repent for your sins, god will always forgive. there will always be a spot for you in heaven should you continue to do the right thing. you can acknowledge that these… thoughts… are unholy.”

perhaps there was a reason, that instead of taking yourself to confession, you sought ellie out to ask for guidance, though leaving out a crucial detail. she is the object of your thoughts.

“if it consoles you,” ellie starts, “i have struggled with thoughts of this nature too.”

and like a record screeching, you pause, looking up at the woman. and what a woman she is – black turtleneck, which doesn’t at all hide toned muscles you wish you could see. black slacks, brown boots. shoulder length, auburn hair, and a freckled complexion. she is so respected amongst the members of the parish, always living her life in the holiest of ways, and never would you have thought someone as perfect as ellie williams could have thoughts of sin.

“what?” your voice shakes, and ellie tenses for a moment.

perhaps you could have seen this coming, how there’s often tension thick as a brick wall between the two of you. ellie’s mixed signals ever so confusing.

“sometimes these thoughts get the best of us,” ellie murmurs. she approaches you, and as you look up at her through your eyelashes, she furrows her brows, hardens her gaze. “i have asked god to help me overcome these thoughts. i have had these thoughts and feelings for a long time. yet i repent. you may never get to stop repenting for this. but showing remorse and asking the lord to forgive you is all you need to protect yourself from the devil.”

ellie williams, respected preacher. she devoted her life to the church, wanting to live a life of holiness to make up for those thoughts she couldn’t ignore.

your hands clasped together like a silent, continuous prayer to preserve your own self-control, you open your mouth to speak, when ellie cuts you off.

“i’m glad god brought us together, and caused us to cross paths. you’re a special girl.”

there’s a warm rush of blood going straight to your cheeks, a waver in your voice, and a feeling of deep appreciation pooling between your thighs. “i’m glad too. it’s very comforting… to know that i’m not the only one dealing with these kinds of thoughts. thank you for helping me, and for teaching me that i am not damned. i hope we can both find peace.”

ellie nods slowly, her gaze unfaltering as you rise to your feet. for a moment, you feel that you catch a hint of a different expression – a smirk, one that disappears within seconds. as though she puts on a facade. “we are all born into sin. what matters is that we believe, and we follow the word of god. he knows what’s best for us.”

“and he can lead us back on the right path,” you say, smoothing down your dress, a modest piece, knee length and long sleeved.

ellie is deep in thought when she mumbles her next few words. “in the meantime, i can help you with your sexuality.”

once again, a heavy silence falls over you both as the words hang in the air. ellie’s about to backtrack, when you tilt your head, and her cheeks flush red as wine.

“h– how so..?” you ask, eyeing ellie as she rubs the back of her neck. her signals constantly so mixed, you wonder how you’ve gotten this far. too far to turn back now. her sudden nervous demeanour tells you everything. ellie has her issues, and she is nothing like the perfect preacher everyone respects.

“as a preacher,” ellie says, chuckling in an awkward way, “i should be taking care of people in our town, helping them to overcome their struggles and grow their relationship with god stronger. you are part of that as well.”

and so there it is, the strict and god-fearing ellie back again.

“i’d like to invite you over to my home. to pray, and we can study scripture. i can teach you how to overcome this.” her bottom lip drawn between her teeth, there’s that nervousness again. something impure is implied, her eyes burning into your face for any trace of uncertainty, and in the case that she finds it, she’ll backtrack. “if you’re not interested, just say so.”

and at the thought of what the implications are, you find yourself nodding distractedly, gaze falling towards the crucifix hanging on the wall of the church, and you grow warm with shameful excitement. “yes, i- i can do that. is there a time that suits you, ellie?”

ellie smiles firmly, yet it doesn’t meet her eyes. as if she is having the same mental dilemma as you. “i’m glad. how about tomorrow, 7?”

“of course, i,- yes. i’ll be there. you’re just a walk down the street.”

“perfect,” ellie says, and finally that smile reaches her eyes, an almost teasing twinkle in them, a loving look that doesn’t feel the same as the love she shares with others. “wear something appropriate, alright?”

“uh-huh,” you hum, shrinking under ellie’s gaze, knees buckling.

“i’ll see you soon,” ellie murmurs, voice low. and before you turn to leave, her eyes glance over your body once more. and she doesn’t hide her expression this time. she likes what she sees.

you simply nod your goodbye. as you step down from the altar and bow to the tabernacle, you can feel her stare. you feel it as you walk all the way down the aisle of the church, late afternoon sunlight hitting the stained glass windows just right and casting red shadows over you.

✧✧✧

it’s impossible to make it through the next day. that night when you had left the church, you tried taking ellie’s advice. the hail marys, the devotion. but thoughts crept in, ellie consuming your mind in the most beautiful bittersweet memory. you couldn’t help but to picture what she could do to you, how she could worship you. and the guilt of it had you in tears only after you had came.

at 7pm, you walk down the street to ellie’s house.

and ellie opens the door, not even a greeting slipping past her lips before she speaks. “i like that dress on you.”

and she doesn’t know it, but it eased so much of your nervousness. that you did read the situation correctly. because if you had misread the entire thing, and showed up to ellie’s home in a dress you’ve grown out of, it would have been a certainly difficult situation to navigate. ellie said to dress appropriately. and to you, that meant an older dress that hugs you tightly in the right places, leaving your body looking supple and sweet for her taking.

and should ellie discover what’s underneath the dress, she’ll see just how appropriate you decided to dress for her.

“you look beautiful,” ellie murmurs quieter this time, stepping aside to let you into her home, the brown brick house seeming so inviting at this time of night, warm candlelight lit inside. as you walk in, ellie’s eyes dip down to your exposed thighs, the dress being that short.

“thank you,” you reply, taking a look around the house. dark wood, vintage furniture, candles, crosses everywhere. as ellie leads you to her living room, there are things you take note of that you hadn’t expected. gaming consoles, a dvd stand full of horror films. she doesn’t comment even when she sees your stare, and instead she sets you down on her couch.

“should we start?” ellie asks, a hint of a smile on her lips. “how about we start with a prayer?”

“alright,” you say with a nod, clasping your clammy hands together. ellie grins a little, and does the same, then begins to lead you both in prayer.

“lord, we know that we are sinners. please forgive us for experiencing unholy thoughts about other women, and please guide us to become more like you. please help us to watch our words and actions, and guard us against future mistakes and errors. thank you for sending your son, jesus, to die for our sins — and thank you for your forgiveness. In the name of your son jesus, we pray, amen.”

it’s like with every reminder of your faith, glancing around the room, looking at the red rosary hanging around ellie’s neck, or the bible laying on the coffee table, an insurmountable guilt builds inside you.

ellie eyes a crucifix hanging on the wall, then averts her gaze from it – she simply can’t keep her eyes from wandering to you.

“shall we study now?” ellie asks, voice husky as she reaches for the bible. “i can t–”

“ellie,” you say, eyes pleading with her. your hand meets hers, and you stop her from picking up her bible. “we both know you didn’t invite me here to study scripture.”

ellie freezes, flitting her gaze between your hands, the bible, and your eyes. she’s been caught out. perhaps nervous to make the first move, ellie had switched up again, afraid to do anything that wasn’t innocent, afraid to corrupt you. but the confirmation that you want what she wants is enough.

“no… no, you’re right. you’re not here to talk about scripture with me,” ellie mumbles, a nod accompanying it.

“then…” you begin, fidgeting with the hem of your little dress, tilting your head at ellie with a warm face and trembling legs, white knee high stockings clinging to your calves. “we should… then we should do what you invited me here for.”

a beat.

“are you sure?” ellie asks.

“ellie, i haven’t been able to stop thinking about this,” you say, “haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. so please.”

ellie takes one look at your pleading eyes and your bottom lip between your teeth, and she knows that she’s done for.

“come,” ellie whispers, standing and taking your hand. there’s a faint look in her eyes, and everything feels light and slow as she walks you upstairs, into the bedroom.

ellie’s bedroom is similar to the rest of her house, vintage furniture and low lighting. her queen sized bed is pushed into the corner of the wall. on the nightstand lays another bible, on the wall a cross and portraits she’s drawn or painted herself. there’s a bookshelf filled with mostly religious literature and scientific books about things like astronomy and space. an acoustic guitar sits by the nightstand.

“well,” ellie murmurs, lighting a candle or two on the nightstand, flicking off the main light in the room. she stands across from you, illuminated in a warm candlelit glow. “let’s not waste any more time.”

before ellie does anything else, her hand finds the rosary around her neck. her fingers find the crucifix and she lifts it to her lips, pressing a kiss against it like a silent prayer, one last apology to the god she’s betraying. your heart skips a beat, and within no time ellie’s got a hand on the back of your head, pulling you in.

teeth clashing, hands roaming your body, ellie kisses you like it was the only thing she was made to do in life. she presses her body close to you as her tongue pushes past your soft lips. you’re not quite sure where to put your hands at first, but they settle, cupping ellie’s cheeks to bring her closer. your soft moan is muffled by ellie’s lips, her tongue invading every corner of your mouth, nothing unexplored.

ellie’s hands slide down your body, one gripping your ass over the dress and the other cupping your boob.

pulling away only to catch her breath, ellie pushes you towards the bed, laying you down on your back and climbing on top to continue kissing. she nips your bottom lip with her teeth, every act so desperate, so full of a yearning finally being fulfilled.

she stops kissing you again, this time with her hands reaching for the zipper at the back of your dress. “let’s take this off, sweet girl.”

ellie’s voice is breathless already, and she pants softly as she struggles with the zipper for a moment, her brain moving faster than her hands. she finally manages it, and lifts the dress off you.

you’re quiet, as is ellie. you had anticipated there’d be a reaction to this, the matching set you chose. white and lacy, a bra and panties that match the stockings ellie admired earlier. but nothing could have truly prepared you for ellie’s reaction.

“you are divine,” ellie murmurs, her hand roaming down to your hips. she licks her lips, unable to keep her eyes off of how the bra accentuates your breasts, or how the panties hug your waist. her body language, all too clear of how she truly feels about you, does nothing but cause you to throb inside your panties. “do you trust me?”

the question throws you off. furrowing your brows, but offering a small smile, you reply. “of course i trust you, ellie.”

the soft tone of your voice entices ellie, especially as you take her hand and guide it to your chest, letting her squeeze you through the cup of your bra.

“what a beautiful sin,” ellie whispers, leaning down and attaching her lips to your neck. she’s careful not to leave marks that would be visible, but she squeezes your breast as she kisses and licks a trail down your neck, all the way to your chest.

ellie revels in your soft mewls, the way your thread your fingers into the hair at the back of her head, and hold her against you. her hand reaches behind you, grabbing at the clasp of your bra. and ellie bites down, sucking a bruise into the soft flesh of your breast, where she knows nobody could see it. you arch your back partly in pleasure, but mostly to provide her access to the back of your bra, and ellie pulls it off in no time. her eyes widen as your tits spill out, and she swallows thickly as she watches your nipples grow firm with arousal and the exposure to the air.

ellie’s hand cups your bare tit and squeezes as she brings her face up towards you once more, needing that touch of her lips on yours. her long fingers tweak your nipple, rolling the bud around as she kisses you with a growing passion, groaning into the kiss just as you whine quietly.

ellie chuckles as your hands press into her back, pulling her closer, hugging her and hiding your face away in shame. she kisses the corner of your lips, pausing to soothe you. “shh, let me take care of you. let me worship you, sweet girl.”

you ease your grip on ellie when she says that, and she smiles at you before leaning down. you shiver, feeling the cold metal crucifix of her rosary resting down against your stomach, earning a chuckle from ellie as she wraps her lips around your nipple. she sucks for a moment, then rolls her tongue over it.

ellie’s hand lays flat over your stomach, pinning you down to stop your restless squirming. she moves her leg between yours, her knee pressing a generous amount of friction against your panties.

“h… ellie,” you whisper, “have you done this before?”

ellie looks up at you, and with a grin, she nods. “i have. a long time ago.”

“oh my goodn–” you cut yourself off with a lengthy whine, ellie beginning to suck hickeys all over your chest, from one breast to the other. she gives your other nipple the same treatment, only this time her teeth graze it lightly, and your hand on the back of her head tightens the grip on her hair. “ellie…”

“shh,” ellie hushes you, beginning to kiss down your stomach. “you’re okay.”

your incessant squirming and writhing turns ellie’s grin wider, when she cups her hand over your panties and feels the soaking mess.

“that’s beautiful,” she whispers, her fingers tugging at the waistband now, “this all f’me?”

you nod eagerly, looking down at ellie from where you lay propped up against the plush pillows. any holy thought has left your mind, and it appears to be the same for ellie, who lays between your legs with a cheshire cat smile, stripping the panties down your legs.

“so pretty,” ellie hums, grasping at your thighs and pulling them apart. “tell me, you want me to touch you here?”

a nod simply won’t be good enough this time, and you know that, clearing your throat to speak up hoarsely. “yes, yes please, el… can y– mmff-”

ellie’s fingers rub over your cunt, two fingers spreading the folds, the touch burning hot and electrifying. ellie laughs, not meanly, but sympathetically. “barely touched you yet, cutie. so wet…”

your lips turn down into a pout that makes ellie smirk, and she leans close, leaving a kiss on your throbbing clit.

