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fioiswriting · 6 months

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Reunion | oneshot

Summary : After the Battle Above the Gods Eye, Daemon returned victorious. Aemond was presumed dead, though his body was never found. Three years later, you've mourned your former husband and are ready to move on. But it seems that some ghosts from your past have come back to haunt you, and that the dead aren't really dead after all...

[Part 2]

Rating : Explicit 18+, MDNI

Pairing : Aemond x Velaryon/Strong!niece!Reader, implied Cregan Stark x Reader (you can interpret them as lovers or not). Reader is Rhaenyra and Harwin’s daughter so I imagined her with dark hair like Jace, Luke and Joffrey but feel free to imagine her as you want of course <3

TW : unprotected sex, breeding kink, mention of characters death, angst, possessiveness, p in v sex, oral m receiving, praising kink, dom/sub undertones, mention of war, AU where the Blacks won the war, Alys Rivers (but no cheating), Reader has a child, grief, light choking, not proofread.

Words count : 7600

Author's notes : Hi everyone !! Sooo I’m posting my first ever fanfic on here, my first x reader and my first fanfic for Aemond. I’m very anxious haha But well, this fanfic is heavily inspired by a RP that has been going on for months with my wonderful gf <3 She writes Aemond so well I swear and now she’s making me fall in love with Cregan too haha oops whatever. Some of Aemond’s lines in this fanfic are hers so of course the credits go to her 💕 Long story short the reader’s backstory is inspired by my OC! The plot doesn't make any sense but whatever

Also English is not my first language, so sorry for the grammar mistakes !!

Enjoy 🖤

I don't know what I'm supposed to do Haunted by the ghost of you Oh, take me back to the night we met The night we met - Lord Huron

The snow had covered the landscape of Winterfell in a thin white layer so similar to ash, and the image tugged at your heart for a moment. Ashes. Fire. War. It was strange, the stillness that had followed the fury of screams and blood, of fire and ash, the constant anguish and pain of loss. It was like a long howl and then sudden silence. Life had resumed its course, the earth and the grass nurtured in red, as if nothing had happened, and that still irritated you sometimes, three years later.

For this peacefulness was a constant reminder of your life before. Before the war, before your own family ripped itself apart from within, before you lost him. There was something bitter in the thought that, in an alternate reality, you would have been happy with him by your side. The night brought its share of sweet dreams, lulled by the embrace of his arms, and you closed your eyes with ease, hoping to see his face again, which was fading day by day, desperately clinging to the details that made him.

It had been the best solution, you knew.

For there was no reality in which he could live as much as you wished for. And you had accepted your duty by straightening your shoulders, silencing your heart, digging your thumbnail into the inside of your wrist. Your stepfather had said he was dead; he had seen Vhaegar fall from the sky, wounded. He had seen the huge dragon crash into the water with all its weight. He had waited, and no silver hair had returned to the surface. He had searched and no body had been found.

So, he had returned, triumphant, with the conclusion that Aemond Targaryen was dead.

The room had swayed around you, but your fingers on the hard, rough wood of the table had kept you grounded. You had nodded, unsure, your ears ringing, your teeth sinking into the flesh of your tongue to hold back the tears that were beading at the edges of your eyes.

You knew it was inevitable, perhaps even fair. But it still hurt. It sill fucking hurt.

Daemon had reassured you by pointing out that you were now released from your marital obligation. A marriage to him that you had hoped for, waited for, dreamed of in your younger years. A marriage you had despised, once forced into, once made captive, a prisoner to be used against your own mother. And then a marriage that you had loved, cherished even, when he had opened up to you, when he had changed, when he had revealed that soft side despite his rough edges. And you loved him, truly. The childhood love, the shy love that had blossomed between laughter muffled behind the curtains, hand-in-hand runs through the Red Keep and reading session hidden under the library table, had been rekindled. Raw, devouring, bruised by war, but more powerful than ever.

Out of the corner of your eye you had caught a glimpse of the comforting gaze of your mother, the Queen, her gentle eyes searching for clues that would betray what you were feeling. It was she who had stroked your hair that evening, her presence welcome and soothing.

During the war, events had made you more uncertain than ever; blood and cheese had broken something in you. Suddenly shaken by the horrific actions of someone you hardly recognised, by the actions of your own family and the father figure who had raised you as his own daughter. You questioned your loyalties more than ever. Of course, you'd been devastated by Luke's death, your beloved little brother, so innocent, so sweet, and the despair you'd felt, the sadness, had gradually turned to anger.

Your desire for revenge had fed on your rage, on your anger.

And in your quest for revenge, you had grabbed the dagger hidden in your bodice when you had kissed him, when you had poisoned him with your lips and your body pressed against his. Perhaps it was cowardice to do it on your wedding night, right after the pitiful ceremony in which you had been forced to exchange your vows of fidelity, the humiliation of the white, blue, red and green cloak around your shoulders. Perhaps it was cowardice to wait for him to surrender to your touch, hard with desire, before plunging the blade straight into his heart.

But you didn't do it, in the end, the humiliation of your failure burning in your cheeks, and you had seen the horrible reality in the icy eye fixed on you: he was expecting it. He knew. He had anticipated you, as usual, one step ahead of you, ahead of your plans. And the humiliation was all the more bitter.

First he had defied you, knowing full well that you couldn't do it, despite your momentary hesitation. Then he had wiped away your tears, the sound of metal echoing off the floor as he captured your lips with his own.

And both you and he had sought to release the accumulated tension in the comfort of your naked bodies, in the rough, demanding thrusts.

You weren't quite sure when your relationship had changed. When he had become more forgiving. When he had trusted you. When he had become gentle. When you had felt him slipping away, subtly, almost imperceptibly. When you had begun to seek comfort in his arms, to seek the warmth of his body, to seek his love on his lips.

You loved him.

So you spent the nights lying awake in fear. Fearing the moment when you would have to make a choice. Fearing the moment when you would have to betray.

Which side would you choose when both armies were coming towards you, carrying the same flags, the same weapons, both calling your name?

Anxiety had spread its roots in the pit of your stomach, crescent moons in the palms of your hands. You felt as if you were losing your mind.

But the choice had been forced upon you without you having to make it. You had accepted it, as your duty demanded, as your loyalty to your family demanded.

Life at Winterfell wasn't so bad, quite the opposite in fact, despite the cold and snow you weren't used to. Cregan Stark was a good man. He had given you time and space to grieve, and had opened the castle gates to you with kindness. You had decided that you could get used to the cold and the snow, to the stone and the rustic wood, so different from the refineries of the capital, but infinitely warmer.

It was your choice, your departure for Winterfell. Dragonstone was still haunted by the ghost of Luke, by the ghosts of Joffrey and little Aegon and Viserys and Rhaenys and all the family members you had lost. King's Landing was haunted, too. By your sweet aunt and her cries of despair, by Aegon's descent into madness, by the humiliations you had so gracefully endured, by the recurring announcements of deaths, by the smell of the innocents’ blood, by the pitiful looks of Alicent, who had seen in you the image of herself a few years earlier, powerless and manipulated.

But above all, it was haunted by him.

The weight of the memories had become unbearable and you needed to leave.

You chose Winterfell, hoping the cold would help you forget. And Jace had come with you, his thumb caressing the back of your hand with affection, always the protective, reassuring big brother he was to you. Probably glad to see his friend again, too. Your friend, to both of you.

But forgetting was something you'd never really been able to do, even less with the last memory he'd left you.

Now, just over three years later, you felt ready to return to King's Landing to visit your parents, to face the demons of your past and to mourn once and for all. It was inexplicable, perhaps a little strange, but you felt the need to go back.

On his first dragon ride, Rhaegar clapped his hands along the way, nestled into your arms in front of you, closing his eyes as the wind ruffled his dark curls. Midnight, your dragon, as pleasant as ever, as easy and gentle as ever, took care to be careful with the two of you on his back.

When you arrived, Rhaenyra hugged you as tightly as she'd ever hugged you, her nose buried in your thick hair, before bending down to take her grandson in her arms.

"I've missed you, sweet girl." she said to you. You smiled and reached for her arm, glancing at your son who'd grabbed one of your mother's long silver curls: "Daemon has missed you too. You know he doesn't show his feelings, but... he missed you."

You smile, your eyes dropping to the floor. You missed them, too, terribly, despite the frequent letters.

"And of course... we’ve missed you too, little one!" Rhaenyra added, catching the child's nose with her thumb and forefinger, causing him to burst into laughter.

It felt good to be back. It was good to have regained some sort of routine in your daily life with your family. It was good to see the walls of the Red Keep return to their original familiarity, chasing away the ghosts you feared you might see again.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

Perhaps you should have listened to your stepfather and not stray under any circumstances from the knight who has been following your every step with concern, afraid to lose sight of you.

Five years earlier, it was Sir Erryk's vigilance that you had deceived when you had carelessly followed your eldest uncle into the dangerous streets of the capital.

The streets of King's Landing offered you a freedom you had missed. But now you almost regret sneaking through the crowds to escape the vigilance of the knight who had escorted you. You decide to take a shortcut, the hood of your cloak pulled down over your forehead. It must have been your imagination. You aren’t on the worst side of the city, not like five years ago, and the streets have become safe, much safer now that your parents are in power.

Your footsteps led you to some stone steps, which you climb at full speed, your heart pounding in your chest. Glancing behind you, you disappear like a shadow around the corner of an alley, but the feeling is still there. You feel as if you are being followed.

At the Red Keep you already had the unpleasant feeling of being observed. In the gardens, with your son. Along the ramparts, enjoying the sea breeze on your face.

But you blamed it on your body's automatic response to the anxiety that had built up in all the years you'd spent within the walls of the Keep.

You slow your pace as you spot the dome and towers of the Great Sept at the end of the alley. From there you can easily find your way back to the Red Keep. All you had to do is keep moving, staring ahead, pressing your pace, wrapped in the thick wool of your cloak.

One step after the other. Breathing deeply. Half-moons in your palms.

The Great Sept growing closer give you a strange kind of reassurance.

And then suddenly, one hand closes over your mouth, the other around your waist. Your back bangs painfully against the cold stone wall of the winding alley into which you have been dragged. Fuck. Fuck.

You are too paralysed to struggle, too paralysed to bite the hand of the stranger holding you prisoner between the wall and his own body.

"You obviously learned nothing from my advice, Lady Strong," the icy voice whispers in the hollow of your ear. Your eyes widen.

That voice. It couldn't be.

Lady Strong. Lady Strong. Lady Strong.

It can’t be.

That is your sick mind playing tricks on you again.

"As reckless as ever, hm, aren't you? You could easily get yourself killed."

The stranger releases you and you look up again, tears forming at the corners of your eyes, searching for that icy blue, tinged with lilac, that have read through you so many times before.

It is impossible.

He has died three years before, falling from Vhaegar's back into the deep waters of the lake at Harrenhal.

Is it a ghost? Is it a hallucination?

"You are dead. You were dead," you whisper, more to yourself than to him, still in shock from the feel of his body against yours. You feel the tears that have formed at the corners of your eyes roll down your cheek, and your little fists pound his chest.

You have so much to say to him. So many things to reproach him for.

His hand cups your cheek to turn your head and force you to look at him, his thumb wiping away your tears.

The way he looks at you hasn’t changed; it still makes you shiver. You still feel that your uncle could read through you, that he could discover your deepest secrets. And there is still that hint of desire, too, that gleam in his one seeing eye.

You want to kiss him. You want to slap him.

He clenches his jaw as he pulls you against him, burying your face in his chest, his arms around you. He rests his chin on your head. One of his hands strokes your dark hair as you stifle sobs into the wool of his cloak.

The situation takes you back to your wedding night, when he had comforted you in the same way after you had told him that you couldn't hate him, even if you had tried.

"I know," you hear him whisper, the vocal cords vibrating from his throat against the top of your head.

He is standing there, in front of you. You cling to the fabric of his clothes with all your might, as if you're afraid he'll slip away again.

"How?" you ask, eyes closed, head against him. If he is to be taken from you again, you intend to enjoy every moment in his company.

He clenches again. You step back to look into his eyes, to search his enigmatic gaze for answers, for clues, for signs that would explain how. Why.

He doesn't answer you, but he is filled with desire as he grips your chin between his middle and index fingers, as he captures your lips with his own. You rediscover the possessiveness you've been missing. He pushes you a little harder against the wall behind you, as if to remind you who you belong to. Who you were married to.

A familiar warmth blossoms between your thighs, a warmth you haven't felt for too long. You're trapped, right there, your uncle towering over you, trapped between the wall and his body. His fingers close around your jaw and you kiss him back hungrily, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him closer.

You're perfectly aware that the situation is surreal. You're perfectly aware that you're making a mistake, that you shouldn't respond to the kiss of the man who used to be your husband, not when he's technically still your enemy, not when he's technically dead.

But you shut out the voices in your head begging you to stop.

"I still want to hate you, you know," you breathe between his parted lips. He merely mutters hm in reply, trying to shut you up again, his hands wandering under your cape, tracing the ribs of the body he'd missed so much. He reaches for your waist, your hips, which he grabs meanly.

There's no one in the alley around you, but the hood over his head hides his long silver hair anyway.

"Three fucking years." Your lips leave his, a mixture of anger and desire bubbling up from your lower belly. Aemond stares at you, his jaw clenched. He knows you need to unleash your emotions when you don't read an ounce of regret in his gaze. "Three. Fucking. Years. And you've told me nothing. You never sought to -"

"I couldn't," he retorts harshly. He seems to be searching for words to explain something you could not possibly understand, but his gaze does not soften. You know he needs time, you've learned to know him. You've waited three years, what's another moment? But you're tired, and your patience isn't as strong as it used to be. You look away, a mocking laugh escaping your lips as you repeat his justification. "You couldn't."

"And risk your mother executing me?" He forces you to look at him again, and you feel the lump form in your throat. You know you are perhaps being unfair, but you were alone for those three years while you mourned him, so alone, and in a way, you want to make him pay.

"You were dead to me, qybor." Uncle. You feel him twitch at the mention of your family tie, at the nickname he used to love to hear on your tongue. "I had to live with the idea that you would never come back."

The tears that had dried on your cheeks threaten to flow again, pooling at the corners of your eyes. Aemond sighs.

"I thought I was dead too," he whispers. You can feel the tension in every one of his muscles. There's a moment of hesitation, a silence that hovers between you. You have so many questions, but you don't know where to begin. Not a sound leaves your lips.

"She tended to my wounds," he adds, and you frown in confusion. "Alys."

Alys. You try to wriggle out of his grip, but he keeps you pinned to the wall. Alys, you remember the rumours whispered in your ear by that rat of Larys - those false rumours, you remind yourself - but you can't help feeling your heart clench. You don't trust your voice enough to speak, to say anything.

"There's no one left in Harrenhal but her," he adds, as if you need that clarification, as if you need to know where he's been all this time.

You say nothing. Your throat is tight. If you speak, if you look at him, you'll cry again and betray your feelings all over again. You refuse to make a fool of yourself, not now.

"She's the one who saw you. In Winterfell." There's a hint of bitterness in his voice as he mentions the place where you've spent the last few years rebuilding yourself, trying to forget him. A bit of anger, perhaps, too.

"Cregan Stark welcomed me indeed," you reply curtly. Perhaps you want to hurt him as he hurt you, but you are deliberately vague in your answer. "I have mourned you, qybor."

Everything is so confused in your mind. A paradoxical blend of desire, anger, sadness, jealousy. Of love too.

You want to strangle him and melt on his lips at the same time, and you know that after all this time you should be used to feeling this paradox of emotions with Aemond. Your uncle was a set of contradictions all his own.

"I saw you. On Midnight. That's how I knew you were here."

You nod. Words don't work between you, you know that. It has always been like that; the habit of letting silence speak more than words. The habit of communicating through the carnal acts of your bodies against each other. *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

Aemond pushes you against the wooden door as soon as you enter the mediocre room of the inn. He is demanding, more than ever, as his hands run along your hips to your thighs to lift you up and press you against the door, your legs closing around him. He watches you with hungry eyes, like a predator ready to pounce on its prey. You can't stop a moan from escaping your lips.

There's something feverish, passionate, urgent about the kiss. And when his tongue begs for an opening, your lips part to welcome him. There is only you in this room, an interlude where nothing else exists, where you don't have to worry about your duties and loyalties, where you are guided by nothing but passion.

His hand slams against the wall next to your head and with a movement of his hips he lifts you a little higher onto his waist, your legs locked tightly around him. He grunts into the crook of your neck at the friction of your crotch against his.

"Tell me to stop." His hand which isn't against the wall to support your weight slides up to your jaw. He lifts your chin, his gaze locked in yours, searching for clues, anything that would betray your desire to end whatever it is you're doing. "Tell me to stop now, or I won't be able to."

You don't want to stop. You should, you know you should, but you silence the little voice in your conscience that's begging you to pull yourself together, to end it all before you've even started, before you've even gone too far, and you kiss him with more vigour, with more fervour.

"I'm not going to tell you to stop, qybor," you whisper against his lips. "You know that."

His hardened member twitches beneath you at the mention of the High Valyrian, at the mention of that nickname he's so fond of. It's his weakness, you know, and despite the three years he's been away, he hasn't changed.

It's so good to feel him against you again, to feel his lips against yours, along your jawline to the junction with your neck. In one sharp movement, he rolls his hips to meet yours, pressing you a little harder against the wooden wall, and he catches your moan between his lips.

You know that tonight there will be no shy touches between you, no awkward explorations like in the early days of your love, when it wasn't tainted by war, blood, and death yet. You and he will both be consumed by the burning fire of passion. You both need to release that tension and frustration, to make up for lost time, to drown, drunk with desire, in the most carnal of acts. All that matters now are his hands on your body to ease the pain pulsing between your thighs, the desperate need to feel him inside you.

The barrier of your clothes frustrates you. You need to feel his skin against yours, to feel all of him, and your hand runs down his body to pull at the cord holding his breeches together. Immediately his fingers close around your wrist to hold you back. He wants to be in control, you know. But it has been three years and something about you just isn't the same.

"Let me worship you like I used to, qybor," you whisper against his lips, your forehead pressed against his, and you feel his jaw tighten. There's a moment of hesitation in his eyes, clouded by desire.

His thumb caresses your lips, pressing against your lower lip. You part them, just enough for the tip of your tongue to wet the top of his thumb. There are no further words exchanged between you, just silence, punctuated by your gasping breaths. His hand closes around your throat, not pressing too hard, just enough so you can feel the weight of his palm against your windpipe, just to remind you that he's in complete control of the situation.

Fuck, you've missed it; the adrenaline of his hand around your throat, the adrenaline of knowing he could do anything to you and you'd be defenceless.

"On your knees then."

The command echoes through the room and you feel the wetness seeping between your thighs as you slide to your knees in front of him. Your eyes shine with envy and you look up at him as you did years ago. You know he can't resist the angelic look on your face when you're between his thighs. You know he can't resist the dichotomy between the innocent look on your face and the sinful act you're about to commit. He revels in your submission, and that's something you've learned to use against him.

Your uncle releases his cock from his breeches, his hand wrapped around the base, and the desire you feel between your thighs becomes more and more unbearable. The head is already glistening with anticipation, white pearls beading at the slit, and it takes all of Aemond's self-control not to grab you by the hair and force himself into your mouth entirely.

Closing the distance, he rubs his member against your lips to spread the wetness before pushing into your mouth. Your lips close around him. He's warm and heavy on your tongue and the hand holding the base of his manhood is replaced by yours to cover what you can't take. Your tongue curls around the tip first, absorbing his salty taste, and you look up at him through your long lashes. He doesn't look away from you.

His hand cups your cheek, his thumb caresses your cheekbone before sliding to the corner of your lips, just where his length disappears between them. It's as if he's hypnotised by the spectacle, by the bobbing of your head, by your hollowed cheeks, by your application and devotion.

His hands leave your jaw and sink into your thick curls, urging you to take him a little deeper, and he thrusts between your lips with more vigour. You close your eyes, concentrating on not choking as his member touches the back of your throat. You take it as diligently and assiduously as ever, ignoring the tears gathering at the corners of your eyes.

"That's it, just like that. Such a good girl, mandianna [niece], such a good wife," you hear him grunt, his movements more erratic, more jerky, and you revel in his praise, sending a new wave of heat between your thighs. "Only for me."

You feel him throb on your tongue. You know it won't be long now, and you prepare yourself to welcome him, to let the salty taste of his seed flood your tongue, but your uncle pulls back reluctantly.

"I would rather not waste." he whispers, his eyes riveted on the thread of saliva that connects your lips, glistening with saliva and precum, to the tip of his cock. You shudder. Aemond definitely hasn't changed much, you realise.

His hand finds your cheek again and he caresses your lips to spread the mess you've made by sucking him. You know he isn't finished. This is just the beginning and you're both driven by the consuming hunger of passion. You know what's coming now, your core clenching around nothing, and you rub your thighs together, in an attempt to soothe the impatience.

He urges you to stand. He has that predatory look in his eyes as he closes the distance between you with his determined steps.

" Undress," he orders, and you do not take your eyes off him as you untie the linen dress you had put on to disguise yourself as a common girl.

The garment falls heavily to the floor, forming a grey puddle at your feet, and you take a step forward.

"Do you not like seeing me dressed in rags, qybor?" you ask in a playful tone, teasing, referring to the time, years ago, when he had rescued you during your adventurous walk along the grim Silk Road where your uncle Aegon had accidentally led you.

The memory was so close and yet so far away.

Aemond takes a step towards you, his hand brushing aside the long hair that hides your breasts to tuck it behind your shoulder.

"Not when you are meant to be my Queen." His eye glow with desire. He studies your body in detail as his fingers slide down your collarbone to your breasts. His thumb traces their underside before moving up to your nipples, hardened by the cool evening air and desire. He plays with them, eliciting a moan that satisfies him. He looks at you like one looking at a prize, a long-awaited gift.

"Three years away from my beautiful wife," he whispers, his good eye gleaming as he looks at your breasts.

"You did have pleasant company in Harrenhal though, didn't you?" you hiss through your teeth and Aemond's hand suddenly closes around your throat to make you swallow your insolence. You're not afraid, not anymore, for you know he won't hurt you. You have this power over him and it's delicious.

His face is so close to yours that your noses are touching.

He doesn't let go of you.

"It wasn't like that." He whispers. "With her." You know he's sincere because he's almost awkward with his words, his explanation. You can see in his eye that there are so many other things he would like to tell you, but you have learned not to rush him. It has always been difficult for him to open up, to be vulnerable.

His fingers release you. Aemond is a good head taller than you, and as he puts a hand on your shoulder, moving forward to force you back until your knees hit the mattress, your eyes remain fixed on his.

Your uncle lays you down on the mattress. It's not the comfort of the bed you once shared, but you don't care, you just need him inside you.

You need him to make you feel whole again. Aemond was fire, and you were willing to burn for him. You had always burned for him.

In the candlelight of the small bedroom where you spend the night, you see his thumbs slip under the waistband of his breeches. His clothes quickly join yours on the floor.

There's something soothing about the weight of his naked body on top of yours. Once under him, you know you can surrender completely to him and stop thinking, just stop thinking.

His lips on yours, his hands on your body, his broad torso eclipsing your smaller figure.

He places kisses down your neck to your collarbone, sucking your skin between his teeth to leave purple marks that will blossom tomorrow.

He kisses your breast, his lips closing around an erect nipple which he sucks gently, then around the other. Your hands are buried in his long silver hair. You can feel how wet you are between your thighs. You need him desperately, right there.

The confidence with which his fingers slide down your waist, from your hips to your inner thighs, only emphasises his ravenous expression. His touch on your folds sends a wave of heat through your body, causing your hips to move against his hand. Softly tracing the curves of your crotch, his index and middle fingers finally part your folds to collect the wetness that has formed there.

"Is it sucking your husband's cock that has got you so wet?

Yes, you want to answer, seeking more contact, but the words are stuck in your throat.

"Stay still," he orders in a hoarse voice as you move your hips, his hands gripping your hips to pin you back against the mattress.

You comply, for once, because you know he won't give you what you want otherwise. And you can't wait any longer, not today, not when you thought you'd never feel his warmth against your body again, his hands on your hips, his cock inside you.

"You see, you can be a good girl." His voice is softer when you obey. And to reward you, his fingers slide to your entrance, where he applies a little pressure with the tip of his middle finger without actually penetrating you. "Now beg your husband to fill you."

"Please, qybor," you murmur, your hand taking his cheek to bring his face to yours. You want him to look at you. "Please, I need you inside."

Oh, the slowness and precision with which his finger plunges into you makes you throw your head back. He begins to move back and forth, his index finger joining his middle one, caressing your spongy walls, his thumb tracing circles around your bud. Curling his fingers, he strokes that spot inside you that makes your legs tremble and you clutch the sheets beneath you.

You feel your centre tighten around his fingers, the release you've been looking for so close, so very close. You shut your eyes, ready for the familiar wave of warmth to wash over your entire body, but your uncle pulls his fingers away. You grunt in frustration.

You open your eyes only to see Aemond bring his fingers to his lips indecently, spreading your wetness over his own lips. "You still taste so good," he purrs, and you feel the blush rise to your cheeks.

He leans over to kiss you and you taste yourself on his lips. It's indecent.

He pulls back and you see him wrap his hand around his hardened cock, the head angrily red and already drooling in anticipation. He guides himself to your core, rubbing his length between your folds, coating it with your glistening juices.

The round tip of his member enters you, slowly at first, stretching your narrow entrance as if to give you time to adjust. Aemond pushes and he sinks easily into you until he's fully seated, your warm, wet walls feeling heavenly around him, squeezing him just right.

" You are so tight," he growls against you as your arms close around him, your legs bent and pressed to either side of his body.

He gives you a moment to get used to having him inside you again, to feeling him so deeply. It's exactly what you need; he stretches you deliciously, with a perfect touch of controlled pain.

You feel whole again and you want to cry. You never want to lose that feeling. You want to keep him, against you, inside you.

You close your eyes and bury your head in the hollow above his shoulder, clinging to him as if to feel him more deeply, more intimately.

"You can move," you reply, rolling your hips to support your words. Aemond's hand immediately presses down on your stomach to hold you against the mattress and you bite your lower lip, almost guilty of forgetting his earlier command. He always has that need to control. He's the one who decides, you should know it after all these years, and you should stop being so demanding, so desperate.

"I said stay still," he scolds you, and the waiting is unbearable.

You need him.

When he finally pulls out and thrusts into you again, you let out a whimper. Your nails dig into the pale skin of his back, leaving crescent marks that will probably still be there the next day.

Once under him, Aemond has the ability to make you vulnerable, and part of you hate him for it.

"You take me so well," he growls after a particularly brutal thrust. "You're such a good girl."

The praise is sweet music to your ears. You have always needed it, to be praised, complimented.

You feel him hitting that special spot deep inside you, you feel him pressing in so deeply and your grip tightens around him.

"Did you miss me?" you whisper in a voice made weak by pleasure, but all you get in return are the hoarse grunts of his voice.

Aemond lowers his eyes to look at where you are joined, hypnotised by the sight of his cock disappearing inside you. The rhythm he imposes is powerful, deep, and his fingers find their way between your bodies, reaching your little bud at the top of your folds to trace circles on it. You won't last long and he knows it as he feels your walls tighten desperately around him. Your moans grow louder.

