#i am bowing kneeling howling
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#i am bowing kneeling howling#kara danvers#kara zor el#karadanversedit#melissa benoist#melissabenoistedit#supergirl#supergirledit#dcedit#dctvedit#dcladies#dailysupergirl#**#imagine her looking like this without having lena in the same room#a hate crime#speaking of lena#let's not get started on how she looked in the SAME episode
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Cry me a river
summary: Aemond finds her wounded and left to die in the middle of nowhere. her desire for vengeance helps her survive — and her unbreakable spirit inevitably draws the prince to her.
author’s note: her betrothed does what Daemon did to Rhea... this time, the woman survives 🔪 also, couples who kill together, stay together, I don’t make the rules
warnings: archery (described in unprofessional language), slow burn (... and then not so slow), mentions of blood and murder (duh), it gets a bit heated
words: ~ 11K
song inspo: Tommee Profitt ft. Nicole Serrano — Cry me a river (cinematic cover) 🔥
>>> Aemond is caught in heavy rain midair, in the depths of a starless night. The storm rips through the clouds, and the lightning flickers across the sky that’s bowed over the Vale. He tries to resist the voice of reason that urges him to land, he’s no little boy to be afraid of the whims of nature. But the downpour only grows more ferocious, and the rattling of thunder soon drowns out Vhagar’s displeased roars.
Begrudgingly, Aemond sets his pride aside and peers into the darkness that stretches as far as the eye can see. He can barely make out a vague outline of the mountains but the rocky terrain is a poor resting place, that much he knows. Exasperation slowly claws at him as the wind howls, his clothes drenched and heavy, and the ribbon of moonlight slips away into the gloom.
When his gaze suddenly catches a flicker of light, a faintly lit cave in the distance — Aemond thinks it’s the Gods' mercy as it is. He is yet to find out that the Gods are leading him that way for a reason.
>>> The landing is rough but Aemond holds back complains and runs for cover, breathing a sigh of relief once he gets to the cave. Vhagar curls up in a heap, and her enormous silhouette can easily pass for just another mountain in the valley.
The prince tiredly wipes the raindrops off his face — and only then notices a spot of crimson right under his feet. He recognizes the color of blood in an instant, and the realization fills him with dread. Slowly, he turns around, his eye following the gory trail, his hand reaching for the dagger. But the sight he’s met with leaves him frozen in place.
Aemond is sure he’s never been so stunned and horrified all at once.
At the far end of the cave, a woman is lying next to a waning fire, with her eyes closed and face drained of color. She is dressed in bright red, and the blood on her hands blends into the laced fabric of her long sleeves, and Aemond is struggling to locate the injury that left her unconscious. She looks so helpless, a breath away from irrecoverable, he throws caution to the wind and rushes to her side without much thought.
Aemond kneels, examining her bare and bloodied feet, the torn hem of her dress, the smudges of dirt on it. With timidly blossoming fascination, he takes in the softness of her features stained with tears, green leaves tangled in her hair. Aemond reaches his hand to smooth a strand of it when he sees a splash of red framing the side of her face. His fingers barely graze her temple — and once he sees them stained with red too, his breathing hitches.
He’s no stranger to cuts and bruises but he doesn’t know how to treat a head wound. And his fighting skills won’t be of use against the Stranger.
A feeble voice brings him back to reality:
“I am not dying.”
Startled, Aemond lets his gaze fall on her lips, parted and faintly tinted with pink. Her eyelids flutter before she opens her eyes — they meet his in an instant. The feeling he gets bears no explanation: it’s sudden and overwhelming, raging like a hurricane that hits right at his chest. She doesn’t look away while her hand finds his — his fingers are still in her hair, and he shudders at the touch; her skin is cold but the grip is surprisingly firm.
“I’m not dying tonight,” she repeats, her tone a bit steadier. “I will not give him the satisfaction.”
His brows furrow from the lack of understanding. His body tenses at the very clear hint that he gets.
“Who did this to you?” Aemond asks with concern.
But she already drifts out of consciousness, back to where she can’t hear him. The thunder rolls and the lightning tears the cover of darkness, illuminating uninhabited mountains and valleys. The terrible weather seems like the least of Aemond’s problems.
>>> It rains all night, and the dawn comes shrouded in white mist. He cannot sleep a wink. The woman tosses and mumbles incoherently as her mind lapses back into the grasp of the unknown suffering. Aemond finds the sight so unnerving, it’s almost painful to watch, but he doesn’t take his eye off her.
He keeps the fire burning to help warm her up, ignoring his own discomfort. Not his shivering but hers eventually compels him to peel off his wet outer garment to dry it off faster. He hastens to put the clothes back on but leaves out his coat to cover her with it, black material over red, a night draping over sunset. Hesitantly, he rubs her arms and back, his usually deft fingers now tentative, until he sees the life returning to her cheeks. It puts Aemond’s nerves at ease, and he belatedly realizes how stiff his body has become from hours of sitting in agonizing suspense. And yet, he never leaves her side.
The mountain tops stay hidden by the clouds, the sky coated in gloom the sun can’t peek through, but around midday, she wakes up again. Her eyes dart to Aemond who moved to feed the fire with branches. He doesn’t rush into conversation, giving her a chance to come to her senses. She is looking at him with distrust but without a hint of fear.
“You stayed,” she concludes in a hoarse voice, slightly shifting in place.
“Leaving you all alone didn’t seem fair,” Aemond responds, which only earns a huff from her.
“I am perfectly capable of managing on my own,” she rebuts, trying to prop herself up on elbows — and instantly groans at the ache in her temple.
Aemond comes closer in a blink of an eye, and it’s hard to miss the empathetic look he gives her. He politely stays at arm’s length which she is thankful for.
“Your bleeding stopped but such a serious wound must be examined by a maester,” Aemond tells her peacefully. “How far away is your home? I shall accompany you there once the weather calms down.”
He sees emotion flashing through her face, and for a moment it gets so quiet, he can only hear the rain still drizzling outside the cave.