“c’mon, don’t pout at me,” she whispers, another kiss following the words. “angel…”

you shudder, and then a loud moan escapes your throat as ellie’s tongue flicks out, beginning to lap at you. your body’s responsiveness leaves ellie with so much confidence.

“ellie, ellie,” you mewl, reaching a hand towards her. “ellie, it’s so– mmm…”

ellie reaches her free hand towards you, letting you grab it and intertwine your fingers. she gives a gentle squeeze as she licks a stripe down from your clit to your entrance, then back up again.

ellie can’t get enough of you, of your saccharine taste, staring up at you with blown out pupils as she sucks and laps at you. one of her bony fingers dips into your entrance, and ellie herself groans at the feeling of you clenching around it, but the sound you make is so rewarding that she pushes her ring finger in as soon as she knows you can take another finger. her digits stroke in and out of your sopping cunt, leaving you a whimpering and whining mess.

“c’mon angel,” ellie murmurs against your pussy, “i got you, i got you. ‘s this good?”

you nod, squeezing ellie’s hand in a vice grip, hips bucking against her face eagerly. “ellieeeeuuhh, oh, oh my g–”

“don’t,” ellie warns, “don’t take the lord’s name in vain, and don’t bring him into this.”

“i– s-sorry,” you gasp out, tipping your head back, “oh, oh, ellie, i’m gettin’ close.”

“good girl,” ellie murmurs, keeping the fast rhythm of both her fingers and tongue. “gonna be good and cum f’me?”

“yea, yea,” you say in a breathy voice, more moans leaving your lips, “ohhh, mmfuck, f-fuck, ellie.”

ellie’s ruining you, reduced you to nothing but babbles and moans. you buck your hips up more, rutting fast against her face, and that’s when you hit your peak. with a shriek of ellie’s name, you cream on her fingers, covering them with your slick, allowing them to stroke in and out even quicker.

ellie rides out your orgasm, slowly pulling away when you’re finished. she peppers kisses along your shaking thighs, leaning up to catch your lips in a kiss.

“good, sweet girl?” ellie asks, kissing the top of your head. you nod – but ellie isn’t finished with you, apparent as she begins unbuckling her belt.

“mmm,” you hum, “‘s perfect.”

“alright, angel, c’mere,” ellie says, stripping down to nothing. she sits by the headboard, pulling you onto her lap, hooking a leg over you. “you’re doin’ so good, you know? think you were made to please. good at taking what you’re given.”

“only because i want it,” you say in response, which has ellie chuckling. she grips your waist, grunting when her cunt makes contact with yours.

“good,” ellie says sternly, “because– shit.”

ellie loves how you keel over and press your nose against her neck because of the way your sensitive pussy rubs against her own. she tightens her grip on your waist, fingernails leaving little crescent moon marks in the plush skin as she begins moving you, groaning and moaning at the way your clit bumps against hers. she moves her own hips too, gasping your name.

you breathe soft whines into ellie’s neck, arms wrapped around her, hugging tight. it’s nothing but desperate now, your second orgasm approaching right in time with ellie’s.

“hnng, f-fuck, yeah, you gonna cum again?” ellie asks, squeezing your ass as you move against her. “good girl, cum, c– cum with me, cum with me s– fuck.”

ellie tenses up, hips moving fast to rub your soaking cunts together as you both cum. kissing your temple, ellie gently moves you off of her, running a hand through her damp and sweaty hair. “stay here angel, ‘m gonna clean you up, and we’ll cuddle then, okay?”

you don’t have much of a say in the matter regardless, shaking in the afterglow of ellie’s touch. she comes back moments later, looking a bit cleaner herself, carrying a wet washcloth. she begins to wipe you down, being extra careful around all of your more sensitive areas. she leaves kisses in the wake of her touch.

“you are beautiful,” ellie says in a firm tone. “the most perfect angel i’ve ever seen.”

you can only give ellie a half smile in response, and she drops the washcloth, leaning in and kissing you sweetly.

“don’t stress, you know why? because god always forgives as long as you’re willing to repent.”

ellie climbs into bed, pulling you close with an arm around your waist. she rests her chin on top of your head, a protective hold on you.

“why don’t we say another prayer before we go to sleep?” the preacher asks, tone almost uncertain. is she convincing you, or herself? “he’ll forgive us.”

tags: @dinasvampgf @fadedin2u @machetegirl109 @eurewili @craz1er4you @divinediors @onlinelesbo @thecowardwrites

i'm still trying to sort out my tag list!! it wouldn't let me tag some people. if you wanted to be tagged but weren't pls let me know so i can fix that <3

credits: middle pic in the banner is @switchbladekillerqueen <33 this pic inspired me to write this fic!!

#ellie williams x reader #ellie williams fanfic #ellie williams fanfiction #ellie williams smut #ellie williams x reader smut #ellie williams x fem reader #ellie williams x you #⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ fanfic #tlou x reader #tlou2 x reader #preacher!ellie

943 notes · View notes

tim-drake-scholar · 2 months

Text

I just think someone should write a batfam fic where none of the kids are getting along or their training is a little sloppy so he takes them upstate to like a wilderness retreat (Clark, Conner, and Jon are also invited). Chaos ensues

Like Damian doesn’t want to admit he wants to share a room with Jon (he insists they’re NOT friends!! and that he wants to share a room with Dick.

Dick was planning to share a room with Barbara, but Jason calls dibs first (Jason is using this opportunity to undermine Nightwing and the Robins so he finally crush Batman) (ie. just annoy his family)

Bruce and Clark are so happy that Conner and Tim are really getting along and are excited to share a room? And wait- is that a hickey??

Steph was invited, cancelled at the last minute, and then showed up 2 hours late and has to sleep on the couch in the living room.

Conner sitting in a lounge chair wearing his sunglasses looking bitchy as hell while he watches everyone play in the lake. He keeps looking at Tim like he is a snack!

There’s an obstacle course and Dick does it perfectly every time. And he keeps looking at Babs for approval.

Jason gets bitten by 100 mosquitos and gets a rash from poison ivy and it turns out he actually hates the outdoors. He is a city boy.

Tim starts to get twitchy without all of his gadgets and technology. He needs a phone. A tablet. A laptop. Something!! Conner spends half the trip trying to teach Tim to relax (turns out Conner also doesn’t know how to relax)

Bruce and Clark walk around in Hawaiian shirts forcing their children to do bonding activities while they sip cocktails and gossip about the justice league.

Damian keeps getting annoyed that he has to keep doing group activities bc he just wants to work on his water colours.

Stephanie and Barbara spend 90% of the time gossiping and drinking wine coolers. They show up for group activities (they always win) and go back to girl talk. Conner joins them to talk shit.

#batfam #bat family #batman #dick grayson #tim drake #damian #jason todd #clark kent #conner kent #jon kent #batfam fic #batfam headcanons

350 notes · View notes

kiss-me-cill-me · 5 months

Text

It's Always the Quiet Ones

Pairing: Emmett x Reader

Word Count: 4.4k

Summary: After spending a few days holed up with a rugged stranger, you finally can't take the tension anymore. Things get a little more complicated when he walks in on you.

Warnings: Smut, masturbation (f), Emmett walking in on you, quiet sex, biting, begging, one fleeting thought about breeding, some fluff, light angst

A/N: Emmett was honestly the start of my whole descent into Cillian Murphy madness, so I'm really searching for my people with this one lol. He's my sad, scraggly boyfriend and I love him <3

***Please read the warnings before continuing. Minors DNI***

It’s strangely beautiful, in an overgrown way. Vines hang off of the chain-link fence as you push carefully through the jagged gap, just big enough for a person to pass through. The long grass reaches well above your ankles, and plants seem to spill out from the negative space of every structure littering the lawn.

The air has a cool, muted hue; it looks like rain later. Eyeing the building in front of you, you decide to stop here for the night.

One step, and then a pause. Something feather-light brushes against your ankle. You look down to see a tripwire, and back away slowly in the direction you came. Interesting. It has been a long time since you’ve seen anyone else alive out here. Though the owner of the tripwire could be long gone.

You take a second look at your surroundings, this time scanning for any sign of a human presence. It’s quiet, but of course, everywhere is quiet now. Delicately stepping over the tripwire, you continue on your path toward the large building. Its looming, brick facade is featureless except for long stalks of ivy tumbling from broken windows, and as you advance you can’t help but feel that the building is watching. The sensation of eyes on you is made even more unnerving in the silence.

You pick your way across the lawn, careful to avoid shards of broken glass and open bear traps. This abandoned factory is quite the fortress, if anyone actually lives here. You reach the end of the grass, and step through a huge, weathered green door, left open on probably-ancient and squeaky hinges. The air here smells of cobwebs and must.

Inside, dripping water echoes faintly, somewhere from deeper inside the building. It’s cold by the open door, and it doesn’t get any warmer as you walk down the hallway, still keeping a careful eye out for anything waiting to meet you.

You turn a corner, and there he is, unexpected. Unexpected to you at least; the man in front of you seems quite prepared as he levels the sights of his rifle.

Instinctively, your hands fly up. The man’s face is covered, except for his eyes, which look to be the only part of him that’s still alive. Even his handling of the gun seems driven by muscle memory, as if he’s a sentry with no programming beyond, simply: “Defend.” You don’t breathe as he looks you over; relaxes a bit as he realizes you’re a lone woman, unarmed except for the hunting knife at your belt. He doesn’t look friendly, exactly - it’s hard to when you’re pointing a rifle in someone’s face. But he also doesn’t look like he really wants to hurt you. More that he just wishes you weren’t here in the first place.

As a show of good faith, you point to your knife, and then to the floor. You nod at him, questioning. He nods back. Slowly, you lower your hands to your belt and unclip the knife. The faintest click of steel against concrete is audible as you lower it to the ground. Straightening, you point to the man across from you; his gun.

Now you.

Just as slowly, the man lowers his weapon to his side. You point at your knife on the floor, expectantly.

Go on…

He’s reluctant, but after a moment of tense silence, his gun joins your knife on the ground.

You smile; hope that you look thankful and not threatening, like he’s just fallen squarely into a trap you’ve set for him.

Thank you, you mouth.

Beneath the bandana that covers his mouth and the hat that shadows his face, the man’s expression is impossible to read. His eyes, piercing blue even as they regard you more casually, move over your whole body once again. Checking you for weapons, though you don’t have anything else on you. When he’s done, you take a gentle step toward him.

Stop.

The man’s right hand flies out in front of him, fingers splayed. You freeze in your tracks. Desperately, you want to tell him that you mean no harm. You just want a place to stay for the night. There’s a cold fear soaking in the corners of his body; you can feel it all the way from here. You hold out your own hands, palms forward, telling him to stay calm. Nobody's going to get hurt. Keeping one hand in front of you, you reach around to your back pocket, intending to pull out the pad of paper you keep on you for the rare occasions you need it to communicate with someone.

Suddenly, your back is against the wall. There’s a strong hand clamped around your wrist; an arm pressed flat against your chest, restraining you. And the man’s face is inches away from your own, his eyes wild with panic.

The dust settles around you, and the echo of your body being slammed on the bricks fades away. You drop what’s in your hand and nudge your head to point at the pad and pencil, showing him. The man’s eyes roll into the back of his head when he realizes - maybe exasperation at you, or maybe frustration at himself for reacting so recklessly. He starts to move away from you-

Click.

A familiar sound comes from just outside the factory door. It’s one of them.

Shit.

The man mutters something, barely audible through the bandana, and then he’s running. Deeper and deeper into the building, his hand in a vice grip around your wrist, pulling you along after him. You feel like a mess of awkward limbs and flapping skirts as you try to keep up. The thing behind you is in the building now, crashing carelessly through the hallways in its pursuit. Your weapons are both forgotten - not that they would be any more useful here than they are back on the ground where you left them.

Ahead, the man has let go of your wrist and is now running at a dead sprint, trusting you to either keep up or be killed. He clearly has somewhere he’s going. You blindly follow him, out of any other options and brain too high on adrenaline to think about where he’s taking you. The hallway has opened out into a room, and now you’re weaving through huge pipes and tanks. Your lungs are about to explode. You can’t keep up with-

Suddenly, the man veers sharply to the left and smoothly jumps into a metal structure. Just like that, he’s gone. Nothing to do but follow. You breathe deep and hold it to stop from screaming as you jump in after him.

Dust. It’s in your throat and your eyes as you fall into whatever is piled at the bottom of the drop. You need to cough, but you fight hard not to. Before you can get your bearings, you’re yanked to your feet and thrust in a direction that seems random, until you reach the lip of the metal tank. The man all but throws you inside even as he’s climbing in after you, and then the heavy metal door is shut and the only sound is of two people breathing.

He tears off his hat and bandana. You watch, mesmerized, as the man’s chest rises and falls, struggling to push enough air into his lungs. Then, he utters the first word you’ve heard him say clearly.

“Fuck.”

The man’s name is Emmett. This you learn as you sit, huddled together but separate, in his makeshift bunker.

You also learn that he doesn’t want you here.

“Please.”

Your voice feels tight and painful; jagged around the edges from disuse. It catches sharply in your throat.

“No,” he replies.

The timer on his watch goes off, and Emmett opens the door. His chest is still heaving.

You both step out, listening carefully for any noise above you. The creature, thankfully, seems to have moved on. Emmett stands a little straighter as he turns to face you.

