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burnyouwithacigarettelighter · 9 months

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FOLIE Á DEUX ─── jonathan crane ✧

ೃ⁀➷ “Not all love is gentle. Sometimes it's gritty and dirty and possessive, sometimes it's not supposed to be careful or soft at all. Sometimes it feels like teeth.” - Azra T.

pairing. professor!jonathan crane x stalker!reader

summary. you’ve been stalking your professor for 8 months, keeping track of his movements with your diary. one day, said professor informs that you left something of yours behind in his office…

warnings. swearing, choking, p in v, dacryphilia, oral sex (f), dubcon (if u squint), stalking, breeding, orgasm delay/denial, unprotected sex, hair pulling, student-teacher relationship, SMUT UNDER THE CUT

word count. 4.5k

a/n. this is my first ever smut, so if it sucks i really do apologize. also, im kinda unsure where the plot on this one went, but whatever! lastly, i do try to keep all my fics gender-neutral, but seeing as this is smut, i had to choose, and the reader is afab.

“Miss [Name], please stay behind after class. I need just a moment's worth of your time.” Your professor said absently, not looking at you, when he handed back your essay on the human id.

You hummed, nodding your head carefully. “Yes, Professor Crane.”

Inwardly, you swooned at his choice of words: “I need just a moment's worth of your time.” He’d highlighted the existence of both you and him in the sentence, as if coexisting together, with one another, was plausible.

Later, when class ended, you’d packed up all your things, and walked into Professor Crane’s office off to the side, where he was tidying up.

“You asked me to stay behind, sir?”

“Yes,” Crane acknowledged your presence, looking at you squarely. “You forgot something in my office during our last tutoring session.”

Your eyes widened slightly, both at the fact you’d left one of your items behind, and that your Professor had seen the item, and knew it belonged to you. He hadn’t mistaken it as his own, or anyone else's - he knew it was yours.

“Oh!” You said, a beat later. “Thank you for telling me. Where is it, exactly?”

“Before we get to that matter - do take a seat - I believe we need to have a, ah, talk.” He gestured to the seat in front of his office desk, the same seat you sat on every Wednesday at 6:30 for the past few months.

“A talk, sir?” You pried, but sat down anyway, reveling in the one-on-one time you were experiencing with your favorite professor.

That was the main motivator for getting tutored by the man - you adored going in, having an entire hour of him all to yourself.

Prior, you pretended not to get some of his lessons, let your grade in his psychology class slip to a pitiful mark so low he couldn’t ignore it. You’d started the semester with a stellar grade, so he took it upon himself to offer tutoring - he knew you could understand his method of teaching, and theorized that you hadn’t been able to pay attention in class because of the sheer size of people attending.

In actuality, however, you understood everything completely - it was merely your obsessive attraction following him like the sound of thunder trailing behind lightning.

Crane scrubbed his face when you sat, thinking intently on what he wanted to say. “I need you to understand, Miss [Name], that a student-teacher relationship is completely taboo. Such a thing can never - should never, occur.”

Your breath hitched in your throat, and suddenly, you were reminded how you hadn’t seen that book in a while, you hadn’t read it when you woke up, when you went for lunch, you hadn’t even written anything about him for the day—

Your professor slid open one of his desk drawers, and pulled out the familiar pocket notebook you kept with yourself at all times.

“I’m telling you about rules, Miss [Name], because you forgot this.” He said, voice low. “And, pardon my intrusion, but the stuff you have written here is quite… intriguing.”

Your heart began racing in your chest, a cold sweat trailing down your back. “Professor, I- whatever you read in there—“ You began, but froze when he opened the notebook, thumbing through the pages.

Crane cleared his throat, looking intently at the words. His expression changed several times as his eyes flitted over your writing, and you felt your body burn with shame.

“January 26th. Professor's gloves were found in the nook of his podium. I was looking for the green apple he’d forgo from finishing, his teeth tracks fresh on the alabaster flesh, but found his winter wear instead. Gloves were brought home - I imagined he’d come over to mine, undressed his biting winter clothing, and forgot his sweet mittens here.” Your professor read your diary out loud. Crane looked like he enjoyed your shame being laid out bare, but you were too absorbed in a whirlwind of emotion to notice.

“P—Professor, please, I - I can explain, I didn’t mean anything—“

“April 17th. Professor came down with a flu, like I expected. I saw him walking in last week’s evening downpour and waited for what day this week he’d call in. Later, he bought cough syrup and aspirin at the convenience store. I watched him struggle to care for himself, covered head to toe in blankets, missing meals, barely able to keep upright. I wish professor knew how well I could care for him, how I fulfill his every request and need. I saw how touchy he was, how he fidgeted, that feverish want — I could satiate him like no-one else.”

His lips enunciated every word, and the longer he went on reading, the dizzier you felt; your professor, your darling, had found out - he had found out - he had found fucking out -

“Be honest with me, Miss [Name]. Do you stalk me?” Your professor said, slipping off his wire-framed glasses. The man leaned in closer now, elbows resting on the wooden desk.

Your eyes darted away from him, looking anywhere but forwards. You felt like you had been stripped away, so bare your professor could count how many ribs you had, how many minor hairline fractures your tattered bones had collected over the years. You tried to analyze the man’s reaction through your peripheral, but it was to no avail - he was as cold as he had been during class, during your entire time knowing the professor.

You breathed, in and out, analyzing the situation tenfold, precisely, trying to find a way out of this place alive, dignity intact. Then, you found it.

This man had ensnared you, entranced you with his delicious charm and carefully spoken words. You repeat inwardly to yourself: Crane knew all the right words, all the right places to touch. If he dared press charges, you would tell the world he hurt you first.

“Yes, Professor Crane.” You nodded, unabashed after deciding how to deal with everything. He can’t touch me with this. I’ll just go first: please, he took advantage of me! I needed to pass his class… and he offered a solution to me. He’s lying! Lying to you all. He just wants to destroy me… and hide his sin.

“The human body knows when someone’s watching them, but you haven’t noticed, not once in the 8 months I’ve watched you. You didn’t notice, even when I followed you home, even to Arkham. Every obscure outing you’ve had, I’ve been there.”

“I’m quite alarmed by this information, Miss [Name]. Moreso by the absence of your remorse.” Crane said, but mere seconds later a low laugh was drawn out of him, looking more amused than alarmed if anything.

Crane’s tone was husky, nearing a purr, and he clasped his large, calloused hands together contemplatively. “What were you going to do to me, Miss [Name]? Or were you just going to watch, standby my life?”

You chewed the inside of your cheek, unable to respond to his provocations. You didn’t want to alarm him further, tell him you’d been planning to finally have him, once and for all, as soon as you got a hold of his house keys and got the chance to replicate your own pair. You didn’t tell him that you were barely restraining yourself from knocking him out during your tutoring sessions, wanting your darling all for yourself for more than an hour a week.

“Are you not afraid, Miss [Name]? What I can do to your life with this information? How I can ruin you, paint you mad enough to be admitted to Arkham?” he continued, closer than ever before and whispering in your ear. His plush lips brushed past the shell of your ear, making your heart skip a beat.

You winced, both from the feeling of him near you and his sweet voice spewing poison in your ear, but quickly composed yourself, for you knew things he didn’t know you knew.

Then - you weren’t quite sure what possessed you, but - your hand came up to his hair, tugging so he could hear you, “Professor - or, should I say… Scarecrow, what would you do, if I told the police what Gotham University’s psychology professor did in his spare time?”

“What would you do, if I plastered pictures of the renowned Doctor Jonathan Crane wearing the familiar burlap sack mask all over Gotham - especially in places the Batman frequented?”

“I can destroy you, sir.” Your voice was quiet, but dangerous, a terribly alluring thing, like a melody Crane heard a long time ago and remembered every time he smelt the must of an old piano. “Don’t push me.”

This time, Crane stilled, turning to face you fully. His gaze had darkened, looking at you through his long lashes. “My dear, you should’ve just told me how bad you wanted to find out how this fear-toxin of mine can break you.” He whispered, so quiet you had to strain yourself to hear.

With your professor's warm breath fanning on the nape of your neck, you couldn’t help how you squirmed, clenched your thighs together - especially when you had been dreaming of something like this for the past eight months. You couldn’t count how many times you found yourself with your hands down your pants at the thought of your darling professor having his way with you… controlling you completely.

You didn’t answer the man for a moment, gulping down the dryness in your throat. “Would you, sir? Would you let fear dominate me like those tortured souls in the Narrows?”

Crane’s eyes trailed across your face, then he pulled back, leaning in his chair, a grin all teeth and no tongue spreading across his lips. There was something there, you realized, something he noticed in the intone of your voice - had he noticed the neediness, the warble as your thoughts went elsewhere? The arch in your back, your body desperate to be as close to him as possible?

“Can I tell you what I think?” said Crane, rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt. “I think you want me to. I think you want me to see you tremble… shake in fear… you want me to hear you beg. I think you want to be utterly consumed by me.”

The deep timbre of his voice, the suggestion in his words, how he stared you down with each syllable, sent electric shivers down your spine. You took in a sharp breath, leaning your head back to look at the ceiling, compose yourself, when—

Crane’s rough hand gripped at your throat, thumb caressing the little notch at the center, and your heart fluttered, jumping at his touch.

“Fear is an addicting, beautiful thing, is it not? You’re afraid of me, but you can’t help how fucking needy you are.” Your professor spoke, pressing down further on your neck. He had noticed.

His touch made your skin feel like it was on fire, the rough pads of his fingertips digging bruises into your delicate skin. It was the most delicious thing you had ever felt, and you leaned into it, despite the connotations of death by asphyxiation looming over your shoulder.

Your professor manhandled you, dragging your weak body over to his side of the desk, hand still curved neatly around your throat. You were growing dizzy, a fearful, pleasure-filled fog slowly clouding your mind, and you couldn’t speak. All you could do was let out little squeaks of surprise & pleasure, a moan rumbling out of you as he pressed down further.

Crane was saying something, but you couldn’t tell under the pressure. His facial expression was all you needed, however; his eyes were bloodshot, lustful, so laser-focused that, if looks could kill, you’d have been long gone, while a feral grin replaced his emotionless facade. Crane’s usually well-kept appearance had dissolved, and his hair was askew, tie loose, buttons haphazardly undone.

Suddenly, the man pressed himself flush against you, pressing his face into your hair, your neck - losing himself in you. His tongue flicked out, dragging a long stripe down the side of your neck, and you jumped, a startled whine tearing out of your choked-up throat.

His grip on you tightened. “What? I’m just having a taste. Is that so wrong?” At your wide eyes, and silent response, he let out a fitful laugh. “You’re coated in shame, darling. You’re sour.”

You squirmed - not because you didn’t enjoy it - you just couldn’t breathe, but Crane didn’t care. His fingernails were sharp, maybe even drawing some of your blood.

“Plea— sir, I can’t breathe,” you stuttered out raspily. His face remained unchanged while listening to your pathetic pleas, before he leaned in close.

“Beg for it. Beg like you’re terrified for your life. You might as well be,” he said, and he began pressing his thumb into the center of your throat, choking you fully now.

You nodded - as much as the allowance between his hand and your head allowed, anyway. “Professor, please,” you said breathily, “please let me go. I’ll do any- anything, just puh— please stop.”

“Ah, there it is,” Your professor cooed, eyes shutting at the sweet intone of your pleaing, distressed voice. He was losing himself in your words. “Keep going… and don’t forget the crying. It's my favorite part.”

“Let - me go! Please,” you whimpered helplessly, mustering thick, heavy tears to form at the corners of your eyes as you saw black spots dotting your vision.

A lump formed in your throat, choking your words. “Please… stop! Let me - breathe,” You said, leaning delightedly into his touch. His other hand was now digging painfully into your hip, as if the professor were focussing intensely on holding back.

“Look at you go,” Crane clicked his tongue, eyes opening and gazing deep into you. He pulled you in closer to him, letting go of your abused throat.

You finally breathed, taking in such large bouts of air you might’ve choked and keeled over right there. But then, Crane’s hands at your side crawed carefully to your rear, while the other hand came up to the crown of your head to pet you.

He whispered into the top of your head, “Did you mean it?”

“Mean what?” You said raspily, your face pressed flat against his bandy chest.

His hand found the swell of your ass, fingers grabbing hold and squeezing so tight you were sure there’d be a bruise later, “About doing anything. For me.”

You nodded, still not looking at him. This answer didn’t please him, however, and the hand that had been petting you tangled through your hair and roughly pulled you away, to look up at him. “In words.”

“Y— yes. I’ll do anything for you.” You rattled off, prickling pain twisting in your scalp.

“You’ll be a good girl for me?”

“The best.”

A grin twisted his pink, plush lips, and he promptly pushed you face down flat against his cold, wooden desk. It was rough, and sudden, pain blooming in your side. But there was a tug in your lower stomach at the way he handled you, all selfish and touchy and focused solely on chasing after his own pleasure.

Crane’s hands roamed all over your body, leaving trails of fire in their wake. His touch was insatiable, rubbing and petting and kneading at every part of your body.

His hands found your thighs, squeezing at the flesh, before hiking up your skirt and inspecting your panties. “Oh, you’re fucking soaked,” Crane rumbled out, voice like gravel. “You liked it, didn’t you? When I said I’d admit you to Arkham.”

Then, you heard him kneel down, and begin to press sloppy, wet kisses on your legs. “Be honest,” he said between kisses, “you want me to admit you, have you all to myself in isolation.”

You didn’t respond, instead whimpering and bucking forward when you could feel Crane’s sharp teeth brush over your sensitive skin. He noticed the effect he had on you, and you felt him smile against you.

“Please,” you keened out, not dissimilar to how you begged him just moments ago, “stop teasing, Professor.”

You felt Crane’s hot breath fan over your clothed mound, pausing for a moment to catch his breath. “Stop teasing, how?” he said at last, before suddenly pushing your panties to the side and licking a stripe up your cunt. He lapped at your lips, collecting your wetness on his tongue, but he didn’t go further.

“Pro - Professor,” you whined, grounding out a low moan. It wasn’t enough, and he knew it. He liked playing with you, making you squirm and shake and beg for more.

“What? This not enough for you?” He pulled away, and you hissed at the cold that hit you. Then, he tugged, hard, pulling both your underwear and your skirt down to your knees.

“You want me to eat you out till you’re a trembling fucking mess, don’t you?” He buried himself between your legs, “I knew you were a horny little slut.”

Finally, his tongue found you once more, and pushed deep into your folds. Crane’s tongue ran across every rivet your pussy had, before darting out to your clit, suckling at the velvet bundle of nerves. His touch drew out a high-pitched keen, your back arching.

You couldn’t see him, face still pressed against the wooden desk, but you could hear him, the filthy squelching of your pussy and his tongue making your knees buckle.

“Fuck, Jonathan,” you choked out, when he went deeper into your quivering hole, your body tingling like nothing you’d ever felt before. At your reaction, his name curling around your pretty little lips, he went faster, wet mouth brushing against you, licking you up and down, animalistic, following his instinct to a tee.

“Please, wait -“ You said, feeling the knot in your insides grow tighter, the heat washing over you like a steaming shower, toes curling in your flats.

“What?” He growled out beneath you, not letting up his assault on your cunt.

“I don’t - don’t wanna come on your tongue…” You said, shaking your head weakly against the desk. “Wanna - wanna feel you in me.”

Jonathan snorted, and continued to lap up your insides, “D’you think you have a fucking choice? Huh? I know you’re a whore, you could do this all day. I’ll just make you come again on my cock.”

Before you could protest, or even just whine at his words, you shut your eyes, feeling yourself come undone, your legs barely able to keep you upright. His hands had reached away from your thighs, rough fingers toying with your fleshy button, maximizing the climax washing over you tenfold.

“Jonathan, Jonathan!” You practically screamed out, heat in your stomach pulsing rapidly.

“Ugh, fuck,” You heard him say, “you’re creaming all over my fucking face.”

You were a complete mess by the time he pulled away from you, your high washing away as Crane wiped the come and wetness off his face.

“You came that hard, just on my tongue?” He mocked, fingers spreading your lips and observing your swollen pussy as you laid flat, weakly gripping the edge of the desk so you’d stay standing.

“Well,” he said, reaching down to his pants and undoing his belt buckle and fly, “M’not done with this sweet little cunt just yet.”

Your eyes widened, “I’m - I’m still sensitive, wait-“

Jonathan didn’t listen, however, letting his pants and boxers pool at his feet, stroking himself in the artificial light of his office, which smelt like sweat and sex.

He spat on his hand, first coating his cock in it, then your parted lips (which you theorized was just because he wanted to feel you up again), before lining up his thick head at your entrance. “God,” he groaned, “you’re so fucking wet.”

You keened at the intrusion you felt between your legs, “Jonathan, please, jus’ - give me a sec to rest —“ You were interrupted however, by the shock of how big he felt.

You hadn’t gotten a look at him, but as he let himself slowly enter you, you could tell it was bigger than anything you’d ever taken before. “You’re - you’re too big!” you squeaked out, “You won’t fit.”

He laughed, hands resting on your hips as he held you upright. “I’ll make it fit,” he said, before roughly pounding the rest of himself into you, stretching out your inexperienced cunt.

You choked, his fat cock pushing you wider than you’d ever been before, the pain biting at you, a burning feeling spreading within your lower body. “Jon- Jonathan,” was all you could say, as he slowly pulled out, pure relief written on your face, until he sank right back into you, somehow deeper than before.

Tears welled in your eyes, as he gripped harshly on the flesh of your hips, making you pound back and forth on him. His cock was hard, and thick, and he was forcing the thing deep within you at an excruciatingly quick pace. Your sensitivity was the cherry on top to this whole situation - you were trembling, body weak, shallow breaths and teary moans tearing out of you at the overstimulation.

Soon, however, the pain slowly dissolved into a filthy, exquisite pleasure that echoed throughout your entire body. The rhythm your professor had gotten to was downright perfect, filling you completely and making you clench in all the right places. Crane made your brain go foggy, focussing solely on the sound of your skin slapping against each other in the quiet, after-hours office, his taller frame encapsulating you completely.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he cooed, hands moving to splay across your ass and spread you open further. “How many cocks have taken this sweet pussy, huh?”

You gulped. “Just,” you started, but then your eyes rolled to the back of your head, stopping you mid-sentence as his length brushed up to your most sensitive spot.

“How,” he gripped you tighter, “many,” slipped out, “cocks!” then thrust into you roughly, rougher than before and making the desk screech forward a few inches.

“Just one!” You said at last, words choked up as his long cock pierced you.

“Just one, huh?” He said and began pounding in and out of you faster, rougher, needier, “I bet you didn’t even fucking come, you’re so tight. This pretty pussy of yours is practically virgin.”

“Uh-huh,” you said incoherently, thoughts blending together. “Jus’ a - a fucking virgin for you,” you babbled out, losing yourself in the fast-paced pleasure he was serving on a silver platter.

“That you are,” Jonathan growled, “you’re just my horny virgin. Mine.” Every thrust he plunged into you brushed up against that plush spot deep within you, making you drool, body going slack.

“Oh, jesus, you’re so fucked out,” he murmured, looking down at your limp, trembling form. “Drunk on my thick fucking cock.”