“I do not have a home,” she forces out, and Aemond is surprised to notice that she doesn’t sound sad. If anything, there is ire in her words. “You shouldn’t bother.”
“I am sure your family is worried by your absence and —”
“My family valued me so little, they got rid of me at the very first chance,” she cuts him off, her voice stern. “So I am not going back to them, I’d rather you leave me here.”
He looks her over — her ruined dress and anguished face, dried-up blood in her disheveled hair. No doubt, she is hurting, and it would be unbecoming of a prince to leave a lady in such dire straits.
“I can do no such thing,” Aemond insists. “You survived a severe injury but whatever discomfort you are now feeling can be eased.”
“Complaining would only make me look pitiful. I need none of that,” she is sitting with her fingers pressed to the aching part of her skull, her brows knitted.
“Only seems reasonable to pity anyone with a ble—”
“Did anyone pity you?” she interjects, looking straight at his eyepatch.
The question is meant to cut him yet it doesn’t — too much time has passed, and his once painful memories are now dust-covered images at the back of his mind. But he finds her intent amusing. Wounded and weak, she is supposed to be at his mercy, but her spirit stays unbendable, and her gaze is so blazing, it’s nothing less of a fire. She keeps her eyes on him, waiting for his reply, confident that she will get it.
“Hardly anyone,” Aemond admits. “But I wasn’t left in a cave to die, so the comparison doesn’t work in your favor.”
He expects her to snap again, he almost wants to have another taste of her insolence — a trait so uncommon among any women he’s met, Aemond deems it not offensive but thrilling. She only hums in response, throwing him a glance, and he sees curiosity shining through her cold stare, like a ray of sun in the storm clouds. Their exchange of pleasantries is cut short by another one of her groans. He is usually patient but the sound of her suffering is a test that he fails.
“You will not get better on your own and you know it,” Aemond tries to reason. “I can take you to the greatest maester there is,” — and his persistence is akin to a plea. He anticipates her fears and allays them before she can utter a word: “You will be free to leave at any moment, you have my word.”
“What’s in it for you?” she narrows her eyes at him, her whole demeanor a clear evidence of her refusal to give in just yet.
Aemond thinks for a moment. The real answer to her question lies on the surface and is as vivid as her dress and as her blood: he knows nothing about her and he wants to know everything. He has trouble not only voicing but coming to terms with his desires.
“I am afraid that guilty conscience will disturb my sleep,” Aemond says, and it’s not entirely untrue. He can already tell he’ll think of her many nights to come.
She looks at him appreciatively, slowly, as if her gaze can cut through the cotton of his shirt, flesh, and bones his body is made of. Whatever is her verdict, he can’t tell because in the next moment, she is stricken with pain again, and talking isn’t of much help.
“We shall leave at dawn,” Aemond recapitulates, helping her lay down to have some rest while he can’t find any.
“Do you happen to have any water?” she mumbles more humbly. He senses that showing weakness doesn’t come easy for her; he’s not the one to gloat at something he can perfectly understand.
“I will fetch you some,” he reassures and pulls his coat over her again — and hurries outside.
The mountain valleys welcome him with stillness, and Vhagar’s eyes are two beacons in the mist. The dragon seems comforted by the rain and pays Aemond no mind as he climbs up to get a flask with water he luckily brought, and some lemon cakes Helaena insisted that he take (“should something happen on the road”, she said; he makes a mental note to thank her later).
They eat in silence — she has no appetite, and Aemond feels food stuck in his throat. She tells him nothing but her name; he savors the sound of it, a weave of letters he can now put to her face. Aemond studies her discreetly and although he can’t read her yet, he puts everything in memory, down to the smallest detail. The slight tilt of her head, the pensiveness of her gaze, a blizzard of feelings trapped in her irises, the stubbornness in her lineaments paired with beauty. The curve of her neck and a thin golden chain around it, her collarbones flowing down in that hollow spot his thumb would fit in... He stops himself from looking further down; his face flushes nonetheless, and something sparks inside him, dangerously unnamed.
The evening approaches stealthily but comes chilly and dank. They go to sleep early, both laid next to the fire, and Aemond courteously keeps his distance. She notices the goosebumps that snake under his shirt; her suspicions are soon confirmed when she catches the sound — and can’t tell if it’s the hammering of rain or his chattering teeth.
She considers him: his sharp profile, tense angles of his jaw, lines of his cheekbones seemingly chiseled by the Gods themselves. With his silver hair and eye the color of wisteria, she expected a different attitude; everyone knows the Targaryens to be self-righteous at best and prideful as a given. But the man next to her is instead stoically enduring the hardship he can easily avoid — if he only rolls closer and allows their bodies to trap the elusive heat; he doesn’t dare to. She realizes he could’ve taken advantage of her if he wanted, but it seems like the thought hasn’t even crossed his mind. She finds it way more endearing than her vigilance would usually let her — the pain must’ve dulled her sanity, she thinks, reminding herself that it’s the sole intent of surviving that should motivate her.
No words will work against his wit so she wastes no time snuggling up to him, with her forehead against his shoulder, her hand resting on his chest as she shares his own coat with him. A quiet gasp escapes Aemond’s mouth, but he stays still.
“I can hear you shivering,” she can feel it now too — his skin trembling under her fingers. “You are risking to catch a cold.”
Aemond is frozen for a minute, his heart thrumming at that unexpected boldness, at the feeling of her — malleable curves and no rigid edges, their ribcages in contact, their thighs brushing. Calming his breathing is an arduous task; he’s used to fighting off opponents but now he’s battling with himself, with the need that’s treacherously strong, almost primal. He barely quells it, and only by some miracle his inhales are soon steady again.
He moves his arm — the one she’s lying on — a little to the side, giving her more space to settle into, tips of his fingers stopping at her lower back. He does feel undoubtedly warmer. Aemond glances down at her, his voice a whisper tinted with mirth:
“Isn’t this called pity?”
He hears a faint cackle. “Call it rationality,” she refutes. “Since we are to leave soon, and only one of us can fly a dragon.”