“I’m sorry, but you can’t stay here.” His voice is a whisper, and has the same rusty, unused quality as your own.

“I just need a place for one night.”

You beg with your eyes, and Emmett turns away. He won’t allow himself to be swayed by you.

Later, when it’s - almost- sure to be safe, the two of you go together to collect your discarded weapons. The sky outside has turned an awful gray, and sheets of rain pound into the earth. The sound is louder than anything you’ve heard in months, and the wind howls from all directions.

Emmett sighs heavily, though he makes no sound. He looks up, seeming to question who would have the audacity to do this, and then turns to you.

One. Night. he mouths, holding up a finger for emphasis.

He looks at you seriously, and you nod seriously in return. You follow him back down to the lower level, and settle in on opposite sides of the room.

One night, of course, turns into two, and then three. It’s nice to have company. Even Emmett seems to soften a little as the days go on. He doesn’t mention anything about you leaving after that first night, and you take care not to prompt him to. Emmett teaches you how to hide in the huge metal tank; explains the timer and watches you try it with your own alarm a few times to make sure you can do so safely. You busy yourself with mending a few things - broken backpack straps and holes in his old sweaters. He thanks you softly as you hand them back to him.

You catch Emmett looking at you a few times, barely getting a glimpse of the strange expression on his face before he turns away. You catch yourself looking at him too. It’s been so long since you’ve seen another person, but even if it hadn’t been, there’s something magnetic about him. His eyes are like spots of fresh ice against his weathered face.

“I have something,” you say, over the meager dinner you’re sharing.

You go to your backpack and rustle around, moving slow so as not to make any noise. Finally, you pull out a bottle, its dark glass glowing faintly in the dim light.

“Cream soda,” you whisper, with all the thrill of a child showing off an ill-gotten prize from her mother’s cupboard.

The bottle hisses as you open it, and you both perk up, quickly alert for any sound of a threat above you. Safe. You pass the bottle to Emmett, offering him the first sip. It’s simple, but a rare treasure in this broken world.

“What’s the special occasion?” he asks, the barest hint of a smile drifting over his lips.

You watch as his mouth wraps around the bottle's opening, and as he gingerly tips it back to drink. He takes two quick swallows, his throat bobbing twice, then hands the bottle over to you. You take it, fingertips brushing against his for just a moment, and take a quick swig before you can think for too long about how his lips were just touching the rim.

“It’s just nice to have a treat sometimes,” you reply, shrugging.

You hand the bottle back and Emmett takes it by the neck, letting the edge of his hand linger against yours for several seconds. You make no move to pull away.

“It is,” he agrees. “Been a long time since I’ve had anything sweet.”

In the very back of your mind, you wonder if he’s still talking about the soda. No - stop that. You don’t need to go ruining the good thing you have going.

You had asked Emmett, on the morning of the second day, if he was alone. He’d paused for a moment before answering.

“Yes… Well, I mean… Yes.”

You'd decided not to prod any further.

Now, as you look down at your hand ghosting against his, you notice again his wedding band, firmly wrapped around his finger. It's hard not to notice, and it's even harder to ignore the dozens of sketches that litter the room, pinned and draped on every surface. All of them show the same young boy. He could be a son, or a nephew, or just some random kid that something terrible happened to - you haven't wanted to ask. Everyone is beyond traumatized in this new world, and far be it from you to question whatever brings anyone comfort. Suddenly feeling guilty, you let go of the bottle and look away as Emmett takes another sip.

"Hey," he whispers. Your head snaps back up to look at him. "I have something too."

Emmett puts the soda down between you, methodically clears the table, and pulls out a very weathered deck of cards.

"You ever play Gin Rummy?"

The next morning, Emmett is up early. You stay in your sleeping bag, pretending that you haven't woken up yet, and watch him pull on his hat and boots. He slips on a pair of heavy leather gloves. You stir, "waking up," and Emmett walks over to you.

"Gonna go check the traps," he explains, kneeling down. "I'll be back."

You're struck by the way the moment feels almost domestic; as if he's promising you he'll be home for supper. Your eyes trail over him lazily, taking in the firm shape of his bare arms and the way his hands are abruptly covered by the work gloves. The thought of him roughly grabbing you by the waist flashes through your mind; the material rubbing your skin as his fingers sink into your sides. You swallow heavily; blink a few times.

"You should wear a jacket," you whisper.

Emmett has already started to walk off, but he turns around and smirks at your words. For a moment, it seems like he's about to say something. But it passes, and then he continues in the direction he was headed, grabbing his jacket off the back of a chair.

Once Emmett is gone, you have the place to yourself. Scant sunlight filters through the opening in the ceiling, giving you just enough light to read by. You pull out a well-worn book from your backpack, and settle into the chair Emmett's jacket was on to read it.

Quickly, the words start to swim on the page; falling forgotten into the margins. You can't get your mind off the image of Emmett leaving, blue eyes barely visible under the brim of his hat as he looked back over his shoulder. Had there been a teasing look to them, or was that just you imagining things again? Your mind flashes to an image of Emmett giving you his jacket, wrapping it around you, tight and safe. Pulling you close to him, and-

Okay, time to be honest. Emmett has been driving you crazy the past few days. And not in a bad way, but in an "imagining him tangled between your legs" kind of way. You know you shouldn't think like that. Your relationship with him is undefined and shaky at best; you shouldn't go risking it. But it's getting harder and harder to stop yourself from reaching out and snaking your fingers through his hair; against the tattoo peeking out from under his sleeve; sliding them down past his belt and-

Stop.

You practically have to bite your lip as you beg yourself. You listen for a moment to the silence. Emmett should be gone long enough. And under three feet of solid concrete, you feel safe to relax a little. You desperately need to let out some frustration.

But still, it feels too open out here. Too exposed. Even if you are alone, you just want some more privacy.

Your eyes drift to the steel bunker.

Okay, you can be quick. You have your watch and can time it and be careful. With how horny you are, this shouldn't take long at all. And in the worst case scenario, Emmett will be back soon and can let you out if you get stuck. This is a perfect idea.

You climb inside, set your watch, and close the door. Keeping your head by the entrance in case you need to rush the exit, you don't waste any time getting started.

You touch yourself, shocked at how wet you are already. Might as well take advantage of the sound-proof tank. You hiss as you slide a finger between your folds, finally not bothering to keep quiet.

"Oh, fuck, Emmett."

You desperately wish these were his fingers instead of your own. You plunge two inside yourself immediately; revel in the delicious sting. Legs squeezing together, trapping your own hand, rutting up against your palm. You imagine him hovering over you, blue eyes staring into yours as he watches you fall apart.

"Oh, fuck!"

Above your head, the door swings open. You freeze, hand still plunged sinfully down the front of your pants and hips bucking halfway off the steel floor. Next to you, your watch alarm beeps, calling more attention to your shame.

You look up, and suddenly Emmett staring back at you isn't a fantasy anymore.

"I'm… uh," you stammer in a hissed whisper, searching for any words. But the power of speech has left you. It seems to have left Emmett as well.

His mouth is practically hanging open, and after a moment of shocked panic, he quickly tears his eyes away.

Taking the opportunity, you sit up and try to arrange yourself - although it's impossible to look presentable after you've just been caught fucking your own fingers to the thought of the man standing in front of you.

"I'm sorry," Emmett whispers, frantic. He’s pacing; tears off his work gloves and throws them to the ground. Tosses his hat onto a table and runs a hand through his hair. "I thought something happened, and I wanted… well I didn't think - not that it's anything to be ashamed of. Everyone has urges."

"Do you?"

The sound of your voice shocks even you, despite the low volume you're speaking at. Your legs are dangling out the open door of the bunker, and you watch as Emmett stops in his tracks.

“What?” he whispers.

“Everyone has urges,” you echo, placing your feet on the floor. “Do you?”

“I don’t know what you…”

You stand up, taking a bold step toward him. Emmett takes a half step back. His eyes are blown wide, fear and confusion, as you take another step. This time he stays.

You place a hand on Emmett’s chest. It’s crazy, but you can feel his heart pounding; the heavy rise and fall of his breath.

You’re only inches apart. One more step and your body would be pressed flush against his, just like you’ve been thinking of these past few days. From this distance, you can hear the shakiness in his breathing.

“Tell me to stop.”

It’s a dare; a challenge; a bald-faced lie. You look up at him, pleading with your eyes for him to stay quiet. To not stop you. To keep going.

“Tell me to stop.”

You’re on your tiptoes now, lips hovering right in front of his. Emmett swallows hard, and you can feel it reverberate through his whole chest. Looking you right in the eyes, he shakes his head.

No.

Emmett pulls you the rest of the distance. His lips scrape against yours, parting so you can slip your tongue inside. Your lungs have left your body, leaving a hollow space in your chest, making it impossible for you to breathe. You feel lightheaded. But oh, the way he’s biting at your lips; tangling a hand in your hair and pressing against you like you can stop him from drowning. His leg is between your thighs and you practically melt on it. Emmett has to hold you to keep you from falling to the floor.

Gently, he eases you down. You’re desperate, pulling at him, trying to bring him to you faster. Your legs open to wrap around his waist. God, you’ve needed this.

Emmett is scrambling to take off his jacket, and even though it only takes a few seconds, it is an eternity. To exist without his body pressed against yours. You hastily unbutton your pants, and Emmett tears them the rest of the way down.

There’s a pause, and you look up at him. Emmett is transfixed, but seems to quickly snap out of it when he notices you - embarrassed. You lean up on your elbows, but Emmett stops you, putting a gentle hand on your shoulder. He brings a finger to his lips; fixes you with a gaze that shows he’s serious.

Be quiet.

You throw your head back and close your eyes. If you look at him for another second, you’re not going to be able to stop yourself from moaning. Even with the simplest gestures, he drives you crazy. You feel Emmett straddle you; reach his hand down between your legs.

Oh, fuck.

His fingers are even better than you’d imagined. Two seconds in and he has you gasping for breath. If you were wet before, you’re positively dripping now. You dare to crack open your eyes. Emmett’s face is stoic with concentration, and you can’t believe how incredibly turned on it makes you. He bites his lip slightly, and you think you might pass out. Looking was a mistake, but you can’t tear your eyes off him.

After teasing your entrance for a moment, Emmett slips a finger inside you. There’s that weightless feeling again; it’s like being drunk. You could ride his fingers until you forget your own name, and you already feel the coil tightening inside you.

Desperate, you scramble for something to hold onto. There’s nothing on the stone floor. Emmett is your only lifeline, and you grab at the hem of his shirt, pulling him to lean down over you. He kisses you. Rough and sloppy and frantic. You let out the smallest whimper into his mouth as you cum, hard, clamping your legs around his fingers.

Panting. You’re actually panting as he pulls out of you, instantly missing the way his fingers curled up inside of you. You’re still holding onto his t-shirt for dear life, and he gently removes your hand. You can’t see straight, but there’s the unmistakable sound of a belt buckle being undone, and a zipper loosening. When you look up again, Emmett is hovering over you, his body planted between your legs.

He puts a hand on your waist to steady you, and you feel him line up with your entrance. It takes everything not to scream as he slides into you.

The stretch is intoxicating. You haven’t even recovered from your orgasm, but just the sight of him pausing after he’s plunged into you, needing to collect himself, breathing hard. It’s enough to make you ache.

“Please, Emmett.”

The fingers on your waist tighten, digging into your side. For a second, you worry you’ve upset him, but then he looks up at you, eyes blazing with lust. He looks like a man about to lose himself, and you smile as you move your hands up to his chest, gripping at his collar to pull him close as you whisper again.

“Please.”

Emmett is pounding into you, careful at first to stay quiet, but getting sloppier every second. He can’t pull out all the way for fear of slapping too loudly against your thighs, but the result is an incredible friction that has you soaring. You don’t think you’ve ever been fucked this good. You grab at his shoulders, his neck, and Emmett lets you. When the pleasure has you tear open your eyes, you catch him watching you again. Enjoying the way you fall apart on his cock. It makes you clench around him even harder, and you catch the faintest whisper of a curse fall out of his lips as he leans forward, dropping his head to the crook of your neck.

“Fuck, Emmett.”

You whisper in his ear, breath brushing the strands of hair that fall around his face. Emmett brings his own lips right to the side of your cheek; his words tickle as he continues to fuck you.

“You know, you have a dirty mouth,” he tells you. “And here I thought you knew how to stay quiet.”

You whimper, and a hand is slapped over your mouth, the side of it slotting just under your teeth. Your heart pounds as Emmett leans in to whisper to you again, devilishly.

“Bite down if you need to.”

Fuck, he’s going to be the death of you.

Emmett is grunting, softly, as he fucks into you just a little bit faster. The sound of him coming undone is enough to make you squeeze your eyes shut and bite down onto his hand, muffling the sound of your cries as you orgasm.

If he’s hurt, he doesn’t show it. Emmett continues to rut into you as you bite the side of his hand, trying desperately to stay as quiet as you can. You want him to hold you down, breed you, spill everything into you with no care for the consequences. Emmett pulls his hand away and plants it on the ground, trying to balance himself.

“Where do you want me to cum?”

His words are breathless; you love hearing him like this. You bask in them, arching your back against the floor, not answering.

“Where do you want me to- Fuck!”