"Look at me." His voice barely brings you back to reality, even though your mind is already far away, even though you know you can't last much longer. Painfully, you open your eyes to meet your uncle's icy gaze. " I am going to fill you up." His pacing becomes more erratic, more sloppy, and you know he won't last much longer either. Leaning on his forearm, he continues to stroke your pearl in small circles. "I am going to fill you up and you're going to take it all."

The image of you, belly round with his child, haunts him. It never stopped haunting him, even on the brink of death, even when he thought he'd exhaled his last breath as he fell into the icy waters of the lake, his heart clenched with regret and remorse. It still is a wonder that he has survived. Perhaps, just perhaps, the Gods still had plans for him.

I'm going to fill you up. Words like that shouldn't bring you to ecstasy, and yet they do. Aemond reaches deeper, and as he feels your whole body convulse with the spasms of your orgasm, he joins you in your release. He spills his seed deep inside you before remaining still, buried against your womb, enjoying your warmth, making sure he's pouring every last drop into you.

He doesn't want to pull out, not yet, and you close your arms around his neck, your breast pressed against his chest as he softens inside you.

The weight of his body on yours is comforting. For the first time in years, you feel alive. For the first time in years, the open wound he left seems to be healing.

When he pulls out, you wince at the sensation of his cock slipping between your still too sensitive folds. You immediately miss the feeling of fullness.

You barely move, your whole body still sore from your lovemaking, but you can feel his cum leaking from your entrance onto the mattress below.

Again, Aemond's fingers are between your thighs that are glistening with the intimate essence of both of you, collecting his own seed and pushing it back into you. You whimper, still too sensitive, your lips brushing against his, and he remains inside you for a brief moment. He wants to make sure nothing is wasted.

And when he withdraws his fingers, he presses them against your lips for you to clean them.

You snuggle up against him, your head against his chest. Your hand caresses his chest, the fine line of his muscles, and he rests his chin on the top of your head, wrapping an arm around your waist to hold you close. You enjoy the warmth of his body while you still can. Between your thighs you feel the sticky sensation of his seed mixing with your wetness as it still flows out of you, but you don't want to leave the embrace of his arms.

"I saw you in the gardens. With the child."

When you feel his throat vibrate, you look up at him, your eyebrows furrowed. "It was you, then?" You swallow. "It was you watching me." It's more of an observation than a question, and you suddenly understand that constant, uncomfortable feeling of being watched. At least you weren't crazy.

He lets out a hm and pauses.

"Is he yours?"

You know where this question is leading. You fear the moment of truth. You'd deluded yourself into thinking you could avoid it, but you were naive; did you really think you could hide the truth from him for much longer, now that he was back?

"Yes." You answer, looking away. You're nervous, and he can feel it.

"He's Cregan Stark's son, isn't he?"

Your heart clenches. You hesitate for a moment. You should lie. You know you should lie. To protect your son and your family, as you've protected them for the past three years. You only need one word.

You hear him sighing beneath you, taking your silence as confirmation.

"No, he's not."

The words leave your lips before you can even stop them. You hold your breath. Beneath you, Aemond tenses. He straightens, puzzled, silent.

"A bastard, then?" His voice is dry, almost mocking, revealing a form of irritation. "I did not expect this from you, dear niece." Disappointment.

You feel anger boiling inside you at the thought of him insulting your son, your sweet boy you love so much. You swallow the lump that has formed in your throat and rise on your forearms, your eyebrows furrowed as you turn your hard gaze on him.

You don't know how to express the words that are desperately trying to escape your lips.

" He has blue eyes," you add, and you can see the confusion on his face. A lock of hair slips from your shoulder and falls around your face. "Your blue eyes."

You feel him tense up. He says nothing, just stares at you with his one seeing eye. It's rare to see Aemond Targaryen so unsure of himself, so full of doubt. He stares at you as if he's afraid he's heard you wrong, as if he's afraid he's invented the words that have come out of your mouth.

"What did you say?"

You look away. You bite your lower lip, regretting your words. You want to bury your face in his chest. You breath.

"He is your son, Aemond." You finally admit it.

It's true that Rhaegar's brown curls could easily make him look like a Stark. Cregan had offered to raise him as his own, and you had smiled at his kindness.

Rhaegar is so much like you. Like you, and like Luke, and especially like Jace as a child, of whom he is the spitting image. He has the soft features of your face, but his eyes make him undeniably Aemond's son.

Your uncle holds you close, his arm wrapped around your waist, his long nose buried in the hollow of your neck, breathing in the scent of your hair.

"My son," he repeats in awe. It's rare to see Aemond smile with sincerity. Especially after the war has worn him down, made him more ruthless than ever.

"His name is Rhaegar," you say. "Just as we discussed." There's shyness in your voice.

He straightens, you on top, straddling him, and he seeks your lips to kiss you fiercely. His desire awakens beneath you; you feel him harden against your core again.

And this time, he makes love to you.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

"I missed the best part." He purrs against you, his hand absently caressing your breast before sliding down your body to rest on your flat stomach, just above where your womb lies. He clenches his hand possessively over your flesh. His voice is almost tinged with regret. Your hand rests on his.

"You shouldn't have left me," you reply, bitter. Deep down, you're still angry with him. Your gaze falls on your stomach, where both your hands lie, yours on top of his, clasped together. "You shouldn't have let your anger dictate your actions," you add, looking away. "But you were blinded by your desire for revenge, by your desire to prove that you could be better than him.” You swallow.

It is his fault, after all, that he missed your son's birth, that he didn't see him grow through the tender years of his infancy.

Rhaegar needed a father, and it was Cregan who raised him.

"Does he even know who I am? Who his father is?"

The guilty look on your face betrays you, and you know immediately that you've hurt his feelings. It may be selfish of you, but he needs to understand.

"You were supposed to be dead. There's still a lot he doesn't know."

He doesn't say anything. You don't have the courage to meet his hard, stern gaze, you don't have the courage to see the disappointment and pain on his face, because if you do, your heart will tighten and you will fall apart.

"He's still so young. Give him time." You add, your fingers tracing small circles on the back of his hand, in an attempt to soothe him.

You know how much Aemond wanted a son, and you know it's cruel to take that from him. You know he would have made a good father. You can picture him with Rhaegar on his knee, reading him stories, telling him about the adventures of Vhagar and Visenya, and you love the image that forms in your mind.

You told Rhaegar about Aemond, though he was still too young to understand. You told him that his father had once owned the greatest dragon in the world, that his father was a fearless man for it was true, and you saw his big eyes light up.

Aemond pulls you closer to him. "I want to be there for him, you know." Unlike Viserys, but he doesn't have to say it, you understand what he means in the undertone he leaves at the end of his sentence. He has always suffered from his father's indifference.

You cuddle up to him and he runs his fingers through your long curls. For a moment, you imagine that everything is fine and you search for his touch. He plants a kiss on the top of your head.

"I've missed you," he admits, the words landing on the tips of his lips in the silence of the bedroom, but you're already dozing off.

You know that tomorrow will be made up of choices and decisions.

But for now, you fall asleep in the embrace of his very real arms, for once, enjoying the illusion of the life you both could have had.

#aemond x reader #aemond targaryen #Aemond Targaryen x reader #aemond x you #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen fic #aemond x y/n #aemond x fem!reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond x niece!reader #aemond targaryen fanfic

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sepherinaspoppies · 1 month

Text

Only If For A Night (i/?)

pairing: Dark! Book Aemond Targaryen x Modern! Reader

summary: In Dia De Los Muertos (Day of the Dead), she gets forcefully transported to Westeros and meets her favorite book character, Aemond 'One Eye'. She asks and begs for his help to send her back home after realizing this was a world she did not want to live in. Unknowingly to her, her favorite fictional man had already grown too attached to fully let her go.

warnings for this part: profanity, tea drugging, blood magic, sexism, I think that's it... more dark stuff later. READER IS LATINA !

wc: 4,027

series masterlist

my masterlist

pt2

notes: originally I was gonna have this fic be a one shot but it is sooo long that I decided to split it into three. this is an introduction part, aemond will be on the next (I'm half way done with that part).

She knows she is screwed when Doña Maribel broke the news to her that the last of the cempasuchiles were completely sold out in her shop. Making it five flower shops in the span of an hour that she walked to have fully run out of the bright orange flowers she needed for her ancestral altar that she and her abuela worked tirelessly on for the past few days. (marigolds, grandmother)

She wonders what to do next or perhaps where to go as she plays with the gravel beneath her shoes. Sure, she could walk another mile or so to another flower shop and try her luck there just as Doña Maribel suggested but she finds herself too tired to venture deeper in her small pueblo by herself. (town)

Even the walk back to her abuela’s was not something she looked forward to as of now. This was the time where she wished she had the ability to drive but alas she could not for even the streets of Mexico were more hectic and nerve wracking than back at the states. (grandmother’s)

She sighs in defeat. The cempasuchiles were the last thing on her abuela’s list of things she required for tonight’s first day of Dia de Los Muertos. The bright orange flowers illuminated the path of those who died, back into the land of the living and enjoy the offerings their family’s set up for them. (Day of the Dead)

Maybe for just tonight she could spare them.

She sets her three mercado bags beside her as she sits down on a bench right next to a bus stop that could lead her directly to her abuela’s home. The smell of citrus of the lemon tree above her eases her disappointment and feels that this is the perfect spot to reread one of her favorite books. (shopping)

George R. R. Martin’s, Fire and Blood Vol. 1. She wondered what it was like to reside in a world of dragons (before they were all extinct), dire wolves from the North, red priestesses from Volantis, and mysterious yet powerful witches. To live inside the walls of the Red Keep and tour around the secret passageways and to fight for the rightful Queen of Westeros, Rhaenyra and the other members of the Blacks during the Dance of Dragons.

Sadly, even if it was possible to venture deep into alternate fantasy universes. It all was pure fiction. Not real. Impossible.

‘And so one-eyed Aemond the Kinslayer took up the iron-and-ruby crown of Aegon the Conqueror, “It looks better on me than it ever did on him,” the prince proclaimed.’

“Excuse me, do you happen to know when the bus is due to arrive?” She snaps her head up meeting the most beautiful and enchanting woman she’d ever seen. Eyes round and greener than the trees itself during spring. Hair long and black like ravens in the night sky. She was tall, taller than most of the women here with skin like porcelain that had not seen a day of sun, a rarity here in Mexico.

It was her mischievous tight lipped smile that made her feel loss of words. Unknowingly, this mysterious woman was the first person who spoke to her in English, not Spanish.

“Umm… I- I’m sorry?”

The green eyed woman smirked as if she knew the small effect she had on her. Gods she was beautiful.

“The bus–”

She shook her head out of her revere, coming to reality. “Oh, I’m not sure. Perhaps a few more minutes.” She informed, pulling her mercado bags closer to her side, allowing the green eyed woman to sit, not wanting to be rude.

She murmurs a quick thank you as she sits exceedingly close to her, shoulder to shoulder, flesh to flesh with her. Jeez, talk about personal space! However, the woman doesn’t seem to care or acknowledge that she has enough space for her own person. A feeling of uncertainty rests below her gut, telling her to be vigilant around her presence.

“How long have you waited?” She asks, breaking away the long silence between them. She almost shivers at the intensity hue of her eyes that bore right through her.

“About ten to twelve minutes.” She replies, looking anywhere else but her.

A satisfactory look sketched around the woman's youthful yet elderly face which she found odd. What could be so pleasing about the bus not arriving? The woman said nothing, only sitting rather straight, almost elegant in her simple long green dress. Though, in the back of her mind, she wondered if she felt hot underneath the heaviness of the velvet fabric. She sure as hell did.

“Wait, how did you know I spoke english?” She asked as the hairs on her arms stood up straight in some kind of chilling fear.

The woman’s eyes lowered and centered on the object sitting up on her lap. “Your book gives it away.” She snickered softly, tilting her head reading the bold letters of her very worn book she got at the thrift store for just two dollars. “An interesting read.” The green eyed woman said whilst her face held no sincere fondness of it for someone who found it interesting.

“You’ve read this before?” She asked curiously, little taken back, that she finally found someone else who read Fire and Blood Vol 1. Or anything by George R. R. Martin.

“Yes, almost like I've lived through it”

She opens her mouth to speak but the green eyed woman beats her to it. “I don’t mean to pry but where are you headed?” The smile falls off her face as she remembers the warning of stranger danger she learned as a kid.

The woman must have noticed the dubious look upon her face as she threw her head back in a laugh. “I ask because it seems a storm is coming our way. And it looks like an angry one.”

Sure enough, as she looked up the sky had turned into a deep gray with heavy clouds ready to pour any minute. Well this wasn’t forecasted in the noticias this morning, otherwise, she’d carry an umbrella. Or better yet, she wouldn’t have walked all this way if a storm was brewing. (news)

“My cottage is not very far from here,” the green eyed woman revealed, standing up from the bench, overlooking the seriousness of the clouds. “It is just around the corner. Would you like to come?”

She wanted to say no, that she was better off walking an hour back to her abuela’s house, even if it meant that she’d catch a cold in the pouring rain with blisters all over her feet. Besides, she did not know anything about this woman. Every bit of her mind screamed stranger danger! Don’t go!

But as she glanced between the heavy clouds and the green eyed woman with her hand extended out, all that doubt and worriment went away.

“I don’t even know your name,” she pointed out. If all goes bad, at least she had a name to tell the authorities.

“My name is Alyssandra Riveras.” The green eyed woman smiled, bowing at the waist.

Though still somewhat skeptical, she walks alongside Alyssandra to her cottage. She makes small mental notes in her head, counting the red stop signs, right and left turns and any other landmarks of important significance.

She was almost positive she could point her way back home. It did not help that five minutes into their journey, it started harshly pouring out of nowhere like a bucket of water had been poured all over, blanketing her vision.

Alyssandra’s cottage had sat on the outskirts of the pueblo, isolated from all civilization, hidden around tall and green pine trees. A faint voice in the back of her head screamed to run and never look back. She ignored it.

From a close distance, she was able to distinguish a small window with overgrown vines and branches wrapped around the perimeter of the cottage. Bones, bells, and crystal windchimes hung from the roof and windows, mostly likely put up for some kind of spiritual protection.

She was no stranger to the craft. Although raised catholic, both her mama and abuela had hung an old broom above their doorway to keep away unwanted guests and negative energies as well as pinning the mal de ojo sigil around the walls for the look of evil and envy against their family. (evil eye)

“Cempasuchiles,” she murmured in awe when Alyssandra’s small garden came into view. It was the most of the orange flowers she had ever seen, all bright and lively and huddled together.

“When the storm is over, you can grab as many as you’d like,” Alyssandra offered, peering over her shoulder, unlocking the door to her cottage. She nods following her inside whilst giving a grateful smile.

The interior of the cottage was small, meant only for one person to take residence. The same size as what a studio apartment would be back in the states.

In no way was the inside minimal, in fact it was the opposite. Almost all of the walls were covered with shelves with small trinkets adorning inside such as little statues, crystals, herbs and other supplies.

In the center of the room lay a huge stone like table, old and antique bearing the resemblance of something medieval. And something about it, sent shivers down her spine along with the same faint voice, telling her to run.

She ignored it, again.

“Give me your belongings, and change into this,” Alyssandra says, tossing a strappy white chemise. She exchanges her poor-soaked mercado bags that contained pan de muerto, churros, and tamales for her ancestral ofrenda. (bread of the dead, offering)

She turns around to protect her modesty, seeing as there was no other room to change nor did Alyssandra point her to the bathroom, so she lifts the drenched garment over her head and sheds away the last clothing she had on her body, leaving her completely bare in her birthday suit.

She couldn’t help but to feel Alyssandra’s eyes watching her very intently, examining every inch of her body as if it met her standards or so. She knows she should use her hands to cover up and give Alyssandra a piece of her mind, or better yet introduce her to a knuckle and hand sandwich for the way she was looking too closely.

Yet her body feels frozen, unable to move under the green eyed woman’s gaze.

“Would you like some tea to keep you warm?” Alyssandra asked, moseying to the kitchen.

She blinks, whatever paralyzing feeling she had dispelled away. “Um, yes thank you.” Alyssandra nodded, pulling what looked to be a kettle on the stove. Meanwhile, she slipped on the white chemise in a hurry to not feel as exposed anymore.

She takes the time to analyze the rest of Alyssandra’s cottage as she hears the droplets of rain hit the rooftop harder and the sound metal being filled with water. Various of the same purple flower plants were placed near the entrance, she notes to herself that these couldn’t possibly be lavender but another species or something within the same family.

A small cot laid in the corner close by the hearth, with multiple open ancient books and scrolls spread on top of the bedspread. She almost wants to look through the pages and read Alyssandra’s interests but she doubts she could as she observes the handwriting is unreadable from where she stood.

She walks forward to where the hearth is, feeling slightly warmer as something immediately catches her eye. Above the mantle, hung on the wall was a medium sized portrait of a small boy, appearing no more than three years old. He stood straight, almost regally with his hands behind his back. His face held no gentleness or warmth like a child should have.

Gods forgive her, but the child looked cruel like the gueritos who bullied her in elementary school when she was just trying to make new friends. (white boys)

Though, for an evil looking child, he sure was beautiful. The most striking thing about him was his set of eyes. Wide with his left eye a dark violet and his right a dark green similarly to Alyssandra’s. His hair was straight and cut short right below his ears. She looked closer at the portrait, thinking if her eyes deceived her as she noticed the peculiar color of the boy’s hair.

Silver.

Curiosity takes the better of her as she asks, “Is that your son?”

Alyssandra turns, holding two mugs of steaming tea. “Yes, that’s my beautiful little boy,” She places both glasses on the stoned table before she sits adjacent to her. It doesn’t go unnoticed by her the sad look on Alyssandra’s eyes. “He looks like you,” she points out though it’s somewhat of a lie in hopes to lift up Alyssandra’s spirits.

Alyssandra throws her head back in a chortle, “For all my hard work and labor, I had hoped he looked like me but nature loves to play its cruel jokes. He is a replica of his bastard father.” The thought of her son’s father left a sour and disgusting taste in Alyssandra’s mouth.

Alyssandra focused her attention back to her, “What about you?” She asked, sitting rather too straight.

“Do you mean if I have kids? Gods, no.”

Alyssandra smirked, “I take it you don’t like the idea of children. I did not either but after years of solitude, I changed my mind. I had other children before my son, but all of them died before they were due. You, however, are still young. Your mind can still change.”

She shifted in her seat anxiously, sipping the odd taste of the herbal tea Alyssandra provided. It wasn’t like she did not like children. She respected children and found them quite cute with their little tiny hands and feet and infectious laughs. But besides the point of appearance, children were a tremendous amount of responsibility that she found herself not ready for.

Not now. Not ever.

She could barely handle taking care of herself. Much less care and provide for a child for eighteen years or so.

“I don’t—”

“Oh but you will,” Alyssandra fired back without so much as blinking an eye.

She grimaced, knowing where this conversation was heading. And it was about to be a not so pretty one. She glanced at the window by the door, the rain was still heavy if not more.

“I thank you for giving me shelter. But I really must go. I was only just supposed to be out for some groceries and my abuela is probably wondering where I am.” Polite and respectful enough just as her mama taught her.

She grabbed her belongings that were hanging by the fire and stuffed them inside her mercado bag. Her hand was on the cusp of prying the door open when Alyssandra rushed to her side, wrapping her hand around her wrist.

“Wait. Please don’t go.” Alyssandra pleaded, “It’s just that you remind me much about myself. I didn't mean to cause offense, I’m sorry.”

Run. Say no and run now, While you still can…

There it was again that same paralyzing feeling closing in on her feet, preventing her to move. It was strange like a shield gluing both her legs down.

She nodded, murmuring ‘fine’ under her breath as Alyssandra slowly led her back to the woven chair with such gentleness as a porcelain doll. “I still need to call my abuela, so she can know I’m alright.”

Alyssandra twisted her face in a wince, “I’m afraid we’re too far out for any signals to catch a telephone call.” She held back the overweening snicker to herself, it was why Alyssandra chose her cottage to be settled this far out in this very modernized realm; so no one could find her.

Alyssandra wasn’t lying. No matter how hard she hit her Iphone against her palm or moved it around, there had not been a single signal bar glowing. She wondered if her abuela had started to grow worried and perhaps began to search for her. She hoped she didn’t and that her cousins kept her preoccupied with the rest of the decorations to notice the duration of how long she’d been out. She also wondered if they were still going to the cementerio, to clean and decorate the graves of their loved ones but with the amount of thunder and rain, she’d doubt it was still on the agenda. (cemetery)

Alyssandra prepared some more tea as the fire gradually faltered down. This one had a different taste than the previous one with tiny purple petals floating around. Alyssandra watched very intently as she sipped every last drop while she scarcely touched her own mug.

The green eyed woman began asking her multiple personal questions, mostly about where she was originally from (due to the fact that her vocabulary deemed to be more vehement in English than Spanish), her family, and if she had any siblings. She had answered them all. Letting her know that she was just visiting from the states to celebrate Dia de Los Muertos with her family she had not seen since the death of her sweet abuelo. (grandfather)

Alyssandra’s eyes glimmered even more when she explained how strangely, her very stern and overprotective mama had suddenly let her travel by herself to a country she had never been to in years since she was small. Her mama preferred her to be where she could keep a close eye on her because ‘uno nunca sabe’ especially if you’re a woman. (one never knows)

It was odd, alright. Especially when her mama gave her money that she didn’t have, and enthusiastically wished her good fortune on her travels. Yup odd…

But not to Alyssandra.

Alyssandra sat down after cleaning both mugs ready to ask the hard hitting questions she’d been warming her up to. “Have you ever been with a man?” Her eyes widened before breaking rounds of deep laughter that made the sides of her ribs ache and cramp.

However, there wasn’t an ounce of amusement displayed on Alyssandra’s face, but rather annoyance. What was so funny? It was a simple and uncomplicated question that meant no harm. At least not to her. He couldn’t harm her any more here. Alyssandra guessed perhaps it was the side effect of the tea making her humoristic.

“No,” She replied, wiping the humoristic tears at the corner of her eyes. “The opportunity has never presented itself?” Alyssandra asked.

All the humor that previously lingered had gone swiftly away, realizing that Alyssandra was indeed asking something so personal to her. “No,” She shook her head, feeling her face hot and red. “People don’t look at me as someone they want to be with. They’d rather be with someone exciting, adventurous, and outing. And I’m neither of those things. I’m a homebody who’s idea of fun and adventure is living through fictional books.” She answered truthfully, too truthfully.

Alyssandra watched her face transform into a deeper shade of red. “What is it?” She questioned, taking a hold of her hand, taking in the role of someone empathetic.

“I want my first time to be special. Like the fairytales I grew up reading about with the grand Prince sweeping the young maiden off her feet and taking her to his castle…” The way her eyes reflected small flashes of light made Alyssandra almost feel guilty for her true intentions once the repercussions of the tea ran out.

She remembers when she too wished for a dashing knight in shining armor to take her away, far away from the shit she had been through; the pain, the suffering, and the poverty. All of it. As Alyssandra grew well into her womanhood, she realized there was no knight coming to save her. Instead, there was a selfish Prince who spared her for his desires and her many talents beyond the acts of the flesh.

But Alyssandra needed her to go. She needed that piece that was stolen from her. She didn’t want the risk of going back and facing him again and repeating through the hell and agony he put her through. So sending her for it seemed like the better alternative.

“I know you probably think it sounds stupid–” She stammered, her face still beet red.

“I don’t think it sounds stupid,” Alyssandra softly smiled, giving her hand a light squeeze. Judging by the serene look upon her face, it was a good lie that she seemed to believe.

She smiled. Finally, someone who didn’t think of the idea of waiting for the right person was silly and unrealistic.

Her smile deterred, sensing something trickle down her nose, dropping against the skin of her hand.

Blood. Her blood.

Run!

“Alyssandra?” She whispered, puzzled at the sight of more blood spilling out of her nose. Every strand of hair in her arms stood, sensing a new type of alertness course right through her. She glanced at a very blurred Alyssandra with what looked to be a smirk written on her face.

“W-What’s happening?” She stood from the chair, but that soon turned out to be a bad idea as her knees gave out, sending her straight to the stoned cold floor. She glanced up, watching as Alyssandra sauntered in front of her, and as much as she wanted to crawl away her body was glued to the floor.

“Look,” Alyssandra said, crouching down at her level before she took her in her arms like a newborn baby, weighing little to nothing. “We don’t have much time. When you wake up, I need you to retrieve something of mine…”

She felt her back collide on top of the stoned table, “What was in that tea?” She questioned but Alyssandra was quick to shush her. “It doesn’t matter now. You drank it all willingly.” There was no argument there.

Alyssandra pulled out a jar with overflowing cempasuchil petals inside and circled the petals around her. Almost like a ritualistic circle she used to watch the brujas next door do. (witches)

“You need not to be afraid. You will not be harmed as long as you do what I say. Exactly as I say.” She gulped, nodding seeing as she had no other choice. “Bruja.” She spat but Alysssandra only chuckled, “I’ve been called much worse, little dove.” (witch)

Through the corner of her eye, she saw Alyssandra holding out a small knife. “I am in need of a sapphire. It was stolen from me many years ago. It is one of a kind, which is why when you see it you’ll know it is mine.”

She momentarily shut her eyes as the dark haired woman rapidly cut the middle of her palm spewing her blood on top of the petals. “Once you’re successful, you’ll come back here with the sapphire and gather some of my materials. The marigold petals with your blood coating them; The blood of whom you took the sapphire from and lastly you’ll lay on top of my precious table here to be transported back.”

There was an evil smile on her lips that she desperately wanted to punch it off. “And if I don’t get the sapphire?” She questioned.

Alyssandra combed away her unruly braided hair, “Then I won’t bring you back and you’ll be stuck there forever.”

Fuck.

“Stuck? Stuck where? Where am I going?”

Alyssandra clicked her tongue, “A place where fairy tales do not exist, my little dove.” If she wanted a Prince to sweep her off her feet. Alys would gladly give her one.

She attempted to wiggle herself out of this pendeja’s spell but whatever Alyssandra mixed in the tea it was compelling her body to still and her eyes to slowly falter shut in a peaceful sleep. (dumbass)

“However I should warn you, this spell is only valid until tomorrow. Until Dia de Los Muertos is over and even if you do achieve in retrieving the sapphire but it is after November second, you'll be permanently trapped with him.”

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#prince aemond #aemond fanfic #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond one eye #hotd aemond #hotd fanfic #aemond targaryen #dark aemond x reader #dark aemond targaryen

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silverwhittlingknife · 4 months

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snippet

“Nobody is going to die here,” Dick says, trying to project a confidence he doesn’t feel.

If this were the Titans, he’d probably get some acknowledgement. Titans together. A clap on the shoulder. Something. But it’s not the Titans, so instead Cass Cain flicks a glance at him and then goes back to scowling at the wall, and Jason says, “Would you fucking quit it with the inspirational speeches, leader-boy?” and Tim says, “I think we should prioritize getting Dick out,” as if Dick isn’t even here.

“I’m fine,” Dick says. Because he is. Mostly. It’s not like it’s exactly fun to get whipped and then tied to an ominous black altar in a room with no obvious doors after successfully talking a cult into deciding you’re the optimum sacrifice of their four captives. But it’s certainly better than the alternative scenario in which the Dark Leader Whatsisface had listened to Tim’s pitch.