The words roll off her tongue like it is the most mundane thing, not a century’s worth of power encased under the thick-scaled skin of a creature the size of a castle.
“You do not find the beast scary?” Aemond can’t stop himself from asking.
“Why would I? It is only a dragon,” her voice grows smaller, eyelids become heavier. “Unlike some men, the dragons are at least not known for their ill intentions.”
At that moment, a wish is abruptly made — to find out who harmed her, make sure it happens no more. The fury in Aemond is a mounting force meant to cause destruction, tamed yet never really dormant. But he listens to her breaths and pushes his anger aside, and the full moon is the only witness of his surrender. As he falls asleep, he tries not to think how nice it is to have her body pressed to his.
>>> What he should be thinking of is how to explain all this — him, unwed, bringing a woman to the castle; a scandal, no less. And yet, it is the last thing on his mind. It’s only occupied with this moment he wishes would never end — with gusts of wind tucked under the dragon’s belly, clouds spread out around; and, most importantly, his arms snaked around her waist, her back touching his chest.
It is bittersweet, truth be told because her pain isn’t gone overnight, and he can’t heal her with just his hands and his words. The splotches of dark maroon are even more visible in her hair in daylight, and she winces at loud sounds, at the harsh flow of air that bites her skin while Vhagar soars up, and she has to grab onto Aemond a little tighter.
But soon they reach the clear canvas of the sky, the serene emptiness, and she looks around, taking it all in — and then the corners of her mouth curl up. There are sparkles of delight in her eyes, and still no sign of fear. And he thinks that her smile is the closest thing to the sun.
They cover many miles, crossing the lands as Vhagar bursts through the clouds, and the time allotted to their inadvertent closeness runs out, mercilessly as ever. Once they land and he helps her climb down, his anxiety comes back, like a wave approaching shore. But then a sound of her whimper reaches him, almost inaudible; he only has time to turn around, to see her pained expression. She passes out — he catches her; it’s his heart that falls, and no other thoughts and explanations matter.
When Aemond is seen at the castle, he’s carrying her in his arms, his lips pressed into a thin line, and not a word slips out after he calls for the maester. The prince pays no attention to the guards and the maids exchanging glances, to his mother stopping dead in her tracks upon seeing him, her hand over her heart. There is a question hanging in the air, parting Alicent’s lips, but she doesn’t voice it and only watches her son walk away, hurried and fearful in a way she forgot he was capable of. She struggles to remember when was the last time she saw Aemond in the company of a lady. And if he ever looked at a woman the way he looks at this one.
>>> Aemond is pacing the corridor, his eye on the floor, on the pattern of the stone surface. His mind is treading at the doors that were closed in his face after she was carried into the room. She was breathing still, and that’s what helps him keep it together, his hands clasped so tightly his fingers go numb.
He wonders if maester Mellos has always been so annoyingly slow. That’s the only wondering he can allow — otherwise the noxious thoughts will flood his head: how much blood did she lose before he found her? What if he was the one being too slow? What if —
“Her life is not in danger as she regained her senses” the maester moves with the pace of a cat, his face wearing the same unbothered expression. “The long flight might’ve been tiring for her impressionable female nature.”
That assumption is disregardful and uncalled for — Aemond hates it; still, he’s glad to hear the rest. He lets out a breath that frees his chest from the chains of agitation.
“I will fetch her some herbal ointment to help the cuts and bruises heal faster,” the old man then adds.
Aemond’s expression hardens; clearly, he knows the meaning behind the words but he cannot fathom them. Violet marks of violence blooming on her skin, how could he miss it? How did she get them? He accidentally thinks of it out loud.
“It is a rare luck to get only bruises after taking a fall from a horse,” the maester looks at him askance. He gives his final verdict before leaving, followed by a sigh: “The young lady surely must rest.”
The displeasure is a tiny tongue of flame at Aemond’s ribs. He is vexed by not knowing (nothing new in that, not with his eagerness to learn all and everything ever since he was a kid). Unexpectedly, he is equally vexed by not seeing her — so much so, that he almost reaches for the handle of the door that separates them.
Aemond stops himself, his reticence a fetter but also a necessity: she needs her rest, and he shall leave her be. He will not go beyond the bounds of decency.
She can’t be niched into any bounds, he soon will learn.
>>> Aemond is good at many things but not at waiting, as it turns out. In the morning, after he wakes up, anticipation already laps up in him, his day a blur — breakfast, sword practice, the lines in a book he picks at the library all merge and bore him. He only glimpsed the maids leaving her chambers once; it took all of his willpower to go the other way.
In just three days, his impatience smolders — then flares up, then erupts into a wildfire, his head in a haze that makes him lose focus. The more Aemond tries not to think of her, the harder it gets.
He pushes yet another thought aside as he sees Ser Criston approaching, armed with a longsword and perseverance. Aemond’s training is never a dull routine — the knight makes sure of that and doesn’t make concessions. Their swords lock and clank, and time is a whirl; in the midst of it, Aemond finds himself reminiscing about her shining gaze. He almost misses the hit aimed at him and ducks at the very last second — spins, glares, strikes, his blade stopping an inch away from Criston’s face.
The knight chuckles in good spirits, and the pride he feels is almost paternal. “Such a shame you aren’t the one for tourneys,” he pants, wiping the sweat from his brow.
Aemond rolls his eye, a brief respite not helping with his frustration. The subtleties of his emotions are unknown, unreadable like an ancient language: he’s daydreaming of her hands, her face, her —
“What a shame, indeed.”
Aemond turns to the sound of her voice. The whirl is silenced in an instant.
It’s different from his memories and his dreams — better than both: she is alive and well, she’s right next to him. She isn’t wearing a dress but a tunic and a pair of breeches, cool-toned material against her sun-kissed skin. Her wound is cleaned and healing, the mark left is a lightning peeking from her hair, the waves of it loosely braided. The simple attire doesn’t take away from her beauty (nothing can, he thinks), and it takes him a second to blink the enchantment away.