Emmett pulls out of you, trying and failing at the last second to cup a hand around himself. Cum gets everywhere, dripping from his fingers to the floor, coating the insides of your legs. He looks down at himself for a moment; shakes off his hand before wiping it on his pants, still halfway on in his rush to be inside you.

“Now you decide to be quiet, huh?”

He’s leaning over you again, whispering teasingly in your ear. He pinches your waist and kisses your cheek before pulling away, showing you the mischief in his eyes.

Somewhere above you, there’s a crash followed by a loud screech. Maybe you weren’t as quiet as you’d thought.

“Shit.” Emmett yanks his pants up and pulls you both to your feet. The sounds of something getting closer are clearly audible. You should be scared, but instead you’re excited.

“Let’s go.”

You tug at Emmett’s wrist as you lead him toward the bunker. Two minutes and thirty seconds - that’s how long you have before the timer goes off. You tumble, pulling him in after you. The door closes behind you with a soft thud.

You want to hear him scream.

#emmett x reader #emmett a quiet place x reader #cillian murphy x reader #cillian murphy smut #emmett a quiet place 2 #emmett a quiet place #emmett smut #emmett a quiet place smut #LemmyFics

629 notes · View notes

giveamadeuschohisownmovie · 3 months

Text

One thing I’ve grown to appreciate about the “Red Dead Redemption” series now that I’m older is that you can tell Rockstar approached this project as an anti-western. It lures you in with the promise of Wild West, yeehaw goodness, but when you actually play the games, you get hit with the brutal reality of this world.

Examples of what I mean:

1) The Mexican Revolution arc isn’t romanticized. At first, you think it’s a simple tale of the evil fascist government fighting against the heroic rebellion. But then you meet the rebel leader and he turns out to be just as bad as the government. It’s a true “both sides are in the wrong” situation and, unfortunately, the ones who truly suffer are the peasants (such as Luisa Fortuna).

2) Frontier life isn’t just shooting and action. It was also watching over animals, building farms and ranches, and trading with towns. The games really make you feel the monotony of doing chores and yard work, especially when John was in his Jim Milton phase.

3) Outlaw life isn’t romanticized either. Although you start off as a happy family, it eventually devolved into backstabbing, despair, and self-destruction. Even before then, your group aren’t the greatest of people, especially with the whole robbing people at gunpoint and shooting up towns.

4) Good guys don’t always get a happy ending. Also, every action has a consequence. John Marston had to learn that the hard way.

5) The racism. I feel like a lot of Western-themed media tries to skirt around this issue, or even avoid the topic (such as the 2016 remake of Magnificent Seven, which had a diverse group of fighters). Red Dead doesn’t pull back its punches. You have the Ivy League professor who treated Native Americans as subjects for his racist research. Abraham Reyes straight up calls Chinese people an inferior race. Then there’s the Blackwater short film playfully talking about the massacre of Native American tribes.

6) Along the same lines as point 5, the sexism. For example, there was the propaganda short film about opposing the women’s suffrage movement. And, of course, Sadie Adler not wanting to be relegated to cooking for the group since she can shoot.

7) This is more for RDR2. You actually have to pay attention to the maintenance of the horses and the guns. I’ve never seen this in a Wild West movie/TV show, and yet it’s integral to someone whose life revolves around horseback riding and shooting people!

8) Not skirting around the issue of disease, especially when healthcare wasn’t as advanced as it is nowadays. You can see that especially with Arthur and Abigail.

244 notes · View notes

nonasuch · 1 year

Text

The 2022 Miss Universe pageant was last night!

Which means: the National Costumes are here.

Yes, there is video. It’s worth watching if you want to see how some of these look in motion, but I’m warning you in advance that the emcees keep doing these shitty little rhyming couplets, and they will make you want to strangle them with one of the many available voluminous gown trains. So I’m suffering on your behalf, and liveblogging.

First up: Albania.

Sparkly flag-inspired bodysuit with train is the voting “present” of the Miss Universe National Costume Competition.

Angola. She did a fun dance on her way to center stage, which would probably not have been possible in her original costume, which was “tree-inspired” and too big to ship to New Orleans.

Argentina. This is where the video does come in handy, because without it I would not be able to award her First Contestant To Visibly Struggle Under The Weight Of Her Outfit. It’s a waterfall. The rainbow crotch area was certainly a design choice.

Armenia. I would like to see what’s going on with the bodice behind the... shield thing? but she never put it down.

Also, it turns out that when one contestant has a costume dedicated to solemn remembrance of the Armenian genocide, and the contestant immediately after her has a costume that’s about beach parties, there is kind of an uncomfortably abrupt tonal shift that happens onstage.

Aruba. Like I said: weird tonal shift! She did a little shimmy dance at Miss Armenia as they passed each other and it was clearly awkward for both of them. This is made of recycled materials leftover from Carnival, which is cool? I guess?

Australia. This is a prom dress. Boo.

Bahrain. A rare pants look! There’s a lot of detail in the headdress and bodice that’s kind of getting lost, but it looks cool in motion. Also the theme is apparently “Bahrain is rich as fuck,” so congrats I guess?

Belgium. Okay so the theme of this costume, my hand to g-d, is “the window on the International Space Station that Belgium built.” Why does this requires a shit-ton of leftover Christmas tinsel and some very awkward-to-wear angel wings? I do not know.

Belize. This is fun! It’s a good “lesser-known Batman villainess” kind of look. Like if Ivy and Catwoman co-mentored someone. The actual theme is “the world’s only jaguar reserve, which is in Belize,” but I think it’s also kind of implying that she might be a were-jaguar. Which, again, is fun!

Bhutan. This goes in the “just an actual regional/folk costume” category, which is also kind of like voting Present, but it looks like the fabrics are nice.

Bolivia. She has an entire Andean condor on her head so I’m already on board. This photo only shows the cloak, which is covered in silver spangles in honor of Bolivia’s silver mines, and is also why her condor is perched on a miner’s helmet. The dress underneath is entirely made of swags of sparkly gold beads, so the visual effect is actually pretty nice in motion.

Brazil. The construction details on this are actually quite lovely! Lots of intricate beading and rhinestone work. Unfortunately that doesn’t convey well at any distance, and also that white fin peplum thing flaps around really awkwardly when she walks. Oh, wait, she can flip it up to be a clamshell thing behind her head!

That looks much better.

British Virgin Islands. First giant flower of the year!

Bulgaria. Apparently this is made of neoprene? So with that and the rainbow stripes, the effect ends up being kind of “what if Midsommar, but at a rave.”

Cambodia. It feels weird to say “yep, standard Miss Universe warrior goddess costume” but basically that’s what this is. I do like the green-and-gold color palette, though.

Cameroon. “The baskets represent the nation’s agricultural movement.” Okay! I like how it’s giving “Valkyrie, but make it Global South,” though I’m not sure three entire country-shaped cutouts were necessary.

Canada. Another fine Miss Universe tradition: contestant who knows how to dance en pointe so she’s going to goddamn wear a costume that goes with pointe shoes, Or Else. Some nice beadwork! I would let her be the third, secret red swan in Swan Lake if that were a thing.

Cayman Islands. Sexy Blue Iguana is a fun concept! There’s a tail in back of the cape.

Chile. Sexy Atacama Desert is kind of abstract, as these things go, but I respect her choice to wear something she could walk in.

China. Hilariously, the announcer was like “This look... does not match the bio we were given, so I’m gonna wing it!” The fabrics are nice -- the satin drapes and moves well -- but the embellishments are kind of meh compared to some of the Miss China looks I’ve seen.

Colombia. This is a legit great Sexy Phoenix, but I need you all to know that her crown got turned a little sideways while she walked to the stage and she clearly knew it and just as clearly could do nothing about it, and I feel bad for laughing but it was funny.

Costa Rica. Sexy hummingbird! I think I’ve identified a recurring theme for this year. Corset and wings are made of recycled materials, which is nice, and they look well-made -- a lot of wing-based costumes tend to flop around or go crooked in motion, but not these.

Croatia. Oh, honey. This has big “my mom helped me make this the night before it was due” energy, unfortunately.

Curacao. “Meet the Fisherman’s Wife, a woman with a key role in Curacao’s fishing industry.” Okay? Honestly you could have left off the basket and said “this costume represents the beautiful marine life of Curacao” and I would have been like “yep, checks out” but now I have many follow-up questions.

Czech Republic. This is meant to be a Mucha-inspired look but uh. Mostly it’s just. beige. I’m starting to feel like all the other Slavic countries saw advance photos of Miss Ukraine and were like “let’s just phone it in this year, girls, there’s no point.”

Dominican Republic. “This costume recognizes the importance of birds in Dominican culture.” They did make it with silk feathers, which I appreciate, because it would have been very weird to use real ones with that mission statement. Also I like her headdress, and the giant feather fans are a good way to nod in the direction of wings without the hassle of actually wearing wings.

Ecuador. This looks good in motion! She did some dancing onstage that worked well, and there’s a great sculpted Inca head scowling on the back of her headdress. This is still only a few notches above voting Present, though.

El Salvador. “History of Currency,” which is definitely a concept! The Bitcoin wizard staff is sure something.

Equatorial Guinea. A perfectly nice entry in the “actual regional costume” category, but on the video I was like “oh, yikes, her headdress is really wobbly” and then it FELL OFF and I felt so bad for her.

Finland. “Spirit of the Forest”? Fuck off, that’s a prom dress. Boo.

I’m going to pause here so this readmore doesn’t get completely out of control. Shit, there are 50 more of these? Well, I have only myself to blame.

#miss universe #miss universe national costume

2K notes · View notes

yoonivy · 17 days

Text

my house of stone, your ivy grows (and now i’m covered in you); part 2.

aemond targaryen x fem!reader

genre. childhood friends to lovers, slow burn, drama, angst, fluff, eventual smut. it’s a y/n fic but no use of y/n. heavily inspired by taylor swift’s ‘ivy’.

When a fierce blizzard ravages the North, a certain dragon rider gets caught up in it and crashes onto Bear Island.

And right to you, the youngest daughter of House Mormont.

warnings. no warnings yet!

wc. 9k+ 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | 09

“Well look who finally decided to show up!”

Forrest leans on the wooden gate of the training yard, a smirk on his face as he watches the two approaching adolescents. Braeden and Jorah join him as well, curious as to what took you so long. You pout at their obvious stares, amused as they glance between you and the boy by your side.

“I had to ask Maester Garland if Aemond is well enough to walk around outside,” you let them know, now on the other side of the gate.

Braeden hums, turning to Aemond with a friendly smile. “Mornin’ Little Prince.”

Aemond politely greets all your brothers a good morning as well.

“I like the new look, Ae,” Forrest compliments, pointing at his own eye when Aemond turns to him.

“Whoa, it’s just like Butcher Pate’s!” Jorah exclaims excitedly. He put his thumb up out, adding with a resolute nod, “It looks great!”

You and your two other brothers snicker at Jorah’s usual strangeness, while Aemond shyly accepts the compliments.

You hear your name being said, and you glance in slight shock at the one who said it, “-- made it for me,” Aemond says, then throws a small smile your way. Though your heart warms, you feel like you are still dreaming. You still can not believe how fast things have changed. Aemond went from completely ignoring you for weeks , to now smiling genuinely at you and actually knowing and saying your name.

“Yeah, well, you know, it’s nothing. I mean, I just did the embroidery like I told you earlier, Dorothea is the one who did most of the leatherwork – all of it, actually – but I was kind of guiding her the whole time…” you babble, clearly so flustered that it’s you that your brothers are laughing at now.

You glare, about to snap at them, but someone beats you to the punch.

“Shall I just cancel today’s training? Cause you lot are just wasting my precious time,” a man with salt and pepper cropped hair says gruffly, appearing behind your brothers and towers over them. Aemond takes a hard swallow at the sight of him, his rough appearance could scare anyone and anything – who doesn’t know him better.

Forrest bellows out a laugh. “Your precious time you can be spending flirting with Darcy at the tavern?”

Ser Gregory starts blushing so red that even his full beard cannot hide it. “What did I say about spreading gossip, boy?”

“I think it’s sweet,” Jorah muses. “That Ser Gregory found someone so lovely at his old age.”

Braeden smacks the back of his head, but Ser Gregory just chuckles knowing that the boy means no harm by it. “I– Thank you, Lord Jorah.”

“We’ll stop wasting your time,” Braeden says, opening the gate that Forrest had been leaning on earlier. “Come then, little cub, little prince.”

You and Aemond glance at each other, and he makes a small gesture, letting you walk in first. You bow slightly at him before you do.

As he walks in after you, Aemond feels the eyes of Ser Gregory staring him down. He glances up cautiously, meeting the older man’s astute gaze.

“So you are the Dragon Prince who fell from the sky, hmm?” Ser Gregory questions but does not give Aemond a chance to answer when he adds, “I heard many things about you.”

Forrest must have caught the petrified look on Aemond’s face because he laughs goodnaturedly and says, “Don’t worry, all good things.”

Ser Gregory grumbles. “Most good, some–”

Your face twists, silently begging him not to mention anything – that he had found you one night in a hidden corner of the keep, sobbing after another freeze out from the prince.

So he changes the subject, asking the prince instead, “Will you be joining us for training today?”

“The Maester said he shouldn’t,” you relay. “His ribs are not healed enough to do anything too physically demanding.”

Then Aemond lifts his arm, still in a sling. “And my arm… I cannot fight without both.”