The ecstasy was becoming too much for you now, controlling you completely, like if he stopped fucking you right now you’d be so fucking needy, going slowly insane until he touched you again. You knew you wouldn’t be able to fuck anyone else and feel the same; he made you feel fucking feral, instinctual, your id going into drive and controlling you instead of logic. Your darling was the only one you wanted to offer yourself up completely to. He could do anything he fucking wanted to you, and you’d take it in stride.

“Jonathan,” you keened, feeling your walls clench around him tighter, “m’close.”

“No, you’re not,” he said, voice deep and dangerous, “keep that orgasm in, whore, till I tell you to.”

Your cheeks burned, distraught at the denial of your release, especially when his cock slipped out of you as he flipped you over. Quickly, however, he rammed his cock back into you. You were facing each other now, and you could see how hot and bothered he looked, despite how confident and careless his words had been as he fucked you.

His lips were bitten between his teeth, hair sticking to the sweat on his face, cheeks flushed. He was focussed entirely on getting back that rhythm, and you let him, watching how his gorgeous features contorted as your hot cunt sucked him in.

Your arms reached around his neck, and he promptly lifted your legs up to hook around his back, making him fill you even further.

“Fuck me!” You squealed, his shaft reaching places you didn’t know could be reached. It was getting harder to stop your impending orgasm, and your felt fucking sick at how sweetly he was stretching you, how you knew you couldn’t let go no matter what despite the delicious pleasure.

“Already am, baby,” he grumbled, rutting in and out of you at a dizzying pace. You felt his pace stutter, slightly, and you heard his small, revealing whines of pleasure as his head was nestled in the nook of your neck, and you knew he was close.

The thought of him coming in you made you tighten and tense, and he felt it, your back lifting off the desk in an arch.

“Fuck, how’d you get even tighter?” he said shakily, before sliding out of you so far he almost pulled out completely, then let his cock thrust into you so hard you saw stars dancing across your vision.

You merely mewled back at him in response.

“Come,” he said breathily, “come all over my thick— ugh, fuuuck, just like that, yes,” his sentence was cut off as you let go, letting the waves of pleasure surge through your body like electricity.

Your body shook, your knees trembled, and an animalistic whine slipped out of your bruise throat as he thrust into you jerkily. Just as quickly as you camez, he did too, and you felt Jonathan’s load shoot straight up into your worn-out cunt, not impeded by a condom of any sorts. Crane’s head cocked back as he did so, jaw clenching as he released his sweet and sticky liquid deep within you, warm and coating your walls completely.

For a moment, he laid atop of you, and you both kept silent, the office filled with nothing but your breathing and the sweet smell of come. Then, he pulled away, both of you wincing as his cock left you, his come dripping out of your weeping hole onto his office floors.

He pulled his underwear and pants back on, but revelled in your own crumpled form on his desk, your shirt hiked up, your skirt and panties hanging off your ankles, barely there. It was a shame he couldn’t have explored further up your body, groped those tits he loved seeing bounce during tutoring, but his need to fill your pussy up took precedent.

Jonathan swiped a finger into your cunt, collecting some of your combined liquid, and you flinched at the feeling. Then, he licked at his dirty finger. “Oh, baby,” he heaved, “we taste delectable mixed together.”

You raised a brow, then weakly lifted yourself off the desk, pulling up your panties and skirt (not without adoring the feeling of Jonathan’s fresh, wet come smearing all over your panties and sensitive cunt) before reaching for his hand. He leaned in towards you, and you lapped up the juice on his finger, grinning up at him.

Jonathan looked completely lost in your performance, brows knitted. “Jesus fucking christ,” he whispered under his breath, “where has a perfect little fucktoy like you been hiding from me?”

“Oh,” you said, nonchalant, “just stalking you.”

#jonathan crane x reader #cillian murphy #cillian murphy x reader #batman begins #scarecrow x reader #jonathan crane #scarecrow #jonathan crane smut #cillian murphy smut

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aheathen-conceivably · 2 months

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Part of Zelda loved the last few years of their lives. At its simplest, it reminded her of being in England again, of standing in the fields with her father and making every recipe from scratch with her mother. Life felt warmer here than it had in New Orleans, calmer and quieter and more akin to something she had envisioned for herself.

Of course there was pain as well, backbreaking constant pain and endless drudgery. Sometimes it reminded her of how much she liked standing in a crowded cafe or club and feeling everyone’s energy come together in one tumultuous surge. Compared to that, it often felt like she had only known two extremes in her life, and she had swung between the two without ever really finding herself in the middle.

Then there was the desperation, constantly turning and monitoring the soil, adding any and every shell or skin she could spare, and hauling countless buckets of water from the nearby stream. It was knowing that living or dying fell upon your back and the roof over everyone’s heads relied on your efforts. But in doing so it sometimes felt like a spirit overtook one, one that actually understood her purpose and called her Little Robin on even his darkest days.

Only recently the desperation had taken on a new tone, one independent of Gio’s debts or her child’s hunger. One that even her father wouldn’t have understood. It was her burden, and her burden alone, seen and shared by Antoine but really only felt by her. Because she could till this soil; she could monitor it and will the crops to grow as though through sheer willpower and knowledge alone. Only she couldn’t do the same for herself.

Because at least this seemingly barren soil was growing something. There was life and hope in it, fully grown plants and crops on the edge of being harvested. She had poured her soul into it, and it had responded in turn. She needed them to grow, not only for the reasons everyone else did, but because she couldn’t seem to grow anything within herself.

She was walking the fields, picking away dead leaves and checking under each one for bugs when she saw it: a sapphire glittering amidst the greenery in the ever-present sunshine. She reached forward slowly, moving each leaf aside hesitantly as though half expecting to look down and see yet another dashed hope that had existed only for a moment.

But then she bent down into the soil and it was real: a perfectly grown ear of corn. Untouched by bugs or drought or heat. She had done it. It had grown. In an inaudible whisper she called out to Gio across the farmyard. Realizing that he was probably preoccupied still trying to dig out their well she called out again, and again, until her amazed voice finally rose to an audible volume.

He rounded the fence, his eyes filled with apprehension that another bud had been eaten in the night or the leaves inexplicably wilting. Instead he saw Zelda standing there, an ear of corn in her hand and a smile on her face.

He immediately threw his shovel into the dirt and ran toward her, “We did it, Zelda! We really fucking did it!” For a moment he just held her in shared amazement, and Zelda could swear that he was going to cry. All of his emotions poured out onto her so that she could feel he had no way to contain his gratitude, until he picked her up and swung her amidst the tall verdant plants growing all around them, “Jesus Christ who am I kidding, you did it! This farm…it, I was nothing until you got here, until you made all this happen!”

Zelda let herself be swept off her feet, lost in his characteristically infectious joy. Because he didn’t know why she had worked so hard on these fields, or that she often walked the rows thinking of them in relation to herself. He only knew she had given him something, everything he seemed to dream of in that moment, and that together they had actually done it. They had made life grow from nothing.

Across the farmyard, Josephine watched them, and a small fire started in her heart. With a jolt she realized that this was what jealousy must feel like. She had never given a fuck about who Gio or any of her partners had danced or laughed or flirted with, so long as she knew and they didn’t use it against her when the time came. But it couldn’t be, not here, not now. Not her.

This was Zelda. Her best friend, her sister. They worked and lived there together day in and day out, but then he set her on the ground and her laughter rang out through the farmyard, and Josephine realized that it was her. It was the joy she and Gio shared over a goddamn ear of corn. One single ear of corn. It was as infuriating as all of life was here, because it didn’t feel like living at all. It felt like a constant game of survival that transformed your life into a series of meaningless tasks without purpose or delineation rather than something that was actually yours to live.

Because life here wasn’t simpler for Josephine the way it was for Zelda. There was nothing nostalgic or calming about it. No sound of her father’s voice to guide her through the pain or personal drive tying her to the constant, backbreaking work. She tried, every goddamn day she tried, just like she promised Giorgio and herself that she would; but it felt like the land itself was draining her soul bit by bit.

Yet here was Zelda, who seemed like some sort of old world fertility goddess standing amongst the plants she had grown from soil that wouldn’t yield for anyone else. For years, she had done nothing but give and give as she worked alongside Giorgio to make his damn dream come true, all the while thoughts of running away continued to plague Josephine in the night. Zelda had poured her soul into the desolate land to make it grow. Josephine dreamed of setting it on fire.

Jesus, she didn’t want to. She wanted to fall onto the orange sands of Strangerville and somehow sprout into the perfect farm wife too. That’s why she was jealous. She wanted to be that happy when a single goddamn ear of corn had grown, to share in the simple joy of the man she loved over something she couldn’t help but find infuriating. It seemed like he was happy because he had someone to share that joy with now, someone who could make his dreams come true and give him all of herself so totally. It made her think that maybe the problem was her; she had simply not given enough of herself to be happy. But she didn’t quite know how.

#1932 #sims 4 historical #ts4 decades challenge #ts4 historical #sims 4 decades challenge #the darlingtons #sims 4 legacy #ts4 legacy #sims 4 story #ts4 story #1930s #Zelda darlington #Josephine Duplanchier #Giorgio Mistretta

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moonrisecoeur · 6 months

Text

soothing - leon kennedy

a/n: (PLEASE READ) hey! this is moon! this post would not show up in the tags with the long and detailed warning i put on it, so i made that a separate post. please read this post first before you even look at this one (that post will have the normal info like what content is it and word count along with more notes).

—

leon knows you’re… obsessive. he’s noticed your harsh glares and you possessively holding his waist when you’re both out together. he doesn’t miss the way you talk to other people, especially other people you know would theoretically be leon’s type. he assures you that he’s yours, he belongs to you, that no one will never get to have him the way you do, but it doesn’t make those feelings go away for you; it only mellows them for a short while.

he can’t say he planned for his partner to be so insanely obsessed with him, but it does make him feel better sometimes. especially when he’s having really rough days. when he feels worthless, like the only purpose of his existence is to be a weapon for the government to apathetically throw at problems, you’re there. you remind him, in your own twisted little way, that he’s valuable to someone. even if it’s in a “i need you like i need oxygen so no one else can ever have you and no one else deserves to lay a finger on you i will cut their hands off if they try” kinda way.

the world is fucked up anyway, who’s to say he gets to judge moral character? you make him feel desired and wanted, so what if you’re not a good person?

he’s rather introverted anyway, so it’s not like he’s going out every night and meeting new people. combine that with low self esteem and trauma from, well, being leon, he’s drained and can’t be bothered to care if you’re a little too obsessed.

hell, his last ‘relationship’, if you could call it that, was with a girl who tricked and betrayed him time after time and yet he loved her despite it all. maybe he has a type for the bad ones.

he loves you now. he knows he loves you. he knew he loved you when you once risked everything to save him, and he knew you loved him when you got very brutal revenge on his behalf. he kinda likes your violent side when it works in his favor.

but he still tries to keep you from doing the worst that he knows you’re capable of. he knows if he said more than a few words, or god forbid smiled at any of his friends who you thought ‘wanted him’ (because why does literally everyone want to fuck him?) you’d lose it. he tries to keep your temper contained, so he plays nice, though it’s worth it to him.

to have someone want him so badly that they’d kill for him and do anything to keep him… the idea makes leon’s knees weak. he’d do anything to feel wanted and needed for you. the more you claim him as yours, marking your territory, the more butterflies he feels in his stomach.

you tell someone, “he’s mine, so either back off or i swear that i will fucking rip out your teeth one by one.” he watches them run away pitifully, before turning his attention back to you. you’re smiling at him, and bring your hand up to play with his hair.

“sorry you had to see that, know you don’t like it,” you say softly.

he brushes it off, because he always does. he knows you mean well (even if you don’t). he knows you only threaten others or act violently because you love him and he needs that love. besides, you’re so thoughtful for apologizing because you know he doesn’t like seeing this side of you (which is not entirely true but he did feel bad for that person).

one day, you stumble upon him in your shared room while he’s crying. he tells you it’s okay, it happens, he’s learned how to get through it by himself. you shake your head, noting that this obviously isn’t okay. you sit next to him on the bed, wrapping your arms around him, and you two sit like that for just a moment.

“you’re okay,” your voice stills the air, brings him back to reality, “you’re not in danger, and i’m gonna be here to protect you, okay? i’m here because i care about you, so let me care for you, baby.”

he nods with tears in his eyes, resting his head on your shoulder. he’s forgotten what it feels like for someone to really care, to hold him and tell him he was going to be alright.

after a moment, he’s able to get his breathing under control.

“thank you…” he whispers.

“of course, baby, i’m here for you. i’m always gonna be here for you, i care about you so, so much, leon. no one else will ever care for you the way i do, as much as i do,” you murmur, and he doesn’t seem to notice something glaringly wrong with what you just said.

he doesn’t notice the thoughts swirling around in your head, adoring how fragile he is right now, wanting him to always be like this so he’s always this vulnerable, this dependent on you. he can’t notice any of it. he just lets you hold him, and holds you back in return.

you hold each other until he starts to pull away first, rubbing his teary eyes with the back of his hand, “god, i- i’m sorry. jeez, nothing even set it off. one minute i- i was fine! and the next…” he trails off, and you tell him he’s okay. he’s allowed to be vulnerable and emotional with you. you like him like this anyway. or maybe you just like the way his blue eyes shine when he cries.

and you’re wayyy too overpowering just as a person for him to ever be in charge, especially in bed. sometimes it’ll be soft, just two lovers touching and fondling each other, gasping and moaning and kissing wherever possible. but sometimes your possessive side comes out. it happens the most when he does something you don’t like, i.e. ‘flirting’ with someone else (he was just talking and joking around).

he does like your possessive side though. he likes being pinned down, and if you think you’re not strong enough, trust me, you can put yourself in the right position to make it so he can’t get out from under you. or you could just handcuff him or tie him up, that always works, but there is just something about being physically held down and kissed until his brain shuts off that makes him into a perfect fucktoy.

he likes when you pull out a marker and write stuff like ‘mine <3’ or ‘property of y/n’ on him. especially if it’s with a permanent marker and in a place that people can easily see, on his wrist or neck. he feels claimed, owned, a sense of being property belonging to someone else, not himself.

despite loving your darkness, leon appreciates that you’re rather… soft on him. you take it slow so he has time to adjust, make his heart jump with love and affection every single time you praise him (which you do often bc how could you not? it’s leon, c’mon now) he knows you have it in you to be harder, to fully degrade and humiliate him if you really wanted to. you choose not to.

one day you come home, covered in what he can assume is not your blood. his stomach drops at the thought of what you did, and he goes through every possible interaction he had that day that could have made you do something so drastic, so terrible and cruel. he comes up with nothing.

“what… happened?” he asks, nervously. he tries to keep distance between his body and yours, but you’re closing in on him.

“killed two birds with one stone… literally…” you smirked as he takes a cautious step back, feeling what used to be butterflies in his stomach turn to this heavy sense of dread, “that girl that told you your eyes were ‘so pretty’ and… that guy that touched your arm like he wanted to fucking bite it. don’t worry, sweetheart. i took care of them.”

were you expecting him to thank you? for… committing murder? he’s… at best he’s disappointed and at worst he’s literally horrified.

and it’s terribly timed, but on a separate note? you look insanely hot covered in blood. maybe the feeling in his stomach is only half fear and half something else, or maybe one of his kinks is being afraid for his life. who knows?

you come closer to him, and he can’t find it in himself to ask you to stop approaching him, closing in on him like a predator does it’s prey, “baby,” you murmur to him, softly like you do when you’re soothing him when he’s crying, your hands both coming up to cup his face, getting blood all over his cheeks. your thumb brushes against his bottom lip and he swears you’re intentionally smearing blood on it, “it’s okay,” you say.

it’s not okay, dude. you just killed two people.

maybe you’ve killed more that leon doesn’t know about, and tonight was the night you felt like having him see you like this. you could have gotten away with it if you wanted to, and he would never have known, but you chose to let him find you like this, clothes ruined from how much blood splattered on them, that sadistic ass smile on your face.

you wanted this. you wanted him to see you like this. you wanted to take him like this.

you lean in, pressing a bloody kiss to his forehead (imagine whatever kinda scenario necessary that fits this height wise for u i’m sorry >.<) before leaning in to kiss his lips, both tasting the iron and feeling the wetness of the blood dripping down your chins as he touches you back gently, his hands caressing your arms as you hold him and landing softly on your hips, like he’s saying it’s okay, i accept you for the monster you are.

he knows it’s wrong, he knows he’s a good person and you’re not and there’s a clear line that you’ve brazenly crossed, but he can’t help the butterflies he gets when you’re the darkest, cruelest version of you. covered in blood and all, you want him. despite all his flaws, you want him. he can’t deny you, not when you’ve only ever soothed him when he has traumatized breakdowns and assured him that he’s more than just a weapon or a tool, that he’s loved and needed and wanted.

you press one of your legs between his thighs, forcing his legs open and he lets you, whining as you continue to kiss him, and your hand palms him over his jeans. he feels weak, cornered, and you know you’ve got him right where you want him when you lean to whisper in his ear, “mine.” and he whimpers pathetically, nodding fast as you kiss his neck just a couple times, gently and bloodily.

despite everything, you’re just so endlessly gentle with him that he can’t help but let you get away with this. maybe if he could just get the image of their faces out of his head, he could get over it. once you’ve made him cum three times in a row, his body on the brink of giving out on him, safe to say that’s when he finally forgets. he can’t really think much of anything.

“oh, sweet little thing, don’t you understand? i had to get rid of her, she wanted to get in the way of our love,” you say. and he’d just nod dazedly.

“o-okay,” he mumbles. his brain is foggy and your touch makes it hard to think, but if you say it’s true, then he’s inclined to believe you. clearly, you were doing the right thing by getting rid of her. obviously.

“and that poor boy, it’s too bad that he was a whore, wanted to grope your muscles so fucking bad, hm?” you smirk, “did you like it when he did that? when he touched you?”

“n-no, i-i only like when you do stuff like that to me,” he says he exactly what you want to hear, grasping onto you for support, knowing without you he’d fall apart, “please, i don’t care what you do or… or who you hurt because you love me! just please love me!”

“of course i’ll love you,” your tone softens, you take the victory with a smirk turned soft smile, brushing his hair out of his eyes behind his ear, “you’re so pretty when you’re obedient.”

conditional praise; truly the best way to manipulate him for example: “you’re such a good boy when you only look at me.” that’s his kryptonite, because leon thrives off of praise. being told he’s a good boy makes him giddy on the inside, even if he tries to control his reaction. praise is how you control him.

and after you’re done with him, you put your clothes in the washing machine, take a shower, and walk out like your normal self. he makes you both dinner and you cuddle him to sleep just like usual. though while you’re fast asleep, he lays awake, thinking about what just happened.

he’s always known this could happen, and maybe this isn’t even the first time you’ve killed someone because of him. he’s known for a while now that you’ve become cruel and violent when it came to his relationships with other people, but he can’t shake the feeling of fear deep inside his soul when he physically saw what you’re capable of.

even in your sleep, you touch is soothing to him, and he remembers that he doesn’t really have any better options. he’s convinced no one will ever love him as strongly as you do (not just because you’ve told him that but because again, he’s got low self esteem and you’re way nicer to him than he feels like he deserves).

does he just let you be? no, that wouldn’t sit right on his conscious. does he continue to try and curb your violent tendencies against his better judgement and morals?

or does he try to leave you? he thinks he knows you wouldn’t ever truly hurt him, and he wonders whether or not you’d let him leave if he tried. (he’s not going to, but he wonders...) he just… doesn’t see what else he would do. find someone else? they won’t love him like you do. be single? sure, and be miserable every day because all he can think about is your love, your touch, you.