Aemond’s voice comes back, a tad low. “Aren’t you supposed to be resting?” He’s looking too joyful for it to sound like reproach.
There’s laughter in her eyes. “No one forbade me from stretching my legs. Am I interrupting?”
“Not at all,” Ser Criston chimes in, cautiously curious. “If only you don’t find the sight too unsettling,” he twirls his sword, the steel soundless in his hands.
“On the contrary, I find it entertaining. Although that wouldn’t be my weapon of choice,” her gaze follows the blade up.
Aemond throws her a surprised look but Ser Criston is the one to raise the question. “You have your preferences? Do tell,” he turns his head to the weaponry on a nearby table. “We’ve got shortswords, flails, axes...”
“All of which lack speed,” she remarks pertly, leaving the knight mystified.
Aemond sees no mystery; he knows that in the highlands catching prey is way trickier than killing. Knives, swords, blades of any kind won’t cover a long distance. Something else will.
“Archery, then?” the prince guesses.
“Doesn’t seem like the type of weapon you Targaryens prefer,” she shrugs but her disinterest is feigned.
Ser Criston catches onto that. “Can’t have preferences if there is nothing to choose from,” he grins, then calls for one of the guards, giving short instructions.
The man runs back in a minute, with a bow and arrows, and her eyes light up. They glide over the tight string, the polished wooden bend, concave at each end; it’s crafted beautifully.
“I must ask you to spare the guards,” Ser Criston jests while she takes the weapon, laying hold on its grip. “But do not be shy about taking your pick,” he points randomly at a stack of barrels, about thirty yards away. “These might be nice for a start.”
“That is too easy of a target,” she barely glances that way, then takes a good look around. “Do you truly think so little of me?”
The knight’s cheeks heat up. “My apologies, I didn’t mean to —”
“Oh, I do not find it offensive,” she grants him a meek smile without looking, already eyeing something much further away. “To tell you bluntly, it only spurs me on,” she mounts the feathered end of the arrow against the bowstring — and then pulls it.
Both men follow the direction the arrow is pointed at. Right outside the castle gates, there’s an apple tree, tall and branched, bent slightly over the stone wall. The fruits are bulked and ruddy, mouth-watering; but from where they are standing, the apples can barely be seen, obscured by foliage the wind breezes through.
Ser Criston raises an eyebrow, not incredulous but intrigued; Aemond only gets time to take a half-breath. The first arrow is fired with no warning — it cuts through the air, a flash of color above everyone’s heads, — and pierces an apple, pinning it to the trunk. A moment later she takes another shot; after the second one, Aemond isn’t looking at the apples, his eye instead drawn to her.
He suddenly can see nobody else.
Her every move is concise and simple, but her gaze is dead-set on the tree. She repeats each shot with a honed precision, controlled yet gracious; one of her arms set in a straight line, the other one follows a well-learned pattern — an arrow out, an apple down. That’s where, he thinks, her intrepidity comes from: the deadly weapon in her hands sings like a musical tool. The chance to watch her is bliss, and she’s a vision.
Only when she’s down to the last arrow, her hand unexpectedly flinches. She doesn’t miss, still, but the iron tip veers off and knocks the apple to the ground; a shadow of discontent glides across her face. Ser Criston is too impressed to notice yet Aemond knows that feeling all too well. He’s always strived to be the best too, and he knows how poisonous the pursuit of excellence can be.
“With that level of skill you might be unrivaled,” the knight praises, his words backed up by some of the guards and passersby clapping.
She seeks no praise, her quest is more troublesome. “I can do better,” she says, with her disappointment forced down. Her voice wanes a little when she adds: “I will do better by the next full moon,” and that hidden meaning holds unfathomable weight.
Aemond is too eager to bring her comfort to read between the lines. “The bow and arrows will be waiting for you, shall you decide to train more. But do have mercy on the tree,” a smile ripples her lips, a warmth ripples his heart. “I will ask for some target rings to be made.”
That gives her a dollop of contentment, and their fingers brush when he takes the weapon back. As Aemond gazes after her, he wonders if she feels it too — blood stirring, sweet dizziness, limbs lightweight.
Ser Criston watches the prince with a knowing look, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “It is so rare to find a lady with such a competitive spirit and a talent to match,” the knight muses. “Her husband must be a lucky man.”
Aemond’s joy shrinks, that mere word disturbing. “She doesn’t have one,” he responds. The uncertainty of his answer leaves a sour taste in his mouth. Doesn’t she really?
“That might not be for long,” Ser Criston carelessly comments. The prince’s cold stare makes no impression on him. “Shall we resume our training?”
Aemond goes to pick a shorter sword, his blood now boiling for another reason. There’s a gaze that’s akin to a caress, to a gentle tap on Criston’s shoulder — he turns readily to meet it, dark brown eyes that are a mirror of his own. Alicent casts a glance at her son, questioning and worrying, then holds the knight’s gaze once more. The looks they share are hand-written letters — both of them write the same thing.
>>> Alicent goes looking for answers first — she walks into the woman’s chambers the very same day, with the elegance of a Queen, with the benevolence of a mother. She doesn’t push but guides the conversation; she faces no resistance from the woman she’s facing.
When they are both seated, she tells her a story as old as time, a tragedy lived out by many. Her mother died when the girl was ten years of age, too weak to carry on her blank existence, and her father couldn’t even bear to look at her, no matter how much she tried to please him. Growing up in the Vale felt freeing but lonely, so she preferred archery over embroidery to leap at every chance to get away from home, into the beauty of the wilderness she had no one to share with. But she held out to hope that her life would change. She couldn’t predict that said change would start as an accident — her horse slipping on wet grass.
Alicent can’t help but bring her into a compassionate embrace at the mention of it. Her embrace turns into an offer — of a place to stay, of a shelter, and a friendly ear (maybe those were all the things her younger version wished for but was robbed of). The lie Alicent heard was so skillfully woven into the truth, she didn’t get suspicious.