“Ey? Is that right?” Ser Gregory’s usual deep tone says an octave higher, clearly tickled. He shrugs the cloak off his shoulders, revealing the long sleeve of his left arm folded and pinned up. Aemond’s mouth parts in a gasp then shuts it tight, trembling as he realizes he had just offended the armless man. “Shall I not fight anymore? Would the training I provide for you lot all be for naught?”

“Oh, Ser Greg, don’t be like that! You know he did not mean any harm by it,” Forrest says with a roll of his eyes, waving his hand after Aemond murmurs a very soft apology, the young boy unable to look the swordsman in the eye.

Ser Gregory grunts roughly, turning on his heels and begins to walk away, to where the others are training. It is his way of letting you all know to follow. Jorah stalks after him, then Forrest (who gives a shrug to Aemond), and then finally Braeden after he tells Aemond not to worry, that Ser Gregory is always unpleasant at the start but he’ll warm up to him soon.

Alone with Aemond once again, you turn to him. “Braeden’s right. Ser Gregory is just… very protective of us. But he is as sweet as he is tough! He is one the best swordsmen in the Seven Kingdoms, if not the best!”

Aemond almost blurts out that Ser Criston Cole holds that title, but he bites his tongue, not wanting to cause anymore trouble.

“You can watch from over there,” you tell him, pointing at the wooden benches at the far side of the training yard, closer to where the action is. The two of you start walking together, while you keep talking, “With Dorothea and her friend, Renee. She talks a lot but she’s fairly nice… She fancies Forrest but I don’t think Forrest likes her back like that. I don’t know why ‘cause she’s by far the prettiest girl on Bear Island… Well, after Dorothea of course...” Your mouth quirks down and you shrug, stopping when you are closer to where Ser Gregory and your brothers are. “I guess I’ll see you after training!”

“Okay,” Aemond hums. “See you soon…”

With that, the two of you part ways. You to your brothers, and Aemond goes to join Dorothea at the benches.

“Good morrow, Prince Aemond,” Dorothea chirps with a smile when she sees him approaching. She scoots over a bit, instructing her friend to do the same, giving Aemond room to sit beside her. “You look quite handsome with your new eye patch!”

Aemond blushes. “Thank you… For crafting it for me.”

She waves her hand. “It’s no trouble. You really have to thank my little sister. She pestered me until I could not say ‘no’ anymore.”

The pretty ginger girl beside Dorothea leans across her, pushing her way through the conversation, “So you must be the Targaryen Prince! It is so wonderful to meet you! I’m Renee, by the way, my father’s the tanner that made the leather of your eyepatch! It looks amazing on you! How is it like down south? Is it as beautiful as the tales I’ve heard? What of King’s Landing? Is it nice to grow up there? It must be, the North’s cold is so awfully dreadful —”

Dorothea chuckles to herself, giving Aemond an apologetic smile. Knowing he won’t get a word in until Renee wears herself out.

Eventually Aemond answers all her questions and while that happens, the training begins. The three of them watch you, your brothers, and Ser Gregory in rapt attention. Though Aemond finds himself keeping a closer eye on you than the others.

Although you are not as coordinated as your older brothers, you can still hold your own. He would even dare say you are as good as his younger brother Daeron and definitely better than his older brother Aegon. It makes him wish he was not injured, so he can pick up a sword and challenge you to a duel. Another time, perhaps.

Aemond’s daydreaming gets interrupted when the training also gets interrupted, by three soldiers approaching you and your brothers. “Lord Braeden!”

As they talk to your oldest brother, Aemond overhears a couple words being said.

Dragon. Back. Clearing.

Aemond stands up suddenly, just as Braeden looks over at him and shouts, “Little Prince! It seems your dragon has returned!”

---

The trek back to the clearing you had found Aemond and his dragon is a lot easier now than that first night. You, your brothers, and even Ser Gregory accompany the young prince to her, the dragon you had learned is named Vhagar.

Aemond had asked your family to keep an eye out for her. He was worried when she had been gone for so long, but now he guesses she was just flying around the North, perhaps hunting for food.

When you once again step foot in the clearing she had made herself, Vhagar huffs out. Though this time, she seems relieved, seeing her little dragon prince in one piece and standing tall.

You are in awe at the sight of her. That night you first saw truly did not do justice to how magnificent she really is.

“She is the largest and oldest dragon in all of Westeros,” Aemond says proudly, beaming at the look on your face.

“Whoa… Then you must be very special to be the one riding her, huh, Ae?” Forrest asks, in quiet disbelief that such a small boy has tamed such a mighty beast.

Ser Gregory grunts, but you can tell he is also awestruck.

There is a phantom pain that strikes Aemond’s right eye, a reminder at what it cost to get Vhagar. He flinches with a hiss, blinking back tears. Luckily everyone’s gaze was on the dragon, not noticing the tormented look on the young boy’s face. “Yes… I suppose so…”

Then he makes a move, walking towards his dragon.

Jorah is the first to try to follow, but Ser Gregory pulls him back from the collar of his shirt. “I will only allow the prince to see his dragon. The rest of you will stay here.”

You and your brothers all make noises of complaint, but ultimately, you listen to him. So with one final look back, Prince Aemond walks the rest of the way to his dragon, alone.

The familiar sight of Vhagar clenches at Aemond’s heart, realizing how much he misses his home. With a small coo, her head dips, allowing him to stroke her snout with his good hand.

“Have you been eating well?” He asks her. “I hope you have not been eating any of the bears on this island. That might anger the Mormonts, you know.”

Vhagar huffs, looking away in guilt, and that makes Aemond laugh. “It’s alright, I will not tell your secret. But no more!”

Vhagar’s head dips again, maybe in understanding, before she gestures it to the side, seemingly wanting for him to ride her. To fly back home.

Although he misses home, Aemond finds himself shaking his head.

He leans in and whispers to his dragon, “It’s okay, Vhagar. I…” He looks back, smiling to himself when he sees your family there, still waiting for him despite it being so cold, “I want to stay for a bit longer.”

As more days passed, the prince’s wish to stay a bit longer changed to a lot longer. And as the proposed date for him to travel home gets closer, the more he dreads it.

He loves his home, his family, don’t get him wrong. But these past month and half with the Mormonts has been one of the happiest times he has had in his life.

Aemond became fond of the rambunctious and joyous breakfast and dinners your family had every day. Likes that he can go to Braeden for anything, how Forrest can always make him laugh, that Jorah tells him all his silly fantasies, and that he is always one of the first people Dorothea goes to try out her new dessert recipes. He likes how your mother and father treat him like he is one of their own, how gentle Maester Garland is when treating him.

And like what you and your brother said, Ser Gregory eventually also warmed up to him. He learned a lot from the older swordsman, becoming much better at wielding just a sword without any shield. His footwork and dexterity also improved during the short time he had training with Ser Gregory.

But what he likes the most is, well… You .

He likes how you always seem to be the first person he sees in the morning, and last he sees at night. The way you would share all your favorite things with him, so excited all the time, that he starts to do the same. It makes him so happy how your eyes light up when he does so. You two become so attached to the hip that he wonders how he is going to go on without by his side when the time finally comes. How can he even smile ever again when your smiling face is not there for him to look upon?

All that – that has made him so happy, is also the reason he is so dejected on the morning he is to leave with your father and some of his men back home to King’s Landing. He has not even left yet, but he is already missing you and your family and the whole of Bear Island.

He does not realize it – too stuck in his own feelings – that he misses how silent the usually loud family breakfast is that morning. That he wasn’t the only one looking down at his plate, pushing the food around, appetite lost. You frown, trying to catch his eye, but he does not look up, also frowning down at his plate.

Aemond is so sulky, choosing to bolt to his chamber as soon as breakfast is finished that you do not even have the chance to talk to him at all today. He had even refused your visit to him in the early morning.

You take such a heavy sigh – one more appropriate for an elderly person who has had enough of the world instead of such a young girl like you – that Forrest can’t help but have a chuckle. You glare at him, but he soothes the frown on your face with the back of his knuckles. “Don’t worry, little cub. I’m sure Ae is just as sad as we are.”

But that sentiment makes you frown even deeper. You did not want him to be sad, you want him to always be happy.

Noon arrives and you find yourself standing with your family at the docks of Bear Island. Your father is already getting the ship ready, along with Ser Gregory and some other men – but the boy of the hour, Prince Aemond, is not even there yet.

Your brother, Forrest, volunteered to stay behind when the prince refused to come out of his room. He said to leave it up to him to get the prince out.

That was over an hour ago, and you are starting to get worried that Aemond will hole himself in that room and never come out. Though before you can really start, you hear your mother sigh with relief. “There they are.”

Turning, you follow her line of sight.

“Sorry for the wait!” Forrest calls out, the little prince running behind him, trying to keep up. There is a bag slung over your brother’s shoulder, and he addresses it a second later, “Just had to pack up all the little prince’s things.”

Aemond did not have many things when he fell on Bear Island – actually, he had nothing at all, even losing his eyepatch. All the clothes he wore during his time on Bear Island were Jorah’s and all of that were already returned yesterday. So that big bag he had packed… It must be all the gifts you had gifted him. Your heart swells at the thought. You even see the many paintings you had made for him in a roll, sticking out of the bag.

When they reach your family, that is when Aemond begins to bid farewell to everyone – one by one. It is sweet to watch just how close Aemond and each of your family members (and also those closest to your family) became. They laugh, they hug, they exchange words of promises to see each other someday soon — Septa Earla even cries, kissing both of Aemond’s cheeks.

Finally, it was your turn and when Aemond steps in front of you and faces you, you give him a wobbly smile and he gives you one just as unsure back. Stomach dropping, you can finally admit to yourself that you did want him to leave.

“You have to write to me,” you say, sniffing away the incoming tears. “I’m not asking. It’s a demand.”

Aemond chuckles, wetly. “Okay.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise,” he says, then he licks his lips, also trying not to shed any tears. “I will write every day.”

This time, it’s your turn to laugh. “Every week will suffice. I don’t need to be spoiled.”

“But I want to,” he blurts out. Then shyly, he glances down and murmurs, “I will spoil you. I will send you as many gifts as you have given me.”

Your breath catches when he glances back up, looking determined now. “You have my word, Lady Mormont.”

“I hope you don’t think that giving gifts will make me go easy on you when we finally have our one-on-one duel,” you tease with a grin. “Because I know I can beat you with my eyes closed.”

It almost offends Aemond, almost. Then he realizes you were not being unkind or making fun of him like he is used to with his brothers and nephews. No, it was not like that at all. This is like a joke, shared between… friends.

That makes him laugh joyfully, smiling so big. “Alright, I do not wish for you to go easy on me. We will duel fairly when I visit again.”

“Soon?” You ask, hopeful.

He nods firmly. “Soon.”

And then you are hugging him. It takes him by surprise, staggering back slightly, but soon he is melting into it. The tightness in which you are hugging him hurts his still healing arm – already out of the sling – but he bites through the pain, wanting to hold you a bit longer.

Neither of you let go until you both hear Ser Gregory calling from the ship, letting everyone know that they are sailing soon.

It has Aemond squeezing you in his arms one last time, his heart heavy yet elated at the same time.

He truly is already missing you… His first real friend.

---

True to his word, you receive a raven from Aemond as soon as he is settled back home, a moon and a few weeks since his departure from Bear Island.

It is a short message – one can only fit so many words in the tiny raven scroll – but he writes that he already misses you and your family, that he made sure that his father sent a few of his best men to accompany your father back to the port that they had landed their ship at, and that you should be getting a proper, longer letter from him soon. It had confused you what he had meant, but a week after your father and Ser Gregory had returned, a man – who is definitely not dressed warmly enough for the weather of the North – arrives on Bear Island.

He comes bearing gifts and a long written letter from Aemond. Your father is in shock, it has been quite a long time since a courier had visited the island. The last time he can recall was when his mother, your grandmother, was still alive, and would have couriers coming to-and-fro from Highgarden, receiving letters from her friends and family back home. It is an expensive service, but the courier assured your family that the Queen had paid him handsomely for it, and that your House has no need to give anything else even though he will be waiting at the tavern inn to deliver back whatever you wanted to give the young Prince.

When Aemond said he’d spoiled you, he was not joking in the slightest. In the box that you had received from him were gifts of the finest qualities: oil paints in every shade of the rainbow, paint brushes of many shapes and sizes, and ink and varying quills for the letters you will write back to him, and a book that he writes is one of his favorites. There were gifts for your siblings as well, but you definitely got spoiled the most.

But your favorite thing that Aemond gave you is his letter. You find yourself going to the guest chamber he used to reside in, sitting on a stool beside the bed, pretending it is like the mornings when he was actually there, the conversations the two of you used to have before heading to break fast. As you read, you can hear his voice, as if he was there beside you.

Aemond writes about his first week back. Everyday, he was surprised with his favorite foods during meals. How his father actually spent some time with him in between his busy schedule. That even his older brother, Prince Aegon, was kind to him. He writes about how his sister loves the paintings you made – she even has one hanging in a golden frame in her bedchamber now. His mother wants to meet your family, and Ser Criston was impressed by what Aemond had learned from Ser Gregory. He wished you could have seen the friendly duel between the two warriors, how the cheers in the training yard during it could rival the cheers of an official tourney. In jest, Aemond says he will not reveal who the winner was. (Later, when you ask Ser Gregory, he tells you it was him, of course. You are not sure if you believe him.)