“what do i do with you…” he mumbles to your sleeping form, resting his head against your chest, feeling the slow heartbeat pumping inside. he likes how it shows your humanity, your normalcy. the one thing about you that doesn’t feel so far away from him.

leon loves you. truly. he doesn’t want that fact to be overshadowed by how disproportionately and insanely you love him. he loves you, still cares about you, still wants to see you happy. you make him happy, in some ways, even if you really terrify him in others. you comfort him and soothe him, you assure him that he’s safe with he wakes up with nightmares from the horrors he’s seen.

he wants to care for you, wants to be the one to hold you when you’re sad and you’re having a bad day. somewhere deep inside his heart, he wants to protect you and keep you safe. even if he knows that’s absurd (because you’re a killer… god he can’t get over that..) he can’t help that his nature is to care for people. maybe that’s what drove you to such insanity in your love for him: in his heart, he never stopped caring about other people. he is the same selfless hero he always was. his softness and care for everyone around him is what made you fall for him… and what made you insane when it comes to your love for him.

despite how terrible you are, he remembers all that you’ve done for him, the moments where your softness and gentleness really showed. he loves that side of you the most. that’s the one he fell for, after all. but he’d be amiss to think that’s the only side of you, or to not acknowledge the other. your cruelty towards people other than him is a side of you just like your kindness towards him is a side of you. they coexist whether he likes it or not.

he comes to the conclusion that there is no sweet you without cruel you, and he must learn to love both or to love neither. he decides he’ll love both, but still maybe try to keep the evilness contained. maybe he can try to talk you out of killing more people.

and when he begs so pretty for you to focus on him and not on the girl trying to flirt with him at the coffee shop, how could you refuse him? if you pulling him away to suck dark, tender hickeys into his neck is the alternative to you killing that poor girl, then he’d say that’s a win-win.

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yoimix · 2 years

Text

genshin men + love language

ft. kaeya, albedo, alhaitham

✽ kaeya believes his love language to be the short quips and flirty lines he throws at you more than anyone else. he does make it quite obvious how much he adores you, even through more than suggestive dialogue. however, you know for a fact it’s the little touches he never intends to grace you with: the hand on your shoulder when the tavern men glance at you, the fingers gently tucking your hair behind your ear, the way his head only ever finds your shoulder to rest upon. kaeya has the need to be engulfed in your presence in one way or another, especially if he’s feeling vulnerable. but of course, those moments for captain kaeya of the knights of favonius must be quite rare. surely…?

“you alright there?”

you try to hold kaeya’s head a little higher. it lolls back onto your shoulder anyway, kaeya burying his face into the crook of your neck.

“i love this new shampoo you’re using,” he mumbles. it’s not like him to be straightforward but the sheepish smile on his face makes you giggle.

“i never changed it, stupid,” you laugh.

“oh? i could swear you were stealing mine.” he chuckles. “just to smell like me...”

you shake your head. there’s hardly a reason to debate over shampoo (though you have been using his for quite a while).

“oh archons, i feel like shit,” kaeya groans, his arms snaking around you tighter and his head shifting to find a comfortable spot.

a friday night at angel’s share is uncommonly visited by diluc ragvindr and commonly visited by kaeya alberich. it’s not the best idea to have them in the same room. broken bonds cut deep even after they’re severed. a comment turned into an argument and the argument inevitably turned into a sickening pile of guilt held as a knife against kaeya. or, as he expresses it: drinking beyond his limits. of course, you’re nearly duty bound by your love to take him home and put him to bed.

“you have to take it easy on the drinks, captain,” you speak softly. “i know charles is terrific at his job but i’m getting concerned with how these nights turn out.”

“would it be so terrible if i could just pretend everything’s alright?” he hums, the sensation of his breath against your neck making you shiver.

he pulls away. he never feels quite deserving of your love, especially when alcohol whispers in his ears words he’s shut himself off from. he doesn’t deserve to be held, to be understood, to be cared for the way you do regardless. and yet, he cannot help touching his cursed ice cold fingers to your skin.

you place your arms around his waist, a hand reaching up to the back of his head to smoothen his hair.

“everything’s alright in this moment, kaeya.”

and kaeya swears he will never feel love like he deserves it unless it’s you.

✽ albedo’s knack for creation extends to gifts thought out extravagantly, almost out of character for him. he says he made them just because he could, that it didn’t take out a chunk of his time from advanced alchemical research. besides, he says, creation is a part of his experiments after all. however, it’s a little hard to believe his casual gift-giving is truly casual when he keeps away from you working on them for days just to see the surprise on your face. and every time, you’re reminded that it’s okay to just be, that being loved is enough to exist. you only wish you could return the favor in a way so meaningful. in his snow-covered lab, you can only stare at the wonders he flowers just for you.

“albedo?”

“hm?”

his focused gaze does not shift from the alchemical cecilia he just bloomed, only for it to wither away in seconds.

“that was beautiful,” you whisper.

“i wanted to make it last longer.”

“oh, surely, it would have been just as pretty?”

albedo finally looks up at you, his eyes more or less softening. “i suppose so. i just wanted to gift you your favorite flowers as... something more permanent. i wish you weren’t risking the cliffs all the time.”

you look down, smile wavering. oh, how you wish he wouldn’t spoil you with his time and patience like that.

“climbing’s part of the fun,” you reason, not meeting his eyes. “besides, i have my glider. your glider, that you made sure was failproof.”

and a color so rich and beautiful, you’re sure only albedo could make it.

albedo goes silent. you bite your tongue, cursing yourself for making it so obvious. “is something wrong, (name)?”

“no, love,” you try to reassure him. “i just... i just wish i had... more of myself to express for you. i wish i could make something quite so beautiful.”

albedo tucks the hair away from your face, smiling softly. the snow outside slows, the evening glow accentuating their appearances and disappearances.

“my creations exist because you exist, (name). there’s a reason i can only make mockeries and imitations of the real feeling.”

he says it as though stating a scientific fact. you look at him, slightly confused. he simply brings you to an embrace.

“i’m confident i couldn’t make anything as lovely as you are. and how you make me, as i am, feel.”

✽ alhaitham shows love in private. you knew that when you were just friends, you know that now. however, his concerned bickering and lover’s gaze is all for the world to see. it’s funny how everyone around him can read the name on his heart. after all, yours is the only one he ever takes. he’ll often pin notes for you by your bed when he leaves, the adoration nearly oozing through his straight-laced words. it’s always, don’t risk this, (name), or, don’t be silly, (name), or even a daring i’ll be checking up on you, (name). your name is always on the tip of his tongue and it spills like coffee, staining every word. it’s no wonder gossip about him goes hand in hand with tales of you. it’s not a big enough deal for him though... till you decide to grace him with a teasing smirk. alhaitham can deal with teasing from kaveh and the rest, but you boil his blood like no other.

��is this alright?” he asks, hands still cupping your cheeks as he pulls away from the kiss.

“what if i say no?”

“i’ll never touch you again.”

“that’s quite extreme, mister.”

“then don’t say no.”

alhaitham places another kiss against your lips, touch as tender as freshly picked zaytun peaches. another follows, and another, till you’re giggling his name, begging for him to stop. a small smile graces him when he finally does pull away, a rare spectacle that blossoms just for you.

“i thought only rationality could guide you,” you tease, gently pushing his hair out of his face. “yet, here you are in my bedroom again.”

“you bring me quite enough rationality, (name).” he says it so casually, like he doesn’t care how romantic it sounds. perhaps he isn’t aware of the romance of it. after all, the only books he reads are research journals.

“besides, am i not paying for this room you’re renting? i don’t think you have the right to get cheeky with me.” he draws his hand away from you to lean back on your bed.

you stick your tongue out. “i thought i’d sneakily extort some mora out of the akademiya’s infamous mr scribe.”

“your acting skills are worse than your sense for danger... which is saying something.” he shakes his head.

“and yet, your swordsmanship falls short of saving me.”

“it was one time, (name).”

“you still got knocked on your ass by an eremite.”

“only because you ran into me.”

“please, i hardly looked in your direction and you were already flat on your ass. i have that bedazzling effect on you, don’t i?”

“you’re...” he stops himself from bickering further. his self-restraint may be above average, but there’s no one who unties it quite like you do.

you beam at him despite his look of disdain, a wash of affection flooding you.

“you love our little squabbles. don’t lie.”

“love is a strong word.” his eyes are mesmerizing even under the moonlight peering through your window.

“but you feel it?”

“yes. yes, i do.”

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gavisuntiedboot · 1 year

Text

Being in bed with Gavi…

Not in the sexual way - in the actual let’s go to sleep way.

Sleep was a blessing, but not one bestowed upon you very often. Whenever the sun has fully set your body wound itself up, coiled and stressed, and the later it got the more awake you felt. Physical exhaustion was never enough to get you to drift off. Your entire existence would feel heavy, like walking with bags of sand tied to both ankles. Laying in bed at night was your least favorite activity. Tossing and turning under sheets that were too hot in a room that was too cold. Melatonin was a scam. It knocked you out once and never again, and yet you still popped a gummy into your moth before getting under the covers, hoping to start associating the taste with a good night of rest. It never happened. The worst part was the way your mind would switch on every time your eyes fluttered shut. Thoughts of everything you have done - everything you should be doing - playing in rapid succession, until your chest got tight and your breathing got hard and you went back to scrolling until sleep took you for 2 or 3 hours.

Pablo was peace. His fiery nature was like his shirt: something he could strip off before getting into bed with you. From the moment he stepped through the bedroom door there was never any anger. He filled the room with a sense of calm that could never be replicated by a drug. As always he wrapped his arms around your waist, nuzzling into your neck and just remaining there , wordless, the sound of his rhythmic breathing lulling you into relaxation. Pablo was at peace when you were in his arms. He would strip back the covers and climb into bed, always patiently waiting for you to join him. Personal space didn’t exist here - he had to have you against him, skin to skin, the physical touch reminding him that you’re there (hopefully) for good.

Everything slowed whenever you got under the covers with Pablo. Like swimming through honey. His strong arms wrapped around you, securing You, grounding you. The past and future paled in comparison to the present of Pablo’s arms, Pablo’s touch. The smell of him was addictive. Breathing him in was dangerous in the most wonderful ways, as his scent filled your lungs and traveled through you, filling every cell in your body with him. Most nights the two of you laid the same way: you sprawled across him, your head on his chest as he embraced you, pulling you closer throughout the night. The beating of Pablo’s heart and the warmth of his skin made your eyelids feel heavy. Some nights he would take your hand in his, placing it against his chest, with a reminder that you were the reason that his heart beat at all. He would run his fingers along your arm and back, the faint touches raising your skin. It was in these moments, when you were seconds from slipping out of consciousness that Pablo would look at you, sleep and adoration filling his eyes to the brim. He would stoke your hair and plant the softest of kisses in your forehead.

“Mi vida”

It was always the last thing you heard before you fell asleep. Properly asleep without waking in the middle of the night in cold tremors. Pablo would feel his heart swell, admiring your sleeping face while already missing the soft beauty of your eyes. He was the gold glimmering aura that filled your room and your soul. You cling to his chest in your sleep, fearing you’d wake up and discover that Pablo, your angel of rest, had been a figment if your imagination. But he was real. And everything be was with others - aggressive, strong, forceful - didn’t exist with you. He was gentle with you because he wanted to be. Soft whispers and loving embraces. He had everything in the world when you laid on his chest, sleeping peacefully and soundly at last. And his chest would tighten at the thought of having you there, pressed against him and at peace, for the rest of his life. And you would never know, but it was the thought of you, the weight of you against his chest, the feel of your skin against his fingertips, the smell of of your hair filling all of his senses, that helped Pablo sleep soundly through the madness. You are his peace.

A/N: every time I hear the song “touch tank” or “kiss me” I think of Gavi. I hope i dream about this. May you all get to fall asleep listening to a heart that beats only for you. Have a wonderful night/day and tysm for over 500 followers. I love you all.

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loveackermannn · 1 year

Note

How do you think Levi sleeps next to you? Stiff as a board? Curled up against your side because you’re so warm and he subconsciously moves towards the heat? Does he allow you to cuddle him? Does he wake from nightmares often? If he can’t sleep will he lay awake stroking your side to remind himself that you’re still with him. What about things like sleep talking or sleep walking? Imagine waking up to find Levi trying to brew tea in his sleep. Standing guard by the kettle in his striped pajama bottoms and loose cotton shirt. I wonder if he hums little lullabies to help himself get to sleep. Thoughts?

☰ SLEEP A WHILE, SWEETHEART. .ೃ࿐𝐥𝐞𝐯𝐢 𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

this is so so sweet i love this ask!!

levi is a very light sleeper, so even the slightest movement from you would strike him awake at any time. however, it wasn't easy to convince him to sleep in the same bed as you even when the two of you began dating. he was very much adamant that he needed to stay up to finish several documents for erwin, but you maintained your persistence – and just like that, he gave in too quickly.

you noticed how dark his undereyes have gotten and you would gently scolded him for not listening to you sooner about sleeping early. he merely grumbled into your shoulder as you tugged him along and into the shared room in which you mostly slept in – he always ended up falling asleep in his chair until a few hours had passed, you figured his posture must be horrid at this point.

so, you assisted in removing his jacket and loosening a few buttons on his dress shirt. he slipped off his cravat, setting it on his nightstand and slipped under the silky duvet to join you. he laid inches away from you, not making any effort to move closer as he didn't want to seem abrupt.

but, it was when you took his hand into your own that made him avert his eyes onto your tired features and he could feel the tension leave his body – you were just so pretty. his face softened just for you and he couldnt help but ask, "what is it?"

you lightly groaned, half awake and half asleep, muttering the last few sentences that you could manage, "you're too farrr.. come closer, it's freezing you know?"

he chuckled, hesitant and somewhat clumsy at first, "are you sure?"

"of course, my love," you confirmed, rubbing your eyes and inching yourself closer and closer to the warmth of his body.

levi tensed the moment you made full contact with his chest, not even registering the fact that this was really happening. the person he's wanted for all these years was sleeping soundly right by his side because you felt safe enough to do so. he couldn't fathom it, it almost didn't feel real.

though, when he finally moved his arms away from his sides and gently wrapped them around your limp form, it confirmed that this was real and that perhaps he could actually get a good night's rest because of you.

he looked down and upon hearing the quiet breaths that went in and out of your nose, he's never felt more at ease than he is now. he felt the corners of his lips perk up into a small smile that was only ever reserved for you, but since your eyes were closed to notice, he kept it to himself.

from then on, he cherished the nights more than he used to. he'd always been terrified of waking up from another nightmare, but with you by his side, everything seemed a little more okay. he didn't have them as frequently and instead, were replaced by dreams of where you existed in them. your warm smile that had him sinking into the ends of the earth or your tender embraces that had him cling onto the stars.

he got more than just 3 hours of sleep, eventually getting to the point where he could sleep peacefully through the night. he was truly indebted for all that you do, even if you don't realize it.

if there are some nights when he can't fall asleep for any reason, he'll just stay awake, making sure you're at least getting the rest you deserve. it's very grounding for him and it does give him the reminder that you're not going anywhere, you're still alive and well.

he'll word vomit sometimes too – conscious or not. what i mean, is that i can see him sleep talking, but only when he's having a nightmare. when he's awake and can't sleep, he'll just mutter sweet nothings into your ear about how much he loves you, it's very gentle.

"i love you. more than anything in the world, my love."

"my sweet girl. look so pretty like this.."

"for as long as i live, i'm gonna make sure nothing happens to you. i swear it."

and the concept you brought up that if he sings lullabies to help him sleep??! ugh that is just perfect, he most certainly does.

it's mainly songs that his mother used to sing back when he couldn't sleep as a child and it always seemed to work wonders for him every time. it must've been the smooth and calming tone of his mother's voice that put him to rest so easily or maybe it was the comfort it brought him to know that it wasn't all bad – that there was good in the world for him, big or small.

he'd do the same for you, if ever you can't sleep, he'll hum a little tune while you're curled up in his arms – it's a messy collection of different pitches, but nonetheless, the low rumble in his chest and soft ministrations of his hands rubbing your back is enough for you to close your eyes.

as soon as he knows your asleep, he'll kiss your forehead followed by an audible whisper that you're able to make out with the remaining bit of consciousness you had left,

"goodnight sweetheart. see you in the morning."

712 notes · View notes

eviesaurusrex · 2 years

Text

“ᴍʏ Qᴜᴇᴇɴ.” | ᴅ. ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ

GIF by @fireandbloodsource

Daemon Targaryen x Targaryen!Reader (OC)

summary: Being the oldest daughter of King Viserys and Queen Aemma was a blessing and a curse at once. But Visenya– as cunning, intelligent, and brave she was– prepared her very own path with the help of the one man who held her heart in his hands and kept her back at all time.

word count: 10.5k i don’t know what happened here.

warnings: canon typical incest (i’m sorry okay?), cursing, fluff, violence, mentions of blood, injuries, and a sword fight, threats, canon typical misogyny, more fluff, dragons, High Valyrian presented you by an online translator, conversations about death and stillborn babies, a bit of angst, slight HotD s1 spoiler

author’s note: I love Rhaenyra with all my heart, but I need to indulge in this one, sorry! This is my first time writing something GoT related and my first time writing for Daemon, so be gentle with me, thaaaaanks <3 This one got longer than intended. My Vhagar is inspired by the design for Rhaegal in GoT byyyyye

A decade ago.

With wide, curious eyes, the firstborn of Prince Viserys and Princess Aemma entered the smoke and fire-filled halls underneath Dragonstone, taking in the sight of the ancient mural paintings similar to those in the caves further down the beach. They depicted the history of old; showing how Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wives Visenya and Rhaenys conquered Westeros with their dragons and built what her family ruled over now.

Her fingertips softly stroked over the uneven wall of solid stone, reminding her of the strength laying within her family. They would rule as long as Dragonstone existed; she was sure of it.

“Visenya.”

Her father’s voice called her over, beckoning her back into reality and out of her dreaming mind. She turned, the edges of her charcoal cloak softly flaring, and the sound of her boots echoed through the grand halls filled with dragon eggs as she headed over to him and her waiting mother. The prince smiled down at her as she regained her place next to him, one of his large hands softly put on her shoulder.

“Your mother and I went her while she had bear you. It is a holy moment in our family to claim a dragon egg, and she knew which one to choose for you– because you chose Rhaegar,” Viserys explained to his daughter while her eyes settled upon her mother, who now stood in front of the bared eggs who would be ready to hatch in a handful of weeks. “How did I know which one to choose, father?” Her voice was filled with curiosity and wonder, not understanding how someone, who wasn’t even born, could make those life-altering decisions. Her father shrugged softly and smiled down at her. “No man knows.”

Visenya scoffed under her breath, not quite satisfied with her father’s answer but a movement behind one of the many pillars scattered through the grand halls distracted her. A flash of familiar silver hair and the last remnants of a smirk lingered in the air, and after Viserys had turned his attention back to Aemma, who now held an egg in her hands, Visenya slipped away to find the spectator of this moment.

With slow steps, she rounded the pillar at which she had seen him but was greeted by emptiness. Furrowing her brows, the princess walked around the next one, and frustration started to bubble up within her delicate body as she was greeted by an empty space again. Shaking her head slowly, the silver-haired girl opened her mouth in order to speak up and call him out, but as she turned, her breath hitched in her throat.