Once Aemond learns the story from his mother, he discerns the misleading part in a second. All the other pieces fit together like a puzzle — her being self-reliant and guarded, her brazenness a shield, just like the one he’s grown accustomed to. But that last bit was made up, he can tell. And yet, he just doesn’t know how to approach the subject and not scare her off.
Aemond takes a task on earnestly.
>>> He looks for an opportunity to talk — he ends up tirelessly watching her, and he can’t say that there is no pleasure in it. She does resume her training, and every morning she’s the first one at the training yard when the sun is barely up, and no prying eyes can witness her dedication. Him having an eye on her doesn’t seem to be a problem.
His relentlessness has always been something Aemond prided himself on but it’s hers that he grows to enjoy. He carefully notes her refined movements, her sharp focus, her gaze cutting through any target before an arrow does. It’s easy to be fascinated by her; it takes him a couple of days to look past her outward calmness to catch a flicker of a feeling he can effortlessly recognize — an undercurrent of fury. And then he grasps that each time she aims at the wooden boards, she means to hurt someone. And maybe that is the exact reason she struggles with her every last shot, and her hand keeps flinching, unsure, or maybe too overwhelmed with certitude instead.
On one of those mornings, Aemond gets an idea, an outburst of bravery (or madness, but he’s too excited to care). She’s grimly collecting the arrows, inspecting them for damage when she sees him out of the corner of her eye.
“I couldn’t help but notice that something’s been troubling you,” Aemond comes closer, hands behind his back. She gives him a look that holds no denial but no explanations, either.
Aemond goes to the wooden boards, round and lined up on a hastily built frame, — and stands in the middle, right in front of them. He then puts out a hand with an apple in it, ripe and deliciously red. “Maybe I can help.”
Nothing short of shock flashes through her face, her eyes darting from him to the fruit and back. “What— ” her jaw drops as the words escape her; she strings them into a sentence. “What are you doing?”
“Helping you focus better,” Aemond offers in the calmest tone he can master.
It’s not uncertainty that leaves her speechless, her proficiency hard to deny. It’s the genuine, borderline naive trust that he shows her — with his open gaze on her, his body not moving from the spot, his faith in her as unwavering as his posture.
The moment is fleeting, soft like a morsel of a gossamer cloud, with so many words not shared; in another blink of his eye, it ends. The change in her isn’t drastic but chilling, like a touch of steel blade to the skin — her hand doesn’t waver when she reaches for the arrow, her gaze firmly locking on him.
As her last attempt at leniency, she notes: “There is no stopping an arrow once it’s shot.”
Aemond doesn’t think twice before replying: “You trusted me with your life once. I trust you not to kill me.”
She lifts the bow without hesitation, and he keeps eye contact with bated breath. The never-ending movement of life abates and the pale sunlight fades, and Aemond is deaf to everything but his booming heart. She drops the bow out of the way just a little and pulls the string up to the tip of her nose. She waits at full draw, the passing seconds endless and fulminant at once, before her hand flows back, her fingers relaxing — and the arrow slices through the air.
The first one hits somewhere above the apple; Aemond doesn’t dare to even take a glance, standing motionless, rooted to the ground. The second one follows soon. It’s a blood-curling contrast — how quiet is each shot until it reaches the target, and then the arrow rips right through the board, a deafening crash, a waft of death he’s spared from. Until she draws the bowstring again.
Aemond hears the third and the fourth hit, his hand unmoving, every muscle in his body tense. He is rarely scared, and it’s easy to mistake the fluttering of his heart for fear. But with how his eye is riveted on her, his gaze rapt and throat soar, — he thinks, it might be some other feeling. He gets no time to guess as the fifth arrow — finally — plunges into the apple and pins it to the board.
It’s a momentary reprieve, a quivering wave going through his body; and yet, she doesn’t lower the bow, eyes still fixed on him. Aemond can see her inhaling, the metal tip of the arrow pointing in his direction — and then released smoothly. In a split second, it lodges into the gap between his ribs and his arm, the feathery end stopping right next to his heart. When Aemond looks at her, he catches fiery glints of mischief in her gaze — and then something else, bright but short-lived like a glare on the water.
She puts the bow down, and they both know — her hand didn’t flinch once.
Only when Aemond steps away, he sees that the six arrows form the letter “A”, with the red apple right in the middle.
>>> He’s afraid the change is transient but it lasts — she is now watching him, too. Aemond finds it befuddling at first, not considering himself worth the attention, not used to being seen as something other than a wreckage of man, intimidating, and lonely, and harsh. She doesn’t look daunted. On the contrary, every time she sees him, the ice of her concentration thaws, and her gaze softens and lingers on him, mending every part of him that’s been broken by his insecurities.
She doesn’t recoil from the parts that are irreparable, either. She shows the same understanding when he can’t find the right words and shrinks into his shell — in the middle of conversations, in between rows of bookshelves, at bustling dinners; her company is a haven he can retreat to without a word. She welcomes his every impulse to talk and to share — thoughts, meals, books he thinks she will like (she bites down a smile thinking how much time he spent looking for any mention of archery).
She stays by his side when he doesn’t want to talk and when he overshares, when he’s bleakly taciturn, and when his temper gets as rigid as his sword; she’s enthralled by his anger, never burnt by it. One week turns into two, then into three. Day by day, Aemond wakes up earlier to watch her hit every target without fail, and she then watches him win one bout after another with evident amusement. They explore the castle, get lost in the library, take rides to the woods — she laughs as her horse breaks into a gallop, she basks in the sun, wind ruffling her hair, and his heartbeat raises to a clamor upon seeing her like that.
Her seat is next to his at the dining table, their chambers not too far away, and he persistently walks her to her doors, and every evening he dithers before saying goodnight and parting ways. Her presence soon becomes a warming light nurturing his days — and simultaneously the reason for him losing sleep. But as he lays at night, watching the moon wax, he thinks of another constant, bothering him like a page missing from a book, a closed door he’s got no key for — it’s her secret that he is yet to uncover.
He gets his chance when he least expects it.