Aemond tells you other things, more mundane happenings in his day to day life, but you enjoy it all just the same. Then he ends the letter with how he is writing this under the heart tree within the Red Keep, pretending it is the one on Bear Island where he would accompany you when you wanted some peace and quiet away from your siblings.

It makes me happy being here , he writes, I often visit it now.

It makes me think of you.

I hope you are thinking of me too.

You go to the Godswood of your own home later, and sit by the Weirwood tree with the book Aemond gifted you. As you read, you smile to yourself, then look up at the sunlight that peeks through the limbs and branches of the tree. Beaming wider, you say to the sky, “I am.”

It goes like that for many moons.

Ravens and couriers going back and forth from King’s Landing to Bear Island. Letters after letters, gifts after gifts. You get embarrassed how homely the things you give Aemond are – all are just things you’ve made and not anything fancy at all like what he has given you – but he assures you that he loves it all. The letters, since there is an abundance, often came with no real substance or new story to tell but neither of you got bored, just content to receive anything from your friend.

But you have to admit, you are starting to get really lonely without your friend there with you. When you catch sight of your sister and Renee, Forrest and his training buddies, Braeden and his two best friends who he grew up with since he was a babe, and Jorah and the big group of friends he hangs out with… You feel so awfully alone.

You did not want to be greedy. Aemond is already doing so much. The letters, the gifts, the courier his family had hired… You were grateful for it all, but still, you could not help but write on the scroll you attached to the raven you send to him:

I wish you were here.

You don’t hear from him for weeks after that, which is odd. It has you scared you had creeped him out. Like you are a child throwing a tantrum for having your favorite toy taken away.

But then, just when you are about to lose hope, thinking you had lost your best friend… A dragon you instantly recognize, flies around overhead of the Mormont Keep before landing on the clearing that she now has claimed as her own.

Exhilarated, you and your brothers run to the clearing, meeting the prince just as Vhagar lands. You tackle him into the tightest hug, falling over in a heap on the ground when your brothers join in.

At his arrival, your mother has the housekeepers make up the guest chamber, though now it seems to be Aemond’s official bedchamber in your home. He brings with him a bag of clothes, and it has you asking if he is staying long which he nods and says yes. Your father and mother also question how long he is going to stay, and he tells them his mother says he can stay for a moon or two — without looking them in the eye. They found it odd, but who are they to go against the prince’s or the queen’s word?

It is all fun and games, you and Aemond are having the time of your lives — until the raven from the Queen comes just a week and half after he landed.

It seems Aemond had actually ran away – or more so, flew away — from home when his father and mother did not give him an answer fast enough for when he could go visit you. The queen writes that she wishes for him to come back home, and that when he returns, they will figure out a more proper visit.

Just like that, Prince Aemond being royalty is completely forgotten, and the mama bear in your mother comes out. She scolds him like how she scolds her own children, and you and Aemond are both crying at the end of it. He goes back home the next day, but before he does, your mother reassures him that she is still fond of him and he is always welcome back, but to never do that again, not without the permission of his parents. Understanding, he has his head dipped low as he hugs her goodbye, before turning to you to do the same.

Your parents and the Queen begin to correspond after that. They make a plan that the Queen will be the one to write the letter asking your parents if Aemond can visit for a couple days along with her official seal, and when your parents answer back with a confirmation, that is when she will allow Aemond to fly Vhagar to Bear Island.

Years pass like that. Letters coming in weekly, and Aemond visiting every three or so moons.

On the third year, you get word that Aemond will be visiting for a week to celebrate yours and his 16th name day together. It has been a yearly tradition since the two of you became friends, but this year… You think it might be a little bit different.

As you read the raven scroll he had written you – knowing that he is already on his way on his mighty dragon – a nervousness, like the wings of many butterflies, flutters in your stomach. You do not know how or even why it happened, but ever since his last visit two moons ago, you had begun to develop feelings for your best friend.

It is not like much has changed. He is still just Aemond. Perhaps a little bit taller, his voice breaking more often now and slightly deeper, and his hair longer – but that’s it.

Then again… Though he is still lean, he definitely looks a bit broader, the muscles in his arms more defined. You press your hand on your lower stomach when you remember the feel of his arms around you, a strange and unfamiliar heat there as you get dizzy at the thought.

That memory was not of a hug Aemond had given you. It was from his last visit, when you finally got the permission from your parents to be able to ride Vhagar with the prince. It was something you had been begging them to let you do for years, and they finally agreed, thinking you are old enough and that you had proven yourself responsible enough to do so. You remember Aemond’s hand clasped in yours, both running while laughing through the pathway of Vhagar’s clearing. Your two chaperons, Forrest and Ser Gregory, trailing far behind the two of you, there to make sure no one gets hurt. You recall the fond look on Aemond’s face when you stroke the scales on Vhagar’s face, the she-dragon purring at your touch.

“I think she likes you more than she likes me,” he had told you with his lopsided, winning smile. Then he lifted you up to help you climb up the netting onto the dragon’s mount, strong enough to do it on his own without your brother and Ser Gregory. He followed after you with practiced ease, sitting himself just behind you.

You were excitedly waving to Forrest and Ser Gregory when you felt Aemond lean in closer to you, his chest pressing against your back and his arms securely around you. That was when the nerves started to kick in and at the time, you thought it was because you were about to fly on a dragon for the first time. See the world from above for the first time. You had been sure that was the only reason why.

Aemond instructed you to hold onto the handles in front of you, while he grabbed onto the strap of the rope. Once you do and once Aemond made sure you are ready and good to go, both fastened to the saddle, he begun to command Vhagar to take off in High Valyrian.

And then the two of you are flying, high in the sky. It was so exhilarating. You had never felt anything like it before. You looked down on Bear Island, your home, and it looked like it was a part of the miniature, wooden villages that Maester Garland liked to craft in his spare time.

It made your heart soar. You felt so at peace, letting your eyes shut as the wind blew through your hair. You felt so safe in Aemond’s arms, not worrying at all that you were thousands of feet off the ground.

You remember looking back at Aemond, grinning, only to find him already looking at you. That same fond look he had given you earlier when you were petting Vhagar. It made you take an audible swallow. In that very moment, it seems like there was a shift between you and the dragon prince.

That was when he leaned in closer — so, so close, that you thought foolishly he was about to kiss you — but he turns his head and whispered in your ear instead, “I think I…” he stopped, licked his lips and tried again, “I think this is the happiest I’ve ever been in my entire life.”

Ah… That’s it. That’s when it happened. You laugh to yourself now, thinking about sweet, naive, and younger by merely just a few moons you, thinking you are just going on an exciting dragon ride with your best friend, not knowing what will happen next. That those words that your best friend had said would replay in your mind over and over and over again; keeping you up at night, distracting everything you do, until you got butterflies in your stomach every time you thought of the small smile he gave you after he said those words.

And so here you are now, more nervous than excited for your best friend to arrive to celebrate your name days together, just because you had realized your stupid newfound feelings for him.

Before, you did not care for how you looked in front of anyone, let alone Aemond. But now, you’ve been pacing back and forth from the mirror standing beside your bed to your wooden closet, changing in and out of different dresses. Nothing looked right, nothing made you feel pretty enough. With a frustrated huff, you settled for a dark green dress — maybe in the back of your head, you wore it to pay tribute to Aemond’s mother side of the family, the Hightowers, and your own House.

Next, you decide to tackle your hair. Sitting down at the vanity, you take your hair brush in one hand and the other clenches in a determined fist. You always wore your hair down, unruly and wild. It is only when your mother or Septa Earla manages to catch you that you begrudgingly head back to your chambers to brush it and pin it back. Today, neither of them have to tell you anything, you want your hair to look nice and beautiful. But you are not at all practiced, and even the simplest braid you try to weave together looks wonky and weird. It is times like this that you wish you were more like Dorothea, all lady-like and proper and gorgeous, with a million suitors lining up to court her. Maybe then you wouldn’t even need to do all this for Aemond to return your feelings.

Sighing, you thread your fingers through your hair, letting the failure of a braid untangle and just letting your hair be loose yet neat. You look at yourself in the mirror, guessing that this would be the best you could do. You dare not ask Dorothea to help out because your sister is clever and she will certainly be asking questions about why you are trying so hard to look so… nice.

And you are not ready to have that talk with anyone yet. Or at all.

It must have been going on for at least a minute, but you are so in your head that you only hear the knocking on your door when it is accompanied by the voice that you had longed to hear — and now, the one that sets you up in a panic.

You shoot up from the chair — hitting your knee on the underside of the vanity in the process and thus knocking all the various little objects on your desk over as you curse out loud at the stabbing pain where you had hit yourself. A concerned call of your name can be heard from the other side of the closed door, and you answer back with ‘Just a second!’ as you scramble to straighten up all the things that fell over, before hurrying to the door.

When you open it, you are greeted with the handsome face of your best friend. The sight of him takes your breath away. Aemond has always been otherworldly looking – with his pale white hair and unique colored eye – but seeing him now, it really hits you how ethereal he really is. It has you staring dumbly at him, his own violet eye is set on you. He gives you a slow glance over; his pretty, pink lips quirking up in a smirk. Worriedly biting down on your own lip, you wonder how disheveled you look right now. Was all that fussing over your appearance and the million outfit changes all for nothing?

“So you did not welcome me when I arrived, and now I do not even get a ‘hello’?”

That has you snapping out of your thoughts, exhaling out a laugh as you jump forward to throw your arms around him. He catches you with ease, wrapping his arms around your waist and lifts you off the ground, spinning you around. It has the two of you laughing, you into his neck while you feel him smile against the crown of your head. It has your heartbeat racing dangerously fast, and so when your feet touch the ground, you quickly take a step back to create a bit of distance from the prince. Just in case you do something that you will probably regret, the feeling of his lips on you had you wishing you could feel it elsewhere – everywhere else.

“I did not even know you’ve arrived,” you tell him, confused. “I’m sure I would have heard Vhagar… Did you travel here in a different way?”

Aemond laughs, shaking his head. “No, I came how I’ve always did… Jorah told me they’ve been calling for you as soon as they saw Vhagar flying in, but you did not answer.”

“Oh…” You murmur, giving him a crooked and apologetic smile. “Sorry, I’ve been a little…”

Aemond’s eye brow quirks in a silent question, peeking into your room and then grinning at the mess he sees inside, at the heaps of different colored dresses thrown carelessly on the floor. “... Preoccupied?”

Playfully glaring at him, you put a hand on his chest, pushing him backwards while also closing your door behind you with the other.

“Let’s go,” you say haughtily, walking ahead of him in a huff that has him laughing behind you. “You must be famished from the travel.”

Though before you can take another stop, Aemond clasps his hand around your elbow, forcing you to stop abruptly to look back at him in question.

“You look beautiful, by the way…” Is what he tells you. You nearly die on the spot with how your heart seizes at the way he smiles at you, all soft and shy, reminding you of the boy he once was and not the confident young man he has grown to be. “I just thought you should know.”

Does he even know how disarming he is? How he has taken a hold of your foolish, girlish heart without so much as trying?

You are not sure if you can keep yourself from doing something stupid in the next week, and it terrifies you because… It will probably ruin your friendship with your Targaryen prince forever.

Thankfully, you manage to keep your head on straight throughout the next few days, even though you spent ninety percent of your days and nights with the one causing you to lose it. You were quite proud of yourself that no sudden outburst of your feelings for him has slipped through your mouth – and that is a hard feat, since you are one to always say what is on your mind.

Aemond is none the wiser. After your initial nervousness around him, you are quick to get back to how you two normally are – thanks to his help. It’s nice to know that despite your changing feelings for him, you can always be yourself around Aemond.

On the morning of his name day, you head to training with your prince and brothers, all laughing and joking around. Forrest is mostly the butt of joke, since he is groaning and whining after eating too many pancakes at Aemond’s birthday breakfast.

Like every year since the tradition started of celebrating your name days together, on Aemond’s day, breakfast is grand to celebrate the prince’s life. But the real party is always celebrated two days after – during supper – when it is your name day. You are not at all mad to share the spotlight with the prince. In fact, it makes you even happier.

But this time, you are anxious about the upcoming celebration. Not about the party itself, but about the present you are planning on gifting Aemond. You have been going back and forth on it, and now it is already too late to really give him anything else. Besides, you can’t give him another set of knitted gloves, one that he could only use when he visits Bear Island because it’s too warm for it down south. So perhaps, you can whip up another painting of the prince on Vhagar’s back in two days…

“What’s on your mind?” Aemond asks, bumping his elbow on your side to grab your attention. “You’ve gone all quiet and… strange, again.”

“Strange…?” You question, nervously laughing. “What do you mean by that?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know… Just…” He sighs, shaking his head dolefully. “Nevermind.”

You really thought you had been acting normally, but maybe you had not been. You don’t know whether you should try to explain it to him or not. But before you can even make up your mind, you arrive at the training grounds, and Forrest is putting his arm around the prince’s shoulder, pulling him to where the new equipment and training dummies are set up.

Training begins and you still have not had the chance to talk to Aemond. You could hope you don’t look as miserable as you feel.

At least you weren’t alone in your misery.