Daemon Targaryen stood awfully close to her, and Visenya had to take a step back not to have to look up to him at this horrendous angle. Sometimes she despised how tall the prince loomed over her and how her neck protested if she granted him one look too many.

“Daemon,” she greeted him, and the Targaryen prince smirked down at her. “Visenya,” he returned and bowed mockingly. She cocked a brow, not surprised at all at his display of… what? Mockery? Hatred? Envy? She wasn’t sure which one it was today, except for the hatred. She could ignore that thought because they never hated each other. They may quarrel and insult one another on a daily occasion. Still, she knew the meaning behind those lingering glances because she wasn’t stupid and felt how her heart started to race every time she felt those violet eyes lingering on her.

She may be young, but she wasn’t stupid. She had handmaidens and listened to their hushedly whispered confessions to one another when they thought the princess was still asleep in the early morning light. She knew about love and physical lust, about desire and heartache. With her six and ten name day on the horizon, she even was considered suitable for marriage by her uncle and his Small Council, but her father held objections against it.

And she was thankful for that; it saved her from a marriage with an old lord from who-knows-where ultimately– and she could spend more time with Daemon.

Who just had gotten a hold of her hand and gently– it surprised even him how tender he could be– the older Targaryen pulled her back into reality, to him. He always wished to have her undivided attention so that those eyes with the soft but sometimes mischievous glimmer lay on him and him alone. He hated the feeling always creeping up on him as soon as one of those lordlings tried to steal her away from him. Gladly, she never stayed long with them and always returned into Daemon’s line of sight, granting him the vision of the smile reserved explicitly for him.

He was a lucky man indeed.

“Come with me,” was all Daemon mumbled before pulling her further with him, placing her hand in the crook of his arm. The familiar feeling of it calmed them both, and Visenya followed him without objection, straight out of the sacred halls of their family and into the open of a partially clouded summer’s day. Compared to the capital, the summer at Dragonstone was bearable; the salty breeze was always present, and clouds hid the unforgiving sun. The volcano behind Dragonstone probably was the cause of it.

The breeze swept through her silver hair, and the few rays of sun kissed her skin. With closed eyes, Visenya enjoyed it while walking close to Daemon, who would never let her fall. She knew he observed her doing, as he always did, especially when they were alone, but she didn’t mind. It never had bothered her because she watched him as well but mostly without his knowledge.

It was a fun game.

But she knew that it would always stay precisely this: a game.

The heavy sensation of heartache settled within her chest, and the princess tried to shake it off, scolding herself silently for letting it happen again. Visenya knew that the Small Council– or her father– would never allow such a union, not until all Seven Hells were frozen. She had to keep her mind and heart realistically instead of pursuing a childish hope she would chase her entire life.

“Daemon, it is probably not wise to-…” But he hushed her while his long finger reverently caressed the hand still situated on his arm. “I know with shocking clarity that you were not able to ride Rhaegar all week long, so I thought I would accompany you. Steal you away from all the duties and lordlings to finally have you all to myself for only a handful of hours.” She couldn’t deny him if he continued to speak in that voice that always let her resolve crumble like mere stone walls in the face of the force of a dragon.

Visenya sighed deeply and glanced up at him, her brows still furrowed, and her heart still ached. “That is very thoughtful and kind of you, but I still don’t think it is a wise thing to do, uncle.” She had to make him understand from where she was coming, what her mind had to work through. But Daemon only chuckled and stopped to turn his body to her. He took her hand from his arm while also grasping for the other at her side and brought both to his face. He bent his head, silver threads tickling her skin, and kissed her knuckles as gentle as a butterfly’s touch. “I think it is the wisest thing we could do, niece,” he returned without a second or third thought, pressing another set of kisses on the skin of her hands.

Her heart ached so bitterly but beautifully at the sight of the Rogue Prince’s soft side, and a small smile began to tuck at her full lips. “Fine,” the princess spoke in a soft whisper, ignoring his victorious smirk, and drew back both hands out of his still lingering grasp. She turned again to continue their path, a full smile settling on her face at the sound of his following steps and the warm, heavy feeling of his hand at the small of her back.

She was lost; she knew it at this very moment as Rhaegar and Caraxes landed in front of their riders. The girl watched as Daemon softly greeted her dragon, who usually never let another soul near him except for his rider, but the prince was the one extraordinary exception. Caraxes eyed her intently as she stepped to Rhaegar and let her hand affectionately stroke over Daemon’s back; she was too weak, and everyone around her would soon realize it.

The hated prince looked down at the loved princess as she pressed her forehead against her dragon’s scales with closed eyes, her hand still resting on his back. He bent down to press a lingering kiss on the crown of her head; he was too weak, and everyone around him would soon realize it because he did not have the intention to let this jewel be married off to a different man than him.

She was his, and he was hers.

;

Seven years ago.

“Where is Prince Daemon?”

The princess’s voice echoed through the hallway, and in surprise, Ser Harrold turned around to bow before the eldest of House Targaryen. “My princess,” he greeted her and waited until she reached him. Her eyes observed his face intently before asking the same question again. “Where is Prince Daemon?”

He had promised her an hour of his time on this day, but he was nowhere to be found, not even in his most preferred places in the Red Keep she knew of. But she had a feeling that the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard could know about the man's current location, and she couldn't shake off the certainty of her supposition. And she had been right because, at the sight of the barely visible twitch in Ser Harrold's brow, Visenya knew it had been the right call to find him and ask him first before heading to her father.

"Yes?"

She waited until the Kingsguard cleared his throat. "I was told not to interfere, my princess, and this would entail not telling you his current location." Ser Harrold knew her too well, but he must know too that she would never let go of it until she had heard a satisfying answer to her question. So all she did was cocking a brow and stand her ground, waiting for the older man to spill it out for her to chase after him. Visenya may have promised herself to stop chasing after Daemon Targaryen because it would only bring her heartache and a potential break of said organ, but she just couldn't keep her distance.

It was like a curse cast upon her.

"I won't leave until you are telling me what you know, Ser Harrold," she announced in case the knight lost his memories of all the moments of persistence from her side they had lived through over the years, and he sighed deeply at the realization of her perseverance. She would make a fine queen, was all he thought before sharing his knowledge with the princess he grew rather fond of ever since she had been born and lived under his protective watch. "He left after the first lights of day, riding into the Kingswood to conduct a duel between him and Ser Gwayne Hightower."

Closing her eyes, Visenya sent a quick, silent prayer to the gods because she knew what had led to this very duel which would cause more trouble than it would cause a truce. The memory of a drunken Ser Gwayne at the feast the night before sneaked back into her mind, remembering his warm, disgusting breath fanning over her cheek as he had leaned closer and closer, his hand resting too low to be still proper on her hip. He had pushed her into a dark corner of the hall, the sounds of the lavish feast still surrounding them but too far away at the same moment. He had trapped her there, and she had been frozen, which was so unlike her that it had scared her even more. Never before had a man dared to touch her this way, especially not without her consent of coming as close as he had done, invading her much preferred personal space, and the shock had settled into the princess's bones. She didn't dare to think about the possibilities of outcomes if Daemon hadn't found her in that dire situation.

She knew with shocking clarity that he did this for her– for her honor.

Staring up to her favorite Kingsguard, the princess decided her course of action.

She wasn't a scared little thing. She was the firstborn princess of House Targaryen. She was a dragon rider. She was not a mere silly girl who would fear the presence of a single man. And Ser Harrold seemingly caught up to her intentions because he was right behind her as Visenya spun around and left the Red Keep to ride to the Dragonpit.

—

Rhaegar raised his charcoal head as he sensed the presence of his rider, his gleaming eyes watching the silver-haired young woman coming closer with long strides, ignoring the words of the dragon guards.

"But, my princess, he doesn't carry his saddle!" One of them shouted over the rumbling of Rhaegar, who didn't like the sight of how close the guard stepped to her. "I do not need one," was all Visenya answered as her dragon had left the cave and stretched his wings before sinking down to the ground so she could climb on top of him. Ser Harrold watched the princess with worried eyes, not looking forward to her flying without the support of the saddle and reins, but he knew he couldn't stop her.

The charcoal beast, almost as giant as Caraxes himself, shook his massive head and bared his teeth while Visenya claimed her spot between his wings and held onto his scales. She didn't need to give him the command; instead, Rhaegar took off into the sky without a single uttered word from his rider because their souls were connected through the strongest bond a rider could acquire to his dragon.

—

The sounds of steel crashing against steel echoed through the Kingswood. Labored breathing was heard in the clearing between high rising trees and the grand river dividing the woods like a blue open wound. Nervously dancing horses with their equally nervous riders were scattered around the field of duel, their eyes watching the ongoing fight with worried expressions. Not because they feared the prince and their Commander could get hurt, but because of the repercussions following this act for either of the two sides.

Daemon gritted his teeth as Gwayne almost struck him with the tip of his laughable sword. He let the knight dance around him, Dark Sister securely in his hands, while his lilac eyes followed every move of his opponent before attacking him again. He roared as the memories of Visenya and him flashed before his eyes, and Dark Sister attacked the Hightower man with such force that he had to stumble backward, almost falling to the soft wooden ground.

“You deserve to be beheaded for what you did,” the Rogue Prince seethed, and the other man scrambled back up to counter the next attack. “Putting your hands on her is considered one of the worst crimes in the fucking Seven Kingdoms.” Maybe Daemon exaggerated because he felt sick to the core at the flashes of memory in his mind, but he didn’t care.

He touched her so he would get punished for it.

Gwayne scoffed before spitting out blood after the handle of Dark Sister had made contact with his jaw. “Don’t fool me, my prince, you only regret that it wasn’t you who had the idea before me.” His anger reached a newfound intensity. “Every bloody fool in King’s Landing knows about your preferences; that you’re lusting after pretty, silver-haired maidens,” the knight continued with an evil smile which soon disappeared as Daemon attacked him anew– a cry for blood leaving his mouth.

Dark Sister almost sang in his hands as the blade, made out of Valyrian Steel, tasted fresh blood, and he reveled in the sight of the crimson red liquid spilling out of a wound at his arm. He despised the events which ultimately led him to this point, but oh, how he loved to see the blood spill out of a man’s body.

“Utter a single word, and I will not leave it at a mere duel,” Daemon threatened the Hightower son, already imagining how he sent his head to Otto. It was a delightful thought. The blade of his sword was held high and pointing straight against the man’s throat, his intentions clear as day, but the sound of mighty wings and a looming shadow above them let Gwayne look up. Even Daemon seemed surprised, instantly thinking that Caraxes had somehow escaped the Dragonpit to find his rider, but instead, he watched how Rhaegar flew slow circles over the clearing before landing in the middle of it.

His fiery eyes settled upon the spectacle in front of him, growling loudly and scaring the horses– and Gwayne. The knight scrambled over the ground to get as far away as possible from the beast, but Rhaegar followed him, his head lowered to have better access to him if his rider spoke the words.

Daemon took one step back and looked up to Visenya, sitting on bare scales, hair despite the many braids out of perfect order, cheeks reddened from the flight, and eyes taking in the scene in front of her.

“Skoros istan ao otāpagon?” (What were you thinking?) She may speak High Valyrian with her entire family and even some people at court, but for him, it was entirely reserved for her. Visenya raised a brow at his words. “Nyke gaomagon daor gīmigon skoros ao nūmāzma,” (I do not know what you mean.) she returned, remaining on Rhaegar because she didn’t trust the Hightower knight anymore, not even with Daemon and some of his City Watch men at her protection. Rhaegar was her most trusted companion, after all, and nobody would dare to try anything with him at her side. “Nyke ivestretan zirȳ naejot lua ao konīr. Skoros gaomagon ao gaomagon kesīr, Visenya?” (I told them to keep you there. What do you do here, Visenya?)

The princess locked eyes with the prince before turning her gaze to Gwayne Hightower, distaste and hatred clearly visible in her gleaming eyes. “Nyke jeldan naejot ūndegon ziry nykēla.” (I wanted to see it myself.) But then she looked back at Daemon. “Nyke jeldan naejot mīsagon ao hen aōla,” (I wanted to protect you from yourself.) Visenya continued, and now it was for the silver-haired prince to watch back to the knight, but returning his gaze soon back to the woman he desired more than anything else. He smiled a small smile now. “Ao gaomagon daor emagon naejot gaomagon ziry. Nyke kostagon mīsagon issa hen nykēla,” (You do not have to do it. I can protect me from myself.) he spoke in the softest of tones before a shouting groan escaped Daemon at the feeling of steel piercing through the back of his thigh.

“Daemon!”

Gwayne Hightower couldn’t react fast enough as Rhaegar roared as if he was struck himself. He moved forward, eyes fixed on the knight, but Visenya didn’t care what would happen to this fool of a man because she slid off Rhaegar’s back and landed on both hands and knees. But she was quick to get up to her feet again, rushing over to where Daemon knelt now, the sword stuck in his leg. She fell back to her knees, not caring for her breeches, and her hands cupped his face, looking him over for other injuries, while his City Watch cornered the knight with a furious Rhaegar at their disposal.

“Skorkydoso kostagon nyke dohaeragon?” (How can I help?) Daemon laughed choppily between groans. “Nyke glaesagon rȳ tolī kempa ōdria,” (I lived through more severe wounds.) he promised, a smirk tucking at his lips. Visenya had to smile despite the situation. “Am I allowed to burn him now?” Now, Daemon laughed wholeheartedly but stopped as the sword moved in his leg. “If I were the one asking you this question, you would tell me I have to think with my mind and what it would bring over this bloody kingdom,” the prince reminded her, and Visenya sighed. Sometimes she hated that she most often was the more responsible one in their dynamic. “At least let me throw him into the Black Cells,” she tried again to distract him from the pain until two of his guards came and held him in order to remove the sword from his thigh.

Daemon groaned deep in his chest, and Visenya softly caressed his cheek while one of the men wrapped a clean cloth around the wound so that the maesters could see to it back at the Red Keep. “You have an evil mind, dear,” the Rogue Prince whispered as she helped him stand up and supported him with an arm around his back. She smiled devilishly up at him. “I have to match a certain someone if I want to keep up with him.”

Walking over to Rhaegar, who held his gaze fixed upon the knight, already preparing to kill him, Daemon chuckled. “You do not have to. I would want you anyway.” Those words were entirely meant for her ears only, and she almost blushed but kept her composure.

The dragon continued to growl, his fiery breath almost scorching the man in his armor and letting the sweat run over his face. “You can consider yourself lucky for the time being, Ser Gwayne,” the princess spoke, eyeing him with vivid disgust. “But do not start to believe it will be a lasting state. The king will decide upon your punishment after you arrive back in King’s Landing. Good luck, Hightower.” Ignoring his starting pleads, Visenya looked up to her dragon. “Rhaegar,” she called his name gently and with deep affection evident in her voice. The Shadow of King’s Landing, as her father liked to call him, moved his head and lowered himself back to the ground, so Daemon could slowly climb up. “No reins?” The princess shrugged and grinned widely. “I do not need them.” She followed after him, but Daemon pulled her in front of him, wrapping an arm close around her slender body and letting her bring them home.

;

Six years ago.

The battle was brutal, and Daemon defended himself with the utmost grace of a skilled swordsman. Somewhere in his mind, a voice was screaming; a voice telling him that something horrible would happen no matter how hard he would fight.

It was something inevitable.

He didn’t know what it could be because, so far, his troops fought bravely and loyally, even though the enemy was strong and had more men. But he had dragons. Caraxes roamed the skies above his rider’s head, killed enemies with the force of his flames, and pushed their troops to retreat for the time being. But the bright red dragon was not the only creature aiding the Targaryen fighters. The deafening sound of Rhaegar’s roar echoed over the battlefield of flames, and the charcoal beast with specks of gold and red broke through the thick wall of smoke and ash, his rider securely on his strong back.

The sight of a furious Visenya was a vision to behold, and his chest swelled with pride. He knew she would get to hear something after their return to King’s Landing because Viserys had explicitly forbidden that she would follow Daemon into battle, but they would push through and overcome this little obstacle.

Rhaegar spat another wall of fire and roared as loud as the first dragons, circling over the battlefield with Caraxes. The prince paused for a split moment to watch the girl who had become a woman practically overnight, a skilled warrior in the light of gods. But an approaching knight interrupted him, and Daemon killed the man with a few swift motions with Dark Sister in his hand.

The prince couldn’t revel in this next small victory because the distressed shriek of Rhaegar let him move his eyes back into the sky to watch helplessly as he lost altitude. His wings weren’t widely stretched anymore. Instead, they flattered useless in the air, not carrying the heavy body safely to the ground.

“Visenya!”

His shouting voice was filled with fear and uncertainty, and suddenly, the awful feeling from before crept back into his bones, the voice again whispering in his mind. His legs started to carry him in her direction, killing every single man who dared to get into his path.

The Dark Shadow, as the commoners had started to call Rhaegar, crashed into the ground, and Caraxes emitted a roar while slowly gliding to his dying companion. His massive flaming head searched the ground for the female rider and protected these two with a storm of flames while observing the area for his own rider.

Visenya coughed as she slowly and unsteadily emerged in the cloud of sand and smoke, her hand raised to shield her face from the bright flames surrounding her. Crawling, the princess reached her dragon’s head, and tears formed rivers on her dirty cheeks. She had felt it at the moment the spear had hit her companion, and she tumbled from the sky. It was almost physical; as if the spear had pierced her very own body instead of Rhaegar’s.

“Rhaegar,” she whispered underneath the escaping sobs, her hands caressing his dark and shining scales. She could feel his shallow breaths while his golden eyes were trained on the woman kneeling in front of his head. Pure agony filled her at the sight of the lack of life creeping in on them, and she pressed her forehead against his still warm body as his last breath escaped him.

A scream pierced through the thick atmosphere of battle and let several fighters halt their movements before the first few brave men dared to sneak up on the princess.

Killing her would be the greatest achievement of their entire life.

But she heard them, and with a cry for battle, Visenya rose from the ground, drew her sword, and killed the three men within a blink of an eye. Daemon stopped in his tracks at the sight of his niece, took in her tear-stained face, and didn’t have to know more. She raised her eyes from the dead bodies in front of her, her bloody sword dangling between the tips of her fingers, and looked straight into his own eyes. He could see her lips moving, and he knew she had called him.

Daemon reached her trembling form at the moment her legs gave up and couldn’t carry her any longer. His arms wrapped the young woman in the most protective embrace ever witnessed in the Seven Kingdoms and held her close while the sounds of dying men surrounded them.

—

The Red Keep was in turmoil at the news of the vanished princess and even more so as the red dragon returned to the pit with both his rider and their princess on his back. Viserys searched the sky for Rhaegar, but at the sight of his daughter’s distress, he knew what had happened. Aemma was quicker than him in her path to their eldest child and wrapped her in her motherly love after Daemon softly had brought Visenya to the ground. His eyes settled on his brother, and the Rogue Prince shook his head to confirm his thoughts.

“He is dead,” the King heard his daughter sob, and Aemma glanced over to him, dreadful worry etched into her beautiful face. “He is dead, and it is my fault!” Now, the sobs shook her body again, let her tremble in her mother’s embrace, and Viserys was quick to cradle her in his arms to carry her into the safety of their home. Daemon watched him with envy in his eyes but followed the procession nonetheless after bringing Caraxes back into the now empty den.