“Weakness in the wall,” Cass says. “…Here.”

“Yeah, weak walls would be great, if we had C4,” Jason says. “Except for the part where we don’t have C4, because somebody took my stash and my helmet. Some fucking insufferable team of fucking idiots who like to mind everybody else’s business—”

“Kick, maybe,” Cass says to Tim, who’s still trying to pick the lock on one of Dick’s manacles.

Tim frowns. “I don’t think even you can kick a wall hard enough to—”

“Not�� the wall. Kick him,” Cass says, nodding at Jason.

“Oh fuck you very much,” Jason says, with more heat than Dick expects. Jason’s edgy, beneath all the bluffing, and it’s hard to tell why, because although the situation admittedly isn’t great the countdown timer still has half an hour to go before the cult starts punching whatever buttons outside the room that will set Dick on fire—or get him eaten by a dragon, it hadn’t been very clear through the chanting.

Anyway. They have time, even if Cass’s shoulders are tense and Tim’s face is strained and Dick’s back is killing him—they strapped him with his back down after the beating, and he’s trying not to think about the likelihood of blood stains on this altar thing—and the sweat from the heat is getting in his eyes.

A hand. Tim’s wiped the sweat away, which is both a comfort and kind of humiliating. Tim’s lips are pinched—he’s furious at Dick, it’s obvious, only not acting on it because they’re in front of Jason and Tim, at least, understands the importance of presenting a united front. So it’ll be a fight, once they get out, but Dick’s not sorry. If he’s totally honest, he’s a little angry himself. Trust me, Tim had muttered, when they all first got grabbed, and then he’d raised his voice and asked to speak privately to the leader, and Dick only realized too late what he’d been after, when the cultists came back and explained how Red Robin was going to be their sacrifice to the dragon-god and everyone else could live and watch in order to marvel at their lord’s demonic glory or whatever.

“Cass, listen,” Tim says. "I think if you help me with the manacles—”

“No,” Cass says. Tim’s been trying to get her to come back to the altar to mess with Dick’s bindings; Cass has been ignoring him. A splinter in an otherwise seamless partnership.

"If you put pressure on the other side while I pick the lock," Tim says.

"No," Cass snaps. Cass doesn’t believe in united fronts, Jason or no Jason—Dick should know, she once threw him into a wall—but Dick doesn’t think she’s actually mad at Tim, just impatient. “Manacles broken, not broken… doesn’t matter. No good if we’re still here. Need to get out. Then Nightwing.”

“I vote we leave him here, actually,” Jason says.

“Jason, shut up,” Tim says.

“What, is this suddenly not a democracy? Do I not have the right to an opinion? Are you against voting, Replacement?”

#dick you're lying to yourself it would've been even worse with the titans #my fic #i have no idea where this is going i just had it in my head and needed to get it out #dick grayson #tim drake #cassandra cain #jason todd

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queers-gambit · 4 months

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The Battle Above the God’s Eye

part one: Sands of Time

prompt: decades after the Stepstones, it's his turn to be rescued.

pairing: Daemon Targaryen x female!reader

fandom masterlist: House of the Dragon

word count: 6.3k+

note: i'm not the happiest with this piece, so i'll most definitely (probably) write an alternative when the time comes and the show does the Battle. y'all know me by now, you know i love me a good ol' reader-insert and i didn't want to wait years to publish some kind of sequel so here we are.

warnings: reader isn't explicitly a Targaryen but we had to make this work and i'm burnt the fuck out. so fuck it, dragon rider reader. cursing, books spoilers, violence, imagination required, maybe Red Priestess reader, mention of more Little Birds (let author live), toxic family (duh), heavily encouraged imagination, depictions of death, angst, some hurt and comfort i think ? missing warnings 'cause wonky brain goin' wonky.

"There's rumor, Mistress, of a dragon the color of night," the hooded figure informed. "It nests in the Ruins of Ancient Valyria, seen by farmers and countryfolk; they say his wings beat like thunder. It's a colossal shadow they fear to engage, but after hearing your ransom, they reported it."

You hummed as you took a sip of scalding tea, finding comfort in the heat, musing, "I've been to the Ruins myself on two seperate excursions, I promise you, friend, there is no dragon that nests there."

"It's come from the East, a new beast in the sky."

"I require proof if I am to pay the ransom."

The man with a hood over his head reached for his rucksack and rummaged, a moment later, placing two items on the polished mahogany table between you both. One was unmistakably a dragon's tooth, and when you examined it, there was still clotted blood on the root - assuring it was a fresh pull. The second was a large black scale that weighed at least a dagger's worth.

You smirked, "This is promising. Where in the Ruins has it been seen? Who procured these artifacts?"

You discussed specifics with the man for an hour, offering him a hefty finder's fee after getting the name of the village the man had gathered his own information from. It was a messy journey from there; leaving the home you had made in the decades since the Stepstones to head for what was probably another dead end in Ancient Valyria. You were something akin to a magistrate, the people saw you as a figurehead, a leader; their person of authority who they were all too happy to follow.

Your village flourished, growing in size, number, popularity, and strength by the passing day. The people seemed happy, wealth flowing from exports and trade, and apparently, a few cartographers have begun the process of updating a few maps to add your village's name to history.

Much had changed in your time away from your Rogue Dragon Prince, but you knew that was all coming to an end soon. Your Lord of Light had shown you much in your flames, one of which was a repeating image of you, mounted atop a dragon all your own, soaring over the Narrow Sea with distinct purpose. You weren't a Targaryen, but your religious devotion seemingly gave you the ability to walk amongst beasts and their flames.

Exploring Ancient Valyria took over a year on foot.

You had plenty of encounters with the Stone Men, but all met their merciful demise - those left after that steered clear of you and your Valyrian Steel sword. Around the ruins of the ancient volcano that hadn't erupted since The Doom, you found a graveyard of goat, sheep, and cattle bones. There were bigger skeletons of aquatic creatures, something you found incredibly fascinating - what fully grown dragon went deep diving?

Soon, you found scat. For those who don't spend time in the wilderness or who are simply unfamiliar with the term, "scat" refers to waste produced by wild animals. Yeah, you're reading correctly, after you found the plethora of skeletons, you found dragon shit.

So, you knew you were closer than before. But the fucker still alluded you to the point you felt insane circling the Ruins.

You located about three different potential caverns, investigating them all with caution, but finding them all empty. Feeling exhausted from the months of searching, you claimed one of the caves as your own; hunting for a meal after gathering adequate fire wood. You listened to the untamed wilds of Valyria as you ate whatever you roasted, trying to distinguish familiar sounds of an approaching dragon.

Or perhaps even a distant one!

You'd take any sign!

It'd been weeks since you found the dragon droppings, no other signs appearing. You would search new areas for days, then return to your cave for rest; feeling disconnected from reality the longer you lingered in the ruined empire. You wondering what your village was doing, you were curious if the young woman, Ferona, had a baby boy or girl, if they had erected the new buildings you left blueprints for in an effort to create opportunist housing and houses of worship - as your people had requested.

How did the krill and shrimp season fair? What weddings happened this past spring? How was the irrigation system holding up?

Weeks drug by slowly. Weeks turned to longer months. Two years, you spent in that Gods forsaken ruin of a city - but couldn't find it in you to abandon your search.

Your Lord of Light had yet to send word, yet set your heart ablaze every time you "decided" to go home. You stared into the flames every night, desperate for any indication you were on the right path, but nothing was seen - nothing was said - nothing was shown to you. Until one night, during a torrential downpour and thunderous storm, you were shivering, drenched to your core, fighting the wind to let you keep your flames alive.

And there, in the dying, flickering warmth, you saw it. With wide, unblinking eyes, you stared into the flames harder; unsure how long you remained in the tranquil state before a particularly strong gust of wind nearly pushed you face-first into the embers. You gasped, looking around as the smoke nearly choked you as it filled the cave; stumbling out into the rain as you coughed and patted your chest. Stumbling slightly from malnourishment and delirium, you leaned on the outer shell of your "home", panting with relief before there came a screech so fearsome, you were then cowering into the wall with fear.

You dropped to your knees, huddled into the rock formation; the ground trembling as something enormous touched down. You gasped when through the haze of sideways rain, two nostrils flared and heaved thick plumes of smoke; reddened from the ignited flames deep within an invisible chest. You flattened against the wall, four taloned paws striking the ground and causing it to crack, quake, and tremble. With the fleeting clouds, you used the moon's light to distinguish the beast that loomed closer to you; over you; and then, in your face.

A long, blackened snout nearly pressed into your chest; fabric of your tunic caught in the razor sharp teeth. You had faced death, you had faced beasts, you had faced hacking axes and swinging swords. You had faced the wrath of the Queen Alysanne's court, the rumors of the common folk, and judgment from both man and God. But nothing was like this moment: a wild dragon staring you down, sniffing your chest and stomach, debating if it should just open it's mouth and eat you whole yet or not.

Thankfully, it chose an alternative route.

You're not fully sure how it happened, but you dedicated two years to finding this terrible beasty, and yet, it only took about 6 weeks to bond with the (obviously) young thing. Time with your Dragon Prince proved most useful, creating a bond so secure, you were beginning to wonder if someone deep in your bloodline had mated with a Targaryen. It was natural, the way you both became accustomed to one another; living together on a carbon-dated land long doomed.

The lessons from Daemon came flying back to you. You practiced your High Valyrian, laughing when you obviously got a word or two wrong because the dragon would snort at you. In the light, she was still the color of the night, but her scales were dusted the same gold as her eyes. She was impressive, she was huge in size but nowhere near Vhagar. In fact, you'd wager she had outgrew Caraxes - the only dragon you had true experience with.

Speaking of Caraxes, you were on the shores of Old Valyria, debating how you were going to convince your new companion to join you back "home" in the village, when suddenly, your beast gave a defensive growl.

Looking to the skyline, you spotted the distant dragon and frowned. This dragon wasn't the color of flames like Caraxes was, no, instead, it was a murky blob in the sky with two wings. You offered calming words to your dragon in her native language, not sensing danger, but your beast was unhappy leaving you in the open. Her tail curled around you to corral you back into her body as the muddy brown dragon landed with a thunderous shake a respectable distance away.

Your name was begged by the rider descending from who you recognized as a wild dragon by the name of Sheepstealer.

"Nettles? That you, love?" You asked in skepticism, managing out of your dragon's grasp. "What're you doing here? You all right?"

"I needed to find you," she panted. "I-I need you help - it's all - it's all gone wrong! Please!"

"What's wrong? The fuck's happened?"

"Do you know nothing, Auntie!? Do you know nothing of the war!?"

Your eyes rolled, "Watch that tone with me, girl. The Dance of Dragons is of no concern of mine, it had barely started when I came here."

"Well - it's your concern now," she insisted. "You took me under your wing - you helped raise me in a village you built from the ground, despite not ever needing to - "

"Your mother was a dear friend of mine," you cut her off sharply. "She was kind to me when I came back to Essos, let me stay with her and your father. When I set out on my own, she was always a friendly face, and when my settlement was established..."

"She came to you for help after getting pregnant with me," Nettles nodded. "You've told me this before."

"Then you should know better by now that I owed your mother more than my life, so, raising you was the least I could've done. A life for a life."

"And as such, you let me go into the world with stories filling my head of a handsome Dragon Prince that saved you from the Crabfeeder!" You scoffed at her words, ready to argue, but she rushed, "He's in trouble, Auntie."

You paused, finding no lie in the girl's eye. Slowly, you asked, "Come again?"

"I found him, Mistress," she nodded. "After I got back to Westeros, I found your Prince Daemon - the ones from the stories! He's... He's brutish and harsh, they call him Rogue, but he was kind to me when I told him I knew you. When he heard your name, Lady, he just - he insisted on keeping me close. He protected me, even against his wife - Princess Rhaenyra."

Your head cocked, "Hmm... He usually did have a taste for younger flesh. I'm not surprised he took to you - "

"No, no, no, Mistress, not like that," she insisted desperately. "He was kind, educational - similar to a mentor."

"I see."

"He needs your help."

"Prince Daemon does not need rescuing, he is no damsel."

"He searches for Prince Aemond," she informed, making you lift your chin slightly. Though lost in the wild of Valyria the past two years, you were still well versed in the affairs of King's Landing; staying updated, curtesy of your Lord, the Lord of Light: R'hllor. In your village, you were known to pay for any accurate information - eventually hiring your own spies to relay trustworthy information from around surrounding cities and villages. Nettles was one of your Little Birds.

You sighed, "And? What of it - Aemond killed Lucerys, did he not? Since he married his niece, her children are now his step-children, right? Daemon is within his rights to want some form of vengeance - it's war, Nettie, it's never fair to anybody.

"He will not survive this, you don't understand! It's horrible, Mistress, please, he-he-he's deranged. Mad with grief, lost to his wife's useless fucking war. It'll be the death of him, Auntie, please!" She paused, seeing you just stare back at her; so she begged again, "Please!"

You nodded, "What do you want me to do, Nettie? Hmm?"

"You've told me those stories! I remember them well! You always said he came back for you, saved you from The Crabfeeder," she reminded, making you stiffen. "Does he not deserve the same? Or at least a chance? Rhaenyra will not help, she'll kill him herself I fear, but you can - you can help!"

You nodded, "I will consult the flames - "

"I am telling you - "

"I have heard you, girl!" You snapped, glaring at your Little Bird. "But there are greater forces at work than what you know, I cannot just so willfully trust the word of a child before flying off across the Narrow Sea. Allow me my time with my Lord, I will have an answer for you." Turning from her, you gathered whatever materials you could; setting it up in a small teepee before stepping back.

In High Valyrian, you gave your command. From over your shoulder, your beasty opened her mouth and shot a single flame at the structure.

On your knees, you muttered repeatedly; chanting, summoning your Lord of Light to come to you now in a great hour of need. And He did. Through the flames, you saw what R'hllor wanted to show you: the two Princes engaged in a brutally epic fight that would claim them both in the end...

Unless you left right that moment, as your Lord commanded.

"Make yourself safe, Nettles, go back home," you told her in a rush, catching the pouch of Gold Dragons she tossed you when you sprung into action - and for the first time, mounted your dragon. Like your minds were connected, the Great Shadow took to the sky - leaving Nettles and Sheepstealer behind, and you'd never see either again.

You remained high in the sky, being a blob to the naked eye should any dare to stare at the sun.

You only paused to let the Great Shadow dive into the Narrow Sea for a meal; surfacing with creatures in her jaws as you swam an exhausting broad stroke. Was it terrifying to swim in the open water? Absolutely, but your dragon seemingly kept any threats at bay. When she was satisfied with her meal, the Great Shadow scooped you onto her back and relaunched into the air again to continue your flight for Westeros. You both dried in the air.

The trip was draining.

It was grueling on you both.

Yet when you saw the distant shore, you couldn't help the spike of relief in your heart and veins.

Once in Westeros, you were forced to ground yourselves in the open area of the Stormlands because you needed to know where to go since Nettles hadn't been sure where to send you specifically. Using the usual thunderstorm as cover, you had to separate from the Great Shadow; leaving her in the dark as you ventured to the closest village.

With the pouch of Gold Dragons Nettles gave you, you paid for information that you needed. You were told all the nitty gritty details about the Dance of the Dragons that you've missed, understanding what (Nettles and) the Lord of Light had been trying to tell you for years: the Black Queen would be Prince Daemon's death.

The time had come for you to return his favor from the Stepstones. If this worked the way you wanted it to, you wouldn't be his first, second, nor third wife, but his fourth and final. You knew what you had to do.

"What do you know of their whereabouts?" You asked the innkeeper who wiped down the bar you leaned on.

"The Princes?" She asked, tisking right after. "The One Eyed Prince has been burning the Riverlands for almost two weeks now. The Rogue Prince was in Maidenpool but he's called his nephew to meet him at, uh, oh... Oh, bullocks, what's that haunted castle? The one that was torched?"

"Harrenhal?"

She snapped her fingers at you, "That's the one!"

"Fuckin' Hell," you muttered, wiping your eyes. "What's your thinking, love? 'Bout this war?"

She scoffed, rolling her eyes, "Stupidest thing I've endured so far. How silly, the House of the Dragon does not know who rules it, or so says our liege lord. So we must all pay their price in Fire and Blood."

You nodded slowly, "Who do you think holds the better claim t'the Throne?"

"Depends on your views," she muttered, "but in truth, it doesn't matter to me - so long as this all comes to an end. But between us?" She leaned in, glancing around before muttering, "The Bitch Queen would burn us all. Can't say if King Aegon would be much better, but at least we'd know what we were dealing with."

"And if he was another Maegor?"

"Can't be worse than the Black Queen. Hear they call her Maegor with Tits."

You smirked, chuckling lightly, "Thank you, ma'am, for your words." You offered her a few Gold Dragons, repeating, "Harrenhal?"

"Harrenhal," she nodded, accepting the payment. "I do not know if the One Eyed Prince will answer the Rogue Prince's challenge, but that is where he lures Prince Aemond - Harrenhal. Now, how's about a nice bowl of stew? You look drenched, love, and a bit skinny - you been eatin'?"

"Your kindness is refreshing in this shit-for-a-kingdom."

You winked at her and tapped the bar in parting before turning for the door, and into the rain you ventured once more. You didn't notice the cold, your Lord kept you warm and moving; finding the Great Shadow, mounting, and shooting off into the unknown sky again.

It wasn't easy directing a dragon without a saddle nor any stabilizing reins, yet your beast was something of a decently smooth fly. You minimally directed her as you went, but in truth, her instincts directed you both more than anything. When the storm broke, you were soon flying over charred scores of land; homes smoldering and burning, the wind spreading the embers and never letting the fire fully die out.

"The fuck..." You muttered, sitting up straight as you flew through the carnage. "Seven Hells, he burnt it all, didn't he?" You whispered, needing to hold onto the spinal ridges of your dragon to keep balanced. "Gods be good," you gaped at the damage beneath you.

The sun moved into position, getting ready to set when you heard the horrible screams of feuding dragons. You couldn't see Harrenhal yet, but you heard the fight, and then, as the sun began to set, there came flashes of bright firelight that lit the sky to a new level.

It was nearly the shade of daylight with the way the flames danced against the setting sun. You were desperate to get closer, and after directing the Great Shadow over a set of charred rolling hills, you finally had Harrenhal in sight. "Go! Go, please! That's them - we need t'get there!" You begged through a small sob of panic, and if possible, your dragon flew all the faster.

You were so close, yet felt so far.

The air trembled when the pair of dragons, Vhagar and Caraxes, collided in the sky once more. They grappled and snarled and shrieked and blew flames and gnashed their teeth and slashed their talons. You paid no mind to the pregnant woman standing on the shoreline of the lake they fought over, and instead, focused on your task; feeling as if you were moving on pure instinct and adrenaline.

The Great Shadow dove low to the lake's surface as Caraxes and Vhagar came barreling to the ground. It all happened too fast. As the two dragons fell, you saw one man - in black armor - leap from his crimson beast with his Valyrian sword winking in the dying light. Just as his arm extended to pierce Dark Sister into Aemond's blind eye, the dragons were tussling enough to turn over and forced Daemon off their hide.

You gasped as you reacted - no fucking thought to your actions.

As the Great Shadow glided over the surface of the Gods Eye lake, you were leaping off her back to launch into the air; tackling the Rogue Prince hard enough to disrupt his impact on the water's surface. You hit the water all the same, but instead of it being like hitting fresh pavement, it was a softer landing due to the Great Shadow's expert and quick maneuvering.

Two dragons hit the water, three human bodies; sending a wave of water higher than the towers of Harrenhal's fortress. It was a shock to land in something so wet and cold, but your adrenaline was stronger than any feeling of freezing water. Your arms kept an iron-clad lock around Daemon's unconscious waist, surfacing as the lake rippled and churned from impact; turning a seeping red from the open wounds on the dragon sinking into the depths.

Prince Aemond never surfaced, and years from now, he'd be found still chained to Vhagar's saddle with Dark Sister still stabbed through his skull. His Red Witch standing on shore couldn't save him, it appearing that your Lord preferred the Rogue Prince to the One Eyed.

Keeping Daemon afloat was difficult, but to your shock, you were being gently propelled forward to the shore by a fatally injured Caraxes. You encouraged him best you could, trying not to choke on the water splashing around your frantic forms. When you were able, you started heaving and dragging Daemon up the lake's embankment; the crimson dragon crawling out of the lake behind you, slowly, heading towards Harrenhal. You wanted to offer the loyal beast aid or comfort, but you were much too preoccupied with his master that was dead weight in the water's surf.

You trembled as you swiftly hoisted his dragon winged helmet off to leave bobbing in the surf; unhooked his armor, shucking it off him and compressing his chest rapidly - just like a fisherman taught you to do.

"C'mon," you grunted. "C'mon, Daemon, breathe - fucking breathe, damnit! Please, come back to me - don't do this. I just found you again, c'mon, my Prince, breathe. Breathe, Daemon, don't give up - not now, not on us! Don't give up on us, c'mon, my Prince, breathe, w-we finally have our time." Sobs wracked your form. "Breathe, Daemon, please! Please! I'm back - I finally found you, please, my love, breathe!"

You shoved harder into his breast bone with increased ferocity until water came suddenly spewing from his lungs. You heard the Great Shadow land in the near distance, turning Daemon on his side to help him breathe better; choking the water out. You spoke in relief, "There, there you go, c'mon, love, breathe! Thank fucking Gods, you're all right, you're okay, get it out - you're okay, just breathe, my love."

Daemon choked your name in pure disbelief, holding one of your wrists in a vice grip that only briefly concerned you. He panted and relaxed into the embankment, loosening his grip as he turned over to look up at you in shock and wonder. "How is this possible?" He wheezed.

"It's a bit of a long story," you teased softly, caressing his cheek. "Bit of a boring tale, 'M afraid."

"How? How is - how can this be?"

"You needed me," you explained, "thought I'd return the favor since you saved me all those years ago, huh? You got me out of the sea, I got you out of the lake - we're even, yeah?"

He still panted, only staring at you as if he couldn't believe himself. "You've not aged a day," he whispered.

You smiled, petting his cheekbone with your thumb daintly. "You need rest, reprieve, aid," you whispered.

"No, no," he gulped, "not when I just got you back. T-Tell me 's done. Tell me we're done being apart."

"You have a wife still, Daemon. She won't let you go, she wouldn't let us be together."

"Tell me what your flames say."

"Now you trust my flames?"

"When they bring you back to me, yes - oh, fuck yes, I'll believe whatever those fucking flames say. Please, love, for us - consult your flames, tell me what they've said."

You frowned, petting a soaking wet lock of hair from his forehead. Quietly, you whispered, "My Lord showed me what was to pass if I did not come for you... This war, this Dance of Dragons, would claim your life, Daemon. Your wife, your niece... She'll be the end of you, my Prince. You will not survive if you go back to her. Neither of you will survive this... My Lord has shown me that Rhaenyra will meet her end in flames, but following her will cost you your life in water," you glanced at the lake. "Not a death befitting of a Targaryen Prince."

"And now?"

"Now, she will fight her own battles for the first time," you whispered, "and I will return home, and you will make a choice."

He smirked, "We've gone lifetimes apart, like you said before."

"We have."

"I would not go another day," he coughed, wincing in pain. "I do not think I can fight anymore anyways, love. Please... Please."

Daemon never begged. You swallowed harshly, asking him, "No? No more fighting?"

"No," he agreed. "'M so tired, my sweet. I-I can't do this forever," he half-slurred, making you perk up slightly in attention. "Retirement sounds all too appealing now. Rumor will spread that neither Aemond or I lived, it'll be the perfect escape."

You nodded in agreement, flinching when a new voice screeched, "YOU BITCH!"

The pregnant woman you saw on shore stormed towards you, making you chuckle dryly as you had already foreseen this Alys Rivers - pregnant concubine of the One Eyed Prince Aemond and fellow Follower of R'hllor. Alys was unique in the sense that her training was decent enough to ensnare Aemond (it seemed), but not so decent that the Lord yet favored her.

She wasn't more than ten feet from you when the Great Shadow opened her mouth and showered the Red Witch in holy flames; an end she surely did not see coming - not that R'hllor would've showed her. This all caught Daemon's attention, who flinched slightly when he had to turn and look; not expecting the flames nor the beast.

Then his eyes drifted over the land, breathing hitching, and he sat up with a painful groan. "Daemon," you worried, but instead of trying to get him down, you helped him up.

You knew what he saw.

When at Caraxes' side, you helped Daemon lower to his knees at his dragon's head. He whimpered and moaned, belly slashed open, wing torn apart; bleeding out into the cold soil he rested on. The Great Shadow moaned gently in sympathy, lowering herself around you three to let you grieve in peaceful, protective privacy and ease Caraxes to his next life.

The moon was fully in the sky when the crimson bloodwyrm took his final breath with the ebony giant's flames to warm you all. You weren't sure what could be done, but Daemon was pressing a tender kiss to his dragon's head before turning to face you - a lost, confused, vulnerable look coating his features. "Come on, love," you eased gently, helping him to his feet; knowing a few ribs were shattered and probably his clavicle, too.

"Where will we go now?"

"Well, I have somewhere safe for us t'live," you grunted in assurance, wobbling a little under his weight. "But we need rest for tonight. Any ideas?"

"I doubt anyone will venture to Harrenhal this night, should be safe..."

You agreed, and together, you and Daemon settled in the empty castle with the Great Shadow resting on the outskirts of the Keep. She was too big for the interior of the courtyard, so, she was left outside with Caraxes' corpse as you and Daemon settled in the room he had commandeered.

"How is this possible? How can you be here?" He asked, holding your hips as you worked between his spread legs. Daemon had minimal supplies at the ready; hopping up on a work bench to let you care for his injuries and wounds. He watched your every move with a softening look. "I thought I wouldn't ever see you again, that I'd be cursed to only remember you in my dreams. Rhaenyra said I say your name a lot at night, when I sleep."

"I'm really here, Daemon, ease yourself," you offered an assuring grin, tending to the head wounds he obtained from the fight.

"How?"

"Nettles."

"What?"

"Nettles," you repeated with a smirk. "She's one of my Little Birds, Daemon. It was not entirely coincidence she found you..."

"So she said," he frowned. "But how - "

"She told me you needed me," you smiled softly. "And when I consulted the flames, I was shown what could be. I made a decision, I just wanted you safe, no matter what that meant."

"I just want you. Fuck," he seethed, squeezing your hips, "'s been fucking decades since I've even touched you."

"You're delirious," you teased. "Sleep deprived, maybe concussed."

"Perhaps all at once, but I finally have all I've dreamt of. Please," he whispered, "do not deny us longer. I've endured lifetimes - "

"Daemon, being here and now, you know I can't walk away. But we've time t'talk it all out, I need you to let me help your wounds - so sit still."

He nodded, "One thing I do not understand, though - the dragon? How did you...?"

"Spent two years in Valyria, looking for her."

"Why were you there?"

"Searching for a dragon, of course," you smirked. "She's impressive, isn't she? And from her size, I wager she can easily support us both back across the Narrow Sea."

He grit his teeth when you cleaned his open cuts and wounds, wrapping whatever clean cloth you had around the larger wounds; easing him out of his tunic to have better access to the blackened ribs he sported. "Would you tell me?" Daemon whispered some time later.