>>> The month is nearing its end when Aemond is nearing the dining hall, brimming with emotion he cannot capture — excitement, unrest, sprinkling of anguish. He last saw her hours ago, when his mother came to her in the training yard, and the two of them hastened to leave, seemingly in some agreement he knew nothing about. He caught bits and pieces of words — mentions of fabrics and seamstresses, but it didn’t help with his confusion which soon turned into worry he had trouble coping with. And it wasn’t the worst part.
What’s worse is the comprehension, icy and unforeseeable like a blast of northern wind: it’s only been a few hours, and he’s already missing her. He looks back at the days she wasn’t with him, but they all seem too far away and forgotten, his life before her a blank canvas that she’s now painting with colors. He keeps thinking of her, getting more pensive with each step, until he reaches the doors, and walks in, and —
the ground is cut from under his feet.
All is the same in the hall: long table in a cloud of mindless chatter, silverware clanking, a rich palette of scents. What stands out is the color, bright like rubies formed within the earth’s crust. It’s the red of her dress — the same old and brand new — and he can only catch a glimpse but it’s enough to leave him dazed. It lasts a second before she senses him, her conversation with Helaena interrupted; she springs to her feet, the dazzling hue stirs up his ardor — he’s almost blinded when he gets an eyeful.
He is staring at her, everyone’s staring at him.
Helaena stands up with a laugh in her attempt to smooth things over: “It isn’t very nice of you to keep a friend waiting,” they both sit down then.
Aemond goes to join them with cotton feet.
He must’ve been too busy last time, her injury too big of a disturbance, so he paid the dress no mind. But once he’s seated, he can’t help but notice: the layers of fabric, flowing lines of her body, the cut in the front, the golden chain now ten times brighter. She casts him a wondering glance, he drinks half the cup in one swallow. The minutes that follow are like a fog, and although the conversations carry on, Aemond can’t bring himself to take part in any.
That is until he hears vaguely his sister’s delighted voice. “The stitching is barely noticeable! What an excellent work,” she marvels at the red dress, then looks at him with the spontaneity of a child. “Wouldn’t you agree, dear brother?”
He’s certainly grateful he’s not drinking otherwise he’d choke. Aemond manages to cast one furtive glance. “A fine work indeed.”
His mother gently picks up the discussion. “It was only fair to help repair the thing your friend holds so dear,” Alicent’s gaze is directed at her. “You can now wear it on more than just one occasion.”
Why would she hold so dear the dress that only carries the memories of her pain, he wonders. The dress that was covered with blood, with fingerprints of someone who wanted her dead. He takes a peek at her, and her face expression gives away no answers but for a second too short to comprehend he sees the undercurrent again; only it never takes shape. She puts on a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, and he’s the only one to notice.
“I greatly appreciate you taking your time to help me,” she says, and Alicent’s smile — a genuine one — only grows wider. Maybe even a bit too wide for it only to be about some stitching.
“I suspect we tired you out with all the measuring and dressing up,” his mother points at her plate. “You hardly ate, my dear.”
“It’s been a long day,” her fingers close around a cup but she doesn’t drink from it, “And the dress brought back some memories,” her grab tightens, the only sign of everything she’s keeping covered. “But I am glad to get a chance to wear it one more time.”
“And I am happy to help,” Alicent assures, “But please, go have some rest, you have seen enough of our boring dinners.”
“I was never bored,” there’s a glimmer of gratitude, a tone of sincerity as she gets up from the table and looks at the faces sitting at it. For a moment, it seems that she wants to say more — grand, meaningful, closer to the truth. And yet, she just opts for a short, “Thank you for having me.”
She barely has time to take a step before Aemond all but jumps to his feet. “I will walk with you,” the words leave his mouth as he stands up with unflinching determination. And it’s not that he wants to leave as much as he wants to follow her.
His eagerness doesn’t come off as a surprise. No one says it but it seems that everyone knows — Alicent and Criston sharing the same looks, Helaena beaming, Aegon smirking into his cup. Aemond only waits for her reaction, his eye focused on her face. She isn’t against it — just like she’s never been before, every time he found a reason to come to her and be with her, and even when there was no reason to do so. She gives him a nod, a tad guiltily but more so accepting (and maybe just as eager as he is).
While they are on their way out, Aegon turns on his chair to say something but Helaena covers his mouth with her hand.
>>> Aemond breathes a little deeper and walks a little slower, gathering his words, — and before he knows it, they are talking again, his infatuation receded, although never truly gone. He asks about her day, and in the corridors and hallways curtained with silence, her voice flows lightly. He can tell that she’s abashed by all the fussing over her.
“Our seamstresses are quite fierce,” he chuckles. “I fear no sword of mine will stand a chance against their needles.”
“They said this dress was made for feasts,” she quotes, fiddling with the material as if she can’t see what’s there to admire.
“Well, Aegon’s name day is approaching. That will surely be a feast we are all invited to endure,” Aemond jests.
“I don’t think that I will —” she doesn’t finish the sentence, biting down her lip. He’s too distracted by that movement to pay attention to what’s left unvoiced. “You do not find those celebrations to your liking?” she changes the topic swiftly.
“I find them boring,” Aemond huffs. “The same old lords boasting about their wealth, making up achievements that are each so hollow.”
“Sounds like ladies aren’t a part of those conversations?”
“Theirs are hardly better so you should keep your expectations low,” he ruefully remarks. “Сourt gossip is one thing you can’t avoid. And then they’ll either lament about their husbands or try to find one for you,” he doesn’t think much over his words until he sees her smile dropping. And then, before he can find a reason not to, he adds: “...Assuming you are not already married.”
As soon as she hears it, she stops — Aemond does too, and he can tell that she isn’t looking for lies and excuses. She only timidly looks around, as if she’s afraid the walls have ears, and the truth she’s about to tell him is only meant for his. They managed to reach his chambers first, so without a single word Aemond goes to open the doors, and she accepts the nonvocal invitation.
They walk in — both are hasty and agitated, but he gives her space and scarcely hides the trembling of his hands. She finds it hard to utter a particular word. “I was... betrothed but not anymore. The man in question now believes I am dead.”