Even the blood-red beast mourned his long companion in the upcoming night, and Daemon situated himself in the corridor in which the princess had her chambers to keep watch over her.

—

Days passed within a blink of an eye.

The maesters had suggested giving the princess milk of the poppy in order to soothe her grieving and self-destructing mind and to offer her at least some hours of peace and rest. Aemma had sat by her side through each and every night, not daring to leave her, not even as Viserys almost begged her to watch after herself. Young Rhaenyra had sneaked into her older sister's room on the second night of her return; she had pressed her body against her side, just as she usually did when the older Targaryen princess told her stories each and every night. The queen did not object to her daughter's behavior. Instead, she started to sing softly for hours on end, always the same old melody and lyrics of an old Valyrian song about the ancient gods and goddesses of the lost civilization, which had been the only words to soothe young Visenya in her cradle right after she had been born. During the third night, even the king had accepted how things were now and had himself situated in his eldest's chambers, holding a watchful eye on her sleeping form. Only Daemon stayed out of her rooms, preferred his lonely watch in the dark shadows of the hallway, ignoring the hushed whispers of the servants and handmaidens seeing him every day and night sitting unmoving in his chosen spot, eyes closely settled upon the door of her chambers.

The tenth night was the night in which Visenya finally opened her eyes.

Uncountable candles softly lighted her room; the sound of their small flames let the agony within her heart appear again. Silent tears left her eyes and rolled over her cheeks, vanishing in her unruly locks of matted hair. A barely audible snore pushed her to move her head to the source of the sound - the movement alone was almost too much for her to bear - and the picture of a sleeping Daemon Targaryen greeted her still tired eyes. He had his head tucked away between his arms which lay on top of the soft blankets covering her frame, his face relaxed and bare of every deception and malicious thought.

It was a rare sight, and even though her soul screamed in agonizing pain, Visenya enjoyed seeing him more relaxed than ever. He was here, right at her side, and that was almost enough to soothe some of the dread constantly spreading inside her.

Slowly, the woman turned onto her side and stretched an arm to brush through his soft silver hair, but at the mere touch of her fingertips, Daemon opened his eyes and raised his head. His lilac eyes found her face immediately, and utter relief filled his handsome features.

“Visenya,” was all he whispered as his hand cupped her cheek. The pad of his thumb caressed her distinct cheekbone, and his eyes moved over her face to reassure himself that she was indeed awake and alright as much as she could be after everything that had happened. Her cold fingers closed around his wrist, and with a deep, long sigh, she let her eyes fall shut again. “It is my fault, is it not?”

Her question pulled him out of his almost frozen state, and Daemon shook his head even though she couldn’t see it. “No, it was not,” he assured her with certainty, and she opened her watery eyes again. “But why does it feel like it is?” A sad smile etched onto the prince’s face, and he continued to caress her cheek. “Because you, my love, always believe to be the epitome of wrongdoings. It is a horrendous habit of yours.” Daemon felt pride rising in his chest at the sight of the twitch of her lips. The smile didn’t want to show, but that was more than alright. It would take time.

Visenya scooted closer to the edge of her bed to be closer to him and sighed again as their foreheads found one another, and she felt his skin against hers. Their eyes locked into the respective pair and a pleading expression sneaked into hers. Daemon would give her everything she desired; they both knew it.

“I want to go home,” the princess whispered, and the prince knew which place she meant.

Dragonstone.

He nodded softly, propped his chin atop the soft blanket, and dared to steal a kiss on the corner of her mouth. “I will bring you home, issa jorrāelagon,” (my love) he promised.

And Visenya knew that he would hold his word.

;

Three years ago.

“Brother.”

Daemon forced himself to bow in front of the king and his Small Council, throwing Otto a glaring look but ignoring him after that. He had much more important matters to discuss.

Viserys raised both brows in wonder at his younger brother’s rare presence during one of the meetings. “How can I help you, Daemon?” He must want something from him– the Rogue Prince never bothered himself with unpleasantries if he couldn’t gain something. The older man knew that something certainly was coming.

And he was right.

Daemon’s piercing stare settled entirely on him, and the world most definitely had stopped at his following words the council would never have expected to leave his mouth willingly. “I intend to marry.” Grand Maestor Mellos almost choked on his own spit. Lyonel Strong’s eyes seemingly popped out of his skull. Corlys Velaryon cocked a brow and eyed him. “Which pitiful soul do you have in mind, your highness?” The master of ships asked curiously, with a hint of malice in his tone. Daemon couldn’t hide the slight smirk appearing on his face before looking over at his brother again. “I am asking you, dear brother, for Visenya’s hand in marriage. Technically, I do not need your blessing because I do not care if you approve of this or not and because Visenya already answered the apparent question. But in any case you decide to name her your official successor and heir to the Iron Throne instead of me or a possible male heir you still have to produce, I will not lessen her status by a union you do not know of. And-…” The prince stopped for a moment, remembering the way he had left the princess still tucked away in her blankets, before continuing. “-and she wishes for your blessing, brother.” And how was he to deny her such a request?

At least he would try to gain what she desired in this particular situation, and if Viserys was too stubborn or simple-minded, he couldn't change that. But no one could call him a coward after this meeting, and even these old bastards knew that with shocking certainty.

Yet...

"Are you out of your mind?"

Daemon slowly closed his eyes. He took one deep breath, followed by another one. He had to stay calm because Visenya almost begged the older Targaryen not to lose his temper. But his dear brother just made it too easy to forget about the given promise.

"Seven Hells, Daemon. I can't let you marry my eldest, let alone your niece!" The king’s voice roared through the Small Council's rooms. Everyone at the table flinched at the outburst, but the prince stood taller than ever. "It is custom in our family, brother, or do I maybe have to freshen up your knowledge about the marriage history of Targaryens?" Viserys scoffed, and his balled fist suddenly crashed against the massive table. His eyes almost spat fire in his direction. "You. Will. Not. Marry. My. Daughter. Don't try to fool me, Daemon. She would be the heir to the Iron Throne and maybe the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, but you would move the pieces on this chessboard!"

The younger Targaryen now cocked an eyebrow. "You have a very low esteem of your daughter, my King. She has the strongest mind in all of Westeros, and if you think for even a second she will dance to another man's tunes, then you do not know her at all." It was quiet in the room; only the crashing sea was heard underneath the Red Keep.

But Daemon had one last card to play.

"She asked me," he announced and couldn't hide the pride-swelled chest of his. Visenya was an utter wonder in his eyes; a wonder he sometimes couldn't grasp with his mind. She was braver than anyone before her, and every other woman– the ones he had and the ones he only had considered– faded in his mind until nothing of their memories was left.

Viserys obviously forgot how to breathe in the short moments since Daemon's revelation. He wasn't sure if the king thought about his words or thought nothing at all due to the shock evident in his paling face, but whatever it was, Daemon didn't really care. The Small Council could go to all Seven Hells and let him marry the woman he loved more than his life and let her rule if the time comes. Yes, he would prefer it to be named heir to the Throne, but he could live with Visenya on that forsaken thing very easily. It would mean that he could continue his killing of enemies while always finding time to watch his queen in her doings.

It sounded like the perfect life.

Viserys furrowed his brows and observed him, acknowledged his presence finally with a seriousness he had never shown before. "She asked you? You did not pressure her to sa-..."

"No man nor god could pressure Visenya Targaryen to anything, brother."

Viserys slowly nodded, fingertips resting against one another, his eyes settled on his younger brother as to try to decipher him and his intentions. But he couldn’t utter another word because suddenly, hurried steps were heard outside the doors of the Small Council until they got opened for the eldest princess of House Targaryen. Visenya stopped at the three steps leading down to the council’s table, her eyes trained on her uncle and a brow slowly raising.

Daemon had turned to watch how this storm of a woman entered and almost helplessly shrugged at her disapproving look thrown in his direction. “I thought we agreed upon speaking to them together,” she spoke while stepping down the few steps and stopping next to him. He couldn’t stop his wandering hand from wrapping itself around her waist and pulling her closer. “You were still asleep, so I thought, why waste another meeting and day?” The princess rolled her eyes at him and shook her head before looking over to her father and the rest of the council.

“Is it true? Did you ask him for his hand in marriage, your highness?” Maester Mellos spoke up, and Visenya cocked her brow again. “You sound like it is so surprising for a woman to make her own decisions and not wait upon a man to finally find his courage, Maestor,” she countered, and the old man cleared his throat awkwardly. “It was not my intention to assume anything, my princess. My apologies.” She nodded shortly before turning her attention back to Viserys, who now focused his entire mind on his daughter.

His utmost joy.

The Realm’s Pride.

Upon these thoughts, the king decided to give her what she desired because he could never deny her anything – not since the day of her dramatic birth.

“Is it your truest desire to marry him?” After all, Viserys still couldn’t believe this, not with all the fitting suitors his daughter had trailing behind her ever since her ten and second name day. She nodded without hesitation. “It is, father. I would have never asked him if I were not sure of it,” she told him, voice full of sincerity and… he didn’t like to admit it, but certainty. Viserys sighed deeply and slowly shook his head. “With all those good men asking for your company and hand, displayed for your pleasure in front of you, and you chose him.”

Visenya knew that she had won, and softly shrugging, the princess started to smile. “They were after me for the possibility of a crown– not me as a person.” Otto scoffed loudly and didn’t hide his displeasure. “As if he would think differently,” the Hand of the king mocked before turning to the king, an urgent expression settling on his face. “You do not seriously consider letting them have their way, do you, your majesty?”

Daemon couldn’t react fast enough to beat Visenya next to him. She took the last steps to the table, the sound of her boots echoing through the room, and propped her flat hands on top of the massive wooden table, her violet eyes gleaming like a dragon’s breath.

“Do not dare and talk as if I am not in this very room, Lord Hightower. I am not a child anymore; I am your princess, so respect my rank and address me accordingly if you please to talk about something involving my very person,” she seethed, and the Hand had to swallow dryly at the sight of the furious princess. Everyone in this palace knew that she never recoiled from a battle– it was insignificant if that battle was fought by blades or words.

Corlys Velaryon grinned behind his cup of water– he never drank wine during the Small Council meetings– and watched the scene unfold while eying the Rogue Prince out of the corner of his eye. He may have misjudged the prince; he had to admit that at the sight of a sincere display of emotions on the Targaryen’s face as he observed the princess’s doings.

Otto Hightower bowed his head after a long exchange of unbudging stares. “Yes, my princess,” he mumbled but didn’t dare to speak another word. Humming approvingly, Visenya pushed herself back up, straightening her posture, and threw her father a questioning look. “So, this is settled, then?”

And Viserys nodded.

“For now, yes. We have to prepare everything accordingly, so it will give you more time to think about it.” Eye rolling, the silver-haired princess sighed. “If it makes you happy, father,” was her only verbal reply to it before spinning on the spot, charcoal coat flaring softly behind her, braided silver hair swaying over the proud scaled shoulder section, and leaving the room with Daemon right at her side.

Just where he belonged.

—

“If the situation occurs and the Queen and I will not produce a male heir, I want Visenya as my successor and heir to the Iron Throne.”

The Small Council almost roared in protest. Especially the Master of Laws, Lyonel Strong, held objections against it, directly followed by the Hand himself.

“Your majesty, first this outrageous proposal, and now this?” Otto dared to express his thoughts as first in the round, but Viserys raised a hand to silence them all. He didn’t know when this thought had occurred for the first time, but ever since that ominous day in the past, the king knew that the realm would be in good hands with her as their queen. “My mind is settled upon it,” he declared and rose from his chair at the head of the table.

“If the time comes and I will not have produced a male heir by then, I will name my firstborn daughter Visenya Targaryen, Princess of Dragonstone, as my official successor and heir to the Iron Throne. She is what the realm needs.”

;

One year ago.

The raven arriving at King’s Landing brought distress and turmoil into the Red Keep.

“What does it mean, she is gone?” Rhaenyra asked her mother after hearing her father reading the letter in question out loud. She knew the meaning of said words, but it didn’t make any sense. Her sister would never run away, especially not without her husband, who had just arrived after flying from Dragonstone back to the capital.

Her mother rubbed over her shoulders and sighed. “Maybe your uncle can tell us more,” the queen mumbled as Daemon entered the private chambers of the king, who now started to roar in frustration and anger. “You were supposed to keep her safe!” The Targaryen prince stopped and glared at his brother. “Do you think I witnessed her wandering off without holding her back?!” Viserys threw the paper scroll onto his table. “Well, it seems like it, does it not? What in the Seven Hells happened?!”

Daemon sighed deeply and let himself fall into an unoccupied chair, not giving a single thought to how he looked now. He didn’t care if he looked defeated.

“I do not know, brother. We ate dinner last night, as we usually do, and everything seemed fine…” Daemon recalled the past night, remembering her smile and her soft touches at the table before they ignored the food entirely, so he could carry her into their chambers and their bed. He felt as if he could feel her searing kisses still on his lips. “In the morning, she was gone without any trace.”

Aemma looked from one man to another. “Do you think she left you?” The prince’s head jerked up to watch the queen with an icy expression. “And why would she do that?” The entire realm knew that the newlywed couple was probably happier than any other in the Seven Kingdoms– a love match indeed. They had witnessed it first hand at the grand royal wedding in the Sept of Baelor, even though they had a secret ceremony in the Gods Woods weeks before the spectacle of the year. The queen sighed again and shook her head. “Where could she have gone? Did you receive any ravens? Viserys?” The question was asked for both men to acknowledge, but both shook their heads in unison.

Suddenly, Rhaenyra looked up after being deep in thought in the past moments. “She told me something about her dreams,” she spoke up, and everyone stared at the young princess. “Dreams?” Viserys asked and took place on the seat opposite his second daughter. The girl nodded. “Visenya told me about a reoccurring dream she had in the past two years. It never changes, only the intervals change. She said it would be more frequent the closer the days gets to the day Rhaegar died.”

Now, Daemon furrowed his brows, remembering how he sometimes woke up to an empty bed and found his now wife leaning next to the widely opened windows overlooking the city or the bay of Dragonstone, mind always sunken deep in thought. She always had told him that she just couldn’t find sleep and didn’t want to wake him with her tossing and turning because he sometimes tended to be a light sleeper. He never objected to it, never thought it seemed off, and now he wished he had.

“Did she ever tell you what those dreams contain?” Daemon asked the young princess, and Rhaenyra slowly nodded. “She once told me that she sees a dragon. Not Rhaegar, a different one. But she never gets close enough to see him or her clearly. It’s always only a looming shadow in the blue sky,” the girl ended and looked from one adult to another. “Maybe she is looking for it. Maybe it is her dragon that is calling for her.”

The queen wasn’t sure if it could be. “Rhaegar had been her dragon, Rhaenyra, just as Syrax is yours. But maybe you are right, and she is following her path.” She eyed Daemon and how he now clung to this new hope and Viserys, who had folded his hands. “We will see what the days will bring. Ser Harrold.” The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard stepped from his place at the entrance and bowed. “My king.” Viserys raised from his chair. “Let the guards patrol the walls at Blackwater Bay and the Narrow Sea. If there is any sign of Visenya, let the bells ring.” The Lord Commander bowed again before retreating out of the chambers and preparing the order.

“We will know when she returns home,” the king promised with a wary look outside the opened windows.

–

It took exactly two days full of worry and a gloomy cloud hanging over the Red Keep until something happened.

Daemon and Viserys had just left a Small Council meeting addressing the princess's disappearance– the meeting had ended in a quarrel between the Hand and the Rogue Prince– and walked over the palace’s wall facing the Narrow Sea. It wasn’t an often sight to see the two brothers side by side in almost something resembling harmony. But desperate times required desperate measures, and not knowing where his wife was, was most definitely a desperate moment in his life.

“She will come back,” Viserys spoke up, and Daemon almost flinched at the feeling of his older brother’s hand on his shoulder. “She fought bravely for your union, and that is why I am most certain that she will come back to you. Visenya could never abandon you, as strangely as I still find it.” Now, the prince had to chuckle under his breath because this sounded more like his brother. But then, he turned serious again. “I hope so, brother.”

His words only had left his lips as commotion caught the guards on the lower wall, and the change in winds signaled something coming. As a dragon rider, Daemon knew that feeling of anticipation lingering in the air, and his eyes traveled over the horizon to find the source of said feeling. Viserys felt it as well and rested both hands on the warmed stone of the Keep’s walls, face turned to the Narrow Sea.

There, at the horizon, loomed a dark shadow between white clouds and the blue sky. A shadow that grew larger and larger with every passing moment. The bells started to ring, just as ordered by the king, and Viserys shortly looked up to see Ser Harrold nod in his direction, holding a binoculars in his hand.

The mighty roar, shaking King’s Landing in its very foundations, echoed over the Narrow Sea and traveled even further into the Seven Kingdoms. The dragon grew even bigger, and Daemon shielded his eyes with a hand against the unyielding sun, staring up into the sky with a baffled expression.

The shadow soon morphed into the sight of the largest dragon this world probably has ever seen: sea green scales, peppered by red and blue, wings as far-reaching as seemingly half of King’s Landing, and Daemon knew that the creature’s eyes would be of the clearest green a man could ever witness.

The dragon soon reached the shore and roamed over the sky of the capital, another roar escaping it. The prince instinctively felt that Visenya was atop its back, securely tucked away between the mighty wings, holding onto the scales. And he was right.

Viserys stood in awe at the sight of the flying dragon– the last of the old ones. “Vhagar,” he spoke in wonder, eyes wide and not believing what they were seeing just now.

Vhagar closed her circle over the city and continued her flight to the massive building of the Dragonpit, to which Viserys and Daemon followed straight away.

—

The horses danced around nervously as they approached the landed dragon, but Vhagar didn’t move a single powerful muscle as the king and the prince landed on their feet and stared up at the beast’s head. The oldest of all living dragons– too big for the pit, so it had landed on the outskirts of it– looked down at them, unimpressed, but moved her head as a voice on her back talked gently to her.

“Ziry iksos ry paktot, Vhagar,” (It is all right, Vhagar) the princess calmed her, could she feel her tensing muscles underneath her body after all. Raising her head, it poked up behind the she-dragon’s shoulder, and Daemon hadn’t seen his wife this radiant in a very long time. She sure was radiant every day, but she held a different light to her after flying with her dragon. And ever since Rhaegar died, Visenya had stayed on the ground.

“Dōrī gaomagon bona arlī. Gaomagon ao rȳbagon issa?,” (Never do that again. Do you hear me?) Daemon shook his wife at her shoulders after she had climbed off the dragon and stood in front of him. Visenya softly cradled his face in the palms of her hands and pulled his forehead down against hers. “I am sorry, issa jorrāelagon.” (my love) The woman whispered against his lips and let Daemon capture her in his strong arms to lift her off the ground. She circled her arms around his neck and closed her eyes as the Rogue Prince buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent with the old but new smell of smoke and fire. “This was what was absent,” Daemon mumbled against her skin, and Visenya pushed silver strands out of his face and behind his ears after he had put her back on the ground. “Am I whole again, then?” Her words betrayed her smile, but Daemon nudged the tip of her nose with his and soothed her rising doubts.

“Do you feel whole again?”

Visenya looked into his eyes, shortly turning her head to watch Vhagar, who growled at everyone coming too close to her new rider, before turning back to Daemon.

“I believe I do.”

;

Present Day.