"Of what?"

"Your life since the Stepstones?"

"Oh," you chuckled, "sweet love, you know it was dreadfully boring without you."

"Doesn't seem it, you being in Valyria two years? That's not heard of, what was it like? How'd you survive? Why go looking for a dragon?"

This lead to you both laying in bed, hands held together, resting, but not sleeping. You just spoke quietly, fingertips tracing idly over each other's faces; sharing in each others lives that the other missed, reminiscing together in fond memories.

When morning broke, you had to move swiftly. Caraxes was left where he laid and after a final parting to the loyal beast and commandeering his saddle, together, you and Daemon mounted the Great Shadow. She wasn't a fan of the restraints, but once you and Daemon were mounted, she did not fuss as it was evident you humans had an easier time with the leather contraption.

"I must confess," Daemon whispered in your ear, using you as an anchor and leaning into your back, "I fear I might feel something akin to guilt for fleeing home."

"That's natural," you assured, "you're leaving family behind, 's never easy."

"There was no winning this war," he admitted, sighing. "I lead so many to their death... Destroyed my family - "

"From what I have heard, this is not your doing," you argued sharply. "That night, when Aemond attacked Lucerys, what were you to do? Leave that kind of atrocity without consequence? No, that is not in the Targaryen's nature. You did not start this war, Daemon."

"But I knew..."

"You knew what?"

"I knew Jace, Luke, and Joffrey were Harwin Strong's, not Laenor Velaryon's. We thought if we married her sons to my daughters, nobody would care much else about lineage - but we were wrong."

"It's okay to be wrong," you promised, leaning your head back to let your forehead rest against his temple. "It's okay to make mistakes or have regret. Tell me, do you wish to return to your wife? I will take you now, no quest - "

"No. No, I do not wish to leave you. This is... This is Rhaenyra's war, I've done my part. I'm free and finally with whom I belong."

"Now it's time to heal," you told him.

"Time to rest," he agreed, squeezing your waist and placing a few kisses to your neck. "This is where I should've been all this time... After the Stepstones, I should've stayed with you, none of this would've come to pass. I regret leaving you everyday - "

"I told you, for us to get here, to this point, now, we had to separate. But look where we are," you smiled back at him, the Great Shadow soaring higher in the sky to keep Westeros at a distance, "we will not be apart again. 'S you and me, love... Until our end, which we will greet together."

Daemon's lips found yours at long last, whispering, "Together," against them before sweeping his tongue against yours.

The port was lovely this time of day, sun high in the sky to give light to the fishermen and vendors hard at work. Sailors made port, calms were being shucked, different Aristocats trying to barter and trade on their journeys abroad. You smiled at the people you passed, grateful to be home after a prolonged absence; arm looped tight with Daemon's as you both strolled the pier.

"It's hard to imagine you've done all this in a lifetime or less," he mused, a hand folded over yours, dressed in the best clothes you could find. "It's s marvel, my sweet," his compliment was sincere.

"Thank you," you whispered, hugging his arm as your skirts swished around your ankles, just tickling your bare feet. "This season's expected to be bountiful," you told him, pointing to the various teams bringing crustaceans, fish, and other sea life in different crates and traps. "I expect there won't be much of an off-season."

He glanced around, "And you don't collect taxes?"

"Why would I?" You scoffed. "We're more dynamic than that. Everyone works for their place, if you wanted to think of it that way. They are not expected to contribute, but the village seems happier that way. Being close knit, helping one another, sharing wealth. No one person has complained, so, I figure it's working so far. Even if it didn't work, I still wouldn't charge them taxes - it'd be like charging them to live. Always seemed silly t'me."

"Morning, Mistress!"

"Morning, Don," you beamed, leading Daemon towards the dock. "How are you, kind sir? Looks as if you've been working all day already."

"Aye, up before the sun," he nodded, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. "Wanted t'thank yah, actually."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, yeah, with that dragon? We're hauling in more ships," he chuckled, and just overhead, the Great Shadow glided over them all to head out to sea to fetch another round of ships. "Gets us out there quick, brings us back when done, 's like a wee bit of an assembly line, ain't it?"

You chuckled, "Sounds like it, friend. Uh, Don, have I introduced you to my husband?"

"Husband?" Don grinned, cocking his head, "No, Mistress, I wasn't aware you even had a suitor. Mariam don't tell me much gossip these days," he snickered, referring to his wife. "It's nice t'meet you," he told Daemon, "name's Don, just Don - no, it ain't short for nothin'."

Daemon smirked some, shaking the man's fishy hand boldly, "A pleasure, Don, Just Don."

"Oh, this one's got a bit uh humor, don't he?" Don laughed lightly. "What's your name, lad?"

"Daemon?" A voice answered for you all, and just above you, a little further on the pier, stood an aged Laenor Velaryon.

"Excuse us, Don," you spoke swiftly, confusion marring your features. He understood or sensed the slight tension, backing off to let you approach the "dead" knight.

"Oh, my - Y/N," Laenor breathed, another aged man at his side with what you assume to be his children. No question could be asked yet as your old friend launched himself into your arms, laughing merrily, giving you a tight squeeze with his still-toned arms. "Oh, the Gods are good for this!" He laughed, rocking you slightly, "Oh, how the Seven bless us."

"You're so dramatic," you laughed back, patting him happily until he pulled back. "But I must confess, I am so fucking confused - what is this? How are you here? I thought you died, Laenor, that's what ever spy reported."

"They should've," he nodded, glancing at Daemon, "but perhaps, the explanation will be better received after some wine?" He caressed your cheek in affection before looking at your husband, nodding, "It's good to see you again, my Prince. Or is it King Consort?"

"Neither, just Daemon," he corrected, your heart soaring a little at the idea that he would abandon his title so easily. Yet you knew, there was nothing to go back to for him.

"Well, how about I introduce my family?"

"Family?" You grinned, seeing him present the others.

"My husband," he gestured, giving his name. "And our kids," he introduced the other three.

"How?" You asked simply.

"We found a Red Priest who was willing to officiate the ceremony," Laenor explained, "and the kids were sired by different mothers, too."

"Whores," the husband smiled.

"Huh," you nodded in impression. "Well, perhaps wine is best to hear that tale, as well?"

"Perhaps," Laenor grinned. "Uh, but first, we should find accommodations - "

"Oh, come off it, you're staying with us," you waved. "Your belongings?"

"This is it," he half-shrugged, you eyeing the few rucksacks around their feet, neck, shoulders... "We heard of the prosperity here, thought it was worth the move."

"How right you are," Daemon answered. "Come, old friend." He picked up a few sacks for the kids and you looped your arm with Laenor's to lead the way. How good it was to have your friend back, your husband at your side, and a functioning, happy village with your placement amongst them most important... Everything you could've wished for, it seemed, came true.

And in your womb, a Dragon Seed was planted; soon to make its announcement known. Truly, a happier ending than you thought deserved - but R'hollr worked mysteriously, blessing those deemed worthy to spread his flames.

requesting rules and masterlist

HOTD masterlist

#daemon #prince daemon #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen x fem!reader #daemon targaryen x f!reader #daemon targaryen x female!reader #daemon targaryen imagine #daemon targaryen fanfiction #daemon targaryen angst #prince daemon targaryen x fem!reader #prince daemon targaryen x f!reader #prince daemon targaryen x female!reader #prince daemon targaryen imagine #prince daemon targaryen fanfiction #prince daemon targaryen angst

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inhuman-obey-me · 8 months

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True Forms: Sides + New Characters

Once upon a time, long, long ago, we wrote some true demon forms for the demon brothers. And we had so much fun with it that we've returned with a follow-up! Now featuring not only demons but also some angels, a reaper, and one immortal "human" sorcerer.

No in-between forms for MC's sake this time though -- we die like men being driven mad by unspeakable, incomprehensible horrors.

Like before, content warning for unsettling, eldritch descriptions and body horror.

DIAVOLO

The Crown Prince of the Devildom doesn't often go into this true form -- it's incredibly dangerous, and if you see it, you might as well already be in your grave.

The first thing that hits you is the scent of sulfur and burning, so strong that you feel like you're choking on it, suffocating even though there's no smoke to be seen.

There is, however, plenty to be seen of him, as his form is utterly massive -- every direction you look, he seems to stretch infinitely around you, no end in sight to his immense presence.

To his sides, sparks and flashes of gold and darkness alternately flicker off of black flame wings as they languidly float back and forth behind him, singeing the very air they occupy.

The rest of his body mostly transforms into that of a dragon, much like the ornament you normally see upon his chest, covered in brilliant triangular golden scales except for the glowing red orb at his center.

The orb pulses like a heartbeat, and in it, you see yourself -- no, rather, you see a distortion of yourself, all the corruption and cruelty that hides in your very core laid bare before your eyes.

Meanwhile, fire roars everywhere, filling every open space around him and spiraling into a grand crown upon his head.

Despite the noise of the flames, however, his commanding voice can be heard clearly, a low rumble like the roar of a dragon yet distinctly regal and elegant in its tone.

On his chest, the black marks you see in his more humanoid demon form expand and twist outward, hypnotizing you as they wrap like vines around your body.

You hardly even notice as they capture you in a world of complete darkness -- darkness that overtakes not just your senses, but your mind, your soul, your whole existence, like a fire that burns away everything until there's nothing left in you but the abyss, all else turned to ash.

BARBATOS

To witness the true form of the ever loyal and capable steward to the Crown Prince of the Devildom, your fate is already sealed -- one of demise and ruin.

His body shifts and stretches, and stretches, and s t r e t c h e s -- you cannot see where, or if, he ever ends -- like time itself.

His body resembles that of a dragon -- though not the same of his master, but those creatures known across the human world as the lóng, the ryū, the druk, the nāga.

His face blurs, rots, melts -- bits of bone showing through flesh and one eye now just an orb of empty, everlasting black.

The spindly, web-like horns that grace his head grow thicker and longer, the talon-like ends even sharper than before.

Whiskers sprout from his face that are slick and forked at the ends, like his more humanoid-demon form tail, an electric buzz sparking at the end of them.

The scales along his body are black and teal, that familiar lightning pattern reflected in some while you catch glimpses of other universes as they gleam.

It is then that you notice you are slowly being buried in sand -- it cascades off his body, from the ridges in his back and gaps between those captivating scales.

Time itself seem to distort around him as he swims in the air, the very fabric of space rippling and warping against his form.

When he opens his mouth to roar, all that can be seen is a void of space inside, an all-consuming black hole.

There is an awfully maddening absence of sound, the very weight of silence seemingly suffocating and crushing you as you try to gasp for air.

The longer you stare into his face, his form -- the more you get lost and trapped across universes, seeing every branch of time lay itself out before you, over and over and over and over...

Your soul will be trapped forever in that endlessness, true death never taking hold as no reaper can ever reach you to claim it.

MEPHISTOPHELES

Every ghost story about haunted suits of armor originates from the true form of Mephistopheles.

In this form, he truly represents his noble heritage as proud knights tasked with defending the royal family -- grand, intimidating, gallant.

From afar, he seems exactly like those stories, an empty suit of golden armor with eerie peridot green lights glowing as eyes through the helm.

Atop this helm, a showy plume of magenta feathers swoops in a proud arc, and from his back, a grand set of opalescent, translucent feathered wings stretches impossibly wide.

Each flap of these wings creates torrential whirlwinds, tornadoes that tear destructively through entire cities in their path, leaving nothing but ruin in their wake.

Up close, however, it becomes clear that the armor is hollow because he is the armor -- though he usually keeps most of them closed for protection, eyes of green and magenta can emerge all over the gleaming metal plates.

Also dotting the plates are various gems and precious crystals, embedded throughout as if daring someone to come close enough to try to steal them, tempt them as demons so notoriously do.

Every movement, too, deafens with the cacophony of jewels crashing against coins, ringing out for miles and miles around him.

Looking upon this form always makes you feel slightly off, as though he's not standing quite straight, which in turn makes you feel slanted as if constantly slipping down sideways.

However, it's best not to look at all, as gazing upon him melts your flesh away to pools of thick, smooth black ink which indeed would make you slip and fall.

Before one would fully melt away, he opens up to consume any potential wearer of the armor, crushing them inside and using their bones to reinforce the strength of the metal.

Because of this, streaks of ink are always running down the seams where the armor opens, dripping endlessly in deep pools everywhere he goes.

LUKE

Before Luke descends as an angel, a soft smell of grassy sunlight fills the air, and you feel a gentle breeze pick up alongside you.

The sound of bells chimes softly as if rung by this breeze, though no bells can be seen.

Slowly, bursts of tiny stars shimmer into view as if creating a veil from which the angelic child steps forth.

Once he has appeared, the stars gather in small clusters, dancing around him as if engaged in a waltz.

Being a lower-ranking angel still, his form is generally humanoid and looks much like the Luke you know and love.

However, his shape looks more unstable at the edges, buzzing and shaking like a Chihuahua.

Though most of him is covered up by his Celestial garb, you notice eyes peeking out from between the folds, gazing up at you unblinkingly, staring right into your soul.

The eyes on his face, on the other hand, remain peacefully closed, as though you're looking upon a child asleep.

As he delivers his message, the scent of wheat and honey drifts from him, filling the air around you.

Although this form does no harm to you to look upon, you get the distinct feeling that you would fall into endless despair if you were to fail him.

Michael likes to send him to would-be runaways for this reason.

RAPHAEL

Though he may be the youngest of the seraphs, his form is no less grand and imposing.

You hear him before you see him -- the melody of a flute, a tintinnabulation, mixed with an enchanting voice singing words in a tongue you cannot comprehend.

Six large wings surround him, feathers light grey with the same iridescent sheen found on those of homing pigeons, spanning far and wide.

Where his face might be instead are twisting golden rings filled with eyes, swirling in a mesmerizing pattern that captivates you.

His arms, too, are made of a stack of metallic rings that mirrors armor, though no flesh resides within them, and interlock with the shapes of diamonds and spades.

Various chimes hang off like tassels at various points along those metallic arms, ringing endlessly.

In place of his torso is an opalescent crystal ribcage, though there are no organs for it to protect.

A number of spears, pointing downward and outward, fan around his bottom half, with needles circling golden thread around the spear "boning" -- making his bottom half resemble a cage hoop skirt.

Above the swirling rings of his face rests a halo, made up of floating spear tips, sharp and deadly.

And behind him, around him, are more rings that are linked in circles like an atom, so numerous that they are reminiscent of chainmail, all while swirling at dizzying speeds.

Surreal light emits from every element of his form -- every ring, every feather, every pointed end -- giving him an unsettling and ethereal glow.

Anger him in this form, and the mix of melodies becomes mind-numbingly discordant and cacophonous while numerous spears glisten with their sharp ends pointed towards you, ready to strike.

SIMEON

When Simeon was a seraph, his form shared a number of features with that of Raphael's: twisting golden rings for a face, an iridescent crystal ribcage, the stacks of rings for arms, and that surreal, unsettling light emitting from every element.

However, his form differed greatly as well -- his halo was actually an ouroboros, dotted with eyes peering into your very soul and lined with large, long spikes.

His six wings were not made of feathers but of fire, their flames a striking and dangerous blue -- four flanking his back, while the other two surrounded his head of twisting rings, protecting his face with their chaste embers.

His "legs" were composed of crystal shards, slowly twisting and catching the light to create a constant prismatic display.

Past the faint crackling of flames and metallic sonority, you could hear a soft and distant harp that lulled the senses.

His seraph form somehow evoked both a sense of serenity and a gnawing, unnerving sense of dread.

Since his demotion to archangel, however, his form is a bit different -- more telluric, more humanoid, with wings more traditionally white and feathery at his back.

The delicate music of the harp that used to accompany him is gone, now replaced by the brash announcement of trumpets.

His more exquisitely airy elements have become more earthen, those radiant crystal pieces composed now of jagged rock and gleaming metal instead.

So too do fragments of steel float around and over his right side, resting upon his shoulders like a cape flowing gracefully from shining pauldrons.

Drifting idly just past his fingertips, a sword rests across his form, long and thin, both a tool and yet inherently part of him, dancing easily at his command and always ready to strike.

Each metallic sliver is dotted with eyes, peering and watching over you, at once benevolent and yet you can feel them -- watching you, judging you, sharply observing every move you make.

Another eye watches as well, from above, gazing serenely from the center of a spinning seven-pointed star which serves as his head.

There are no other facial features to speak of, but the look in that single blue orb expresses all there is to understand.

Though his voice rings clear in your mind with any message he may have from above, you can see your fate clearly from the moment your eyes connect with his gaze.

THIRTEEN

As a reaper, there is no question of death's approach when Thirteen transforms into her true form.

You become aware of long, low bells in the distance -- for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.

From the moment you hear that very first clang, you cannot move, an icy chill washing over you and leaving you frozen in place.

However, it is not fear that you feel, but instead an odd sense of peace that overtakes your mind and makes the world around seem distant and hazy.

All light fades from view except the eerie blue flame of the candle she carries in one hand, along with the vivid green fire that takes the place of one eye.

Through the flickering light, you can see where bones replace flesh -- a half jaw, a sharp cheekbone, a partially exposed ribcage.

Her other eye seems to become more reptilian in nature, scales surrounding her brow bone and the hollows of her cheeks, jagged and harsh.

Her teeth are sharp and large, the exposed jaw making it appear as if they are locked in a menacing grin.

Gauze wraps around her neck, dark ichor seeming to seep through it and drip onto her chest and into the hollow of her ribs.

She floats towards you, no legs to be seen as she rolls atop mist and fog that sprawls ever outward, reaching the edges of your vision.

Within that mist you catch a glimpse of fluttering iridescence -- butterflies, their wings part black and shining with opalescent darkness.

No longer does she wear the tattered black robes so often thought as the reaper's uniform -- instead, long pieces of black chiffon, tulle, and mesh twist around her form, giving the illusion of a cloak.

Long, sharp claws wrap around her scythe, its blade broad and keen -- but it shimmers in the light, its form malleable and able to transform into whatever the reaper so desires.

However she decides to capture your soul, the last thing reflected in your eyes will be the blue flame of the candle extinguished, its wax melted away with the end of your life.

SOLOMON

Hello, my adorable apprentice

What's wrong? Don't you recognize me?

It's me, Skeletiano Solomon

The true form of an immortal human sorcerer is...

Yeah this seems right

Right?

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dollfaced-erin · 9 months

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𝔻𝕣𝕒𝕘𝕠𝕟'𝕤 ℂ𝕣𝕒𝕕𝕝𝕖 (Blade x F!Reader x Jing Yuan)

PART 5

PART 1 , PART 2 , PART 3 , PART 4

taglist :

@rebeccawinters , @nayukiyukihira , @pix-stuff , @fluffy-koalala , @swivy123

A/n :

sorry for the boring last chapter. this one will be more fun, i promise !

As (Y/n) head out to find Yanqing, she had to ask several guards on her way. She was panting by now, this kid was too fast for his own good !

As she was about to leave him be, she asked one last time at the jetty of the Central Starskiff Haven, and this guard seemed to give her the right place. As she approached one of the stores, The Sleepless Earl, where there was the young lieutenant sitting, sipping a drink in his hand.

"Yanqing...?" (Y/n) softly called out from behind, slightly startling him. He looked a little shocked to see her, but then he turned back front, a little pout on his lips. He was puffing out his cheeks, a little redness on them, and (Y/n) chuckled.

"Mind if I joined you ?"

(Y/n) sat in front of him, with the same drink in her hands. She...didn't remember something like this. It was...a milk-like drink, with...black balls at the bottom. There was even whipped cream at the top, though it wasn't fine white like she remembered it to be. It was more of a...warm white.

Yanqing noticed the hesitation of the vidyadhara woman before him, before speaking up. "It's called Immortal's Delight. It's basically a brown sugar milk tea with tapioca pearls at the bottom. It's completely safe to consume, don't worry." He assured her.

(Y/n) nodded, thanking him as she held the drink in her hands. Though it seemed that many of the locals were interested in this drink, she was quite...curious of the drink. But nonetheless, she put her lips to the straw and began to drink the think liquid.

"How is it ? Do you like it ?" the blonde boy asked her.

A smile ripped itself across her lips as she looked at him, her eyes sparkling in delight. "It's really good ! It's so sweet but, it's the milky taste is just...divine !"

Yanqing smiled brightly as he watched the horned lady before him enjoy her bubble milk tea with a fascinated glimmer in her eyes. Then, he too continued to sip at his own drink.

"It's good right ?!" he exclaimed, and (Y/n) nodded her head.

"It's been so long since I last set my eyes on this place. It really has changed..." (Y/n) said, reminiscing those times. She had indeed come to terms that times were changing a little too fast, but it was also because she wasn't around to witness the change.

"Would you like me to bring you around ? I can show you the local specialties !" Yanqing said excitedly. (Y/n) couldn't find it in her to refuse such an innocent child's offer, and she nodded.

Before she knew it, he was tugging her along the streets of the Central Starskiff Haven, excited to show her around. His hand so tenderly held her own as he brought her around, explaining places in full detail to her.

Hours passed as he brought her from place to place, but she didn't mind. Soon the sun was setting, but Yanqing had yet more places to show her like an excited child.

She smiled warmly as he brought her around, like a young son bringing his mother (although she didn't even look old at all) around the plaza. It seemed that he just wanted someone to dote on him. And that's what she'll give him. Maybe she'll even try to convince him not to try hunt down Blade, it was much too dangerous for him.

"A wanted criminal lose on the Xianzhou..." the dragon woman wondered as she walked along the path the young boy lead her.

"Say, Yanqing. What does this criminal look like...?" she asked, just noticing how she didn't even know who the hell the others were talking about earlier. She just knew that he was a Stellaron Hunter, and he was wanted all over the universe.

"Oh ! There's a wanted poster signboard near the Heron Express. I'll take you there, Lady (Y/n) !" he said with a bright smile, taking her hand and pulling her a little faster.

"This is him. The poster alternates between him and a woman with a messy ponytail. Her name is Kafka. They're both wanted by the IPC." Yanqing said, bringing her to a white and red poster.

"This...this man...!" (Y/n) eyes widened, upon recognizing the photo. She's seen this man ! He was in her dreams ! But...

"Does he have a twin...? O-or an alter ego...?" she asked. She trembled. She...her heart...she felt a tingling feeling. Not just her heart...her lower back hurt a little too...

"Alter ego...? Twin...? Not that I know of." Yanqing said, shrugging. "Why ? You know him ?"

"I..." (Y/n) put her hand to her head, trying to remember. This man...it was indeed familiar to her. But he didn't have dark hair. He had...white hair...

To try remember...was like being in an empty void. There was a feeling in her heart. She felt...hollow...

"Oh ! You're wearing the glass hairpin I made for you. It looks great on you."

"I don't remember..."

Yanqing looked at her worriedly, putting a hand on her back. "Don't dwell on it. If you don't remember, let it be. You'll remember it later." Yanqing said, trying to pull her out of that trance like state.

"Don't worry. You'll be okay. Why don't you go to the Exalting Sanctum ? The plaza there has lots of shops there. Try walk around and have a feel of the air there." Yanqing tried to assure her, with a small smile on his lips.

"Y-yeah..." she whispered, her head feeling dizzy, and her mouth feeling dry.

Then Yanqing brought her away from the poster, feeling guilty. He talked to her a little, trying to get her mind off the topic as they walked to the jetty, requesting a starskiff to bring (Y/n) to the Exalting Sanctum.

"You go on first. I just remembered I had some unfinished business here." Yanqing said, as the starskiff arrived.

He helped her into the airship, and felt reluctant to release her ice cold fingers from his warm hands. And it seemed she had something to say too, from the way she tightened her hold on his fingers.

(Y/n) looked at him worriedly, concern in her (e/c) eyes as she gazed at the younger male. "Yanqing. Whatever you do, don't chase down Blade. Especially not by yourself."

Those were her final words to him, before she let go. Then...the starskiff flew off.

Yanqing sighed, feeling quite pissed off again. "Not her too... I swear. Everyone just thinks I'm a kid !"

As (Y/n) got to the Exalting Sanctum, she began roaming the area, unsure where to go. She was alone, without a guide in the mass sea of people. She felt...self-conscious, for the horns on her head was more than enough to attract attention.

She felt her heartbeat increase rapidly as heard whispers and felt stares digging into her back. The locals...were looking at her since not all Vidyadhara had horns like her. And everywhere she looked, she had no idea where to turn.

"Miss are you alright ? Are you Lady (Y/n) ?" she heard a voice behind her. She turned around, snapping herself from her thoughts, and found a young woman in a red uniform standing behind her.

"Y-Yes, I'm (Y/n)." (Y/n) nodded, affirming the questions of the lady behind her. She breathed a little sigh of relief, the lady behind her had pointed ears, a trademark she was familiar with to her own. Another Vidyadhara.

"A-ah, I didn't mean to startle you. My name is Jingyan, a Realm-keeping Commission officer. General Jing Yuan had sent us a message earlier to hand you this," the brunette woman said, handing her a rectangular device. "Are you familiar with it ?"

(Y/n) shook her head, not knowing what this...black metal was in her hand. It even had a casing on it, little cherry blossoms on the back with a white cat playing with the petals. Jingyan chuckled a little, seeing the confusion of (Y/n) and the cover in her hand.

"This is a smartphone. It's programmed by a Jade Abacus in its core. it's quite new technology right now." Jingyan said, as she pressed a button and the black screen lit up, taking (Y/n) aback a little.

"You can use this device to contact other people on the Xianzhou. Here," she said as she pressed a small chatbox icon on the 'smartphone'. "General Jing Yuan had already added his contact into your device. You can use this app to message him. Just tap on that white box down there and a small keyboard will pop out."

(Y/n) did as told, pressing the white chat box and a keyboard indeed popped out, taking her by surprise.

"Here, why don't you tell the General something ?" Jingyan suggested and (Y/n) nodded.

A light chuckle left the General's lips, who was in the middle of a meeting. His phone had buzzed in the middle of a boring presentation, waking him up a little.

"Hi :)"

He chuckled softly, making sure no one noticed that he wasn't paying attention (not that he was even giving any to begin with), and swiftly tapped on his phone.

"Oh, look ! He sent you a reply," Jingyan said, pointing to the screen as a little white chat bubble popped out.

"Hello to you too, princess~" he replied.

"Well, now you know how to send messages ! I also put my number in there as Jingyan, so you can also text me if you need anything, okay ?" Jingyan said with a small smile. And (Y/n) nodded and thanked the woman.

"Well then, I'll be having off. You should head down to the plaza, there are more things to see there." Jingyan said as she waved (Y/n) off and headed off.

(Y/n) nodded, feeling a little more relieved that there is someone she knows on the ship here. Perhaps she should go check out the stores and take her mind off of things like Yanqing said. She didn't have money to spend, but window shopping should be good for her too.

But as she walked through the streets and the alleys surrounded by people, she felt....comforted. There was so many people, the streets were bustling with chatter and hollers. It was so lively, so bustling with life.

People were glancing at her, taking in her appearance and her horns. Many admired her beauty and grace. Some admired her clothes and the way she brought herself, as she walked under the moonlight.

But as she walked...she found a path she felt particularly drawn to. Another alleyway, more deserted than the rest. A backway path. But she...she felt...someone there. Someone...she...

She had to go there.