Her face is turned away from him, her gaze gliding over every object in his room, searching for something to fall on. She hesitantly walks to his table, glancing over a stack of books on it.
Aemond gives her a minute, then inquires: “Was he the one to hurt you?”
Her pain is still fresh, her face briefly splashed with it but she pushes through. Her response is not affirmative and yet, it’s enough of a confirmation. “I should’ve known better than to trust him.”
His anger rears up its head, a beast on a chain readying to get loose. “There is no excuse for what he did,” Aemond punctuates. “There cannot be —”
“There isn’t,” she cuts him off, not harshly but with a weary acceptance, her finger grazing thick book covers. “And I’m the last person to ever make excuses for him. But I should’ve known.”
Aemond is hurt by the thought he gets, but her torment is even more hurtful so he says the words, each letter scorching his heart. “You can’t take the blame for having feelings. Love often makes people let their guard down.” (And for years, he never did. Not until her).
With how fast she retorts, his ache is cured: “It wasn’t love.” Whatever it was, she regrets it so deeply, it’s written all over her face. “Now that I think about it, it never was.”
Her fingers travel down to the table surface, her thoughts straying back to the time that’s too distant but too haunting to forget.
“Lord Dykk Hersy is a son of my father’s friend, we’ve known each other ever since we were kids. He was always too noisy, then turned too self-centered, not much to like about that. And I never thought he fancied me, either. But my father made a decision about us some years back, and he wouldn’t take no for an answer. So Dykk started coming more often, following me around, being very nice. And I wasn’t...,” she stops fumbling with strewn parchments and lets out a sigh. “Not a lot of people were nice to me back then. I was naive to mistake his kindness for something else, and he was smart enough to say all the right words to make me believe him.”
Her fingertips reach his dagger, unscabbarded and left in plain sight. His eye is drawn to her every movement.
“We were betrothed when I was ten-and-six. I grew to like his company, and I think he did try his best, at first. For a couple of years, he was courteous, generous enough to give in to my every whim. Not that I had too many,” she’s glassy-eyed, and Aemond’s glare would be enough to kill. “But the illusion didn’t last for long. I soon began to notice pitiful stares, taunting whispers behind my back, maids dropping their gazes in shame. Three years in, I found out one of them was carrying his child.”
“Am I right to assume he denied it?”
“He did,” she chuckles bitterly. “He seemed taken aback by my anger, tried to persuade me he was falsely accused. But I could never blame the girl, it’s not her fault he was so good with words... I fell for them too,” her sadness is washed off with virulence; her fury awakened again, flames of it rising from the bowels of her restraint.
Aemond finds himself only a few feet away from her, pulled in by empathy at first, enamored somewhere in between the first and second steps.
“From that day, the complaints began, the excuses — he was too busy to stay for long, then got too busy to visit.”
“Was it so hard to saddle a horse?” Aemond bristles.
She casts him a glance followed by a half smile. “He lives in The Reach.”
“So chivalry is dead,” he snorts, and her laughter gives him a spark of joy. “It isn’t far away from here,” Aemond notes.
“Takes way longer to reach the Vale,” she explains, then pauses. Her memories eat up the merest hint of cheer. “Only he wasn’t road weary. He was burdened by me.”
Aemond almost reaches out for her, but clasps his hands together, his knuckles whitening. Her finger traces the very edge of the blade.
“And then, on his latest name day, my father made a poor joke,” her smile is crooked, hating. “He said me and Dykk were meant to stay together unless death do us part. That’s when, I think, he got the idea.”
“It is unworthy of a man to ever nurture such a thought,” his voice is embittered, his chest ablaze with wrath.
“I should’ve known,” she sounds dull like an echo. “He’s always called himself a man of traditions — the start of the month was meant for hunting, and he preferred the grounds of Grassy Vale, the shore of the Blueburn river. But then, all of a sudden, he wanted to explore the mountains of the Vale,” she wraps her hand around the hilt. “Said he wished to reconcile, that the trip would bring us closer, made me wear a dress,” she stumbles over the words, “And I didn’t even want to come or to see him, and all the signs were there, but I put on the stupid dress, and I was the one being so unbelievably stupid and —”
His palm covers hers in a rush of tenderness, his gaze more telling than a poem, confessions embedded in it — so many of them, it would take all night to unravel. They stand still, their eyes locked, his affection sweeping in between his fingers and her skin.
“None of that was your fault,” Aemond asserts. “And no one is to blame but him. Your fortitude is only worthy of admiration.”
It’s alluring how unrelenting he is in his desire to please her; the shift of her body toward his is barely noticeable, and she looks a second away from giving in. Something stops her, a sign of regret on her face, her gaze averted.
“And yet, he continues with his life thinking he got the last laugh,” she bemoans. “And I fear I... will never forget the feeling of his stranglehold as long as we are both alive.”
“You survived the unthinkable,” he tugs at her hand, caring in a way no other man ever was with her. “Why can’t it be enough?”
She ponders, hesitates, her outrage tempered by his solicitude. “I guess some lessons can only be learned the hard way,” she draws conclusion.
There it is again — the puzzling implication, a mystery wrapped in an enigma; it leaves Aemond with a sense of unease. “You deem that lesson to be worth it?” he questions.
The truth slips away from his grasp, but her hand stays, and it is too disarming of a sensation for him to think clearly. “I am afraid it’s too soon to tell,” she deflects, her thumb pressed against the flat of the blade. She can’t resist glancing briefly at it.
“You seem to like this little thing,” Aemond observes. “If so, you can have it.”
Her face is so bright with glee again, all the light in his room grows dim in comparison. “I’ve never seen such an intricate pattern,” she clarifies shyly, then adds with appreciation: “It’s truly beautiful.”
“It is,” he’s only looking at her.
“Teach me how to use it,” she unexpectedly asks. She looks at him again, her gaze exulting, and his heart skips a bit. “Properly.”
“And why would I do that?” he asks, undeniably willing.