She missed the days when she was able to wear her perfectly fitting coats and breeches, laced boots up to her knees, and gloves covering her fingers as soon as she left the Red Keep. Well, those times may only be over for the next couple of days, but it was enough to put her already stressed mind into an even more anxious state.

Watching her reflection in the full-length mirror occupying the spot right next to the opening to the balcony in their shared chambers, Visenya let her hands brush over the soft fabric of the dark red dress one of her handmaidens had put her in and smoothed the flaring fabric over her lower body half, revealing the small curve which had made its appearance a few weeks ago. It had been hard ever since because even though she had been thrilled to be able to give her husband their first child finally, it scared her. She knew what had happened to her mother; Visenya had heard her screams echoing through the hallways of the Keep after the maesters and her father had pushed her out of her room without so much as a teary-eyed whispered Goodbye.

And now, she could be in the same position as her beloved mother, who was now dead– and her beautiful boy had followed right after. Daemon could have to choose between her and the babe, and Visenya never wanted to put him through this torture. She currently saw what it had done to her father.

Swallowing dryly, her eyes were settled unmoving on the curve of her stomach where a life had started to grow and she didn’t realizes the arrival of the prince. He entered their rooms slowly and silently, his eyes instantly resting on his wife. His fingers opened the sword belt to put Dark Sister on the top of their bed covers, and his feet carried him over to her still form. Daemon circled his arms around Visenya’s waist, propping his chin atop her right shoulder, and his ring-clad hand softly stroked the growing belly of the love of his life.

“Good morning, wife,” he whispered, pressing a lingering kiss to her jawline, and pulled her back against his strong chest. Visenya looked at him through the mirror, a loving expression on her face, the fear gone for the moment. “How are the dragons?” She smiled at his chuckle; the smell of fire and smoke wafted through the air around them. “I think Vhagar misses you, but I am not entirely sure because she still is not my friend.” The princess now grinned and leaned her temple against the side of his head. “She will someday come around,” she mumbled and closed the lilac eyes as Daemon continued to stroke her stomach over the fabric. “And how is my prince or princess?”

Visenya swallowed again but softly shrugged. “Apart from the pestering sickness in the morning?” Daemon nodded, his eyes transfixed on her body, still wondering how he had achieved this miracle of turning his life into something resembling this bliss. “The maester said everything is how it is supposed to be,” she whispered, not daring to look into his eyes as the prince raised his gaze. “I did not ask what this old sucker with his wandering hands told you, issa jorrāelagon.” (my love) Visenya sighed and felt the fear rising again within her body. “I am scared.” The confession left her lips in a hushed mumble, almost too ashamed to confess. As if she didn’t appreciate and love the baby they had created together– the perfect combination of Daemon and her. But she just couldn’t shake off the feeling lingering since the day of her mother’s death and the discovery of her very own pregnancy mere weeks later.

Daemon now softly turned her around in his embrace and guided her to one of the two grand chairs facing each other in front of the balcony, the soft fur of a glorious stag on the stone floor in front of them. The prince coaxed the princess to sit down, even though she started to protest. “It is nothing, really. Only a silly thought. We must go anyway; we cannot let them wait on this particular day.” His stone-hard stare silenced her as he kneeled in front of her, and Visenya looked down at her tangled fingers, watched how the morning light let the stone of the ring Daemon gifted her on their wedding night shine. “I do not care a single fuck of what those bloody bastards think,” he murmured and let her play with the ring for a second. He knew that soothed her.

But then his strong pointer finger underneath her chin moved her gaze back up to him. “It is because of your mother, is it?” Visenya nodded, barely palpable, and Daemon sighed. He had suspected something, especially because the court still didn’t know about the happy news, but the prince didn’t dare to ask her when they would announce it. He knew she had to process everything– the grief over her mother, the fright over the traumatic birth he knew she had witnessed in parts, the knowledge that something so life-affirming could turn into something so dreadful.

But he could take one of her fears right here, right now.

“Issa jorrāelagon,” (my love) Daemon called her gently, his voice bringing her back into reality, back to him. Visenya lost the distant expression in her eyes and focused her entire being on the man on his knee in front of her. “Gaomagon daor zūgagon ziry,” (Do not fear it) he continued, and something very peaceful settled within her chest as he talked in Valyrian to her. It had always been their way of communicating. “Nyke jāhor daor iderēbagon se rūs toliot ao.” (I will not choose the baby over you) The princess swallowed thickly and leaned her cheek more into his palm as Daemon cupped it as soft as a breeze on her skin in summer. “Ao issi se sȳrje mirre isse issa glaeson. Daorun jāhor arlinnon bona. Daorys jāhor arlinnon bona.” (You are the most important/the best thing in my life. Nothing will change that. No one will change that.) She could see the heartache in his eyes; the fear of losing her to something he could never control because it was one of the few things the gods reserved entirely for themselves.

Visenya cupped Daemon’s cheek, her thumb caressing the skin over his cheekbone. “Yn ao jaelagon ziry. Ao jaelagon nykeā prince,” (But you want it. You want an heir.) she whispered, and Daemon smiled the smile entirely reserved for her eyes to witness; a smile so small but containing so much love, it always amazed her. “Nyke jaelagon ao tolī. Nyke jorrāelagon ao tolī,” (I want you more. I need you more.) he returned with a certainty she could live with. “Se īlon kostagon va moriot sylugon arlī. Nyke gaomagon daor mind se mirre.” (And we can always try again. I do not mind the work) His suggestively raised eyebrows made the princess laugh, and Daemon smirked.

“But I mean it,” he now changed back into the common tongue. He pulled Visenya closer to him at her waist, closer to the edge of the chair, so she had to spread her legs in order to make room for him. The princess settled her hands around his neck, carded her fingers through his silver strands, and played with the shorter hair at the nape of his neck. “I will not make the same choice– and mistake– my brother, did all those weeks ago. I will not sacrifice you in order to get a potential heir because we can try uncountable times– but I only have one Visenya.” Blinking, Visenya tried to hide the tears and prevent them from falling, but Daemon knew her all too well. “I may cannot take the fear over the birth and the upcoming weeks, but I will promise you that I will be by your side, protect you whatever might come– especially protect you from those wandering hands. It is as if I still can see them on you.” With that, Daemon gripped her hips tighter and pulled her face to him to finally kiss her.

But a knock at their chamber’s door let Visenya hold back. “Yes?” Daemon grumbled, and one of the servants opened the door. “Your highnesses.” He bowed shortly. “The court is gathered in the Great Hall and awaits your arrival, princess.” She sighed and nodded. “You can tell them their future queen will be there when she is ready.” Daemon stood tall in the room and strode over to the door to close it with much more force than was really necessary. The poor servant had to stumble back into the corridor with a baffled expression.

“Daemon,” Visenya scolded him and pushed herself off the chair. She softly rolled her eyes as the prince gathered her back in his arms and leaned his head down. “As I said: They can wait for their queen.” His voice rumbled low in his chest, and the princess closed her eyes as his lips made contact with her forehead, slowly wandering down over her temple to her lips. “My Queen,” he rasped before kissing her like a starved man.

;

I really don’t know where all these words came from, and I’m sorry for this shitty work, but I had to write it down to get it out of my head :x The next Daemon work will be much better hopefully!

But thanks for reading! As usual: comments, reblogs, and likes are much appreciated <3

#daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen x oc #daemon targaryen x fem!reader #daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen x targaryen!reader #daemon targaryen fanfic #daemon targaryen fanfiction #house of the dragon fanfic #house of the dragon daemon targaryen #house of the dragon fanfiction #hotd fanfic #hotd fanfiction #oc!targaryen #hotd s1 #hotd spoilers

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hotchfiles · 4 months

Text

second. damn your love.

masterlist

pairing: james x fem!reader.

content warnings: james being kind of an ass, cheating on lily, lily will be probably shit talked (i luv her i'm very sorry !), mistress!reader, uhhh cursing, not totally AU but like... canon divergent i would say. probably hurt/no comfort unless i switch the ending but--

worth mentioning: reader insert with no use of names or “y/n”. paragraphs completely in italic are flashbacks. pro quidditch player!james. muggle born!reader.

word count: 2,2k

previous chapter

chapter 2

for some reason unknown to you, it hadn't taken james as long as usual to give you any sign that he still remembered your existence after being with you. surprisingly, on the same day after dropping you off at home and rushing to be with his girlfriend, he sent you a message through his patronus (much too recklessly as you lived in a majorly muggle neighbourhood), apologizing for what had happened.

normally, you would believe his words, and then become disappointed. however, after what happened, you didn't believe anything he said, you knew he wasn't sorry and you knew you probably wouldn't be seeing him for a while.

all you felt like doing was laying down, still feeling completely shaken, disappointed, angry... betrayed, and it took you a while to stop crying, you couldn't believe how easy it was to manipulate you, two days together and you actually started to think things were changing.

ingenuity or just the hard truth: it was easier to let yourself believe it.

luckily, or not, you still had your commitment to your responsibilities, if not your pride, you would try to maintain that instead, so the best decision was to get yourself together as best as you could the next day and go to work.

even though you lived mostly among muggles, a decision you had made long before graduating hogwarts, you still ended up in a ministry job, an obliviator. not the most glamorous, and a lot of times you thought about getting a muggle job, but years went on and you got comfortable with it. sometimes being able to forget is the best option there is.

so got yourself together you did, the best as you could included showing up office ready and giving off the obvious energy that you did not want to be perturbed, especially after taking the tube half an hour later than you normally would, too loud, too full, it was probably one of the few times over the last years you wished you could just apparate in front of the right phone cabin. but an obliviator risking wizarding secrecy would be too much of an hypocrisy.

you made sure you wouldn't be making any field work, taking the liberty to be shut in your office filling paperwork and crying, as any mature woman would if they were in your shoes: exhausted from hating yourself because you knew you were an excellent witch, a strong-willed independent woman and still, every time james potter smiled at you, you felt nothing but weakness.

and there it was, the weakness as soon as you left the ministry building and felt his gaze upon you, simply leaning against the wall, his arms crossed, his face completely relaxed.

your hands went straight to your eyes, reminding yourself of their appearance, you looked up at the sky for a few seconds and wondered if there was a god, because it didn't matter how much you begged either merlin or godric, you still didn't get one single moment of peace.

"were you crying?" he asked straight away, without even explaining why he was there. you shook your head denying it and found refuge for eyes on your feet. "you're a terrible liar."

"i don't think you know me that well anymore," you sighed and tried your best to look at him firmly. "no car today?"

"i don't indulge on those very often, apparition is still a thing, you know?" you tried your very best not to roll your eyes at the arrogance he displayed, favoring instead the idea that he had the car for the weekend to please you. "you ignored my patronus, i feel like you probably didn't even check your mail, my poor owl working over time for nothing, and you're the only witch i know who doesn't have a bloody fireplace. kinda got worried that you were mad at me." his lips formed the pout you knew so well, and you had to bite you lips to prevent yourself from smiling.

"not having the fireplace goes hand in hand with the anti-apparition charm on my apartment." you shrugged, it was a way to avoid unwanted guests, so he pretended to be the upmost offended by that. you closed your eyes and took a deep breath, trying to concentrate on the reasons why you were angry with him. "we need to talk."

"we can do that in your apartment. let's talk there." he nodded, and you agreed. it wasn't something to discuss so close to where you worked, for sure. he offered his arm so you would apparate together and you ignored it completely, stretching your arm to the street to get a minicab to stop for you both.

"i'm not risking magic exposure and being fired because you rarely indulge on cars, potter." weirdly enough he doesn't try to convince you otherwise, getting on the backseat with you.

on the way he told you he had been waiting for you for at least forty minutes, which you weren't sure was even true, but on any other day you would've swooned over, but his true intentions showing up came to light so quickly, you couldn't. james kept touching your thigh with his right hand slowly, teasingly, and a pantsuit was never as helpful as then, because of it you could ignore his touches or at least pretend to ignore it.

despite the touches, james maintained a casual conversation with you, talking about trivialities from his day, like forgetting to take his vitamin supplement in the morning and running less that afternoon so he could get home in time to take a shower and pick you up. at least that was the term he used, even though you were in a cab.

you enjoyed having conversations like that with him, knowing how his day had been and how he felt about the team, the training sessions... it brought a sense of normality, as if you were just an ordinary couple talking about everything or just friends talking about your lives. but at that moment, you couldn't enjoy it the way you normally would due to what still lingered on your mind from the previous night, not to mention the fact that the words coming out of his mouth sounded innocent, but his eyes and hands overflowed with nothing but.

you felt like you were under torture, the rational part of your brain competing with your emotional part, which was shaken by any touch from james, any scraps of attention. you even felt relief when you arrived at your building, especially because there were other people in the elevator, preventing him from grabbing you there and making you forget everything you so wanted to tell him. but it didn't last long. as soon as you reached your floor, you were grabbed from behind, his hands firm on your waist while his lips roamed your neck.

"james, we need to talk," you repeated what said before, freeing yourself from his arms and walking towards the door. you unlocked it with a silent charm and left the door open for him to enter next.

"talk about what?" you heard the question, but his tone showed no interest in talking. in fact, he pulls you by the arm and pushes you against the nearest wall, trapping you with his arms. you lost your breath for a few seconds due to the proximity. "we can talk later," james whispers in your ear, brushing his lips softly against yours, one of his hands touching your waist under your blouse. you almost lose it, but finds the strength to get out of his embrace and leave to the kitchen.

"i want to talk about us." you said seriously, resolute in your decision to give him an ultimatum, tired of being the mistress, but you couldn't deny that after his teasing, you just wanted to wrap your legs around his waist and hear him say your name in between moans.

"brilliant, let's talk." james begins, slowly moving closer to you. "but we could just go to your room and enjoy our time in a more pleasurable way." you feel his hands again grabbing you around the waist, and his lips brushed lightly against your ear as he detailed all the other pleasurable things he could be doing to you. you give up, defeated, letting out a grunt and pulling him to you, starting a desperate kiss as he takes off your pantsuit and leads you stumbling back to your bed.

it was late at night, almost two in the morning, when the noise woke you up, almost frightened as you had no idea what it could be at that time. your first instinct was to obviously grab your wand and go to the living room, ready to disarm or worse if it was an intruder, but you noticed that it someone knocking frantically on your door.

"who is it?" you asked loud and clear, assuming it was a stranger trying to pull some kind of scam, you've heard of cases like that happening around the muggle neighbourhoods, the knocking then stopped and you thought you had scared away whoever was there, but you were wrong.

"it's me…" the voice was familiar, but you doubted it was who the voice reminded you of, so you waited for more before you decided or not to open it. "james." you froze and held you breath, but still denying mentally that it could be him.

"james? need to be more specific."

"don't remember me anymore?" it was him, surely. james potter. you hadn't seen him since the turn of the previous year, but truthfully, you hadn't really spoken to him in years, you couldn't even imagine how in hell had he found your address. "potter."

"what you doing here?" you open the door, giving him the space he needed to enter and smelling the alcohol invading your apartment. "it's two in the morning."

"not sure…" he seemed a bit disoriented, obviously because of the alcohol, but he wasn't about to fall over drunk and you mentally thanked him for that. "was in a pub having a few, but they closed…kept thinking about you and here i am." a shiver ran through your whole body and you cussed yourself, it was pathetic how he could still cause such a thing so many years after your relationship, after your last kiss, unfortunately you had never really managed to forget him, but instead you hid him deep in your memories, that way you wouldn't have to deal with your true feelings for him when you saw each other at a mutual friend's house or anything of the sort.

but still, you did to this day found yourself thinking about him at times, but that didn't help you understand why he would be there at such a time, or why he would be thinking about you when in fact the only reason you had left his life was because of him, because if he wasn't such a dick, you might still be in a relationship today, or at least be best friends like you used to be.

"know what…" even though you haven't responded to anything he's said before, he sits down on your sofa awkwardly and you feel completely uncomfortable with the situation, crossing your arms, unable to move more than that. "i'm such a twat." james lets out a weak laugh of discontent. "letting you go that day… mum told me what happened, but I still didn't look for you." it was amazing how he could form sentences almost perfectly even though he stank of alcohol miles away.

"james, what do you want?" you sigh, still not understanding anything that's going on. he simply gets up and walks towards you, making you instinctively move away until you reach the end of the line, one of the walls of the living room. "potter?"

"i want things between us to go back to normal." his perfume takes you over as he gets closer, replacing the smell of firewhiskey, and you try not to get dizzy. "just want you." panic is your first reaction as his lips come close to yours and you push him away.

"you have a girlfriend." you look into his eyes, being as serious as possible without showing how tempted you were, making exaggerated gestures with your hands to show him how wrong it was.

"shh, forget it, just f'now. i'll fix it, swear i'll fix everything." you soften at his words and sigh, you're probably losing your mind but still you walk towards him with your arms open for a hug and he immediately finds himself taking the chance.

"missed you." your voice nothing but a whisper and james nods in response, stroking your hair.

the affectionate embrace evolves quickly into a quiet kiss that becomes more and more desperate and before you know it, you're both on the sofa, blending into one.

you woke up the next day feeling partially satisfied, but guilt consumed you entirely, you had slept with a commited guy, what kind of woman were you? and not only that… what would james and you be from then on?

"bloody hell." and there you were, waking up after given in to james' charms again, just like the first time, just like every time after that, it was frustrating how much power he held over you, you couldn't take it anymore, you were done.

tag: @xcinnamonmalfoyx

#lari writes sometimes #marauders imagine #james potter scenario #james potter imagine #james potter x you #james potter x reader #james potter x y/n #james x reader #james x you #james x y/n #marauders x reader #marauders x you

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itsmoonpeaches · 3 months

Text

Title: Eye of the Hurricane

Fandom: Percy Jackson and the Olympians

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial

[NOTE: I had to create this gif as no existing gif that I wanted of this scene previously existed in the gifs search. This gif belongs to me.]

Word count: 1,004

Rating: G

Summary: Poseidon cannot change fate, but he can be there for Percy when he is needed the most. In the only way a god can.

“Do you want to talk to him?” Sally asked, her voice tremulous as the storm Poseidon had conjured outside upon his arrival. “I know you shouldn’t but maybe just to hear his voice.”

It was easy for a god to covet things, to wish for wants, and demand them to appear. It was easy too for a god to change perceptions of reality, if only to bend the rules for a moment. Poseidon tasted that potential for a sliver of time when he glanced back at the patterned pane that separated him from the young boy. He could see glimpses of Percy through that inch of glass. A boy with eyes like the sea, with blond windswept hair, and a mustard yellow sweater.

Thunder shuddered the walls of the diner, rumbling in those few seconds that brought the truth back into focus and reminded Poseidon who he was…a god who could do nothing.

It was difficult for a god to be powerless.

Poseidon forced himself now to never glance in Sally Jackson’s direction—to never tempt himself with forming something permanent with the mortal he loved.

“One day,” he said so only she could hear. “One day, when he’s ready. When he knows who he is and where he belongs. And fate has revealed to him his true path. On that day…I’ll be right by his side.”

The scent of smoke and burning chocolate syrup mixed with sundae ascended from the tall glass cup that divided them. He could still feel the tingle of desperation in his ichor, the call of a human to his domain.

He allowed himself one look. One last look at her before he left. Her eyes were closed, the single tear that had escaped her eye finished its journey down her cheek, and he imagined what it would have been like if he could hold their son between them instead of holding their distance.