And so she walked down the dark alleyway, alone. And suddenly she heard a voice call out from her right.

"You..." a cold voice called from her right, laced with realization and recognition.

She stood there, startled a little. But she wasn't afraid.

As she turned around to face her right side which lead another alley, was a man that appeared from the darkness. His red eyes glowed bright with Mara and revenge, keen on seeking something from the exhaustion his eyes held.

Her chest bloomed with warmth, as if she finally had her heart back. As if she finally re-learned to breathe. Her eyes watered as she stared at the person before her.

Usually people would cover and tremble at the sight of this man. this man was being sought out be the entire universe. A bounty only another could top.

But she wasn't scared. She was anything but. The Vidyadhara woman reached a hand out to him, though she was sure he wouldn't reach back.

But instead long and slender fingers reached out from the darkness the man bathed in, cold fingers gripping her hand. It felt like ice was piercing her skin, but the hand still felt the same as she remembered from all those years ago. So she gripped his hand back.

"You wont run...?" the man whispered, red eyes gazing warmly into her own (e/c) eyes.

"Why would I...? I don't fear you..." she whispered back, tears falling freely from her eyes.

She didn't know this man. But he felt so familiar to her. This tall, dark haired stranger, with piercing red eyes and bandages all around. he looked menacing, as if he could kill without even blinking.

"Then why are you crying...?" the man before her asked, raising a bandaged hand to wipe away at her falling tears.

"I...I don't know. I...don't remember." (Y/n) whispered again, trying to sort out her memories and her thoughts. But everything was so blurry, everything...was confusing.

"Out of five people...three must pay a price." the man before her said. "And you're not one of them...Dan Jia."

And with that, he pulled her into a hug, careful to mind the horns on her head. Though surprised, she wrapped her arms around his back, as she took in his familiar scent, hugging him close.

"My name...is not Dan Jia. It's...(Y/n)." she whispered apologetically.

Her tears had dried and she rested her head against his chest. He was cold, unlike a human

"Then...(Y/n)." the man said as he pulled back, a stiff and unfamiliar smile on his otherwise stern and dead face.

"With a final parting gift, I wish we do not cross paths again." he whispered. "If we do, pretend you do not know me."

He placed a hand on her chin, tilting her head up. His red eyes bore into her own, causing a blush to erupt on her cheeks. His lips parted but closed again, as if hesitating.

The man leaned in, a placed a warm kiss on her forehead.

"For I wish you do not see me for the monster I am, my beloved."

And with that, Blade disappeared into the dark alleyways, once more. (Y/n) all alone, just herself basking under the moon's light.

"But I yearn that fate meets us once again, Blade." (Y/n) whispers back, knowing he wouldn't be able to hear her anymore.

#honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail x you #hsr blade x reader #hsr blade #hsr blade x you #hsr x you #hsr jing yuan #hsr jing yuan x reader #hsr jing yuan x you #blade x reader #jing yuan x reader #blade x you #jing yuan x you

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eddies-house · 7 months

Text

Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Ch. 4 | Ch. 5 | Ch. 6 | Ch. 7 | Ch. 8 | Ch. 9 | Ch. 10 | Ch. 11 | Ch. 12 | Ch. 13 |

Smoke Signals

Chapter Five - Cold Eggs

W/C: 6K

Eddie x Fem reader - Grumpy!Bartender!Eddie x Shy!Reader

Warnings: Anxiety attack, mentions of drinking

Some early morning honesty on the rocks. Eddie is fucked. In every sense other than literal.

A/N: I'm getting giddy over these two please tell me yall feel the same

Masterlist

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The Munson bachelor pad wasn’t as boyish and messy as you initially thought. You were sober enough to make that observation. It was cozy, much like your own home and was around the same size. The kitchen was probably the messiest part of it however you didn’t get a peek at the bedroom which you assumed could also be very disheveled. There were cereal boxes left open on the counter, Cocoa Pebbles being the one that caught your eye along with a neglected box of Rice Krispies that laid on its side.

A few too many pots and pans cluttered the stove top and some empty cans of soup and Spaghettios were left to collect dust near the sink. His refrigerator held a collection of magnets, some being letters from the alphabet, although quite a few were missing, and others were ads from a pizza place and a few fruits and vegetables with cartoony faces. Among the mess on the counters, you also noted a few empty liters of soda and some crushed beer cans. Budweiser to be specific.

Other than that, the living room you’d been sitting in was tidy. There was a clearly used checkered blanket bunched up on the corner of the couch you’d been occupying for the past several minutes and a few car catalogs littering the coffee table along with a copy of Lord of the Rings, bookmarked with a coupon for ground beef clipped from the local ads. Next to that, an ash tray nearly overflowed.

His wallpaper wasn’t as ugly as yours, which you envied. It was maroon with even darker stripes alternating, creating a dark but homey atmosphere. The wall sconces on the other hand, we’re tacky. They looked more medieval than anything, almost like torches. The light wood floors contrasted with the walls and at your feet was a frayed rug that looked like it had seen better days. Not dirty, just tattered.

In the corner sat an acoustic guitar painted with the words ‘this machine slays dragons’ and next to it was an electric guitar, red with cracks of black. You’d never seen one like it before and it seemed to be well loved from what you’d heard every day, the endless guitar solos bleeding into your eardrums daily. At least he was getting his money's worth out of it.

You continued eyeing your surroundings, taking in the habitat that was Eddie Munson’s home when your gaze lands on a particular object that piqued your interest. It sat atop a shelf near the door, a lonely Garfield mug.

Before you could further examine the mug or even think of reasons as to why it was displayed, if it was even displayed, or perhaps it was abandoned in a hurry out the door, Eddie emerges from the bathroom just off the living room. His curls are now wet ringlets toward the bottom, and instead of wearing your puke, he wears a red sweatshirt that reads ‘Indianapolis, Indiana’ on the front along with some baggy black sweats. Despite his comfy clothes, his face is still decorated with that grouchy frown you’d grown used to. Did this man ever relax his face? His eyebrows were still pinched together either in thought or in irritation.

“I-um, I’ll wash the shirt and um the–the boots.” You stutter, rapidly standing from your perch at the edge of his couch.

Though still a little tipsy, more coherent thoughts flooded your mind. Guilt plagued you as you thought about the blanket of barf that coated his shirt and boots about a half hour earlier, abandoned on the front porch. You were smart enough to avert your gaze when he lifted his shirt off of his torso just to let it wrinkle up on the wood planks to be dealt with later. It wasn’t your fault that you’d caught a glimpse of the tattoos that adorned his body, some kind of dragon if you remember correctly, wound from his waist up to his ribs. The others you didn’t have long enough to distinguish their imagery, though there were several along with what appeared to be some scarring of some kind. You couldn’t be sure, the darkness from the night not allowing you a clear picture along with your hazy mental state.

“Don’t worry about it.” He dismisses while you bashfully sit back down on the edge of the couch.

It was hard to grasp whether he was pissed at you or just at life in general. You would take full responsibility for the vomit but everything before that was on him. Yelling at you over a pile of broken plates seemed far more degrading based on his tone, the way he reprimanded you and painted you as this stupid girl, unable to stand your ground. Maybe it was better that he fired you, you wouldn’t be subject to his obnoxious mood swings where he seemed to take everything out on you when shit hit the fan.

You continued watching Eddie move about his surroundings, taking in how he interacted with his day to day environment. What did he look like fully relaxed? Lounging around, playing his guitar without a care in the world. It was difficult to picture; the image of a moody man with a tensed facial expression the only one you could seem to conjure up every time rather than the vision of him with his feet kicked up on the coffee table, enjoying coffee out of that stupid Garfield mug. You wonder if takes his coffee with cream and sugar. Maybe just cream? Or just sugar? Maybe he drinks it black, that would be the most sensible option if you were going by his grouchy nature.

“Gonna find my keys, then we’ll go back to the bar to get yours.” Eddie decides, shuffling through some items on the kitchen counter.

The irony.

Agreeing with a hum, you allow yourself to lean further into the couch while trailing your finger over the faded plaid pattern, lines of beige crossing over white that temporarily held your focus. The clinking of empty beer cans against the linoleum counter can be heard, and then footsteps into the bedroom just off the living room to your left. Two idiots with misplaced keys under the same roof.

It feels as if the couch begins to mold around you, welcoming you into its springy cushions that otherwise wouldn’t be very comfortable but considering the night you had and the state you were in, you felt like you were on a cloud. Your thoughts drift back to curious visions of Eddie. What did his hair look like first thing in the morning? Was it as wild as you imagined? Curls sticking up every which way, frizzy and matted? Or was it somehow still perfectly messy? Boyishly messy.

Did he take those chunky rings off every night, leaving them on his nightstand until the morning? How many more tattoos did he have? What movies did he watch? What did he do for fun? You suppose plucking at his guitars was a main contender with the way it would constantly invade your ears. Obviously he read, your eyes catching that copy of Lord of the Rings on the coffee table again. Maybe he worked on cars too, based on those car part catalogs.

The image of him working under the hood of a car, all sweaty in some kind of tank top occupied your brain, his usually tense face hard at work with grease smeared along his cheek. And his hands. His hands would be coated in oil and he’d pull a rag out from his back pocket to wipe them off. Then he’d smile and reveal those deep dimples framing his face so perfectly. And then you would–

“Uh, Bambi?”

Eddie’s voice doesn’t do much other than cause you to stir in your sleep, snuggling a pillow while curling into yourself. You were nearly drooling, completely content. He couldn’t help but stare a little longer than necessary before realizing what a creep he was being. Was he supposed to wake you? If he was, he felt wrong doing so with how peaceful you looked. He rolled his eyes but truthfully, he didn’t mind having a guest for the night.

Maybe he’d be able to get some sleep for once.

–

Tossing around as the springs beneath you squeak, your mouth feels like it had previously been filled with sand. Not an ounce of saliva coated your tongue, you were severely dehydrated. You flung the knitted blanket that had rested on top of you off–when did that get there? You don’t remember grabbing a blanket before drifting off into a deep slumber.

This wasn’t even your house.

Collecting your thoughts, you recall that you had been sitting on Eddie Munson’s couch before apparently falling asleep. It was still dark outside, signifying that it had to be early in the morning which meant you’d only slept for maybe two or so hours. A lamp set atop a beat up side table in the corner was the only thing illuminating the room now. Sitting up and stretching, your bones ached from the way they were piled on top of each other in the position you had been sleeping in. Your right arm had pins and needles running up and down it from being cut off from circulation for so long.

The groan that threatened to escape you was held in your throat as you scooted forward, only to find a full glass of water right there on the coffee table. This was beyond embarrassing, this was humiliating. If you could scurry out the door and across the yard back to your place you would, but you were in this predicament due to your own negligence.

With no other options available to you, you gulp down the lukewarm water, just grateful that your tongue was no longer dryer than the Sahara desert. But it still wasn’t enough. Your thirst seemed unquenchable, at this rate you’d need approximately five more glasses. So you stood yourself up, legs shaky and stomach a tiny bit queasy, and wobbled over to the kitchen. You’d have to pace yourself to avoid throwing up a bunch of water since your stomach was so sensitive right now. Food was out of the question but water was a necessity.

Twisting the sink handle with a small screech of the metal, you fill the glass with a shaky and weak arm before sipping away.

Slowly. You remind yourself.

It must have taken around eight minutes to finish that second glass of water, coaching yourself through it the entire time. You grew tired of drinking it but persisted anyway. As you reach to fill a third glass, you’re startled by a figure in the doorway to Eddie’s room, unable to make out any features in the dim lighting. With a yelp, you manage to drop the glass in the sink, it clanking around noisily but thankfully, not breaking.

“Shit, why are you awake?” Eddie asks, hands raised in surrender as he emerges from the shadows.

“Why are you awake?” You counter.

He raises a brow, clearly wide awake. He didn’t even have that gravelly, sleepy voice. Maybe he hadn’t even gone to sleep at all. There was no evidence that his hair was any frizzier than before and his face didn’t have that puffiness to it when you wake up. It’s also possible that he just looked perfect when he woke up but if you’re being honest, no one really woke up perfect.

“I, uh, I was reading.” He admits, scratching the back of his head.

“Oh.”

An awkward silence trickles in, causing you to cross your arms as a means to close in on yourself, steadily backing up until you hit the counter behind you. Eddie maintains eye contact with you as he retrieves his own cup from one of the cabinets, filling it up and chugging it down with ease. You suddenly feel so out of place, like you were supposed to leave but there was nowhere else to go.

“I, um, I’m sorry for…for the puke. A-and for falling asleep. I didn’t mean to intrude.” You tell him honestly.

He only nods.

“I can go…sit on my porch until you go into the bar. And I’ll get my keys and be out of your hair.”

A few drops of water roll down his chin as he continues drinking, the back of his hand coming up to swipe the liquid away. He appears to be lost in thought, eyes concentrated on the counter in front of him where a few rogue Rice Krispies live. You let your legs carry you a few feet away, your goal being the front door until he speaks up again.

“I’m not gonna be responsible if you get eaten out there.” He grumbles.

“Eaten?”

Eddie looks you up and down as if to say ‘are you serious?’. To be completely honest, you hadn’t taken into account the wildlife that thrived throughout the area before you moved in. Now you were looking more and more dumb by the minute.

“Bears?” He offers an anxious head tilt. “We have fucking bears here, Bambi. You can’t just wander around in the middle of the night.”

“I wouldn’t be wandering.” Why were you trying to make an argument? Out of all the things you could fight him on, why were you choosing whether or not you’d get eaten by a bear? “I would be sitting on my porch.”

You felt like the dumbest woman on the planet and you knew you should’ve stopped talking but the words just…came out.

“Bears can reach your fucking porch, you know that, right?”

His large eyes bored into you in disbelief, his mouth slightly hung open as he awaited your answer.

“Y-yeah.” You gulp.

“God.” He scoffs, turning away from you, perplexed before muttering something under his breath that you happened to also catch. “Christ, they shoulda turned you away.”

“Who?” You pipe up, feeling a bit daring.

For a moment, he turns to stare at you blankly. It’s almost as if you’re the only two people awake and if either of you happened to raise your voice in the slightest, it would awaken the town.

“The assholes that sold you that house.” He just about whines, his voice an octave higher, frustration obvious in his tone.

The refrigerator light briefly appears over the blue and green tiled floor as Eddie opens it, reaching for something before turning around toward the stove and kicking the door shut.

“What–what do you mean? Turn me away? What’s that supposed to mean?” You ask in offense.

“I mean…” He cracks an egg into a pan, followed by another. “They shouldn’t have sold it to someone so clueless.” Another egg.

The shells are discarded in the sink, further cracking into smaller pieces at the impact he’d thrown them.

“What? Were they just supposed to reject me until someone more ‘qualified’ came along?” You try to catch his gaze, ducking your head as he reaches for the salt and pepper. “And–are you seriously making eggs right now?”

You earn a scowl from him as his pan begins to sizzle, his hand quick to grab a spatula from one of the pots on the stove to flip the eggs. This had to have been some weird dream or manifestation. And there they were again, those three numbers falling from his lips in a whisper as his eyes shut temporarily while his eggs simmered.

“I was already qualified before you came along!” He raises his voice, not quite to a yell but not very quiet either.

Silence.

Your eyes must have bulged out of your head, Eddie’s features softening by the second. Regret settled in his eyes, your face the vision of pure horror and all because of him.

He got impatient.

His therapist would be disappointed in him. And so would Wayne.

“I-I just…I was going to, um…” He starts calmly. “I was gonna buy it. And, and I was—” His breathing is now shallow, his eyes wet and pleading. “It–it was–I don’t–”

“Eddie.” You whisper, trying to break through whatever trance he was in.

He seemed stuck in his own head, eyes darting back and forth while he struggled to find words. The eggs were on the verge of burning which prompted you to reach over him and turn the stove off. The spatula he previously held clung against the tile.

“I-I–um, I was–”

It’s as if he isn’t even in the room, totally removed as the same few syllables fell from his tongue.

“I’m–I-I–”

“Eddie, it’s okay.” You attempt to soothe him. “Do you wanna sit down?” You ask, trying to catch his eyes but failing as he squeezes them shut.

Again with the counting.

One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three.

All under his shaky breath.

“I-I’m fine. ‘M fine.” His voice cracks, eyes opening timidly.

When you go to rest a comforting hand on his shoulder, he flinches, a gasp leaving his lungs. Forcing yourself a few steps backward in order to provide him the space he needs, you recognize a hint of fear within him. It’s not of you, it’s something else yanking at his thoughts.

“Sit down, let’s sit down, okay?” You instruct, gradually lower yourself, waiting for him to follow your actions.

Nodding, he slowly slides his back down the side of the counter, falling into a position where his knees were to his chest, hands resting against the floor. You join him, still keeping your distance but wanting him to know that despite the previous tension, you were being supportive through his episode. Whatever it may be.

“Breathe.” You tell him, just as he had done with you back at the bar. “In…and out.” You encourage him.

He follows, his breathing still labored but improving. Continuing for a minute or so, his shoulders finally loosen up, his face relaxing. You let him guide the situation from here, if he wanted to talk or remain mute. Either was okay.

Moments pass, the hard kitchen floor causing you discomfort that you willingly take, not daring to shift around too much as to keep the tranquility finally falling over the two of you. Instead, you take interest in the wood grain of the cabinets, eyes wandering around each curve like a maze, sometimes identifying shapes along the way. A dog’s face, a ghost, and occasionally the haunting silhouette of a human.

Sneaking a glance at Eddie, you find that his eyes are shut as he rests his head against the cabinet behind him, his hands fidgeting with the strings on his hoodie, tying little knots and then undoing them just to repeat the process. Your watch indicates that it’s 4:03 AM. You would usually be sleeping however you can’t really offer yourself much sympathy when it seems this is the norm for Eddie. He always had tired eyes though you’d never put much thought into it until now. He must not be sleeping. Which could also be a contribution to his moodiness.

“I’m gonna lose the bar.” Eddie speaks up from beside you, eyes still shut as he continues to fidget.

“Hm?” You turn your full attention to him.

There’s a pause, a moment of thinking. You can tell as he opens his eyes and side-eyes you, not with malice but more so to collect his thoughts. Lips pinched in between his teeth roughly, you could almost wince at the way blood surfaces from the poor abused skin. Not too obvious, but obvious enough as you await clarification, the tiniest bit of crimson seeping out from behind his teeth only to be left to dry out on his perfectly shaped lips. Then he breaks the silence with a heavy exhale.

“I, uh, I’m pretty close to losing it. Can barely pay the bills on the damn place. Been going downhill for a few months now.” He elaborates, spinning a ring around his finger repeatedly . “I was gonna use the rest of my savings that my grandpa left me to buy that house. Rent it out. I talked to a friend who’s really good with all that financial shit and he said I could get a steady income and most likely keep the bar running and profiting again.”

“Oh.” You whisper, a huge sensation of guilt overtaking you.

“Not your fault.” He sighs. “Guess I’ve been kinda taking it out on you.”

Now he avoids your gaze, far more interested in the cracked tile beneath him. A curse can be made out from just under his breath while he buries his head in his hands, running them up and down his face, almost as if to relieve some of his stress but having no such luck. His admission catches you off guard, not at all suspecting that this morning would turn into honesty hour.

“No.” You reply quickly. “I mean…yes. But I-I didn’t know. If I knew–”

“Don’t give yourself a stroke, Bambi.” He cuts you off, turning to look at you. “I’m not proud of how dick-ish I’ve been. It’s nothing personal though.” Eddie confesses, seemingly annoyed with himself.

Sincerity floods his eyes, a cry for help. But how were you supposed to help him? Before you can muster up some kind of response to his almost-apology, he continues.

“I-uh, I just can’t lose this bar. I inherited it from my grandpa and he had been running it for…years.” Behind his persistence, there’s hints of defeat. A bitterness that you’d come to recognize in the last few weeks. “And, uh, I didn’t know ‘im for very long but, I kinda feel like it’s my responsibility.”

“Didn’t know him for very long?” You asked before even calculating the consequences. You had no right to pry into his personal life.

His hands begin to move up and down his shins, a self-soothing gesture from what you can tell. Eddie was very fidgety, and you’d only just started noticing.

“Yeah.” He whispers. “I moved here like four years ago. Some bad shit happened back home and I–” There’s a moment of hesitation, a sudden panic lurking behind his gaze. “I can’t go back.”

You want so badly to ask him where ‘home’ used to be but decide against it. He had already willingly offered you more information than you would have originally been brave enough to ask for.

“Anyway, I never really knew my grandpa until I came here to live with him. He died last year. I’ve been trying to keep things afloat since then.” He explains, pinching the bridge of his nose with a shaky hand.

“I’m so sorry. I-I didn’t know.”

Genuine sympathy drips from your voice, the kind that felt like hot honey running down a sore throat during flu season. During the moment it feels…good. Comforting. In the way that only his mother ever was in the brief time they had together. And then the sting returns.

“I don’t even know why I’m telling you this.” The walls are rapidly raised once again and god knows when you would get to peek through the cracks again. “We should, uh, we should get to the bar so you can get your keys. And your car.” He suggests, pulling himself up from the floor with a groan.

“Wait–what about your eggs?” You mention, gripping the edge of the counter for leverage as you stand.

The eggs were long forgotten about, now all sad and cold in the pan. Unappetizing. One of the yolks had somehow broken among the commotion of Eddie’s panic and left a disgusting coating around the gaps, that eggy-wet-dog smell nauseating you. They were trash in all honesty but Eddie didn’t seem to mind, quickly lifting the pan and grabbing a fork to shovel them into his mouth.

You can’t fight the urge to stare, cold eggs and runny yolks being tossed into his mouth without a second thought.

“What?” He glances at you in irritation.

“You could’ve at least heated them up.” You complain, nose crinkled in revolt.

He rolls his eyes but his annoyance quickly melts away, a fraction of a playful smirk pulling at his lips, eyes gleaming with something captivating.

–

The scent of tobacco and motor oil invades your nose, the smells of Eddie’s truck, much different than the little pine tree air freshener in the car he’d driven you in last night. The engine rumbles down the road, startling the birds as he drives by. Some kind of guitar riff blares through the radio, his ringed fingers tapping along against the steering wheel. Instead of his sweatshirt and sweatpants, he now wears a long sleeve covered with his leather jacket along with some ripped up blue jeans. As far as you’re concerned, he’s way underdressed for the brisk morning air, only getting colder and colder by the day. Though, he may run hot and the drop in temperature just doesn’t faze him. Even so, it’d make you feel better if he at least put on a heavier coat.

Regardless, you can’t seem to control the shivers that rattle your body, your teeth nearly chattering, jaw clenched tightly. You were mentally scolding drunk-you for forgetting your jacket at the bar and though you were on your way there now, it didn’t do you any good with the way you were practically an ice cube. It was apparent that the heater of Eddie’s truck wasn’t very efficient as the air coming out was slightly warm but not warm enough to relieve the cold nipping at the exposed skin of your arms. You could see your breath, only further reminding you of how cold you truly were.

Attention was the last thing you wanted as you subtly moved your hands that rested politely in your lap, up your arms to offer the tiniest bit of skin-on-skin warmth. Any kind of relief would do. You only hoped he wouldn’t notice as you began to move your hands back and forth as a means to create some friction, more heat.

Buy a large, fuzzy, soft coat, ASAP. You note to yourself.

As a distraction, you begin to identify objects within the truck, a solo game of ‘I spy’ if you will. At your feet, there’s a small crate of cassette tapes. An impressive collection, mainly metal and rock from what you can see. Maybe a few folksy ones behind those based on the labels, John Denver being the one that stood out to you. Then, another car parts catalog on top of the dash. An empty can of Dr. Pepper in the cup holder. Or what you assume to be empty. A definitely empty cigarette carton abandoned in the other cup holder–

“Shit, here.” Eddie says, reaching behind into the back seat only to magically pull out a denim jacket covered in several patches and pins.

Evidently, you weren’t playing it as cool as you thought, clearly somehow exposing that you were in fact freezing. He showed no emotion as he urged the jacket into your reach, eyes still focused on the road. Your hesitation only had him pushing the denim into your hand, wordlessly cautioning you that he wouldn’t have your modesty or insistence that you were fine. Clutching the rough fabric in your hand, you pause to stare at him, as if he was going to change his mind any second. He doesn’t. Only keeps his eyes forward, brows furrowed in that grumpy manner.

His nose is pink again and you were willing to bet that the tips of his ears matched if they hadn’t been hidden by his wild hair. Even his cheeks were dusted with the lightest rosy shade. Fall looked good on him. You couldn’t even imagine how amazing Summer would look on him.

Quickly, you undo your seatbelt and shrug the jacket on. It’s cold from living in the truck all night but warms you up regardless, much cozier than your bare arms out in the open. And it smells like Eddie, a smell you can’t quite pinpoint to one specific thing. A little bit like cigarettes, maybe a hint of cologne, spicy but not overpowering, and a whiff of rubber. It almost smelled like a garage.

The sun was just rising on the horizon, the lake coming into view perfectly as if to put on a show. Hues of orange painted the sky, birds chirping and squawking as they announced the arrival of a new day. An apricot dream accompanied by peachy tones.

–

The Bourbon was a shell of itself at 5:00 AM. The morning was bright and early though the bar wasn’t ready to awaken just yet, not until the evening when it thrived. Until then, it slept peacefully throughout the day, forgotten about until Happy Hour. Ribbons of light snuck in through the blinds, illuminating the smallest sections of the tables and the floorboards.

The lights quickly took over that magical early morning feel as Eddie emerged next to you, hands tucked into his pockets while you scanned the room. And there they were, your keys. Sat right on top of the bar just as you had remembered. Your jacket, however, was nowhere to be seen.

Bummer.

You could’ve sworn you grabbed it from the back lockers before you declared war on Eddie last night. It wasn’t there either, your locker devoid of your belongings other than a pad of paper and a pen.

“Have you seen my jacket?” You ask Eddie, checking the barstools just to be safe. Nothing.

He had slipped right back into work mode, even at the crack of dawn. You suppose it's fair though, the information he had shared with you in the quietest hours of the morning resonating in your mind. Work never stopped for him.

“Hm? No, I haven’t seen it.” He answers, collecting the dirty rags from their designated bin behind the bar to start them up in the wash.

With a soft pout, you trace your steps in your head but can’t seem to recall where you’d left it, your brain failing you. Maybe it would eventually pop up again, it wasn’t anything special anyway. It just happened to be one of the heaviest jackets you owned so you would have to remember to stop by one of the shops to search for something equivalent. Beginning to pull your arm out of the sleeve of the jacket you currently wore, Eddie’s voice stops you.

“Just–keep it ‘til you find yours.” He says. Like he knew.

Were you that obvious? Girl moves to a random town miles and miles away from home only to be unprepared for the weather conditions in which you would think she would be aware of before committing.

“No, it’s–”

You immediately shut up when you see his expression, something that says ‘for the love of god, just listen’ with glaring eyes and furrowed brows. Instead of fighting him on it, you offer your gratitude in the form of labor.

“Um, I could stick around…and help. If you need.”

Your words float in the air, so delicate it makes him want to vomit; not out of disgust but out of confusion for whatever feeling was swirling around in his head, making him dizzy. Each word was too sweet, cavity inducing sweetness that he wanted to lick up like icing. He wasn’t used to being presented with such regard, a candied offer delivered right from your pretty lips to his ears.