Jorah is antsy beside you, mopey as well. Clearly not wanting to be there for various reasons. He had confided in you a few moons back that he just doesn’t enjoy sword fighting anymore, that he would rather spend his time at his apprenticeship with the tanner. He thought it was unfair that Dorothea had been given permission to opt out of training, but just because he is a boy, he had to keep it up.

Another reason for Jorah’s ire from training is that it’s the one place where he has to watch the girl of his dream clearly so smitten with someone who is not him. That someone being your older brother, Forrest.

Braeden joins you and Jorah – off to the side, away from everyone else – and laughs at the heated glare on Jorah’s face directed towards Forrest who is entertaining a group of pretty girls by the benches. You are frowning too, seeing Aemond by his side, also getting those kinds of looks from the girls.

“Chin up, little brother,” Braeden says, tapping his knuckles lightly under Jorah’s chin. Then he turns to you and does the same, “And, you too, little cub.”

“This is ridiculous,” Jorah huffs, eyes rolling off to the side, having had enough of all the flirting he had just witnessed. “Can I just go? I have more important things to do…”

It is Braeden’s turn to frown. “Look, I know you hate it but… You have to know how to fight. What if your future lady gets into trouble and you don’t know how? What if that ends up costing her life? And besides…” Braeden sighs, gesturing his head over to where the loud group of giggling girls are to prove his point, “Girls love a good warrior.”

Jorah rolls his eyes again, but can’t help but longingly look in that direction anyway – at the beautiful redheaded girl who is the reason he even started his apprenticeship at the tannery in the first place.

“You’re right,” Jorah says, patting Braeden’s chest before he starts walking towards the group with purpose.

You exchange a look with your oldest brother, muttering out, “Oh no…”

And then the two of you are after him, Braeden calling out, “Wait, that’s not what I meant–”

“Forrest!”

The noisy group immediately quieted down, all turning to see the man marching towards them with the most determined look on his face. Dorothea, who is sitting by herself just a few benches away from Forrest, Aemond, and her best friend, heaves a heavy sigh; face palming and whispers low to herself, “Oh boy… Here we go…”

Forrest grins, turning his body and giving his full attention to his youngest brother. “What is it, little br–”

“I challenge you–” Jorah points his wooden training sword towards Forrest, “– to a duel!”

There is a hushed murmuring throughout the training yard. Forrest looks a bit taken aback, but he is quick to recover, smiling wide with a cool shrug. “Sure, that sounds fun!”

Jorah scoffs at how easygoing his brother is, avoiding the questioning look from the girl who has his heart.

Ser Gregory breaks away from where he is training some of the younger kids, clapping his hand on his chest jovially at what he had heard. “Ey, finally! Something exciting!”

As your two brothers get ready for their match, you join the others that have gathered to watch, creating an impromptu circle around them.

“May I?” It is Aemond, asking if he could take the empty spot beside you.

“Of course,” you say like it is stupid for him to even ask.

He chuckles at your pout and way your brows drawn together, says under his breath as he stands beside you and looks ahead, “Bellus.”

You know it is Valyrian without even asking, but at this point in your friendship, you know better than to ask. Aemond usually only lets you privy to the translation of the words if he wants you to know, which is most of the time. But sometimes, there are words he likes to keep secret – you do not know why. You just hope it all means good things.

A loud cheering erupts as the match is set to begin. You and Aemond join in, though more subdued.

“Who do you think will win?” Aemond asks, slowly ceasing his clapping when your two brothers start clashing swords.

“I do not want to say it out loud,” you answer him. “But I think we both know.”

Aemond hums in agreement.

And just like that, as soon as the fight started, it was over in no time.

Forrest��s boisterous laughter fills the air and tells the young man glaring at the ground, “You’ll need to get better if you want to best me, my dear brother.”

He tries to give a hand to help up the defeated Jorah, but it gets swatted away.

“Well, that was…” Ser Gregory begins, eyeing Jorah as he hobbles away from the circle with Forrest catching up after him. “Interesting, yes… Anyone else? We are all here, anyway!”

The crowd murmurs, everyone looking around. That is when you feel movement beside you, and your eyes widen as you realize it was Aemond, stepping up to break out of the circle.

Ser Gregory bellows out a joyful laugh, “My prince, atta boy! And who will you be challenging?”

“I would like to challenge…” trailing off, Aemond smirks, clasping his hands behind his back, looking so regal and self-assured that you swear you could hear every girl in the crowd swooning. It has you making a face, trying so hard not to feel possessive jealousy but you could not help it.

“Lady Mormont.”

You do not know which was more unattractive; the grimace on your face or the way you gasped when Aemond turned to look back at you.

“Me?!” You gape at Aemond, looking at him like he had grown three heads.

He nods, the grin on his face saying ‘yes, you’.

“We’ve talked about this before, haven’t we? How one day we shall face-off to see which one of us is the better fighter?”

Yes, when we were children, you wanted to tell him. When I did not care if you would ever see me as something more.

Aemond’s head tilts, “Why not today?”

At this point you could not possibly refuse and back down. Everyone around you is already cheering you on. If Ser Gregory did not have appearances to keep up, you were sure he would be jumping up and down as he begs you pretty, pretty please to accept the prince’s challenge.

So that is what you do.

Looking Aemond straight in his violet eye, you say evenly and with a curtsy, “Then I accept your challenge, my Prince.”

It has him catching his breath, closely watching you as you walk past him to retrieve a wooden sword for the duel. It is not often that you call him by his title, but when you do…

Aemond’s hand flexes at his side, chuckling to himself, before he follows after you.

Getting yourself ready for the fight, you take a deep inhale, holding it in for a couple long seconds, and then exhaling out. It is an attempt to calm your nerves, but it did not really do the job. Instead what does is when you find your sister’s gaze in the crowd, her calling out that she’s rooting for you, and then Braeden’s right after, telling you to kick Aemond’s ass — ‘Respectfully,’ he adds, towards the prince.

That has you exchanging a laugh with Aemond, and he wets his lips before asking, “Are you ready?”

You take your place in front of him, both of you standing in the middle of the circle. “As I’ll ever be.”

When Ser Gregory gives the command to put your blades up and engage, neither you or Aemond make a direct move to go at each other. Instead, you both found yourselves circling the other, as if in a dance. There is a smug smirk on his face as he kept his eye on you, you did not know if you wanted to hit it off or kiss it off. Probably, both.

You know he will not be the one to make the first move, so instead of putting off the inevitable, you take the first strike. He dodges it with such grace that you cannot help but to be in awe, allowing him to counter with his own attack. Luckily, you were quick to block it, wooden swords clashing together with a loud clank . But he has the upperhand now, forcing you to retreat backwards with every parry of his sword against yours.

Getting closer and closer to the crowd, you knew you had to move away before you bump into any of them. So the next time Aemond swipes his sword, you duck under it, fleeing to move yourself back closer to the middle of the circle. He turns his heel so he can face you again, but that gives you a chance to be on the offense again. You slash, and slash, and slash, but each one is deflected. You knew you had to change your strategy, think quickly on your feet…

So you lunge forward, aiming at Aemond’s left shoulder. Just like you thought, he blocks it without much effort. But that left him open, and you kick your foot out, causing him to trip when your boot collides with his ankle.

He falls on his back, and you press the tip of your wooden sword on his chest. His eye slowly opens, staring into yours.

The crowd’s cheers are deafening, but neither you or Aemond seem to hear, so focused on each other. As if you two were the only ones on that training field.

That is when it dawns on you what you had just done, the anxiety mixing in with the shortness of your breathing from the fight.

You so desperately wanted Aemond to see you as a lady. Someone pretty and delicate. Someone he can see a future with.

But here you are, knocking him off his feet, making him fall hard on his back with a groan – on his name day, as well!

What were you thinking?!

A million apologies fall out your lips as you crash on your knees beside him, mixed in with the bunch of times you asked if he was okay.

Though also exhausted and out of breath, Aemond laughs at your worrying. He takes your hand in his and softly says your name – that has you shutting up good.

“I assure you, I am fine,” he tells you as he holds your hand tighter, pressing it against his chest. You swear you can feel the rapid beating of his heart. “More than fine.”

“I…” you say, trailing off when Aemond reaches his free hand up, and tenderly tucks away a flyaway strand of hair that fell from your ponytail. “Okay.”

“And I was wrong,” he says.

Your head tilts in confusion.

Aemond grazes his thumb against your knuckles, smiling at you so prettily that it can rival all the stars in the night sky.

“A lady could fight.”

You cannot stop yourself from smiling too.

Though the dinner party inside was wonderful and grand, you find yourself stepping away outside towards the end of it, to have a moment to yourself. It is a beautiful night out here in the Godswood, the stars above so bright, as if welcoming you into this new era of your life.

You can not believe you are sixteen now. More a woman now than a girl, as your mother had said earlier the evening. You suppose she is right. Only a woman would suddenly have such confusing feelings over someone who she had thought of for so long as just her best friend.

You laugh at yourself out loud.

“May I get in on the joke?”

You turn around to see Aemond leaning on one of the other trees that surround the big Weirwood tree. He had been watching you, though you had no clue for how long.

“It’s nothing,” you tell him, still giggling to yourself but you try to shake yourself out of it. “I… I think I’ve had too much wine.”

He pushes himself off against the tree, striding his way to you. “You’ve only had a cup. I did not think you to be such a lightweight.”

“Shut up,” you pout, pushing him lightly when he gets close enough.

“It’s good though… Do not be a drunkard like my older brother.”

From all the stories you have heard about Prince Aegon from Aemond, you shiver at the thought. “Don’t worry. I will not.”

Aemond chuckles at how utterly disturbed you seem to be at the notion, then joins you in looking up at the stars. A comfortable silence falling between you.

“Did you like my present?” Aemond asks after a while.

“Of course I did! How could I not?” You say, perplexed that he is even asking. As if you could ever dislike anything he has given you. And this present was probably the most extravagant of them all. It is a gorgeous gown, one of a kind and made by the Queen’s and Princess Helaena’s personal dressmaker. The Queen herself assisted Aemond in picking out the colors and design – a creamy white chiffon over a floral patterned silk under to mute the already paled colors of the silk – the billowy sleeves of the dress off-the-shoulder. Scandalous in your part of Westeros, but perhaps not in the southern cities. You loved it as soon as you set your eyes on it.

“It’s beautiful. I thank you again. I wish I had some special, fancy occasion to wear it to though.”

“I’ll find one,” Aemond declares, sounding so sure of it. “But then again, there is no one to stop you from just wearing it. Who would dare question you when you bested a Targaryen Prince in a duel?”

Your eyes narrow at him. “I will not disrespect your mother – the Queen, by the way – by wearing the beautiful dress she helped make for me out at the training grounds.”

Aemond holds his hands up defensively, grinning at your feistiness. “Alright, alright, it was merely just a suggestion.”

Then you sigh, crossing your arms together. “I suppose it’s my turn to give you your gift then?”

“I…” Aemond wets his lips, “I hope you do not think that I brought up your present just to remind you of mine.”

Your head shakes at him, amused now. “I did not… But now that you mentioned it…” At your teasing, Aemond opens his mouth then shuts it, only to do it again, looking like a dumb fish. It has you laughing, “I’m joking, Aemond!”

Then you take a deep breath, grabbing the small pouch that you had tucked into the pocket of your dress. It is now or never.

You tell him to hold out his hand, and when he does, you drop the bag gently onto his palm. “Happy name day, Prince Aemond.”

He looks at you expectantly, and when you give him the go ahead, he unties the drawstrings, opening the pouch and letting the content of it drop into his hand.

He lets out a tiny exhale of air, staring in absolute wonder at the sparkling ball of blue. “Is this…” He glances up and into your eyes, his gaze warm and soft, “Sapphire?”

Humming, you nod. “It was given to me by my grandmother. Well, actually, I picked it out. During her final days, she allowed all the women in our family to pick out whichever jewelry they wanted. Her jewels were the only things she had brought here from Highgarden. So while my mother, my sister, my aunts, and cousins were picking out all the pretty earrings, rings, necklaces, and brooches… Guess what my stupid six year old self wanted…”

“This… ball of sapphire?” Aemond answers, picking it up between his fingers, laughing with you when you nod.

“You should have seen the look on all their faces… It was hilarious, looking back now. And then… My grandmother, she just… She laughed and she picked me up and held me close. The joy on her face, the bells of her laughter, it was…” You smile sadly, eyes watering. “She had been so weak and tired for so long before that moment, so seeing that… knowing I was the cause of that– that moment. One of the last happy moments in her life… This ball of sapphire, not only is it the most valuable thing I own, it is also my favorite…” You clasp your hand over his, making him close it around the sapphire ball, staring into his eye as you say, “So please, take care of it.”

Aemond sighs, covering his other hand over yours and pulls your joined hands towards him, causing you to press up against him, gasping. He bends his head down, his forehead touching yours as he murmurs to you, low and sure, “I will treasure it forever.”

If you had known that was the last time you would see Aemond for a long while, you would have… You would have just done it. Done the stupid thing you made yourself hold back throughout his visit. Told him how you felt about him. Kissed him until neither of you could breathe. Anything.

But you do not have any hindsight, and you did not know in the upcoming years, Aemond would be too busy to visit. As he grows older, his royal duties also become more important. No longer a boy, Aemond now has jobs to do, important people to network with, and his training with Ser Criston now more intense and longer.