When he left, he knew the rain had continued its deluge upon that little town in Upstate New York. He permitted it to happen. What else could he offer?

That autumn day, he stood on the beach at Montauk. Alone because the humans who went there thought the waters too cold apart from the summer season. The ocean lapped at his feet, the breeze a welcome comfort.

Montauk was not his most awe-inspiring work. The waves were turbulent, the climate too unforgiving to warrant many seasonal visitors. Not like plenty of his other haunts where the sands were powder and the ocean a clear sapphire when much of the world froze. But Montauk was an aspect of him. Of rocks, surf, and pebbles hidden in shores. Of sharp sea glass, short cliffs, and gray waters.

Montauk was Sally. Montauk was Percy.

Poseidon stepped into the tides. He descended as easily as he always had. A current roared overhead, so strong that it could drag any careless swimmer under in a matter of seconds.

“Lord Poseidon?” chirped a hammerhead shark in his mind. “Lord Delphin wishes to meet with you about the upcoming dolphin migration from the Carolinas. The riptides might deter them from moving any faster.”

His eyes snapped to the shark. The creature stiffened with fear.

“Riptide,” Poseidon said. He looked above him once more at the same current that had pushed him below.

“Ye–yes,” stammered the shark. “That is indeed part of the problem.”

“Or it is part of the solution.”

The water bubbled and Poseidon disappeared. He called upon a force of old, a force he had not called upon for thousands of years since the time of Heracles. That familiar thing tugged at his core and in the palm of his hand, burning and thriving.

And so, when he reappeared, he was on the shore of Long Island Sound. Night engulfed him. Apollo completed his duty. There was silence on the beach.

He walked through the forest and past curious wood nymphs who melted out of trees. He felt their eyes. He felt their words. He let them pass.

Upon the hill, he saw the Big House, its glass shimmering with starlight. A shadow shifted on the porch.

“Chiron,” he remarked as he approached.

The centaur looked startled. Chiron unfolded himself from his resting position on the deck, a mortal book about architecture in his hand. “Lord Poseidon!” he exclaimed. “It is a surprise to see you here.”

Poseidon hummed. He lifted his hand, the object he had willed into existence thrummed on his skin. "I have a task for you."

“You have laid a shroud of Mist over it, I see," Chiron observed.

Poseidon nodded. “The world outside is dangerous. Humans do not understand our world. I do not expect them to.”

"It is a curious choice to disguise a weapon as a pen."

“A gift,” Poseidon corrected. “One day, there is sure to be someone who needs it more than I.

“The story of this blade is a tragic one, but it does not have to be. You must keep it in your possession. Do not let anyone who is not worthy take it. Do not let anyone know you have it.”

“How will I know who is to own it?” Chiron asked.

“You will know.”

Chiron studied him, and Poseidon felt like a demigod would if they were one of the centaur's pupils.

“The blade is called Anaklusmos," explained Poseidon. "Riptide.”

The name rolled off his tongue, and like a whirlpool forming in the deep, clashed against the currents that had prevented him from remembering it. A reminder that even the powerful were not invincible.

“The master of that blade will drown their enemies in the depths of the raging sea. It will protect them.” He glanced away. “I will protect them.”

Chrion took Anaklusmos from his hand.

Poseidon knew this desire of his was a fool’s quest for the impossible. But though a god could not change fate or ancient laws, he could try.

Poseidon was the sea. His son was born from defiance.

Also available on ao3.

#pjo #pjo tv show #pjo tv show spoilers #flash fiction friday #a fool's quest #fff237 #percy jackson #poseidon #sally jackson #posally #percy jackon and the olympians #percy jackson and the olympians #itsmoonpeaches fanfic #pjo fanfic

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queen-haq · 2 months

Text

Fic: Never You (Penelope x Colin) - Part 3

Fandom: Bridgerton (TV show)

Spoilers: S3 released scenes.

Summary: They may have been friends once but his callous words decimated their relationship. Determined not to have anything to do with him, Penelope is ready to move on. But Colin isn’t giving up, not at all. Friends or not, they are connected for life - and he intends to remind her of that.

Excerpt:

“You would hate me for not wanting to court you. You would be that selfish?”

“Of course you would think that.”

“What else is this if not punishment?”

Masterlist (contains links to Part 1 and my other stories)

Penelope had always dreamt that her first kiss with Colin would be sweet and romantic, exhibiting the care and tenderness that existed between them. Passion never entered her mind, and when she daydreamed about being married to him, not much thought was spent on the act of making love. Instead she imagined reading to him, walking with him, enjoying food and laughter, and living a life of shared contentment – very different from the marriage between her own mother and father. After overhearing Colin the night of her mama’s ball, she desperately wanted those fantasies to stop. Yet they lingered and she didn’t understand why. Maybe it’s because he was so deeply entrenched in her soul that she couldn’t imagine a future without him, maybe those dreams just brought her comfort when too many things had changed otherwise, but either way they didn’t stop. And so she started writing as a way to distract herself from her thoughts, not scandal sheets but rather a novel about unrequited love. It was halfway complete before her mama made the decision to send her to the country to stay with one of their cousins. Portia Featherington hoped the change in air would mean Penelope would stop moping and hopefully lose some weight. Penelope had her own reasons for agreeing. She wanted distance from Eloise and reminders of Colin, and hoped discovering a new place would give her respite from the pain. The last few months at Ayleshire had provided that and so much more; it was there she had met Arthur Debling and had her eyes opened to a world she never knew existed before. And it was because of him that she was now aware of desire and passion, and that it could exist without love.

Because Colin didn’t love her, but the moment his lips touched hers they were both wrecked. All thoughts ceased to exist, all she could do was feel and experience sensations she had never imagined. He devoured her with his mouth, his tongue stroking hers with raw urgency. And she kissed him back with equal fervor, standing on her toes, clinging to him desperately.

Whilst her gloved hands fisted his hair, aching to run her bare fingers through his soft, beautiful curls, his roved everywhere on her body. One second he was cupping her breasts, the next his hands were grasping her bottom, roaming over the length of her frantically. He was a man caught up in madness, fully determined to possess her.

Everything was moving fast, too fast, her body aroused, mind spinning. Desperately needing some air to compose herself, she dragged her mouth away from his. But he didn’t stop, no, his mouth drifted to her ear, his ragged breaths echoing in her mind as his tongue traced the curve of the shell, making her tremble in his arms. And then his tongue stroked the oh-so-sensitive spot just below which instantly made her knees buckle. But he held her tight, his grip fierce and strong as he maneuvered her back against the wall of the maze, refusing to give her any respite from the ecstasy he unleashed upon her.

No one had ever admired her breasts before. It hadn’t even occurred to her that it would be something anyone would want to do, but seeing the glazed look on Colin’s face as he stared at them longingly, touching her with reverence, before angling down to pepper hot, wet kisses on her bosom made her realize how much she still didn’t know about physical arousal. Like how good it felt to have his face sink into her breasts, the sensation of his tongue and teeth on her skin, electrifying every nerve in her body. She moaned, feeling that deep yearning between her legs. “Colin, more…”

Frantically he tried to scoop her breasts out of the bodice but the corset underneath proved too tight. “This damn thing,” he bit out with frustration before yanking down the sleeves of her dress. The force with which he pulled not only ripped the lace from the sleeve but also tore the side of her bodice.

It was at that moment Penelope rushed back to reality, feeling exposed in front of him. Quickly she covered herself with her arms.

The shift in the air was palpable, fraught with tension.

Hesitant, her breath came out in shallow spurts as she finally dared to glance up at him. Colin was no longer looking at her like a man possessed. Instead there was panic in his eyes, his face taking on a horrified expression.

“Pen…” His eyes swept over her chest. “I’m so sorry. I…” He jumped back, realizing he was entirely too close. Like he could no longer bear to touch her. “I don’t know what came over me.” Guilt flooded his expression. He couldn’t even seem to hold her gaze and averted his eyes. “I took liberties I shouldn’t have.”

Her stomach was coiled into knots, mind still reeling from what occurred. “It’s fine. It’s over. We both acted foolishly.”

“You deserve a husband who values you.” He cast her furtive glances, running his fingers through his hair. “Someone who cares for you and cherishes you. Someone who can truly love you.”

Because he couldn’t.

There was no denying that his words wounded her, but not being good enough for him also didn’t bring with it the searing pain and shame it once did. Now there was no agonizing heartbreak, just a dull ache in her soul which she could manage with little effort.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.” His eyes still lingered along her ripped bodice. “I acted like a savage.”

“It’s done with,” she replied, irritated. “I would just like to go home and put this night behind me.”

“Your first kiss is supposed to be special, a magical moment, and I ruined that for you.”

“You didn’t,” she interjected. “Tonight was not my first kiss. So you don’t need to fret.”

The change in him was abrupt. One second he was burdened with remorse, next he was staring back at her with fire in his eyes, a simmering rage that appeared to dissipate all of his trepidation from before. “Who did you kiss, Penelope?”

Penelope, not Pen. He rarely ever used her given name, not unless he was upset. And spotting the angry glint in his eyes, the tightening of his jaw, it was clear that he was – which made her own temper rise. “How is that your concern?”

He took a step towards her, his eyebrow cocked. “Answer me.”

“I will not!” She glared up at him defiantly. “You are in no position to demand anything from me, Colin.”

The madness that took over him when he was kissing her seemed to return with a vengeance as he closed the distance between them. His demeanor was agitated, his troubled eyes piercing right through to her core. “Was it him? Your mysterious suitor?”

“Why does it matter to you? You don’t even believe he exists!”

“He’s taken advantage of you, hasn’t he? What has he done?”

She should have walked away, perhaps even tried to calm his distressed self for the sake of their friendship - but his entitlement and refusal to believe someone would actually want her still had her infuriated at him. Outraged, she started provoking him instead. “Nothing I did not desire for him to do.”

His eyes darkened to an almost pitch-black under the moonlight. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” she huffed back. “And that is all I wish to say to you. Good night, Sir!”

When she attempted to walk past him, he blocked her path. “Who is he?” Danger laced his voice. “I demand you tell me now, Pen.”

“And I demand you go to hell!” she spat out.

“Did you kiss him the way you kissed me?” His arm snaked around her waist, crushing her against his chest. “Did you let him touch you?”

What was happening between them? She didn’t understand it. He’d never behaved like this before, a complete contrast to the boy she fell in love with. Yet his predatory wildness didn’t scare her, instead sending thrills down her spine.

“Did he kiss your breasts, Penelope? Did you undress for him and let him see you naked?”

“And what if I did?” she retaliated. “Why do you care?”

“You do not belong to him!”

“But I will. Soon.. And then I will be loved and cherished and happy and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.”

“You think I would just let you walk out of my life, Pen?” He shook his head ‘no’, his eyes gleaming with emotion. “I will never let you go.”

It was all too much, she could no longer bear it. His close proximity, his intoxicating words – it all wreaked havoc with her thoughts. Worst of all, he was giving her false hope and that was something she couldn’t afford to have. “Release me, Colin!”

“I will not.”

“Colin! Unhand her now!”

It was the sound of Anthony’s voice that finally made Colin loosen his grip on her waist. Immediately she distanced herself from him, a heated blush creeping across her cheeks at being caught by the Viscount. Anthony wasn’t alone, next to him was his wife, Kate, who was staring at Penelope with concern.

To be continued...

#polin #bridgerton #penelope x colin #colin x penelope #my fics #never you

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bewarethewolfarmy · 2 months

Text

St. Valentines Day

(THAT'S RIGHT MY BOYS AND GIRLS OF THE FANDOM: I'M BACK!

I just wrote this in the span of an hour and a half just for you, because it's Valentines Day and that means romance. I feel it's not my best work but I tried and I love Erik and I love you and so Happy Valentines Day my songbirds, here's our favorite pathetic man trying his best X3

Also yes i did notice people liked Music so i might be thinking on the sequel to it....)

Erik had never had a Valentine before though of course he was aware of the tradition and no insignificant part of him had not always dreamed of the day he could celebrate the day with someone precious to him. For a long while that someone had been Christine of course but disaster after disaster had rendered that impossible and his own self confidence issues stopped him from ever taking the plunge to even try to ask. He resigned himself then, as he resigned himself in many things, to an lonely unwanted existence and thus did his best to avoid going out even more on that day for the pain of seeing others in love and happy while he was alone and unwanted was far too much.

But then was you. Beautiful, wonderful, kind, loving you.

His heart fluttered with nervousness and uncertainty as he prepared; as with everything with you, he wanted everything perfect, he needed everything perfect. He made a bouquet of only the most perfect roses and had composed for you a love song that though incapable of expressing even a fraction of his bottomless devotion and love for you, he wished to believe could at least let you know he did love you dearly. A romantic dinner for the two of you, always just the two of you, was ready and before going up to the operahouse he made sure to put on his best suit and mask; this was his first Valentines day with you and absolutely nothing could be unseemly or less than beautiful. Well except for maybe himself but he could not change his face and he would simply live with the fact that your valentine this year would be a ghastly ghoul such as him. Still he knew you were kind and warm and loved Erik despite this.

The trip up was never so nervewracking for him and he felt his palms sweat as he went through his secret passages, snuck about the operahouse, listening as he went. Others were plotting for their Valentines day, choosing and sneaking off themselves for rendevouses of their own; some of the men even whispered of asking you, you of all people, and it took all Erik's self control to hold back from killing them. That would ruin your day and he couldn't possibly do that to you, he could never make his sweet songbird sad! But he did glare and silently growl at their audacity, as if they could possibly deserve a chance with someone as wonderous as you. Erik counted himself lucky, undeniably so, in that your smiles and words of love and affection were ever directed at him but they were absolutely not worthy of the same. To save you from being disappointed and upset with him he quickened his pace, as not to be tempted more by the wish to harm those fools who dared even speak your name.

You were, as always, waiting in your usual spot and his breath caught as he looked upon you. Aw you were radiant on any day to him but today was extra special. You noticed him as you always did and smiled, so warm to him he nearly burst into tears in that very moment. You always seemed to know when he was having one of Those Moments and thus chuckled lightly before reaching out and touching his cheek, “Oh Erik...”

He put his hand over yours, leaning into your touch with all the desperation and longing of a man dying of thirst in the desert finding water at last. You couldn't help but think how sweet and cute he was and want to kiss him, as you often wanted to kiss him. But to do so here would surely break the dam and you'd have a crying phantom on your hands, making it harder to hide. So instead you held back and spoke again, “Shall we go?”

He nodded enthusiastically, reminding you now of a puppy. Oh how sweet your Erik could be. He took your hand and lead you away, through passages you knew by heart, through the secret entrance to the lake that you'd gone through so many times, across the lake itself. He looked at you repeatedly and in his eyes was nervousness and shyness; it occurred to you that every time something big was happening, even just in his mind, he became as timid as a schoolboy with his first crush. You never could decide which you preferred: the confident Phantom or this sweet child in a man's body. It was likely you liked them both equally and just as much.

The sight of the roses that filled his living space made you smile and as he rushed to the organ to play for you, filling the air was that angelic music that only he seemed capable of creating, your heart soared and you felt that surely you were in paradise. You could see in all his preparations that he was diligent and devoted, that to him you were the most precious flower, the most beautiful thing. You could not help but twirl and dance as he played, wearing of course the dress he'd given you for your birthday; it seemed only right to do so today. You added words to his song, whatever came to mind, and his heart swelled too to hear you sing for him, his songbird, his beloved.

When the song was done he looked at you with expectation and you smiled at him again. “That was beautiful, Erik, thank you. I've never had such a wonderful gift for St. Valentines Day.”

The way his face lit up made you again wish to cup his face in your hands and kiss him with even just a fraction of the love you felt welling up when he looked so sweet. His heart swelled with delight and happiness and he himself could not help but move to go to you, unwilling to stay apart much longer, before kissing you himself. It was the kind of kiss that could only be had by those who loved each other dearly and it was so wonderful to you whenever he, your shy scared Erik, was willing to initiate.

You both hesitated to pull away but air was necessary even for a phantom and a songbird. But the love in both of your eyes seemed none the dimmer for the action; you giggled, delighted as always to see the way his face flushed whenever you kissed, then stepped away. A small whine escaped him but you reached out, plucking a rose from the massive collection, you suspected he stole every perfect rose in Paris just for you. Returning to him you slipped it into his suit and leaned up to kiss his cheek. “How lucky am I to have such a perfect angel as mine this St. Valentines.”

Oh there were the tears, they always came, and Erik clung to you, holding his precious songbird close. “Erik is no perfect angel, Erik wanted to kill those men who thought they could be close to Erik's songbird, Erik has killed and hurt people before. He's just lucky and blessed that such a wonderful, kind soul would want Erik and be willing to be his on a day such as this. Erik is so grateful, Erik loves his songbird so very much!”

You sighed fondly, lovingly. You reached up and stroked his hair, soothing him best you could. “You didn't kill them though and that's a good thing. I'm glad you didn't; it would make me sad but you knew that and you resisted. You're such a good man, Erik, you really are, and I'm the one whose thankful that I get to be loved and love such a wonderfully sweet person such as you. Now please dry those tears, this is supposed to be a happy romantic day. Let's dance and sing and enjoy each others company instead, hm?”

He sniffled and looked at you all teary eyed and in awe. Sometimes it could be overwhelming, how much he loved you, how much he adored you, but you loved him too, so very very much. You kissed his cheek then a light peck again upon his lips; he hesitated but he released you and with a sniffle he nodded. You were right of course, this was supposed to be a happy day and wouldn't it far better to enjoy it than to cry and feel miserable over how much he felt unworthy? You continued to smile at him and he managed to smile in return; you took his hand and tugged lightly and he led you to the dining room so that you could enjoy the feast he prepared for you two.

Erik was just so thankful that you, you were his Valentine.

#phantom of the opera #poto #erik destler x reader #erik destler #phantom x reader #erik x reader #fanfiction #fanfic #valentines day #pure unadulterated fluff

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byhees · 1 year

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my blossoming romance.

엔하이픈 ・ female reader + word count 700 genre fluff beginning of relationship warnings not proof-read — more

a/n. blank

hugs | heeseung

hugs that have you both feeling things that you’ve never really felt before— the brief back-hugs that cause your breath to get stuck in your throat. the affectionate and intimate hugs that leave whimsical tingles on your skin.

never imagining that it’d feel this magical, this surreal to be hugged in such a manner, and perhaps even regretting your decision for depriving yourself of such a sensation for a long while.

hugs that are shy at first, fingers dusted with hesitance as they barely brush against skin, lingering on the air pockets just above.

hugs that slowly become more comfortable, where you two lean more into each other’s embrace.

regardless, you can’t help but to feel a spark coursing through your body, sending a wave of adrenaline and bliss to your senses.

“you’re so, so precious… oh my gosh.”

smiles | jongseong

hearts racing a little upon catching sight of the other’s smile— one that radiates an energy beyond proper comprehension, the type that sweeps you off of your feet, albeit small.

a small smile itching to grow on your lips as you watch your lover just exist; the soft heaving of his breath, the way he’d gently fumble with his hair, unsatisfied with the way his locks would hinder his field of vision.

catching the lasting gaze, he’d send a similar one towards your direction, conveying an emotion as simple, yet as complex, as adoration.

fingertips tapping on the nearest surface, just as a manner to calm the gradual palpitation of your heart, and to bask in the remembrance of his grin.