“If I still have a job.” You add. Sugary syllables pouring from your lips unintentionally. He may have a heart attack from the amount of sugar.

Eddie collects himself, clears his throat as if to also clear his conscience, not succeeding. You’re so unlike everything that he knows. He knows of friendly conversation and boyish banter, endless nights followed by endless days without sleep, he knows of his shitty attitude that comes around more often than not, but he’s never been one to know pure kindness, a certain tenderness radiating from you and seeping into him. Sure people are kind to him, especially here. But you’re something else.

“Yeah. Yeah, ‘course you have a job.” He affirms.

The small smile you grace him with makes him want to jump off of a bridge. Because he is such a cruel being, such a monstrous man awaiting further punishment from the universe for being much less than gentle with such a sweet-tempered, sympathetic human that may even be a gift from god himself if Eddie believed in all that.

And then Chrissy crossed his mind. He could not endure another loss. Chrissy was never even his but he used to mourn what could have been had she lived. Perhaps she was his first love. A miserable little middle schooler pining after Hawkin’s Sweetheart all the way up until highschool. And the moment he got close enough, she was gone, right in front of his poor traumatized eyes. It was enough for him to swear off love for good.

For some reason he was finding himself wanting to dial back on that promise. He had only known you for around two weeks and was going back on his own word. It was freaking him out, making him want to yank his hair out from the roots and collapse onto the floor. He felt like a teenage boy again, going through puberty and trying to work out all of his jumbled feelings and hormones.

You were staring at him expectantly and it was only then that he realized he had been lost in thought. A pool of thoughts actually. Maybe even having a revelation?

“You can uh…” He clears his throat, nearly hacking up a lung. “You haven’t…you haven’t eaten, have you?”

Internally, he’s scolding himself.

You’re gonna get hurt before you can even get close. People are not meant to love you, Munson. It’s been proven time and time again. Quit while you’re ahead.

He was too far ahead anyway. Would he ever learn his lesson?

People are not meant to love you.

“No.” You answer sheepishly. “But I-I’m fine!” You try to say convincingly. The reality was that your stomach was swallowing itself, the fact that your dinner had been four tequila shots was not favoring you.

“Bambi.” Eddie says sternly.

God she’s gorgeous.

He was fucked.

“Okay…fine. I haven’t eaten.” You admit. “But I can help out a little and then–”

“C’mon.” He demands, abandoning the bin of dirty rags to head for the kitchen.

And on the way, he reasons with himself as you follow.

Just be friendly. There’s nothing wrong with being friendly. We can be friends. Stop scaring the shit out of yourself. She wouldn’t even like you beyond that. No one would.

“So, what are you feelin’?” He asks, knocking his knuckles against the metal worktop.

“Oh, I-I don’t know. Whatever is easiest. You know what, I can just go get something from one of the shops, I’m sure that little pancake place is open by now.”

“You don’t trust my cooking?” He jokes, amusement written all over his face.

To be fair, he hadn’t given you much reason to trust him since you arrived. But somehow, layers were starting to peel back and you were getting the tiniest glimpses of his true self. And you’d be stupid not to indulge when he had practically propped the door to his mind right open. At least for the time being.

“Should I?” There’s a huge grin on your face, a stupid grin that you try to conceal but can’t. “I dunno, you kind of have me wondering if you’re gonna spit in my food or something.” You quip.

“Ouch.” Eddie feigns hurt by bringing a hand to his chest. “You think I’m that scummy?” He asks, raising his brow playfully.

“Oh, the scummiest.” You banter back.

“You’re breakin’ my heart Bambi.” He frowns before disappearing into the walk-in freezer, discarding his leather jacket on a hook on his way.

Truth be told he was breaking yours too, with his handsome face and his dumb smile, deep dimples you could think about for hours, and those eyes. They told a story, a tragic story that maybe he would never care to share. And that’s what broke your heart. Suffering in silence. You knew that feeling all too well.

“By the way…” Eddie shouts from the freezer before appearing once again. “I’m Eddie.” He sticks his hand out toward you, two eggs held in his free hand.

You look up at him, bewildered.

“I never asked for your name.” He reminds you with a shit-eating grin.

The Eddie you met weeks ago was gone as far as you were concerned. All within a few hours, he seemed to warm up to you.

The scary dog was rolling over…for you.

~end~

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tags - @gravedigginbbydoll @ohauggieo @spicysix @lunatictardis @ali-r3n @batkin028 @mrsjellymunson @witchwolflea @emma77645 @emxxblog @eddiemunson95 @angietherose @lottie-90 @sheneedsrocknroll92 @pullingattheroots @avalon-wolf @vintagehellfire @cryingglightningg @foreveranexpatsposts @winchester-angel @mmunson86 @witchwolflea @kurdtbean @micheledawn1975 @tlclick73 @erinekc @hazydespair @whenshelanded @corrodedcoffincumslut @ms1oftheboys @lma1986 @uglypastels

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fic #eddie x reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x fem reader #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson series #eddie munson angst #eddie munson au #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things au #stranger things fic

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malanasims · 9 months

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Taylor Swift Eras themed Legacy Challenge

i wanted to put together two of my favorite things: the sims and Taylor Swift. so i came up with this 10 generation legacy challenge in which each generation is inspired by a different album. I created this challenge for the sims 2 ultimate collection since that is the game i normally play, but i am sure it can be adapted for sims 3 or sims 4. i also implemented the traits project for ts2 but you can easily do the challenge without it using different personality points. i set up this challenge so that each generation alternates genders but you can switch that up. i also chose first names for each generation based on references of the album. also some of the writing is very cheesy and has a lot of references because why not go crazy. this is my first legacy challenge so if you have any critiques let me know. the rules are not strict and cheats can be used as its a story-based challenge.

Debut- Gen 1: Mary

“Take me home where we met so many years before.

We'll rock our babies on that very front porch: After all this time, you and I”

You grew up in a small town where everyone knew each other. Your parents never had the greatest relationship and your mom was always with her best friend. Since birth you and her kid have been inseparable. Will you fall into the same patterns as your parents…or will you find a place in this world?

family/romance

LTW: reach golden anniversary

nurturing, jealous, loves the outdoors, great kisser, family oriented

marry your first love

have 2 children (at least one son)

formal wear is a little black dress

Fearless- Gen 2: Stephen

“You played in bars, you play guitar

I'm invisible and everyone knows who you are”

Your parents raised you well but something about the fact that they only ever knew each other scares you. You want to get out there and make a name for yourself. You know no ones coming for you on their white horse. You’ll have to be fearless to become a superstar: but for now all you have is your mothers eyes and her old guitar.

fortune/pleasure

virtuoso, charismatic, irresistible, ambitious, non-committal

LTW: become rock god

go on at least 5 first dates

have at least one daughter

date a fan

Speak now- Gen 3: Emma

“When Emma falls apart, it's when she's alone

She takes on the pain and bears it on her own”

You often felt overlooked by your rockstar father. He was always busy and you spent most of your time with your mother until her mysterious disappearance. You feel like you grew up too fast, and now you love to travel back to your youth and fantasize about castles and dragons. So you become an actress; a character. Will you break out of your fathers famously destructive patterns, or will you regain your balance on the tightrope and break out before fire can catch you?

popularity/romance

LTW: Become Icon

natural born performer, childish, bookworm, shy, hopeless romantic

your first love doesn't work out/ you break their heart

have at least one son

have a strained relationship with your father but a good relationship with your mother

meet your true love at a party and then never see eachother again

Red- Gen 4: Bobby

“How you took the money and your dignity, and got the hell out

They say you bought a bunch of land somewhere

Chose the rose garden over Madison Square”

You grew up in the starlight of your mothers fame. You two were always close but after suffering from the tabloids and the camera flashes you decide this life is not for you. You move out of the Angel City and start anew. Your mother has given you some funds and you build up a family home. You tell everyone you left because the city wasn’t right for you… but maybe it was partly to run from your playboy/girl ex who you know was trouble. Now you spend your life painting and searching for your muse. Will you stay paralyzed by time or finally begin again?

Knowledge/family

LTW: become visionary

artistic, eco friendly, night owl, loves the cold, loner

Have an on and off toxic relationship

Move out of your parents house

Settle down with someone nice

Have 3 children (at least one girl)

1989- Gen 5: Love

“You searched the world for somethin' else

To make you feel like what we had

And in the end, in Wonderland, we both went mad”

You grew up secluded from the world, surrounded by your mothers paintings. Your mom loved the environment but you couldn’t wait to get out of the woods and explore new places. Somewhere along the road, you fell into a rabbit hole of insanity: mascara running in the bathroom and rose gardens filled with thorns. You blow money and string lovers along. You have fantastic delusions until your wildest dreams turn into nightmares. Will you accept the help from your family and abandon your affinity for screaming, crying and perfect storms? Or will every day continue to be a battle?

knowledge/pleasure

LTW: Become space pirate

Insane, unstable, diva, adventurous, jealous

Join the adventurer career

Have 3 loves at once

Have children with multiple people (one must be boy/girl twins)

Lose money in poker

Reputation- Gen 6: Burton (the name is so bad help)

“I don't like your kingdom keys

They once belonged to me

You asked me for a place to sleep

Locked me out and threw a feast”

Yeah, your mother may have done a number on you, but who's counting? Maybe your twin sister… Everything you did, she just had to do better. In the wake of your mother’s madness, you turned to dancing. You found peace in swaying as the room burnt down. Your twin sister on the other hand hated how you were lit up every room you walked into, but you couldn’t help it. There's nothing she hates more than what she can't have… so she turned to sabotage. Just when you think that your life is perfect- you're at the top of your career and you finally found love- your sister starts a rumor that you cheated on your love. Your reputation as a famous dancer goes down in seconds. But to your surprise, your lover isn't reading what they call you lately and your relationship is stronger than ever. Will you get revenge on your sister and become exactly what you despise, or sit back and let karma take over?

Popularity/romance

LTW: Become world class ballerina

Party animal, irresistible, social butterfly, hot headed, unlucky

Be enemies with your twin sister

Never be unfaithful

Have a bad reputation

Have at least one daughter

Lover- Gen 7: Cornelia

“I’d be a fearless leader, I'd be an alpha type

When everyone believes ya, what's that like?”

You've always known you wanted to change the world. Who cares if you were overlooked and discouraged. Snakes and stones won’t break your bones. You never had a big family as your father walked away from his. Sometimes it gets lonely trusting the wicked, and your loyalty was often a fault. You turn to politics to combat your feelings of helplessness, but no one takes you seriously and you feel lost in the light. You have to start from the ground up with the help of your best friend. You start to build your picture-perfect life: the kids, the lyrical smiles and the power. Will you drive away your lover by searching for their dark side, or will you put aside your ways and find the daylight?

Popularity/family

LTW: Become mayor

Good, easily impressed, brave, unlucky, perfectionist

Fall in love with your best friend

Have 10 best friends

Have children (at least one son)

Folklore- Gen 8: James

“I had the shiniest wheels, now they're rusting

I didn't know if you'd care if I came back

I have a lot of regrets about that”

You grew up trying to meet the expectations of your politician mother. Everything had to be picture perfect, even your private life. So she set you up with the daughter of one of the most powerful families in town, Betty. At first you are skeptical, but over time you fall for her integrity and affinity for old cardigans. Along the way you begin to feel stuck, tired of the sensual politics and your mother’s watchful eye. That's when you meet August -the polar opposite of Betty- and some part of you has to know what she is like. You meet in parking lots and dive bars, but after Betty finds out, you realize that summer is dwindling. In wake of losing two girls, you turn to writing: poetry and sad prose. You get lost in your stories, but once you start to gain traction, you can’t help but wonder how different your life could have been. Will you rekindle your wild flame with August or go back to the peace you felt with Betty?

knowledge/ romance

LTW: Publish 5,000$ best seller*

Great kisser, coward, bookworm, brooding, commitment issues

Fall in love with Betty

Fall in love with August

Confess to cheating on Betty

Write novels

Move into a cottage by a lake

Finally choose the one girl

Have at least one daughter with her

Evermore- Gen 9: Ivy

“And the skeletons in both our closets

Plotted hard to fuck this up

And the old men that I’ve swindled

Really did believe I was the one”

You always resented your father because he abandoned the good life for a cottage in the woods and his stories. You don’t want that; you want power and wealth. You don't need love, just a fancy car. So you turn to crime, because it’s easy for you; you love the gold rush. You con men and no one will ever prove it. You marry rich men and inherit their money when their time runs out. But then one day you meet your match, a fellow criminal, and wonder if this life will really bring you happiness. But you realized this a little too late, and now you're forced to drink your husband's wine… but he was the wrong guy. Will you leave the life of crime behind or will you stay frozen in time?

Fortune/pleasure

LTW: Gold digger

Kleptomaniac, genius, charismatic, mean-spirited, rebellious

Go into the criminal career

Marry a rich sim

Fall in love with a criminal and have an affair

Have a son

Midnights- Gen 10: Snow

“And I don't dress for villains

Or for innocents

I'm on my vigilante shit again”

You knew your mom wasn’t the most ethically-correct person. You like to think you inherited her better half; but that isn’t entirely true. You are determined to be different, so you become a spy; you get the satisfaction of working for the good guys and the pleasure that comes with great wars. Being a spy is difficult though, and you never know when things could go wrong. You are constantly burning files and deserting old lives. But you’re a mastermind, nobody can deny that. You finally meet your perfect person, but it's hard concealing your true occupation from them. You have money and respect… But can all of that pay for someone to just know you?

Fortune/knowledge

LTW: Become head of the SCIA

Perceptive, disciplined, loner, proper, daredevil

Join the intelligence career

Move homes at least twice

The rest is up to you since it is the last generation

*50 new LTW mod can be found here

if anyone decides to do this challenge tag me! i'd love to see it

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erzsebetrosztoczy · 3 months

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For your wounded heart

Pt.2

Pairing: Mizu x reader

Word count: ~1,6k

Notes: Heyhey im dropping part two, sorry for the delay, currently I need to prepare for my upcoming exams so i don't have much time to get creative, also this part may feel forced?? weird?? short??? if so its because i have no will to exists rn eheheh but i'll get back to this as soon as im able to

Ps.: Mizu's pronounce changes with the povs, reader is gn so far (if you want to change that let me know, i'll go with this for now)

Part 1

Something squeezed her chest tightly. The pain tore through her heart like lightning - dipping it into frozen snow, bitter poison, molten iron until she felt nothing but pain and rage. She was angry at everyone and everything for letting her hurt. And it hurt because everyone only brought sadness to her.

Blackness, red, and blinding white alternated, zigzagging before her eyes like a dragon. Black, red, white. Red, white, black. White, black and–

Mizu's eyelids popped up, and she rose from the ground, eagerly sucking in the air into her lungs.

The fire was there before her. It found her again — it could finally hold her in its grip again. Wherever she went, she was at the corner of the raging fire, the tongues of flames reaching high and rushing after her to swallow her up, to erase her from the world.

In the wake of a child that brings death, only fire that brings death can follow.

"Hey, hey…!" A strange voice spoke from behind Mizu, barely louder than the crackle of fire.

Mizu turned and extended her arms. Everything was blurry, she only saw colors and shapes. Something warm and soft touched her palm. She squeezed it and pushed it to the ground.

A thump, a painful squeak, and Mizu was on her knees. Underneath, there's something soft, or better said, someone soft.

The air quickly escaped from your lungs after the stranger pulled you to the ground so quickly and then weighed down on top of you. Suddenly you couldn't even comprehend it – one moment he is still sleeping on the ground, wounded and harmless and in the next he jumps up with the speed of a shot arrow, and tackles you to the ground.

For a few moments you could only gape like a fish; searching for air and words.

When your mind finally worked enough to not only care about your situation, you were finally able to look into the eyes of your savior, who was just trying to crush you.

The yellow-lensed glasses slipped slightly on the bridge of his nose as he looked down. At first, seeing it on the road, you thought you must have bad eyesight from so far away. Then his iris appeared in a strange greenish-brown light resembling mud. But your very first judgment proved wrong.

A sea of blue eyes stared down at you.

Now it wasn't just the lack of air that made you unable to speak - shock silenced you.

Mizu stared at the figure in front of her. They didn't seem like someone who could cause her serious trouble if a fight took place. Judging by the stranger's expression, they were more scared to death than determined to get rid of her.

She looked around — her chest rising and falling rapidly.

Rough wooden walls, rammed earth floor, open stove, small room. Twilight. A roaring fire, pleasant warmth. Smell of strong spices and greens and flowers. Bouquets hung on the wall.

…. The bandits. That someone, who was being chased, flashed into her memories.

“Were you on the road…?” She asked in an uncertain voice, weakly.

"Please don't hurt me! I only want to help you!" The one she saved begged under her.

As if the threads of her thoughts had been cut off, all of a sudden Mizu felt a slow, sluggish nothingness in her mind.

There were no thoughts, no reactions anymore.

Where was she? Who was that in front of her? What happened?

Why did the searing pain from her heart begin to sink down to her torso?

Before she could voice her confusion, a sharp jab hit her side, numbing her entire body. Teeth gritting and snarling - she loosened her grip as she was leaning to the side, ready to fall like a full sack although still had enough alertness to catch the force of the fall with her arm.

And her vision darkened again.

Ignoring what you're knocking over or going into-you crawled away from him as soon as he fell back to the ground. With a gasping breath, you tried to grab anything in your reach that could serve as defense if the stranger decided that he had no intention of "rescuing you" anymore.

"Damn it...what was that?" You panted as you threw your back against the wall, watching the still body- sickle in hand.

You just wanted to thank him for what he did for you, whether it was an act from the heart or forced. This stranger saved your life, that's why you brought him - dragged him all the way to the hut. And he has the courage to attack you in his fever dream after that?

It was a thankless situation.

After a few minutes of consideration, you realized that this mysterious wanderer is probably hallucinating in a feverish dream. Sometimes muttering incomprehensibly, groans as his face gets distorted.

"He’s just imagining…" You tried to convince yourself. "Surely having visions..."

The lanky stranger then moved; his body shook, a low, bitter sob broke from his lips as he pulled his knees and chest together in front of him.

"Visions of great pain and troubled times." You acknowledged with a sigh, finally getting up from the wall, walking over to him and slowly lifting the blanket back over him.

Kneeling next to his head, you stilled.

You bit in your lower lip as your gaze fell upon his face.

In his sleep if he’ll think that you are part of the dark images that are now tormenting him and try to attack him…

Slowly, as if you wanted to touch a fine spider web, your fingers hovered on either side of his head – unsure whether to touch it or wait for his dreams to stop.

Then your fingertips reached the dark curls of his; to the grizzled, sweat-damp, black hair. It was just a gentle touch of a breath, but as soon as it happened, the blue-eyed stranger's features softened.

A wanderer with blue eyes. A stranger - not only to you, but to all your people. Only those of faraway lands had colored eyes…

A cold gaze, translucent and restless.

Blue like water, like the sky.

And those blue eyes then saw you on the road and decided you were sympathetic. Blue eyes helped defeat the bandits. Thanks to these blue eyes, you are still alive and breathing.

You didn't even notice how your fingers slid along his forehead, combing the stray strands to the side.

"It was up to you whether my life would end or continue. Now it's my turn to return the favor." You whispered to him with a faint smile.

You had to tend to his wound as soon as possible - putting himself to sleep won't be enough to heal.

But with that, you had a problem – you couldn't know how he would react in his sleep if you started treating his wound. Judging from the previous ones, you didn't think it was worth prodding the sleeping bear…

No - not again, you didn't want him to tackle you down half-asleep, hallucinating.

You thought about leaving your hut again; finish getting the herbs for your order.

But you didn't want to run into any of the stragglers again. So what if this half-blood wakes up just when you're away; without a word vanishing before seeing him again one last time, or worse - your home could be destroyed even.

You decided that, in the absence of a better decision, you too would go to rest, even just for an hour or two - winding down the previous excitement and letting your wounds heal.

When her eyes opened again, she felt as if she were being tossed around by a gust of wind; the room spun around Mizu, the figures blurred, the lights stretched. She sat up with a painful groan, her eyes glazed down to her stomach, her sides burning like embers—a dull but convulsive and unrelenting pain raging inside.

So much for being guided by noble actions. Once guilt, compassion wins over her better knowledge and she's already slipping to the brink of death...

From which the herbalist brought her back, the one whom she saved.

Carefully scanning the room, Mizu confirmed to herself that the healer was sleeping lying on a sack, huddled together, small, almost lost in the surroundings. A holey cloth blanket covered their body, which barely covered their - bare legs and arms hung out, revealing the thin, red scratches they might have gotten during escaping.

Now both of them carried the mark of the events of that day on themselves - maybe forever. Another wound, another lesson for Mizu: if you help others, it only gets you into trouble.

This was also the curse of the herbalist. They bring medicine, rescue those in need, and what is their fate? People turn their backs on them, chase them away, leave them alone in a little hole they can call home.

Predictably leaving them to both nature and man…discarded because nobody needs them.

Perhaps the two of them had more in common than she had first thought.

As Mizu tried to get up from her bed, another spasm shot through her body, crippling her muscles. Gritting her teeth - so as not to make a sound - she fell back to the ground realizing with a frustrated puff that she unfortunately had to stay there for a while.

"Still – as stagnant water." She grumbled to herself with a sigh.

The fire continued to blaze, the embers continued to glow - covering the two sleeping figures in warmth.

Maybe only for a short time - but until then; the destinies of the two were intertwined in the web of life.

#blue eye samurai #mizu #bes #blue eye samurai x reader #mizu x reader #mizu blue eye samurai #bes x reader #blue eye samurai imagine #mizu imagine #bes imagine #blue eye samurai headcanons #mizu headcanons #bes headcanons #blue eye samurai fanfic #bes fanfic #mizu fanfic #x reader #my writing #it looks so short goddamnit:(((( anyway thats all for now i go back to dying xoxo

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linnavuligar · 3 months

Text

It's 2 am but I can't sleep so here's some design details for my qsmp eggs (sorry if there are incoherent thoughts)

• Ramon

Ramon is a electric dragon. His body is 90% covered in materials that are bad at conducting electricity so he can interact with people. He loves hug.

His tail is broken. I gave his tail a metal thing so he can charge electricity again. This design choice is to parallel qFit metal arm.

His shirt collar is this shape ⚡

He has baby face (so does Chayanne - 🎭💀) so he glued a mustache onto his goggles to hide it (the adhesive is terrible so he's working on other mustache alternative)

I designed him with lots of square shapes (with rounded corners though) and bright neutral colors. I want him to be sturdy, reliable, calm and a bit of a softy.

I also designed him with squares because I want him to contrast with Dapper who is dark gray with saturated red and would have flow-y clothes that are sharp triangles shaped.

His design is the most thought I have put into a character design.

• These four

Leo: I just put my spin on popular Leo designs. Red hoodie, dog hat/cap, black shorts red sneakers white socks and of course, a shark tail. (I'm planning on heavily changing her design) _ Hc: her power is crystal bending but right now she can only control amethyst crystals.

Tallulah: popular Tallulah design. Besides the orca tail, I contribute nothing.

Empanada: everything is pancakes, also her tail is the shortest of all the eggs. (Hc: her magic is to turn cake batter into copies of herself. She's learning how to morph it into other people)

Sunny: sun and clouds motifs. Her eyes are black with amber iris, giving her excellent night vision but detrimental during the day, that's why she wears sunglasses. Hc: sun magic. She can bend light and go invisible, or generate / withstand intense heat, her hair and tail fur glows. She's too young to control the weather ← there's a theory about how tubbo's mood control the weather so I want to give her sun power to parallel qTubbo (sunny is a bit op right now but I'm working on it)

#qsmp #qsmp ramon #qsmp leonarda #qsmp tallulah #qsmp empanada #qsmp sunny

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softsan · 1 year

Text

Eyes On Fire. (Pt. 1)

PAIRING: Aemond Targaryen & Fem!Reader

CHAPTERS: | 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 |

WORD COUNT: 3146

GENRE: Alternatively Universes/Canon Divergence, Alternative Ending, The Greens Win, Loosely based on the books/show, Made up House,

DESCRIPTION: After the Greens win the Dance of The Dragons, you a left alone navigating the dangers and woes of Kings Landing. You were one of the last survivors of House Vermillion with the expectation to restore your House to its former glory. Pressured to find yourself a husband, you unintentionally catch the eye of the dangerously, one-eye kingslayer—how will you ever survive amidst those who kill, those who take, and those who wish to eat you alive? Can also be read on AO3 here.

WARNINGS: Bodily Injury, Death, Graphic violence, Suspicion, Attempted murder, Murder, Poisoning, Possessive themes, Aemond in general

OPTIONAL PLAYLIST: Royalty by Egzod & Maestro Chives, Middle of the Night by Joel Sunny (cover), Down (feat. Trella) by Simon

You’d do your duty as always. No matter the circumstance, no matter how the tides changed. You were the dutiful daughter of House Vermillion, the red hibiscus—petals bright and blushing, with the palest of white throats. Venom, Bane, and Frenzy were your House words. Not the most eloquent of sentences but it summed up the ferocity of your House. Small in stature and territory, but always an admirable opponent.

You bowed graciously, your beautifully hand-threaded skirt brushing the tiles of the Red Keep. You proudly displayed your house colors, the orangey-red, and a white-like silver complementing your most distinguished trait—your eyes. You and all Vermillion children possessed a pair of crimson eyes. Eyes that unnerved everyone outside of your House for how otherworldly they appeared to be.

You kept your breath steady, your sight grounded to the Lord’s feet as he inspected the ladies one by one. You had been brought to Kings Landing as a hostage during the war. Locked in a degree of comfort on the uppermost floors of the dungeons. Your father, uncles, and cousins had answered the call of the Blacks to fight the Great war they now quipped as the Dance of Dragons. They had fought fiercely to their bitter ends, leaving no male heir to House Vermillion’s Island Throne.

The Greens came out of the war victorious and overnight you unexpectedly found yourself, head of your House, a position you had never foreseen for yourself. You were to represent House Vermillion during the ceremony where all the great Houses were to re-pledge their loyalties to the crown—or face the abolishment of your House altogether.

The woman beside you nervously played with the hem of her sleeve, the bottom fraying at the edges. You like most of the other ladies lined up were not keen to be chosen. After all, but days ago you were all daughters of traitors, and despite the fact that King Aegon had pardoned your Houses, the stink of your House’s past treacheries remained.

You doubted anyone lined up here would be treated kindly. Especially if you were assigned the task of serving under the Targaryen family.

“You in the gown in redden silk,” The Lord called.

You offered a smile of puffery, lifting your gaze to meet his stony face.

“You will be serving under Princess Jaehaera,”

You curtsied in response, “It will be my honor to faithfully serve under House Targaryen.”

Princess Jaehaera was a girl of one and ten, described as sweet and simple. The maids had advised you she’d be painless to handle, quiet with few words to offer. But it wasn’t Jaehaera that gave you worry it was her Queen mother Helena and by extension to the Dowager Queen Alicent. Princess Jaehaera wouldn’t know your family’s standing, nor would she know their past treacheries but her mother and grandmother would.

“Let us break fast,” You swept the curtains of Jaehaera’s chambers open, a beautiful morning light flooding the room.

Jaehaera gave a soft grumble, stirring slowly awake.