Though you are sad about the changes, you are not at all angry. Aemond still found time to write to you every week, keeping up with your life as he kept you up with his.

Three years passed like this. Just letters and no visits. Vhagar’s pit has been empty for so long that wild flowers started to grow in it. Your nineteenth name day comes and goes, another sad and lonely year you do not spend with your best friend.

Days, weeks, and moons cycle around. But just when you think another year would go by without seeing Aemond, an invitation arrives:

The House of Mormont are cordially invited to Aegon Targaryen & Helaena Targaryen’s wedding.

---

author's note:

so next chapter... rating is going to go up to explicit if you know what i mean... heh heh. i hope you are all enjoying it thus far, let me know what you think :')

*also, bellus=cute. none of the high valyrian translators have cute in it so i just used the latin word for it :)

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #aemond smut #aemond targaryen smut #hotd imagine #hotd smut #aemond #aemond targaryen #hotd

124 notes · View notes

slytherhys · 14 days

Text

June in January (Because I'm in Love)

Prompt: Powers & Possibilities (but make it Witchy!) @elriel-month

A/N: So I've had this AU in my mind for a really long time and I thought it'd be perfect for this prompt. It is kinda different from how I usually write so please bear with me. I hope I managed to make it at the very least a cute read! Enjoy 🌼

TW: Swearing, Blood and Violence (mentioned because Az is an idiot!)

You can also read this story on AO3!

The first time Azriel visits the witch’s cottage on the outskirts of Velaris, it’s against his will.

For starters, he has never been a fan of witches – not of their unrestrained power and certainly not of their blood-drinking habits. He is also a firm believer that, despite Mor’s insistence, Madja would’ve been perfectly able to fix him up with whatever medicine she usually gave Cassian whenever he got punched in the face.

But after a sparring session gone wrong, a vicious hit to the face that takes both him and Cassian by surprise, and a pounding headache only made worse by Cassian’s incessant bragging about knocking out the Shadowsinger for the first time in centuries, Azriel barely bats an eye when Mor presses a piece of parchment to his hand and nearly forces him to visit her dear friend.

“You can thank me later.” She says with an impish smile. “Preferably with chocolates.”

Azriel doesn’t bother asking any questions – namely, who her friend is. Or rather what . With a nasty black eye, a bruised ego and absolutely no desire to take part in any small talk with a stranger, he simply goes, dazed, and confused as to how the fuck he let himself be punched in the face by Cassian, of all people.

But when he first gets there, he has to wonder if Mor is pranking him.

The cottage is covered in ivy, idyllic enough that one could think it actually belongs to the landscape where it stands. The garden surrounding him is an array of colours and scents, neatly organised by a logic Azriel does not pretend to understand. It looks innocent enough, all things considered.

But something in him goes still as he takes in the landscape in front of him. His eyes narrow as he watches the flowers sway softly in the cool January breeze. They’re beautiful and fragrant and would raise absolutely no suspicion on any other given day – if not for the fact they were in full bloom despite it being the middle of winter.

And then he sees it – a plain, wooden sign, the lettering a loopy cursive that speaks of lovely, gentle things. If it wasn’t for what they spell out, of course.

Elain’s Herbs & Potions

His entire body goes cold, and it speaks of his self-control that Azriel doesn’t shoot to the skies without a glance back. Because he knows –vividly remembers – all the tales of witches he grew up hearing about. Of their all-seeing eyes and their crooked smiles that promised nothing but pain and horror. The tales of their rituals and tricks not even the most cunning soldier could escape. Even Rhys, for all his powers and smarts, has never showed much interest in coming across a witch.

He's wondering why, exactly, Mor ever thought it’d be a good idea to send him here when he sees her.

The first thing he notices, oddly enough, is how small she is. After living next to Amren for most of his life, Azriel is not foolish enough to ever think that a sign of weakness, but it intrigues him all the same. Then, he’s utterly aware of how she doesn’t look anything like what he thought she’d look like. There’s no yellowed teeth, no wispy, greying hair, no soulless eyes.

Instead, all he sees is long, golden-brown hair and chocolate eyes. A yellow dress that compliments her tanned skin and red cheeks and speaks of warmer, sunnier days. She’s carrying a wicker basket overflowing with flowers, but the scent that trails after her is all her – sweet and sour, and Az feels his legs nearly giving out from under him, it’s probably completely unrelatable.

Elain , he assumes, and never a name has ever sounded so sweet.

When she looks up and spots him, she smiles, as if she was waiting for him and is pleased to see he's finally here. His heart tumbles inside his chest and he tells himself it’s because he’s in the presence of a witch – not because he’s suddenly wanting things he’s never wanted before.

She eyes him curiously and he has

to stop himself from asking her what’s on her mind, even if it suddenly feels

like the most important thing he’s ever needed to know.

“Can I help you?” She asks sweetly. Her voice echoes through him, and something inside him settles. He, however, can’t bring himself to speak, swallowing dryly as he stares and stares and stares . The woman - Elain ,

he thinks with delight - tilts her head, furrowing her brow as her chocolate

eyes trace his face. “That doesn’t look good.” She mutters and Azriel has to

remind himself of the reason he’s here in the first place.

“A fight.” He says oh-so-eloquently , and he’s surprised she doesn’t seem alarmed in

the slightest by his response. As if, perhaps, this is a normal occurrence for

her. He doesn’t know why that bothers him, but it does.

Elain, oblivious to his nonsensical thoughts, simply nods and turns on her feet, disappearing inside her cottage without another word. Azriel remains where he is, unsure of what to do. All of a sudden, he can’t recall why he ever feared witches in the first place, why he ever believed the tales his brothers told him in the middle of the night when they were too young to know any better.

And fuck if they knew any better.

It takes the pretty witch less than five minutes to return, this time carrying a small basket in her hands, each one of her steps a small symphony of bottles clicking against each other until she’s standing in front of him. He looks down at the basket with intrigue and pretends that her closeness isn’t making his skin tingle. He listens carefully as she explains – a bit shyly, Azriel notices with satisfaction – how he must apply the green ointment to his bruises, at what time he must drink the periwinkle potion and how many times a day the white paste must be applied to reduce the swelling of his cheek.

When he nods in thanks and turns to leave, it’s entirely too soon and a pang echoes through his body as he desperately tries to come up with ways of prolonging his stay but comes up empty instead. His skin feels too tight, his cheeks too hot, his hands too clammy. He vaguely wonders if he’s running a fever - if maybe he can ask her for a cure for that as well.

She walks by his side until they’re standing on the limits of her property, like maybe she doesn't want him to leave just yet either. He feels oddly mislaid; uncertain of what to do and who to be. All his convictions turn into ash and suddenly there’s only one thing he knows for sure: he’s going to have to get punched again, because there’s not a chance in this world he isn’t seeing Elain again.

“Who won?” Azriel turns to her as she asks, confusion clear on his face. Elain, not one to be put off by his silence, clarifies, “The fight.”

Azriel chuckles softly. “Not me.”

She frowns like she's not entirely happy with his response. “Well, make sure you win next time. Okay?”

But the second time Azriel visits the witch’s cottage, just on the outskirts of Velaris, Elain greets him with a brilliant smile, not disappointed in the slightest to see him sporting a new bruise and a busted lip.

It shouldn’t surprise him how beautiful she looks, but he still is taken aback when he first sees her. Her hair is tumbling down her back in a messy braid, a too-big straw hat on her head and a small streak of dirt on her cheek that she probably isn’t aware of. Her cheeks are flushed from the sun, her blue dress reminds him of ripe blueberries, and the way it sways with her every step reminds him of flying in the summer breeze.

This time around, there’s no doubt in his mind he’s right where he should be. A familiar feeling of contentment rushes through his body, as if after weeks of waiting to see her, he can finally let himself relax and enjoy this small moment of reprieve (and really, who can blame him for wanting to get punched again?).

When Elain asks him what happened this time around, Azriel doesn’t dare tell her he made sure to pick Rhys during this week’s sparring session; that he made sure the most powerful High Lord in history punched him just in the right place so that he could bust his lip open. He doesn’t tell her about the confused look on his friend’s face as Azriel smiled maniacally when he felt the blood on his lips, nor does he tell her he tried to go for a broken nose instead so that maybe she would touch him too.

He simply smiles sheepishly at the pretty witch and utters something about distractions, making her blush under his stare as she turns around and scolds him for being so careless, all the while making a package of too many potions he doesn’t entirely need. (He still hasn’t used up all the old ones, but he doesn't tell her that either).

When Elain finally turns to him, her eyes drop to his lips and Azriel feels fire licking up at his spine. She watches him with curiosity and something else lingering in those cinnamon eyes. Amusement, perhaps?

For a brief, panicky moment, he wonders if she can see right through him. As it is, Azriel doesn’t exactly know where her power lies, and for all he knows every lie, every excuse is pointless in the presence of this witch.

Elain, however, doesn’t seem too concerned by his lies. “What is your favourite fruit?” She asks instead, eyes flickering to his as if nervous to see his reaction.

Azriel tucks away his puzzlement and says, “Blueberries,” pretending the whole time it’s not only because of the colour of her dress. She nods once, as if the answer satisfies her, and hands him the basket.

“Be careful, okay?” She tells him in that honeyed voice and Azriel can think of nothing else to say, so he nods and leaves without a glance back.

He pretends he doesn’t miss her the entire flight back home.

The third time Azriel visits Elain’s cottage, he is greeted by a brilliant smile that sends his heart racing inside his chest. Elain, still bent over a shrub, tells him about the new batch of healing potions she’s been perfecting so he can try them, and he tries not to show just how pleased he is that she has been thinking about him, waiting for him to return. She doesn’t ask him about his bandaged shoulder and Azriel doesn’t tell her about the lecture he got from Rhys once the High Lord of the Night Court realised what was going on.

“These ones taste like blueberries.” She says, handing him three new potions he’s never seen before. He frowns slightly. “They’re your favourite.” She explains, and the expectant smile on her face makes it impossible for him to come clean. He isn’t even sure he likes blueberries, but he thanks her anyway and smiles the whole way home.

The fourth time Azriel visits Elain’s cottage, he has just returned from a mission abroad. When she hears the rustle of his wings, she turns to him with that brilliant smile of hers. To her credit, she doesn’t stop smiling when he sees the heavy expression on his face. She simply stands up, holds his hand, and leads him to a wooden bench under a willow tree behind her house.

They sit there for hours, without a word ever being spoken. He doesn’t know how Elain knows he doesn’t wish to speak, but he’s thankful all the same.

When he returns home, he doesn’t take any potions with him, but nevertheless something inside him feels mended; lighter than it has ever felt before. For a quiet, lovely moment he wonders if maybe he’s worthy of having his hands held despite the scars marring his skin and the idea of such a life follows him all the way home.

The fifth time Azriel returns to Elain’s cottage, nothing seems to be amiss - both Cassian and Rhysand refuse to fight him (since Rhysand promptly forbade them), and Azriel can’t seem to find any more excuses to see her again. Until he realises he doesn’t need them anymore.

As he flies to her house, a million scenarios rush through his mind as he wonders how she’ll react. If she’ll welcome him with her beaming smile, watching him as if she’d been waiting for him all along or if instead, she’ll find it so weird to find him uninjured she’ll send him on his way the second she understands why, exactly, he’s there. Azriel isn’t foolish enough to believe he’d be so lucky, but he wants to brave enough to find out.

He finds sitting in the middle of the daisies, looking for all the world like she has been painted into the landscape to make it all the more appealing. When she sees him, a smile lights up her face, eyes taking him in as he walks her way and Azriel isn’t entirely sure why, but every single doubt tainting his mind melts away into a puddle at the expression on her face.

Elain doesn’t say a word. She simply waits, rising to her feet and watching him with an expectant look in her eyes.

“I don’t need anything today.” He says by way of greeting, and she gives him a tentative smile.

“But you’re here.” She says gingerly, not a trace of confusion on her face.

Which makes him confused in return. “I am.” He says, and Elain chuckles, the sound low and so sweet, so perfect his heart nearly leaps from his chest to try and catch the sound. He can’t stop watching her as certainty settles deep into his bones.

Elain blows a breath like she’s finally had enough of his silence. Her cheeks pinken under his stare but she isn’t deterred. “Are you finally going to ask me out, Azriel?” She asks a bit exasperatedly. “Or is the Shadowsinger going to keep getting his ass handed to him until he finds the courage?”

He’s speechless for one second. Two. Three. He vaguely thinks of Mor and how she described Elain as her dear friend . And then he’s wondering if he’s truly that transparent and if she’s known what he had been doing all along – gathering the courage to kiss her, have her in any way he can get.

And then he’s not wondering anymore - he’s pulling her into his arms instead, kissing her until they both can’t breathe, until the sun falls behind the trees, until the cool breeze of January makes Elain shiver in his arms, reminding them of where they are. That, despite the blooming garden and the warmth of their kiss, it’s still January and there’s an entire world out there waiting for them to start the rest of their lives.

But none of it seems to matter as Elain pulls away from him, never letting go of his hand as she asks, “Do you want to come inside?”

And later that night, when the colours of dawn chase away the darkness of the night, with Elain sleeping soundly against his chest, Azriel smiles, shaking his head in disbelief.

Because he now owes Mor a very big fucking box of chocolates.

61 notes · View notes