“your eyes tell stories… i like that.”

waves | jaeyun

shy waves from across the room, the kind that you hope go noticed, but simultaneously hope they don’t, because you have no idea how to respond if he sees them.

occasional glances just to check if he’s focused on another subject, or if he’s coincidentally looking over to your direction, leaving no room for avoidable embarrassment in waving to a stranger or blank air.

eyes glistening with a newfound sparkle when he reciprocates the action, waving his hand just below head level.

tapping your feet against the flooring to relieve the exhilaration soaring through your chest, and to maybe mimic the rhythmic beating of your heart.

“you look too beautiful right now— i might combust..”

eyes | sunghoon

his eyes subconsciously lingering on you whenever you’re in the same space; an action that would be done without a single pause, just purely out of love.

eyes that shift from your own pair of eyes, to your nose, to your lips, orbs sprinkled with admiration.

eyes that naturally gravitate towards you, despite not being in your direct presence; the same eyes which shimmer underneath the light, finding serenity in absorbing all of your minute features.

unknowingly craning his neck to get a better angle of you, oblivious to how adorable he’d look.

“i’d love to spend forever with you, if you’d let me, of course.”

proximity | seonwoo

an increasing urge to have you in his vicinity, a sensation brought upon when missing your own unique warmth and flair.

finding his own comfort in leaning on your shoulder, lifting his chin to meet your eyes, maintaining the direct eye contact for a second or three.

small actions that put into perspective how budding your love for one another can be; timid brushes of hair away from your face, slow curls of loose strands behind your ear.

resting your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, feeling every unpredictable moment at which his heartbeat would accelerate and steady itself once more.

“you remind me of starlight.. you’re magical.”

kisses | jungwon

an unfamiliarity that trudges concurrently with tenderness— a kiss that begins hesitant, starting on your forehead, the moment passing by in the blink of an eye.

kisses that slowly move to your cheeks, and to the tip of your nose; a path not taken before, but it engulfs you with softness.

kisses that now leave you beaming in the midst of public, not being as reserved or unsure as before.

kisses that mean the absolute world to you— a way to encourage you, to wish you good luck for the day, to console you, to express love towards you.

“you make my heart warm..”

hands | riki

hands that were accustomed to doing things on their own— fidgeting with their own ten fingers to relieve worries, or rubbing against one another to provide warmth on a winter day— now find themselves interlocked with another pair.

hands that gently cup your face in his hands, to convey a whisper of thought.

hands that intertwine with yours when walking down a pathway, lightly swinging in the empty space between your bodies.

hands that find themselves decorated with various bracelets, momentos that remind him of you.

“.. i don’t know why, but i feel like i’m on cloud nine whenever i’m with you.”

taglist open! @wondipity @yjjungwon @shysakuno @niktwazny303 @syrxiee2 @g4m3girl @minhosify @haechansbbg networks! @kflixnet

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butterfly-lies-chase-them-away · 6 months

Note

Hey!! Thanks so much for writing my previous request! I'm so glad you liked it. I was quite nervous requesting it because I didn't know if you'd like the concept or if it would make sense or not but I'm really happy that you did. And I absolutely loved it!! Made me incredibly giddy to see that the prompt struck you! I'm wondering if you'd be open to me requesting another piece for Alfie using the general concept below? (Again, no pressure what so ever):

Alfie is a man that has had near death experiences several times throughout his life, but this time he thinks will be the last. That is until he feels himself being dragged across the cold cobblestone steps to the last place he'd ever think would be a safe haven for him.

Could this kind of be like where him and reader aren't exactly on amicable terms. It's a love/hate relationship (emphasis on the hate, lol). And when he asks why they saved him, they're just like: "didn't save you. Just prolonged your death. I told you before, no one has claim to kill you except for me."

Sorry if that didn't make too much sense. Basically a GN!Reader X Alfie Solomons enemies to (kinda) lovers but you sure as shit can't mess with the other, because that right is only reserved for them. "No one can kill you but me" are the vibes of their relationship.

(And if you don't mind, I'll use this as my identifier: 🥀.) Thanks again and I love, love, love your work ♥️!

- 🥀

Mine to Kill - Alfie Solomons x GN!Reader ONESHOT

Pairing: Alfie Solomons x GN!Reader

Word Count: 3120

Warnings: blood, stitching someone up

Summary: (The request)

A/N: Thank you so much for the request! I'm so happy you liked the last story. This was such a cute request, I love me some good ol' playful enemies to lovers. I'm so happy I'm able to identify you now! I look forward to more requests from you and everyone else. Hope you all enjoy 🥀💚

Alfie Solomons had waltzed with death on so many occasions that it felt as though he were an unwilling partner in a ceaseless, macabre dance. Every encounter with an enemy had etched its mark upon him, leaving deep scars not only on his body but on the recesses of his soul. The specter of death had become a relentless companion, its chilling fingers tracing the contours of his existence, staining it with a darkness that refused to fade. He had grown increasingly intimate with the concept of mortality, his dance with the reaper a relentless walts of agony and survival.

Yet, on this bitter, moonless night in Camden town,It was as if the universe itself had conspired to stage the conclusion of his life. The air was filled with an eerie stillness, the kind that precedes a storm. His blood flowed like a river unleashed from a dam, an unrelenting torrent from a vicious wound in his side. The bloodstains on the cobblestone steps formed a haunting picture, each drop a reminder of his unyielding struggle against a relentless destiny.

As he lay there, trapped in death's clutches, Alfie's reality shifted into a murky haze, where the lines between truth and illusion were as hazy as the fading memories of a man on the brink of the unknown. It was in this fragile moment, suspended between life and death, that his once-unshakable resolve, the very foundation upon which he had built his existence, flickered like a candle in the midst of a relentless storm.The boundary between his will to survive and the tempting embrace of surrender blurred, and doubt infiltrated his once unshakable self-assurance.

The looming darkness was unlike anything he'd ever known, its presence echoing with the ominous promise of an ending too final, too absolute to contemplate. Here, at this very moment, there was no escaping the inevitable, and Alfie could feel the cold breath of death, its embrace closing in, a meeting he could no longer avoid. It was the eternal silence that called to him, an abyss that left no room for defiance.

Struggling for each labored breath, Alfie's thoughts raced through the haze of pain, a singular name repeating in his mind like a mantra. Y/n. Their connection was a puzzle, a relentless source of frustration that had left them perpetually at odds. But amidst the chaos of the moment, as life teetered on the precipice, he couldn't deny the conviction that she would be the one to aid him, as contradictory as their relationship had always been.

Alfie was aware of the aggressive dynamic that had plagued their relationship for years. Their history was marked not by tender moments, but by the bitter taste of blood and the sting of betrayal. They were no strangers to confrontation; it seemed like every encounter ended with the exchange of harsh words or even harsher blows. Yet, beneath the layers of animosity and hostility, there was an inexplicable connection that both frustrated and mystified him. It was a connection he couldn't quite put into words, a magnetic pull that drew them together in their most volatile moments.

As he lay there, fading in and out of consciousness, Alfie found himself yearning to see the reader one last time. It was an inexplicable desire, considering the countless times they had been at each other's throats, and the disdain that had characterized their interactions. But in this desperate moment, he couldn't help but wish for a final encounter, a chance to unravel the enigma that was their relationship. Perhaps in that ultimate confrontation, he would finally understand the complex web of emotions that had kept them bound together, a love-hate bond that transcended reason and defied explanation.

The cobblestone under him seemed to vibrate with the approaching footsteps, but Alfie couldn't be sure if it was the real world or a fevered dream playing tricks on his battered senses. Everything appeared in blurred fragments, a distorted reality that left him questioning the very existence of the shadowed figure that loomed over him.

His groggy consciousness barely registered the arrival, and a voice, cool and unfeeling, echoed above him. It conveyed disappointment, a palpable sense of something having gone awry, but there was no hint of surprise. The voice seemed to hang in the air, an ominous punctuation to his dire situation.

"Uh, shit..." The voice spoke.

Alfie could barely hear them, the words slurred and fragmented. It was as if the world had tilted on its axis, and he had been thrust into a surreal nightmare where nothing was certain, not even the identity of the enigmatic presence that had dragged him from the brink of oblivion.

Alfie's senses were jolted as he felt his body being lifted off the unforgiving floor. It was a moment of profound disorientation, where the boundary between life and death blurred into obscurity. He couldn't discern whether it was the cold grip of death or the desperate strength of another person that held him aloft.

As he dangled in the hazy threshold of consciousness, Alfie's ears caught the sound of a struggle, the grunts and shuffles of someone grappling with the weight of his imposing frame. The voice that accompanied the struggle, tinged with irritation and a touch of begrudging admiration, cut through the disorienting fog that enveloped him.

"You big bastard," the words were growled out, spoken by someone who seemed simultaneously exasperated by the burden they were shouldering and oddly proud of their own audacity. It was a phrase that seemed to encapsulate the entirety of their complex relationship, where contempt and grudging respect danced on the knife's edge, much like the precarious balance between life and death that Alfie now found himself in.

Agony pulsed through every fiber of Alfie's being as his body protested the movement, and his head throbbed mercilessly as he was gingerly lifted from the harsh floor and placed onto a plush couch. The world around him remained a blur, but gradually, the mist lifted, revealing his surroundings. It was unmistakably Y/n's workshop, a place of mystery and ingenuity, and an unexpected haven for someone like him.

As his vision cleared, a spark of comfort surged through his heart. He could see the enigmatic figure approaching once more, their presence a reassuring beacon in the midst of his disorienting ordeal.

"Well, hello, darling," Alfie's voice emerged as a slurred drawl, his signature cockiness managing to persist even in his vulnerable state.

His gaze fixed upon them, a mixture of appreciation and something deeper, an emotion he couldn't quite put into words. The connection between them, the push and pull of their tumultuous history, was something that defied logic, but in that moment, it was a lifeline he clung to with a strange sense of gratitude.

Even in the haze that clouded his vision, Alfie could discern the unmistakable signs of irritation etched across Y/n's face. The furrowed brow, the narrowing of their eyes – it was a silent but vivid testament to their exasperation.

"Who did you fucking piss off this time, Solomons?" they demanded, their voice tinged with a mix of exasperation and a hint of genuine concern. The history between them had been fraught with clashes, but there was an undeniable thread of connection that bound them together, and it was in moments like these that it became evident, lurking beneath the layers of frustration.

A faint, wry smile tugged at the corners of Alfie's lips as he admitted, his words a mumbled confession, "Uh... who bloody knows, yeah." He genuinely couldn't recall the specifics of the latest debacle that had brought him to the brink of death. It was as if his life had been a never-ending cycle of chaos and conflict, a whirlwind that left him perpetually disoriented.

Y/n's frustration softened for a moment, replaced by a peculiar mixture of amusement and exasperation. It was a dance they had performed many times before, a tango of clashing personalities and insurmountable history. And yet, in that moment, there was an unspoken understanding that transcended words, a connection that defied the chaos that surrounded them.

Y/n's sigh was heavy with the weight of their shared history, an exasperated breath that spoke of the countless times they had found themselves in these predicaments. With a careful grace that contrasted sharply with the frustration they felt, they crouched down beside Alfie.

Alfie observed their every move, his vision clearing as they worked. In their capable hands, they held a pair of scissors, glinting menacingly in the dim light of the workshop. With deliberate precision, Y/n cut through the fabric of Alfie's shirt, baring his battered body to the cool air of the workshop. It was a vulnerable moment, one that was laden with an odd mix of intimacy and tension, as Y/n's actions conveyed a silent promise to save him once more from the brink of death.

"Fucking hell, Solomons, you're a proper mess," Y/n muttered, their tone a mixture of concern and exasperation as they assessed the extent of the massive wound on Alfie's side. It was a gruesome sight, and even they couldn't help but wince at the severity of it.

Alfie, never one to miss a beat, managed a raspy laugh despite the searing pain that coursed through his body. "No different from what you've done to me," he quipped, a crooked smile playing on his lips before it dissolved into a fit of coughing and wheezing, each painful breath serving as a testament to the brutal existence they shared.

Y/n carefully poured a bowl of water, their movements deliberate and steady. They selected a clean cloth and dipped it into the cool liquid before gingerly placing it against the wound. The cloth's touch brought a searing sensation, and Alfie clenched his teeth to stifle any signs of weakness. The area around the injury was inflamed, and each cleansing stroke sent an intense sting shooting through him.

Alfie's jaw tightened, his eyes squinting against the pain. He refused to show any sign of vulnerability. It was an unspoken rule between them - an understanding that they could hurt each other in countless ways, but showing weakness was not an option.

Y/n's unwavering focus was palpable in the air. With a calm and methodical demeanor, they retrieved a gleaming needle and carefully sterilized it by passing it through the flickering flame of a lit candle. The sharp, metallic needle glowed briefly before it was ready for use, a testament to their meticulous care.

Next, they selected a spool of sturdy thread, their nimble fingers expertly looping and securing the ends. With practiced precision, they began to stitch Alfie up. The needle pierced his skin with surprising ease, each stitch closing the gaping wound. It was a delicate dance between the needle and thread, an act of healing that defied the brutality of their history.

Alfie couldn't help but admire their skill, even as the pain pulsed through him. Their hands were steady, and their concentration unbroken, and for a moment, the world around them seemed to fade, leaving only the bond between them and the gentle cadence of the needle as it wove its way through his skin.

With a careful hand, Y/n applied a soothing ointment to the freshly stitched wound. The cool, medicinal balm brought a sense of relief, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Alfie's tense expression relaxed just slightly. It was a brief respite in the midst of their tumultuous existence.

As they leaned back and examined Alfie's form, it was impossible to deny the stark reality. He did look half-dead, his pallor ashen, and his features etched with exhaustion. The wounds on his body told the tales of countless battles, both won and lost. It was a poignant reminder of the price they paid for the life they led, where danger lurked around every corner, and survival was often a matter of sheer luck and resilience.

Alfie's gaze shifted toward Y/n, his one good eye studying them intently. Despite his battered state and limited vision, he found himself unable to look away, an unspoken admiration for them welling up within him.

In that moment, he saw them in a new light. Their determination, their skill, and their unwavering commitment to his survival were nothing short of extraordinary. Alfie was no stranger to the rough and unforgiving world they both navigated, and it was often a place where trust was scarce. Yet, here was Y/n, the one person who could claim the right to his life, saving him once more.

He couldn't help but feel a surge of respect, a sense of gratitude that transcended the complexities of their relationship. It was an unspoken acknowledgment that, despite their many battles, they shared a bond that defied the odds and kept them bound together.

Summoning every ounce of strength he had left, Alfie managed to find his voice, his words punctuated by a mixture of agony and exasperation. "Why in God's name did you save me?" he demanded, his voice a barely audible whisper, but his frustration was palpable.

In the dimly lit workshop, their eyes met, an unspoken challenge passing between them. The question hung in the air, laden with the weight of their complicated history. It was a question that cut to the core of their relationship, a puzzle neither of them had ever quite managed to solve.

The reader's eyes, devoid of any warmth, locked onto his, their icy gaze holding him captive. Their voice, as cold as the steel of a blade, sliced through the tense silence. "I didn't save you," they declared, their words sharp and unforgiving, as they leaned in closer. "I simply postponed your inevitable death. I’ve told you countless times, Alfie," they continued with a cruel smile, "no one, absolutely no one, has the right to end your life except for me."

The words hung in the air like an unbreakable decree, the chilling declaration of their twisted connection. It was a bond neither of them could fully comprehend, a love-hate relationship that defied all logic and left them entangled in a web of obsession and power.

Despite the bitterness that flavored their words, Alfie couldn't help but detect the undertones of twisted comfort and possessiveness woven into the tapestry of their relationship. With a cocky grin that seemed at odds with his battered state, he locked eyes with them.

"Jealous that someone else almost had the pleasure of taking me out?" he taunted, his words carrying a note of mischief amidst the pain. It was a twisted form of banter that they had perfected over the years, one that spoke to the strange bond between them. In that moment, as the workshop's shadows deepened around them, their connection was as undeniable as it was enigmatic.

Y/n shot back with a sardonic grin, their tone dripping with sarcasm as they began tidying up the makeshift operating area. "You bloody well know it," they retorted, their movements efficient and deft.

Alfie couldn't resist the opportunity for a playful jab. "Don't worry, love... I'm saving myself for you," he quipped, a devilish glint in his eye.

Their banter took an unexpected turn when Y/n, wearing an incredulous expression, couldn't resist poking at the newly stitched wound, causing Alfie to grimace in pain. "You are so bloody obsessed with me," they accused, a mixture of exasperation and amusement coloring their words.

Alfie met their accusation with a half-offended look. "And why the fuck would you think that?" he asked, genuinely puzzled.

Y/n chuckled, their eyes locking onto his. "Come on, Solomons, you practically passed out on my doorstep. Your ass dragged yourself here," they pointed out with a shake of their head. "You're completely and utterly obsessed with me." It was a statement that held a strange kind of truth, one that neither of them could deny.

Amid the playful tension, Alfie's mind was flooded with flashback. The clashes, the power struggles, and those rare moments of begrudging understanding flickered like fragmented images in his mind. In those recollections, he couldn't help but acknowledge that, despite their vehement denials and ceaseless battles, they were undeniably linked by something enigmatic.

They were like two fierce elements in nature, forces of destruction and creation, forever locked in a volatile dance that defied easy categorization. Their connection was a riddle with no solution, a puzzle they could never fully solve, and yet it was the essence of what defined their relationship - a captivating enigma that kept them eternally entwined, two halves of the same turbulent whole.

A glimmer of levity broke through the intensity of their exchange. "You're mine, sunshine," Y/n quipped, their words laced with an odd affection.

Alfie's chuckle was a rare, genuine sound amidst the tension that usually enveloped them. "Fucking looks that way," he said with a half-smile, their shared history and complex connection making the playful banter all the more intriguing. The words, though lighthearted, held a deeper truth about the inexplicable bond that tied them together, a connection that refused to be severed.

An unspoken pact seemed to settle between them, a silent truce forged in the crucible of their shared experiences. Their eyes locked, each acknowledging the enigmatic connection that had both united and torn them apart over the years. It was as if their tumultuous past had culminated in this one moment, where they stood on the precipice of something undefined.

With a deliberate tenderness that was as rare as it was unpredictable, the reader's hand reached out, their fingers grazing Alfie's cheek. The touch was cool to the touch, as cold and unpredictable as the relationship they shared. It was a gesture that defied easy interpretation, a hint of a deeper connection that refused to be denied, no matter how much they clashed or how much they tried to push each other away.

"If I find you still here in the morning," Y/n warned, their fingers still caressing Alfie's cheek, "you're dead." The threat hung in the air, laden with both menace and a strange kind of intimacy.

Alfie responded with a sly grin that was half defiant and half affectionate. "And I wouldn't have it any other way," he retorted, a declaration that underscored the complex nature of their relationship.

With a smile that held a hint of something deeper than just the banter they usually engaged in, Y/n turned and walked away, leaving Alfie on the couch. Their footsteps echoed through the cavernous space, a reminder that, despite the tumultuous dance they shared, there was a bond that neither of them could easily sever.

A/N: thank you for reading and I hope you all enjoyed, again, thank you for the request 🥀. I look forward to more :)

#fanfic #alfie solomons #alfie solomons fanfic #alfie solomons x reader #alfie solomons imagine #tom hardy x reader #tom hardy fanfic #tom hardy #peaky blinders alfie solomons #peaky blinder imagine #peaky blinder fanfic

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