“Come on now,” You encourage, searching for the hairbrush you remembered you’d placed by her vanity the night prior, “Your Queen mother expects you to be dressed and fed before your lessons.”

The Dowager Queen Alicent had specifically brought in Artisans that specialized in embroidery from Dorne. She wanted her only granddaughter to fashion a handkerchief to gift to her unknown betrothed, which was to be revealed during the Targaryen’s first hosted ball since the war had ended.

Princess Jaehaera slid her back off her mattress, her silver hair knotted at its ends. You knelt down, the ivory brush in one hand whilst you used the other to tuck away the silver strands that obscured her face.

“I’m terrible with the needle,” Jaehaera quietly confessed to you.

You hummed, aware of so. You could read from Jaehaera’s body language that she found her embroidery lessons to be a painstaking bore.

“It’s not a bad skill to possess,” You brushed the last off her knots, reaching for some red ribbon to decorate her hair.

Jaehaera’s face remained glum.

“How about after your lessons I’ll take you to visit the gardens,” You began to braid, weaving the red ribbon throughout, “We can search for some of those jewel-colored Beatles,” You whispered, knowing exactly how to entice the young girl.

“Truly?” Jaehaera’s eyes lit up.

“Yes, but first you must wash” You stood straight, “Servants!” You instructed, “Fetch a pail of the Princess.“

A flurry of servants heeded your request. You stopped one whilst heading towards the door “Dress her something green,” You kept your voice low, motioning towards the vibrant green gown you’d acquired along with the oval-cut emerald necklace that was draped over one the chests beside her vanity.

You had hoped your efforts would be appreciated by the Hightowers. It was your duty to do all you could to keep House Vermillion alive, even if it meant denouncing your father and uncle for their support of The Blacks. House Vermillion was in a fragile state, your wealth had dramatically declined, your remaining lands were at risk of being swallowed up by the crown and your people were restless with you as their head of house.

The servant nodded, “I’ll have someone escort her to the dining hall.”

“Make sure you don’t keep her majesty waiting.” You made your exit.

Your Aunt who had stepped in as regent during your absence and had advised you by raven to marry quickly. Your House needed alliances, it needed new wealth, and most importantly it needed heirs… But finding a husband that suited you was easier said than done.

“Lady Y/N is it?” A voice startled you.

You paused your velvet slippers, turning aback. Ser Cristion Cole approached, his armor glimmering in the light that filtered through the corridors. He was undeniably handsome, his white cloak immaculate without a stain of dirt.

You had heard whispers Ser Cole had once fancied the Princess Rhaenyra and had asked her to forget her crown, run away and marry him instead. Her refusal sent him on a downward spiral of retaliation and revenge. You examined his face, finding the rumors hard to believe. He had been re-instated as Dowager Queen’s Alicent’s sworn shield, having been removed from the hand of the king.

“Indeed, I am,” You’d tread carefully, politely lifting your skirts as you bowed. If what they had said was indeed true, he was not a man you wanted to familiarize yourself with, “Do excuse my rudeness Ser Cole the preparations in the dining hall have yet to be attended to, and do not wish to keep her majesty waiting.”

You passed him with haste, noting a glimpse of a shadowy figure lurking in the depths of your peripheral vision. Was it the hair of sliver you saw? Eye if violet?

You shook your head, you must have been growing paranoid.

You came forth with a plate with Princess Jaehaera’s favorite honey cakes. You held back the long sleeve of your sage green dress, placing the plate down on the cloth that covered the table.

You had assembled cakes, the likes of Honey, Blackberry, Oat, and Cream. You had chosen the cakes according to the Targaryen’s preferences. Jaehaera adored the taste of honey, Jaehaerys had a liking for Blackberries, their mother Helena preferred the lesser sweet option of Oat, while Maelor was still a toddler and would happily enjoy the taste of cream. You, however, hadn’t counted for the presence of another, certainly not the king’s brother—Prince Aemond ‘One-Eye’ Targaryen.

You kept your expression neutral. Prior you had only seen the formidable Prince from afar. He had a head of long silver locks that draped downs his shoulders, his face was unearthly, striking, and sharp, it was as if the gods had carved him out of stone itself. His sinister violet pupil was trained on your every move. Your cheeks unintentionally flushed; you suddenly felt naked under his heated gaze.

The subtle bodily reaction his look had given you brought him satisfaction. Amused, he awaited until you passed his spot at the table. He then, caught the long sleeve off your silken gown, his thumb brushing the red and black hibiscus threaded into your dress. The flower was embroidered in his house colors, not yours.

“You bring cakes for everyone but none for myself?” There was a hint of something in his voice you couldn’t quite decipher.

You offered your dearest apologizes, “Had I known your grace to be attending, I would have surely supplied some for you,”

Aemond tilted his head, “Some of what?” He challenged, pointing to the likes of the blackberry and honey cakes.

You bit the inside of your cheek. You hadn’t been around Prince Aemond enough to observe his preferences. How could you possibly surmise which cake he craved, what excited his taste?

“Which cake would you bring to me?” He pressed, ignoring when his sister Helena tried to provide you with a change of conversation.

“A Winter Cake,” You finally answered, it wasn’t a type of cake baked in Westeros. It was local to the Norvos, one of the Free Cities Eastward. You thought it safe to pick since it was unlikely Prince Aemond could deny disliking a cake he had never tasted.

You waited for his dismissal, unprepared for the grin that arose on his features.

“Then I demand a Winter Cake from you the next time we meet.”

Your hands were stained with charcoal, your back leaned against a tree. You had been subconsciously tracing the outline of Prince Aermond’s face on your piece of parchment. His face was truly unlike anything other you’d seen before. His angular jaw, his pink lips, and even the pronounced scar that crossed beneath his eyepatch had a beauty of its own. They had said Targaryens were closer to gods than men and judging by their looks than perhaps that was to be true.

Aemond was bold, wilful, and hot-tempered. He was a fierce swordsman and known to be unforgiving. It was best you stayed away from him. After all, you needed to focus. You needed to paint yourself as a dutiful lady, favored by the crown enough to entice a husband that would marry you and save your House. Prince Aemond with his unnerving stare…Your finger absently grazing the eye you drew— you feared, he would bring you nothing but trouble.

The sun had begun to make its descent down to the Earth, a cold chill running through the air. Your body shivered, lifting your cloak closer to your breast, “The hour is late we should retire to our chambers Princess,” You called to Jaehaera, who had been carrying an unfastened jar of insects.

“A little longer,” She pled, her eyes spotting a spotted moth flying past.

"Only a little,” You Affirmed, “Otherwise, you are bound to catch a cold.”

Clinking could be heard in the background, the sound of metal hitting against metal. You raised your head higher spying Prince Jaehaerys sparring with a knight. You found it odd, they were practicing in the gardens rather than in the courtyards. You narrowed your eyes, Prince Jaehaerys usually trained with the same handful of knights. This knight, however, was different. You studied his armor, the small indented crest welded into the iron.

“House Lansdale,” You quietly bespoke to yourself, “ Harold, Nephew of Ser Loreth Lansdale,”

Your face hardened, the chill you felt now was a lot stronger. Ser Loreth Lansdale had been apart of Rhaenyra’s Queensguard, faithful until his death in her defense. House Lansdale had sworn their allegiance to The Blacks and refused to honor the new order under king Aegon. Your brow furrowed, this would not end well.

Aemond Targaryen had felt the wear of court life. The fatigue of listening to Lord after Lord whine, protest, and complain about their little matters and self-serving affairs. He much prefer the time of war, at least then he could ride daily on dragon back and burn down cities as he pleased.

His now existence was monotone, void of color. He yearned for something or someone that lit his fire, that could spike his interest. He’d had thought he’d have to wait until the ball in a month’s time so he could have some fun. Yet, this time to his benefit he was mistaken.

Aemond leant over the low-hanging balcony that stared over the gardens, his elbow resting upon the stone fixture while his hand lay in his palm. The cool wind blew his sliver locks ahead while his predatory gaze fixated on you.

You appeared to be the perfect lady, kind, and well-mannered. You knew how to entertain his niece Jaehaera and charm his Queen Sister Helena. You went out of your way to garner favor from his House by spoiling Jaehaera with gifts, honoring his mother’s Hightower colors, and even embroidering Targaryen-colored hibiscus’ on the sleeves of your dresses. He admired your commitment, but what he admired, even more, was how you studied and used those around you to further your cause.

It was unquestionable that you were trying to rebuild your house. Put in a good word when you could for your Aunt, appeal to the other Lord’s sensibilities to send food and livestock to the small island House Vermillion called home. You were tactful, underneath your sweet façade.

He watched you place down the roll of parchment, carelessly wiping your charcoal-stained hands on your skirts. You ushered Princess Jaehaera to run off to greet Lady Barom who would most likely be by the pond, dismissing the Princess’ protest, letting her know that you’d be with her in a moment.

It wasn’t until Princess Jaehaera was out of site, did you turn your focus onto his nephew who was sparring with a knight. You lurked behind a tree, using it as cover as you observed the two of them.

Aemond was beyond engrossed with the scene at hand, silently scaling down the balcony until his feet met a fresh patch of grass. He felt his sheathed Valyrian steel sword against his hip, his hand naturally finding its place upon its handle.

Aemond strayed closer, as did you. It wasn’t until he was only a few paces away did he notice he didn’t recognize the knight sparring with his nephew. In fact, his nephew shouldn’t have been sparring in the gardens altogether. Aemond’s hold on his handle tightened.

You surveyed the knight and Prince Jaehaerys just as closely. Prince Jaehaerys had been innocently smiling as he twirled, leaving an opening where his back faced the knight. The knight immediately took advantage resting the sword against Prince Jaehaerys neck. Prince Jaehaerys dropped his sword in defeat, expecting the knight to lower his too but he didn’t. Ser Harold Lansdale continued to press the blade against the young boy’s neck, scoring blood.

“Ser Harold Lansdale!” You exclaimed emerging from behind a tree, this distraction was enough to get Ser Harold Lansdale to release the pressure he was placing upon the Prince’s throat.

You used your palm to knock away the sword, quickly weaseling Prince Jaehaerys out of the way.

“You shouldn’t be so rough on such a young boy,” Pretending you were ignorant of Ser Harold Lansdale’s true intentions.

You briefly bent to peer closer at the slice the knight had inflicted on the Prince. Luckily it appeared to only have cut the surface of the skin.

“Come now Prince Jaehaerys, head inside and I’ll call for maester to clean your wound up.” Prince Jaehaerys blinked back and forth before wordlessly nodding. He followed the trees, running up the steps and out of sight.

Ser Harold Lansdale’s nostrils flared, his cheeks purple, “You protect a Hightower Prince,” He spat with venom, “Your father was loyal to the Blacks, and you repay him so.”

“He is Targaryen Prince,” You corrected, “And Ser Harold Lansdale you cannot go around slaying children.”

“They are children of my enemies,” He raised his voice, “Your enemies too.”

“Children don’t fight their father’s wars,” You dropped your usual niceties, “The war is over Ser Harold Lansdale, I advise you to restrain your anger and adapt to your circumstances.”

Your last comment seemed to set Ser Harold Lansdale off, his arms arching as he heaved his sword back into the air.

Aemond unsheathed his sword at lightning speed and was about to come barreling forward when he saw you skid back with ease, the knight’s sword landing nowhere near you. You kicked your feet off the ground, dodging his next blow. You then used your palm to hit the inside of his elbow forcing him to drop his sword. Before he had gotten the chance to bend down and retrieve it, you kicked his ankles so he lost his footing altogether. Ser Harold Lansdale tumbled, a blade you had hidden in the depth of your sleeve sliding into your grasp. You rested it against the base of this throat just as he had done so to Prince Jaehaerys, cutting the first layer of skin.

“You seem to forget yourself,” Your voice bone-chillingly cold, “I am of House Vermillion. We are not known to be easy prey.”

Aemond watched in awe, a smirk widening on his lips. He was right during his first assessment of you… you were a lot of fun.

“Kill me,” Ser Harold Lansdale demanded.

You tsked, shaking your head. The humiliation of being brought down by women may have been too much for Harold Lansdale to handle.

“And be tied to your death? That wouldn’t be too smart for my image now would it.” You pressed harder onto the blade, “I won’t kill you now,”

Aemond pouted slightly disappointed, it would have been appealing to see you kill him.

“Venom, Bane, and Frenzy” You directed into his ear, your voice awfully menacing, “The poison in this blade will kill you.”

Aemond’s smile returned.

“In approximately—” You pretended to think for a moment, “Four days I’ll say. Well, unless I give you an antidote of course.”

“Antidote?” Ser Harold Lansdale grunted.

You released your dagger, “In the next couple of days if you formally apologize to me, I’ll give you the antidote.”

“You want an apology?” Ser Harold Lansdale barked.

“A financial apology would be most welcomed. I’m thinking two thousand coins, or maybe three thousand would be more suitable.”

“You bitch!”

You ignored his further vulgarity, his cusses repetitive and unoriginal.

“Remember, you have but four days.” You hid the blade back in the sleeve of your dress, turning to walk up the stairs to find Prince Jaehaerys.

Once you were gone, Aemond stepped out from the shadows. Ser Harold Lansdale who had struggled to lift his weight on his injured ankle, froze his eyes widening with a newfound horror.

“I’d say you have less than four days,” Aemond lifted his sword, slicing it clean through.

MONICA’S NOTE: Hello! Thanks for reading my first instalment. I’ve decided to repost this again as it isn’t showing up in any tags and tumblr support is not being helpful at all. I hoping this issues with tags is resolved soon.

#aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #house of the dragon fanfiction #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen scenarios #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond fanfic #aemond fanfiction #games of thrones #games of thrones fanfiction #house of the dragon aesthetic #aemond

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unicorncornflakes · 1 year

Text

Little One - Story AU! | Chapter 1

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Paring: Reader x Aemond Targaryen.

Summary: You are the only daughter of Jacaerys Velaryon, future lord of the tides. After the victory of Aegon and his side in the war, your family suffers the rejection in Driftmark. There you must always give an account to the king's new hand, Aemond Targaryen. However, when the time comes, Aegon and his court claim you as Queen Helaena's lady-in-waiting. As a new piece of the Greens' strategy to coerce your father, you are taken to King's Landing to begin your life in high society. Aemond will be, much to his pleasure, in charge of guiding you in this new stage.

Tags: Alternate Universe/ Enemies to Lovers/ Emotional Hurt/ComfortDrama & Romance/ Eventual Smut.

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence, death, forced marriage, and inc3st, at some points.

Tag-List (If you wanna be tagged in thi series or all of my work, let me know): @thedamewithabook @bluevxnus

Author´s note: Pls, enjoy! Feedback, shares and comments are always welcome!

Word Count: 4.1K

You were watching several of the maids put your things in an old traveling trunk. The oldest of them sighed tiredly while they tried to close it. You were still sitting on what until then had been your bed. That would be the day the ship sent by the king would come looking for you. Aemond had given you two options that day you had been informed that you would be leaving for King's Landing to be Queen Helaena's lady-in-waiting: You could wait patiently for a ship to come looking for you, or… you could ride Vhagar with him when he left. That same night.

You remembered blushing deeply when you imagined clinging to him in the middle of the night on top of his dragon. You had kept silent. Scared and flushed at the proposition. Aemond had told you that the sooner you got to the capital the better for you, but your father had finally said that there was no reason to rush things. You sighed in relief and in silence. You didn't understand what was in such a hurry for you to arrive. But, above all, you hadn't understood the mischievous smile that had appeared on Aemond's face when you saw how your father jumped at the idea of leaving you alone on a trip where you would have to carry your body tight to his. Then The Hand of the king informed your father that he would send a ship as quickly as possible to pick you up. You were all three in the same room. Alone. And at that moment Aemond spoke. "This is a way for you to remember your place, Strong" he said just before leaving the room and leaving the two of you alone. He was ready to leave that same night. With a slow and sure step, he passed by you, but not before looking at you out of the corner of his eye. You would be a new fundamental piece of his board. Your father spoke out after this, once you two were alone. He didn't want you to be confused. You weren't going to the capital to help anyone, but to be a hostage. Your stay within the walls of the Red Keep was just another way of putting a leash around his neck. You remembered your father closing his eyes slowly getting used to the idea. As if he didn't already have enough straps. With you within the walls of that castle, any idea of rebellion that that last bastion of the blacks could have ended. He asked you to be prudent. And you nodded silently, wanting to apologize to your father for not having died like the rest of your brothers. If you had died, you would not be another condemnation…

But you didn't say more, you remained silent. You had almost remained silent until that very day when you were watching how they kept trying to pack all your things. "Is she still like this?" your mother came into the room, your brother hanging from her chest while she was still carrying him in his arms. Thank the Gods; the little boy had survived two weeks. You told yourself that this had been a sign that he would survive... it was a miracle or perhaps one more curse for your parents. Another way to tie them even more to the crown and their loyalty to Aegon II. Maybe it would be better for everyone if he… died… you put that idea out of your head. You were just sad and upset by your father's words. Another strap.

Your mother walked around the maids who were still trying to close the trunk. It was small, but it was full of things. "Why haven't you dressed her yet?" she said in a bad way to the oldest of them all. Gladys. This was the one who had always taken care of you, you considered her your second mother, despite the bad tempers that she always had.

"We have to close this and then we put her in the dress that the one-eyed man asked for," she said huffing, wiping the sweat from her forehead. The one-eyed. That was how Aemond was always referred to in Driftmark. The one-eyed. That word kept resonating in your mind while your gaze continued fixed on the ground. You didn't want to leave, and yet you knew it wouldn't do you any good to complain, so you kept silent.

“I hate that damn dress,” your mother replied, moving closer to you but still talking to Gladys. She caressed her shoulder, seeking to reassure you, because she knew that even though you didn't speak, inside your heart was beating strongly while you imagined yourself in King's Landing. What awaited you there? What had you done to deserve such a fate? You had heard so many black legends. You bit your lip. You were going to pay for the sins of your parents.

"It's a harlot's dress... and it's green on top of it" replied Gladys as she approached your closet and took the garment out of it. You looked at your mother who only sighed at the sight of such a garment, for she knew that she would expose much of your cleavage. Silk and lace on the sleeves. It was the dress of a woman that she sought to provoke, not live chaste and pure as your parents expected of you. You frowned. You've never liked green. You couldn't understand why.

"The only thing he wants is to humiliate us" replied your mother while you continued to look at the garment. Gladys left her next to you. Right next to you in bed, stretched out.

“The best thing is that she starts dressing herself, my lady” The old woman sighed “I don't think she has anyone to help her in King's Landing. You will find many to help you take it off, but very few to put it on” Gladys shrugged and you widened your eyes. No, you definitely didn't miss anything in King's Landing.

"(Y/N), don't let men do what they want with you, did you hear me?" your mother told you with authority and, although you nodded in silence, you knew that the men were already doing what they wanted with you. Starting with Aemond Targaryen.

Only when you stepped on that ship, when you felt how it swayed with the waves, did you know that it was real. Not a fucking dream. It was real. You were leaving everything you knew. You didn't want to go. A single tear fell from your face. You could not. You didn't want. Why? It was all you could ask yourself. A tall and rather attractive knight approached you, silver hair and violet eyes. “Lady (Y / N)” he greeted you as you boarded the vessel, gallantly offering you a hand to steady yourself inside the boat that was rocking with the waves. Despite being the daughter of Driftmark, you had rarely been on a ship. You looked at your father in the port before grabbing that stranger's hand, as if you were asking permission.

Jace was watching you from the harbor. He nodded his head, while your mother, with your little brother in her arms, held back tears. They both watched your departure in silence. They said goodbye to you, without the certainty if they would see you again at some point. They never left Driftmark and would always remain so. Rarely, if not at all, you had seen them leave their home. That was their last stronghold for their cause now eradicated by the King. You received visits, but you never made them. Still, you had never been aware of any of your father's policies. He had always preferred it that way.

"My name is Daeron Targaryen" he greeted you as you took his hand in a graceful gesture. So, he had must been the king's younger brother. "I will accompany you to King's Landing" he smiled at you, attractive and gentle. He almost looked like a knight out of a fairy tale. It almost seemed as if his hand wanted you to relax. But you did not trust. You remembered your father's words that morning, seeing you dressed in green and not being able to look at your face almost as if he recognized his own failure.

“Aemond murdered your Uncle Luke. He killed your grandfather Daemon with the help of a witch. Aemond and Aegon murdered your grandmother Rhaenys. Aegon murdered your grandmother Rhaenyra…” Jace spoke plain and simple, sitting on the driftmark throne. At his right hand his wife. To the left of him, your grandfather Corlys. He was reminding you why you shouldn't have trust anyone “They are Kinslayers, (Y / N). Simply that. And… with these words I will silence myself, since telling the truth is now considered treason to the crown” you were in front of him, with your hands nervously grabbing the skirt of the dress. Sad, with dark circles and scared. Your father thought at the time that maybe it hadn't been a good idea to keep you away from the whole truth. Now you were just a little one sent to the dragon's mouth. A frightened and helpless little girl.

"Father, I won't trust anyone" you answered with a sad voice, a mere thread of voice that was barely audible in that room that had never before seemed so big or so sinister to you. Your father sighed. He definitely should have treated you differently. He sighed. He was condemning you to death and there was little he could do.

You saw how a gangly young man carried your little trunk, a large part of your life was in there. Even though Daeron was still holding your hand, you kept looking at your family. Your heart seemed to come out of your mouth. What were you going to do without them? What were you going to do away from home? They loved you. They always had and always would. You had felt loved by them and you had always been obedient in your duties and tasks. You moved slowly to the rail and gripped the wood tightly. You didn't want to leave, and yet you were going to. You had fantasized the night before about escaping, but you weren't going to fool yourself. You knew you couldn't do it. You obeyed. You always obeyed. The ship left and you saw how your family was lost on the horizon, how Driftmark it became smaller and smaller. You kept clinging to the wood. You felt that if you let go, you would forever loosen the tie that united you to your family. Daeron was still at your side. He breathed puffing out his chest and spoke in a friendly voice. He really was a Knigth.

“If it's any consolation, my lady. I left my home very young, even younger than you” he smiled at you again. Charming. He could be any woman's dream, and yet you still didn't look at him. Your eyes marked in Driftmark. "By the way, you look beautiful in that dress"

You already looked at him slowly, with sad eyes and an afflicted face. You did not answer. You just looked at him and he put a hand on her shoulder, a reassuring gesture again. You didn't have to trust him. That was what you told yourself. But you also remembered that your father hadn't said anything about Daeron or Queen Helaena, it almost seemed as if they hadn't been involved in the war. But, they had. Of course, they were assassins like their brothers.

“You will like King's Landing. I'm sure you and Princess Jaehaera will become good friends. After all, we must forget about the war. We're family.” Daeron seemed like a good man. But, you remained silent. Father, I will not trust anyone. You remembered your own words. You couldn't trust him. You couldn't trust anyone. You continued with your gaze marked at the same point where Driftmark had disappeared. You closed your eyes when contemplating the noise and the crowd of the port of the capital. You accepted your doom with grace. There you would never know mercy again. Another strap.

"I'm just saying we're faced with a succession issue like the king's father faced," Larys Strong spoke slyly, clutching his cane and staring at the figure of Aemond, seated in the chair that should occupy his older brother in that council. The cruel prince listened to him in silence, with a serious countenance and with his head resting on his fist. Really, despite the presence that he maintained right now, it was a problem that did not concern Aemond. If Aegon died next day, he would be king. He would fit the crown better and he would continue to do what he was doing now, due to his brother's lack of interest. The way he saw it, they were all advantages. Or maybe not, he was also smart in thinking that he himself was now running the kingdom from the shadows and if the people didn't like something, it was always Aegon's fault. Never his. Actually, he had planned it in detail.

“Queen Helaena could still give birth to a son. She is not too... old” Maester Munkun said, who had recently arrived to replace the previous one. The last one had already died of old age. Or so it was said. It was also said that Aemond had never been too fond of the old man. However, the words of this new master made the prince shift in his uncomfortable seat. No one dared to speak of his sister like that in public. And all the other councilors looked at each other, expecting a retaliation from Aemond, but the one-eye prince only spoke clearly after clearing his throat.

“Baela Velaryon has given birth to a son a few days ago. My sister could perfectly give birth to another child ”he replied, explaining the situation and taking a sip from the cup that was lying forgotten on the council table, where everyone else was also sitting.

"But the king... does he lie with his wife?" asked Lord Wylde, counselor to the edicts, who, as always, contradicted him in everything Aemond said.

The king's hand, at last, sneered. The king might not. But he did. Sooner or later he would bear Helaena another child. He wouldn't be the first, and if duty called for it, he wouldn't be the last either. His sister's three children had been his, though after the Dance they had only Jaehaera left. The thing that he had with Helaena had never been love, but duty. Aemond had never known love. Not even with Alys, who had used him. But he shook his head snapping back to reality.

"The queen will be pregnant sooner or later" he answered after taking another sip from his cup and leaving it again in the same place where it was. And Aemond leaned back in his chair.

“And what if she doesn't? Jaehaera cannot inherit. She is a woman” Lord Strong explained again“ We made a war so that this would not happen… ”he smiled at Aemond and this sighed tiredly.

"What do you suggest, Larys?" said Aemond with an unfriendly countenance, courtesies forgotten. His sister would get pregnant again. Alys's words and curse would have no effect on him. They wouldn't, even though he hadn't been able to father another child again since he'd executed her. He forced himself to focus again.

“Let us marry the king to another woman. Aegon the conqueror had two wives. And let's leave poor Queen Helaena quiet and alone with the grief of having lost two children to the war” Larys suggested and the rest of the councilors murmured among themselves.

“Maegor also had four and it did not end well,” Aemond said, recalling a theme from his beloved history books. “I will not allow my brother to remarry, Larys. Helaena will get pregnant” he repeated again, trying to avoid another conflict. Things like that never ended well.

"Well, if Helaena did not conceive and something bad happened, you would be the heir, Lord Hand," said Tyland Lannister, leaning back against the table and fixing his eyes on the one-eyed prince, who was regarding him with a cold and stoic expression.

"Are you going to question my loyalty to the crown, Lord Tyland?" he asked in a stern voice. That was a veritable nest of vipers. But, Aemond enjoyed it, he always would. He only had to impose his power more, through the fear "Do you doubt me?"

"Never" answered the adviser of the coin. That was fear, it was respect. Aemond would rather be feared than loved. Fear carried a greater respect than love. “I'm just saying… even if you inherited, we'd still be in the same situation. You have no children"

Yeah. It was true. He didn't have them. He finally hadn't married any of Boros Baratheon's daughters. After Maris Baratheon's glorious intervention and her accusation to him of lack of manhood, he had left that privilege to other men. So he hadn't fathered any children by marriage, and… the little boy he'd had with Alys had died shortly after he'd executed his mother. Almost as if Alys had condemned him to it. She had used Aemond to rise to power, she had never expected him to return from his confrontation with Daemon, but wanted him to die and thereby postulate her son as heir to the throne, as well as her regent queen. It had been a betrayal. A move gone wrong for the witch of Harrenhal.

"Do you want me to marry with someone as well?" He sneered, as his single eye was fixed on the advisors. "Which of you has a daughter that you desperately want to place on the throne?" he laughed, knowing that that was exactly what his grandfather Otto had done with his mother. Aemond was always one step ahead. He was never going to be fooled again. Larys swallowed, almost as if he thought his daughter with Floris Baratheon had a chance.

"I thought the daughter of Jacaerys Velaryon would serve that purpose," the maester said, as the rest of the councilors now stared at Aemond. Were you going to serve that purpose? Aemond smiled to himself. He would love to see Jace's face at your wedding or giving birth to the children of Luke's assassin. But, no... for now that was not your purpose.

"Not really. It's just another way to keep the future lord of the tides under control without having to pay him so many visits and find a husband loyal to our cause for the girl, not one who can help them with an army against us" replied Aemond tired of that meeting .

"So the Hero of Harrenhal does not intend to marry?" Larry asked. Aemond smiled at the way he was licked his ass. He knew perfectly well that very few called them that. He, to the common people, was the Butcher of Harrenhal. Perhaps, it was better that way.

"Not at the moment, Lord Larys" he commented with a mischievous and cruel smile. He loved to see how low everyone could be for a crumb of power. At that moment, one of the guards entered with the permission of The Hand and a bow of the head for him.

“My lord, Ser Daeron has already returned from Driftmark with Lady (Y/N). They both await your arrival in the throne room” he informed the prince, who rose from his seat, as did the rest of the advisors.

“We end this reunion. We will continue discussing tomorrow.” Aemond walked towards the door with a sure step. He was almost glad that you had already arrived. You had been fantastic for him to be able to end that tedious meeting once and for all. Nobody followed him. He only came out with his, he always passed safely there. You had always been so quiet, that he wondered if you would talk once away from your parents.

"How does it look for you?" Daeron asked, pointing to the throne with his head and a gentle smile. He had tried to get you to talk something during the trip, without much success. You looked in the direction of the empty throne and fell silent. That was where your father was supposed to have sat, not Aegon. Would the kingdom have fared better if your father had sat in it and not in the Driftmark? You would never know. You sighed, looking away and Daeron scratched the back of his neck indecisively. “I will ask for you to come to an audience of the king, when everything is filled with great lords and ladies from all over Westeros. Those things of high society and fanfare tend to please women"

"As you wish, my lord" was all you said, with a slight bow of the head. You had learned little about the manners you should carry out, but you knew just enough not to seem rude. Daeron smiled.

"Believe me, you will be happy here, Lady (Y/N)" the man smiled at you, gently holding one of your hands. You blushed at the audacity that he dared to take your hand, even though you knew he was trying to be protective. The green Knight was about to speak when a figure you recognized entered through the huge doors of the room. You released Daeron's hand and your full attention turned to Aemond.

Aemond watched you as he descended the steps to the throne room. With his characteristic gait, he devoured you in silence, although he would never admit it. His face showed a cruel, dark desire that he didn't want to show to anyone else. He liked how the dress he had chosen for you looked. It enhanced your breasts and marked your hips. Plus it was green. He liked to imagine your parents' faces when they saw you wearing it. Most of all he smiled to himself. Did they really think he was stupid enough to think that you didn't bleed? He should start putting his plan into action, before it all got out of hand. With parted lips and a smile painted on them, he approached you.

"Daeron," he greeted his brother, though he had his full attention on you, as he walked around you clasping behind his back. He was inspecting his new prey.

"Aemond" greeted his brother, who did not lose sight of him. Knightly honor told Daeron that the things Aemond was thinking were unethical, but he said nothing. He just waited for orders. He was made to obey.

"You may withdraw," was all Aemond said, and Daeron complied, as always, leaving them alone. The one-eyed prince kept walking in circles, with you in the middle of it, inspecting that such precious merchandise had arrived in good condition. "Hmm" was all you heard him say as you continued silent after bowing as expected for a person of his rank. You saw that he was carrying a dagger smaller than Dark Sister on that occasion. In those days, you got the feeling that Aemond was never unarmed. “How has your trip been, (Y/N)?”

"Good, my lord" was all you could say. He finally stopped in front of you and approached. You lowered your face when you felt his closeness. You dared not look into his eye. You were scared to death. You had never been alone with him. Never and you could feel that he was never clear in his wishes or in his words.

"Look at me to answer me, little one" he ordered you and you finally raised your face scared. He kept inspecting you. "Tomorrow, you will begin to serve the Queen" he informed you with few words, without explaining your mission much more.

"Yes, my lord" was all you answered and Aemond thought that you would make a docile wife, any man would kill to have one like that. Would he? He shook his head. He was trying to keep his mind cool. He wouldn't let another woman cast a spell on him like Alys.

"Good. Now I will order that they prepare you some chamber close to those of the Queen and a bath” he said without much more. "Tonight you will have dinner with my family" he told you and moved closer to you "I want them to find you charming" he whispered in your ear, and you closed your eyes. What was to become of you?

#aemond x y/n #aemond smut #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x fem!reader

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softdykellie · 11 months

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ੈ✩‧₊˚ motion sickness part ii | ellie w.

previous part here | next part here soon

PAIRING: modern!ellie x fem!reader

SUMMARY: having grown up together, everyone knew eachother in jackson. when a brooding newcomer owner to a tattoo shop comes along apparently charming her friendly florist neighbor things seem to take a turn.

WARNING: alternative universe! purposefully all lower case. multiple part series. not a very eventful beginning as ellie’s relationship with reader is slow burn but it will start evolving after this one seriously trust me!

WORD COUNT: 632

ellie. you tasted her name on your tongue and melted into the feeling, flushed. dina had certainly manifested her wishes into fruition, you thought. stared at the girl for way too long, getting familiar with her features and vacant gaze towards the alcohol filled shelves against the main bar wall, freckles like starry war paint, eyebrow scar, pale green iris, peach pink lips, auburn hair gently brushing her shoulder at length. breathtaking, you immediately named the feeling, but she looked worn, tossed around. you blamed it on the bruised eye, caught onto sky grey vibes.

a silly game blossomed into your heart years ago, the inspiration for your flower shop really: how everyone you meet could be described by the floral language. dina thought hers too common, but it was your favorite, a daisy, standing for loyal love and “i’ll never tell”. jesse, a white jasmin, sweet love, amiability. even abby, coriander. you did not know the girl at all, but you saw red carnations grow behind her in the way spiritualists would claim to see auras. red carnations; “my heart aches”.

“flower shop girl, yes, that’d be me”

“cute” she mumbled sipping on the beer dina had given her before promptly pretending to be busy elsewhere though noticebly eavesdropping.

“you’ve got a lot of tattoos on you” jesse pointed matter of factly, earning a chuckle “perks of the job?”

“the job” ellie repeated his words in light humor as if minimizing her own career with the sound “yeah, i guess. you want one?”

“fuck, yeah! maybe a dragon up my back or or you know a snake, i don’t know, what do you usually draw?”

“pretty things” she answered before taking you off guard with a head movement that pointed you out amongst them all “like her” she twisted her body around to meet your face “what would you get, flower girl? roses?”

“the sun” you answered “what does that say about me?”

ellie smiled a weak smile, raising the sleeve of her grey t-shirt to expose a beaming sun by her bicep, detailed sad expression in black ink across its center. you took notice of everything. ferns and a moth grew from her hand to the very end of her forearm and covered scars you could only assume to have been self inflicted. a sword pierced through the spare space of skin next to a phoenix and finally angel wings alongside a well hidden initial: J. you wouldn’t ask, but you wanted to.

“trying to figure that out myself”

you hadn’t noticed when abby left, only that she was gone when a couple dollars slipped past you towards the ground from the countertops, extra tips for dina. you wanted her extroverted ways to carry the conversation, ask the newcomer about the altercation, but she seemed to enjoy playing dutiful dedicated owner more. small talk failed you, and ellie was uninterested.

you planned out your next meeting in your head, showing up with cookies as they do in the movies, catching glimpses of her sketches on the wall, giving them backstories to fill the gaps. it wasn’t so strange to be eager as you were taking into consideration how rare these opportunities had presented themselves: you never left jackson, not even on vacation. the world was meant to turn on its axis but you were destined to stay still, an agoraphobia rooted into your veins like movement would burst your chest open, bloody and broken. the flowers had been a therapist’s idea: to take care of something innocent as a purpose, exist outside the shell of a body you painfully cared for in pure obligation. your personal garden arsenal though, had meaning. yellow tulips, that’s what you were. the flower for unrequited love. the one tattooed by ellie’s hipbone you were yet to see.

#ellie williams x reader #ellie x reader #ellie the last of us #softdykellie #ellie williams #ellie x fem!reader #tlou #abby x fem!reader #the last of us fanfiction #ellie fanfiction #modern!ellie williams #ellie williams fanfic

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flower-cage · 7 months

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The Wolf and The Dragon | Chapter Six

by @flower-cage

Aemond Targaryen x Stark!Reader

Summary: The war between the Greens and the Blacks has begun and the youngest of the Stark heirs is sent on a secret mission to King's Landing. In its course, she will learn to accept the power that was never meant to be hers and the love she never thought she deserved.

Chapter Six: The Wolf and The Dragon I

Chapter summary: When you show no signs of recovery, Aemond is forced to face his own heart.

Words: 4,039.

Warnings: 18+ only; gore, mentions of blood, cursing, near-death experiences.

A/N: uhhmmm this one is really different and I'm not sure about it but I can't wait to post it any longer!!! Will definitely go back and edit it later though lol.

Although this chapter does not contain smut, later chapter will. Minors do not interact.

For the most part, he recalled the blood — your blood. It had been everywhere: on the boat where you had fainted, on his hands that had bandaged you, on his chest which had supported you, and on his hair, his cheek, his nose. The pungent odor of iron was stronger than that of the salt of the sea and insistent, ruthless. Though it had been everywhere, it had never stopped pouring out of your rapidly cooling flesh for as long as you had been within his eyesight.

And the sight had been the most terrifying he had the displeasure of witnessing - that of your limp body fastened haphazardly to your loyal wolf as it emptied itself of life. More breaths it had stolen than even Vhagar when she had threatened to set him ablaze and more hopeless yet than the first look at his bloodied, deformed reflection over a decade in the past.

He was well accustomed to the sparkling sensation that bloomed in his chest, stretching along his arms, into his gut - an evil inherent to second sons, his mother would often say, a burden of the dutiful, of those who relentlessly pursue perfection to find only disappointment. Except, this time, it settled in his gut like a dreadful, innate truth rather than on his shoulders like a reminder of damnation, triggering not frustration but fear.

The decision to send you off had been like an omnipotent calling in his state of shock. He had weighed neither alternatives nor risks as he strapped you to Shadow in a hurry. Criston had been yelling from the shore still, the wooden vessel dragging behind him.

“What are you doing?!” he had screamed, his voice scratching through the silent night. “She’ll never make it!”

It had been too late, then, for the mighty direwolf dashed off with a speed abnormal for any woodland animal, taking you far into the darkness. Their matching, piercing blue eyes had locked in what he could only hope had been understanding - of the urgency, the gravity - and she had darted away.

The image – the blood - stayed with him on the ride back on that first night and lingered still through the second stretch of the journey home. Criston had followed him as he pursued the crimson trail as far as it veered into the woods, into roads wild and unbreachable.

The moment they finally dismount their horses at the Red Keep, that persistent smell and the urgent ringing in his ears become stronger as if his flesh knows you are close by, as if it had developed a sense that is attuned to you only. His cloak goes flying when his feet hit the ground and the cold grasp of the Stranger tightens around his heart when he spots a large, wet stain of red by his feet. It nearly topples him over.

Knights and lords cry for him, asking where he has been and blessing the Gods for his safe return, but he pays them little regard as he sprints through the corridors of the castle on his way to Maegor’s Holdfast, on his way to you. Each step that shortens the distance between you is yet quicker than the one previous and, once again, though his mind is indeed determined to find you, his body reacts faster yet than its commands, urging him on by an instinct he knew not.

He finds his strength in his clenched fists and in his misplaced anger as his tired eye blurs his vision. Though his dried lips evince his thirst as his choppy breath does his weariness, naught falters his severe pace, naught but the red-soaked towels servants carry out your quarters.

His powerful steps disturb his mother’s pensive state when he turns into the passageway that houses both your apartments - until that bloody sight stills him body and soul. She rises from the chair by your door where she sniffles into a handkerchief, gasping his name, wide, red-rimmed eyes spilling fresh tears. But the Grand Maester pops out of your room and recaptures her attention, shaking his head in shame, in defeat. The gesture rekindles the dread in his stoned, black heart, and like an explosion at the end of a trail of oil, he bursts renewed into an urgent stride.

He does not make it past his mother, for she envelops him in a firm embrace, holding his face between her palms to inspect his health, her eyes running across his face disorderly.

“What happened?” she chokes out rushedly, swallowing her despair. “Why were you separated?”

“I am not hurt,” he says instead of answering, to soothe her nerves and save himself from explanations.

He does not mean to dismiss her, knowing she had likely worried herself into near insanity when you arrived half-dead and alone, but he is the one who now nears derangement with the anxiety that burns and boils inside him like fresh, angry lava.

“How is she?” he asks without preamble, without the façade of coldness and propriety he commonly wears so well.

His mother clamps her teeth shut, then, and exchanges nervous looks with the maester in place of soothing him as he had her. He nearly topples to the ground again.

“How is she?” he presses on, gripping her elbows sternly to hold himself upward, to hold himself together.

“My Prince,” the maester starts, treading lightly, meekly, avoiding his penetrating gaze, “we have, at this time, exhausted our expertise.”

He pushes off his mother’s hold then, takes the maester by the collar and pulls him close, hoping that if the grime and gore that clings to his skin do not disgust him into talking, fear of his fury will.

“I asked-” he growls between gritted teeth. He hears his mother chastise him in horror but it does not deter him in the slightest. “How is she?”

“W-w-weak, your Grace,” the maester shivers in his grasp. “Barely breathing,” he adds quietly. “We have tried all-”

As if invaded by the realization that he can reassure himself of your state, he strides into your bedroom in a heartbeat. Shadow lies at the end of your large bed, fur hardened and matted by your dried blood. She perks up as he barges in but allows him to come near you, heavy head dropping back down onto the cushions as if its very weight were unbearable.

You look far too small where you lie swallowed by too many blankets, making him stop in his wild track. He approaches you timidly now, fearful of what he shall witness should he come any closer. Each step reveals another truth he wishes to unsee.

The covers are pulled to your chest, and your shoulders are wrapped in gauze stained a dark red, nearly brown. There is blood on your pillows and your bedding. Much like it clings to his hair and face, it does yours too. The once-white cloth of hand towels is marred in your blood, thrown in haste over a tea table. A bowl rests on it too, water so red it hides the bottom of the recipient entirely. He becomes nauseated so quickly he has to look away from all the carnage, but the sickness does not leave him – it is not the gory sight but your hopeless fragility that turns his stomach upside down.

He has come to know the color of your lips well enough to notice they bear an unfamiliar, frightening hue of purple. He cannot hear your quiet breathing, and neither can he see the rise and fall of your bandaged chest, or simply discern a single trace of life in your still form. Lifeless is how you look.

His legs fail him finally, and his body falls down onto your mattress as his fingers brush lightly against your wrist, afraid of what they might not find. It lacks the warmth he has grown accustomed to. If not for the faintest heartbeat, he would have taken you for dead. Lifeless is how you feel.

“We have stopped her bleeding and nourished her body with lamb’s blood,” the maester explains from where he stands just past the threshold. “All that can be done now is wait, and hope she will find the strength to heal her way back to us.”

“Her bandages look putrid,” he accuses though he dares not turn away from you, no matter how direly the sight aggrieves him.

“I am afraid the wound has begun to infect, my Prince. A wound this large requires diligent care-”

“Are you telling me,” he spits, his breath threatening to burst his lungs apart, his heart forcing its way through his ribcage, “she’s just been sitting here with an infection, worsening-”

“Aemond, the maesters were only able to treat her once before her wolf attacked them,” his mother interferes, her tone denouncing her vexation. “The only reason she is not laying outside on the dirt in the manner in which she arrived is because her wolf passed out shortly after their arrival.”

“And she hasn’t allowed any of us near since she awoke,” she finishes.

He glances at the direwolf behind him. She blinks slowly as she fights off sleep. What had prompted her to allow him close? Was it his scent on you, or yours on him? Or had she noticed the recent shift in your intimacy?

The thought warms him from the inside, provoking racy memories to resurface, but he is quick to shake them off and stop them from clouding his mind.

“I will do it, then,” he announces. “Bring me what it is I need and I shall do it.”

As he rises, in part to be taken seriously, in part to disturb his inopportune musings, he notices the perturbed look on his mother’s face, without a doubt a result of his allusion to improper intimacy. He shoots her a hard look to deflate her dismay. Some things, such as your safety, were more important than decorum.

“I-I beg that you bathe first, your Grace,” the maester urges.

He finds himself by your side again at nightfall. Anxious had he been to rid you of your infected bandages, he had done as the maester instructed and returned to his own chambers for a proper wash. Twice he had to order a fresh fill of water, so murky and red it had become with the blood that melted down his skin, through his silver strands.

Though he had not the heart to deny his poor mother’s worried, wet eyes when she herself came to fetch him for supper, he had quickly returned to you afterward. In the moments you were parted, his legs wished for nothing other than to jump up and take him back. His knee bounced underneath the table with the effort of restraint. His mind raced through the evening in the hopes it would accelerate the course of the meal in consequence, but the only effect it had was aggravating his own impatience.

Under the guise of changing your plasters once more, he had left promptly after dessert, though he suspected his mother’s keen eyes saw clearly past his excuses. Now he has naught to guise his presence here, by your side. Nothing justifies it when he puts more logs into your dying fire, nothing justifies him taking a seat by your bed, within arm’s reach, and nothing justifies his eye’s unwillingness to part with your image.

He had been careful to wipe the dried blood off your skin where it lingered in sight still, but it did not take away the semblance of death like he had hoped it would. And your lips remain shut and lifeless when they had once been both eager to insult him and pliant to his taste. He thinks he would delight in either response, as long as you were to wake again.

Lifeless, yes, is how he sees you in this moment, and yet sublimely serene. He had only seldom seen your brow without the crease of a frown, so often in response to his actions. You are a hard woman, led much like him by duty and loyalty to your own in a world that opposes your very nature. Although you had been remarkably brave to soften in the face of your wrongdoings, extending your sorrow even in the face of his unjust antagonism, your tenderness now resembles surrender. It does not ignite in him that same bright, undeniable pull either.

He is unable to discern what it is that courses through his veins in its stead, only that it is bitter. And bitterly his mind’s eye takes him to the moments when he delivered spite, only to paint distantly how he could have instead prolonged the joy he has learned is your company. Alas, the reality is that he wasted your interactions with his envy, and he might not now be granted a second chance.

He cannot stop his fingers when they reach for yours, for an urge to feel you, know for certain that you are living and that your heart pumps blood still in your flesh, simmers inside him. He has no shame in bringing them to his lips, either, only to let them rest there when not even your own eyes are there to witness his vulnerability.

It grants him momentary relief, even if he still longs for you to rise at his touch. But your skin does not smell of iron as he had expected, nor does it smell like you, and the general lack of responsiveness disheartens him so that he lets your hand rest on your mattress in defeat.

He is startled from his place of misery when the doors to your chambers open as if expecting his worst nightmares to materialize, as if expecting the very faceless face of the Stranger to stalk forward and retrieve you from him. Instead, it is his mother’s soft, tired semblance that greets him. He only realizes he has reached for his dagger when his shoulders drop and his grip on it slackens.

She walks in hesitantly, glancing at a sleeping Shadow before resuming her pace.

“You, too, should be resting,” she murmurs as if the raising of her voice could disturb you, as if you had been merely asleep all along, rather than holding on to a feeble thread of life.

Her casualty comes from a place of relief for her son’s well-being, he knows, but inside he boils already so much with his tightly concealed musings and sensations that he cannot reasonably extend her such empathy. He fixes his eye back on your gloomy face and hopes the action is enough of a statement that leaves no room for insistence.

She ignores his petulance, coming around him to stroke the back of her hand against your forehead. Her fingers brush a stray strand of hair away from your face and his own twitch in their envy. Then he presses his lips together to soothe the itch when he watches her murmur a short blessing against your brow.

“So beautiful, don’t you think?” she whispers, his heart clenches. “So strong.”

Had he been a lesser man he might not have recognized the sweet inquiry for what it was - a test. A test of his dignity, a test of his duty to his family, to House Baratheon, to the kingdom. But he is not a lesser man, and he knows his mother, no matter how quick-witted, well enough to know the right answer is to forego his opinion, no matter how heartily he wishes to divulge what has quickly become devotion.

“She saved my life,” it escapes him, unsure if he meant for it to reach his mother’s ears and noting that his adoration is distinguishable, unavoidable.

“Will you not tell me what happened?” she sighs, coming to stand next to him, placing a hand on his shoulder and carding her fingers through his long, tamed hair like she had done since he was but a scared boy. They hold still the same soothing effect on the scared man he has grown into.

“I was a fool,” he murmurs. “Daemon found us, and I was a fool to answer his taunts,” he hesitates, “and engage him in combat.”

Though her caresses falter and her hand squeezes his shoulder a bit tighter at the mention of the Rogue Prince, she neither chastises nor patronizes him, for which he is grateful.

“I’d be the one abed if not for her,” he concludes, “perhaps far worse.”

They sit in silence in the face of his somber acknowledgment, watching you sleep, until she at last coaxes him with gentle words and motherly wisdom to take rest in his own chambers. He leaves when a trustworthy guard is poised inside your room, and Shadow is once again alert in his absence.

The next couple of days, he sits alone and with his thoughts. You remain unconscious and eerily quiet, and he takes upon tending to your fire, tending to your wounds, attentive to your breathing and your pulse. He sits by your side, watches the days pass through your large windows, and reads and writes. He leaves for council meetings in the mornings and retires to his bedroom in the late evenings.

His mother joins him in the afternoons, sometimes with Helaena, always with Ser Criston, and though she joins in quiet activities - reading, sowing, praying - she does also all the things he wishes he had the liberty to do: brushing your hair, kissing your forehead, muttering words of tenderness. She blesses you with holy passages when she leaves, and Criston’s get well soon, Captain’s never fails to warm his spirits.

On the third evening, Grand Maester Orwyle is who joins him. Though Shadow allows him in, finally, she snarls still when he threatens to approach the bed. What he says turns him ice–cold again:

“If she does not rise on the morrow-” he hesitates, cutting himself short at the murderous looks he gets from him and your wolf. “She needs nourishment, and soon,” he finishes solemnly before retreating in the wake of his desolation.

Shadow rises, clearly distressed. He cannot tell whether she understands his words or if she senses his desperate grief, but he too is perturbed to the point of pushing off his seat. In dire need of the cold night air to clear away his worries, he opens the doors to your balcony, your wolf following in her eagerness to greet the night.

He breathes in the crisp, dewy air, eye closed and head low as he supports his weight against the metal handle. His forehead rests on the cool glass but it too fails to distract him from his anguish. His flesh thrums now he has his back to you, afraid you shall again befall victim to lethal damage. However, when he awards himself another glance he is not appeased in the slightest, for his fears weigh renewed in his chest, stealing his breaths, stalling his heartbeats. Had he felt more comfortable in the skin that prickled and burned in your presence, perhaps he would not be standing here, mourning every kiss and tender touch and gentle word he never gave you.

It is Shadow who startles him out of his torments with her deafening howling at the bright full moon.

“Damned dog,” he hisses, quick to step back inside and shut the doors.

“Direwolf,” says a faint, feeble voice behind him.

He turns on his heels, thinking he has finally gone mad with longing when he finds you yet asleep. Then you squeeze your shut eyes harder and a precarious breath escapes him. He steps warily towards you, half thinking still that he is in a dream and, if so, wishes not to disrupt it.

But you move your head sideways unhurriedly, tentatively awakening your body which surely still aches in the aftermath of the violence it endured. His heart is light and bright to see you alive, undoubtedly alive, attempting to break free from his chest for entirely new motives.

“You fool,” is what escapes him instead, though his voice trembles, not bites, and the insult strains as it gets caught in his throat. Once a habit, now his body rejects it when his mind tries to place you in that spiteful sentiment you haven’t belonged to in quite some time.

Your eyes fall open finally, blinking rapidly and fighting against the light, no matter how dim. He rushes to your side when you propel yourself forward only to be driven right back by your pain, wincing as you go. He propels a second pillow behind your head, silent as he struggles to hold the second insult that so easily gets trapped behind his teeth. Your eyes are closed again, and the frown on your brow evinces your discomfort.

“Are you alright?” you beat him to the question.

“I am,” he bites and wishes he had the bravery to express such care. “Since you’ve used your body as a shield against Dark Sister like a damned fool.”

He curses himself inwardly, taking advantage that you cannot see him raise a disappointed palm to his forehead, tired himself of his constant antagonism, but you smile despite his discourtesy and he can breathe again.

“Are you thanking me, my Prince?”

He breathes out a strained laugh - one which likely sounds more like a scoff - at your misplaced, mocking formality. You are safe and healthy enough to satirize him still. He does not stop his fingers when they brush against your hairline. He has long tired of inhibiting them.

“You need water,” he murmurs when your lovely eyes meet his.

He helps you sit up and lean against the headboard. Carefully, he cups the back of your head, his other hand bringing a chalice to your chapped lips. He wills himself not to break from your gaze as much as he stills himself not to shiver. The effort of restraining his care is just as great as embracing it, for it awakens a thrill and a pull that thrums in his heated flesh too strongly for him to veil behind cold eyes.

He leaves your side when his heart fills to the brim with a bursting light, threatening to expand beyond what he is capable of enduring. He tells the guard outside your door to fetch the masters and your maids, then lingers for another moment so that he may catch his breath and his reason.

Thankfully, when he approaches you again, Shadow scratches at the glass of your balcony and he does not have to meet your eyes and risk baring himself anymore. In a pathetic moment of weakness, he bypasses your bed to let her in, then takes a seat by your side and fixes his gaze on your direwolf as she moves restlessly about you.

“You know-” he starts, if only because the need to conceal his vulnerability chokes him. “She brought you here, strapped to her back.”

You don’t answer him, and he finds himself talking still against his own better judgment.

“I had no need to tell her what to do,” he continues, fingers fiddling with one another aimlessly. “Had not a clue whether she would understand me if I did. She simply knew to bring you here.”

He meets your gaze, finally, unnerved by your silence and finding you ready as ever to retaliate his next statement.

“She saved you.”

“I think you saved me,” you insist immediately, will never stop trying to break his stubborn façades.

“You saved me first.”

He steadies his gaze, hoping it is cold and unforgiving as usual, yet he positively feels his softness, his devotion slipping through every crack in his mask of cruelty and propriety that so stubbornly refuses to remain resolute. Too easily, what was once hardened for self-preservation now reveals vulnerability, at this moment when you each quietly admit to your reciprocal appreciation. You stare at one another and he is certain your stunned eyes match his, startled by your shared, timid divulgence.

He knows not what to make of the revelation other than sit with it, with you. Although, before he can understand it, an entourage of maids and maesters walks in to fuss about you. You are helped off the bed so quickly, he only narrowly manages to turn around for your privacy and rush to the door.

He stands there in the dark hallway, gripping its handle and feeling all of those cracks bleed profusely. He feels, he cares, he burns - and he cannot hide nor deny it.

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