“Why wouldn’t you?” she teases, her hand moving from his, clamping the dagger tightly.
Aemond misses the feeling — her skin against his, tighling with warmth, — and he catches her fingers in the same second. The distance between them is shortened down to a few inches; they don’t seem to care.
His touches are light and feathery. “You need to make sure your grip is strong,” he gently presses his forearm to hers, her hand positioned in his palm. “Not too tight so there’s some room for maneuvering. But with all your fingers in place,” he gives instructions, and she eagerly follows.
The red of her dress is a striking distraction; as is the softness of its lace, of her touch, of her lips parted in wonder, her diligence bewitching. She waits, his blood rushes; Aemond gulps.
He continues. “It is a common mistake to take a swing with a pommel up,” two of his roughened fingers latch onto her palm. “But the backhand grip works better,” Aemond rotates her hand in the right position, a steady motion with unsteady breath; her shoulder comes in contact with his chest.
He halts all movement, she makes no attempt to step away. He wonders if she can feel... He lacks the words to describe it. But he can discern her bosom heaving with every breath, and his heartbeat is caught in his throat.
He keeps the dagger pointed down, then calmly guides it up and away, their fingers intertwined. “This way, the point of the blade always comes first,” her eyes are on the steel, on the veins scattered on the inside of his wrist. “Which means that the threat also comes faster,” his eye is on the curve of her neck, on the necklace gleaming, beckoning him to glance lower.
Both of them feel the pull, too spellbound to resist — she takes a half step back, he meets her halfway. Her back is now fully propped against him, every bit of his body overflushed with yearning. Their hands stay adjoined as his words vine through her hair: “You try it.”
And so she does. The first time she repeats the movement, it’s almost reluctant, and his long tenacious fingers lead the way. He inadvertently leans in, his forearm molding into hers, a touch that edges towards embrace; her bashfulness then disappears without a trace. The metal shines coolly as she dexterously twists the blade, and Aemond should be concerned with how easy it comes to her; he is instead utterly transfixed.
She looks at him over her shoulder, his breath fanning out over her cheek, the space between them almost nonexistent. She makes a turn, torturously slow, their hands an inseparable duet, bodies longing to share heat.
“Seems like you did have some practice beforehand,” Aemond notes, voice barely above a whisper.
“Or you are a good teacher,” her eyes slip over his lips.
“And you are a fast learner,” he says under his breath.
This once, his gaze wanders, like a wayward traveler in search of means to satisfy his hunger; she is the one he craves. His fingers are itching for every curve of her body — she’s burning in all the places she wishes he could touch her. The tension rises, floods their bloodstream like fever, and —
“Hardly fair to leave me deal with our grandsire on my own!” Aegon bursts through the doors without knocking, a cup in his hand. “Did I ask for a lecture on table manners? I did not!”
He then sees them, already a step away from each other, and there’s a hint of surprise in his eyes which quickly turns into suspicion. He’s about to voice it when she blurts out: “Aegon would make for a good target.”
The cup he’s holding doesn’t reach his mouth. “...I beg your pardon?”
“I talked your brother into teaching me how to throw a dagger,” she lies slyly. “Would you mind stepping back to the door?”
Aegon blinks, incomprehension evident on his face for a moment, until he frowns and does move back to the door — only to open it and rush out, grumbling: “Both of you are utterly insane.”
The second he leaves, she bursts into laughter, and the same sound, low and hearty, spills from Aemond’s lips. She glances at him — his face relaxed, cheeks adorned with dimples, and he catches her gaze. The moment is lost but their desire isn’t, still swelling in both, unabated fire under the navel.
But now she tarries, her delight eclipsed by a grim understanding she chooses not to put into words. She tries giving him the dagger but Aemond gently pushes it back: “I meant it, it’s yours.”
“Thank you,” she puts it into a scabbard he hands her, then murmurs, sincerely grateful: “For listening, too.”
“I am glad to be worthy of your trust,” he replies warmly.
There’s a ringing urge in the back of his head to come closer to her again. But she is unanticipatedly avoidant of any intimacy, mumbling something about the late hour, moving out of his reach — and then the urge turns into a need so desperate, he can’t keep it bottled up.
“I think he is the biggest fool in the Seven Kingdoms,” Aemond lets slip.
She turns to him when her hand is already on the door handle. “Because he couldn’t manage to kill a woman?” the smile she gives him is acerbic, but her gaze is sad.
“Because he didn’t love you the way you deserve,” he breathes out.
She looks astonished, her mouth falling open, and he wants nothing more than for her to say another word, just to give him a reason to spill his every feeling out. But she slumps her shoulders and purses her lips, and then pulls the handle and gets out so quickly, the door slams behind her, and the sound makes him wince.
He is left all alone, with an unsaid revelation at the base of his throat — the way I would’ve loved you, he wanted to say. And with another heartbeat, Aemond realizes: he already does. He is already hopelessly in love with her.
>>> That realization is a ball lightning that swirls in his chest, and he cannot close the eye all night. It’s liberating to say it to himself — love, the word that sounds and tastes so sweet; it’s also absolutely terrifying. Chaotic thoughts run through his mind, and he is racked with indecision that’s paved with his self-doubts and fears. Amidst the chaos, Aemond finds himself reminiscing of her shining gaze — and then of a touch of her hand, of her eyes on him, of her body leaning toward and her lips not shying away from his. He couldn’t have made all that up, he thinks. He also can’t let fear dictate his future.
Aemond leaves the room with the first rays of the sun, while its light only shyly skims the ground, but the prince’s never been more awake. His intent is a vital force, a fuel that makes him quicken his pace. He all but runs — down the stairs, through the doors, through the castle, and out of it; her name and his proclamation on the tip of his tongue
— only she isn’t in the training yard.
And neither are her bow and arrows.
Anxiety scrapes his ribcage and spreads like ice, then creeps, sluggish and squeaking, into his subconscious. His gaze roves over every corner of the yard, but he can’t catch the slightest hint of where to look for her.
He does break into running on his way back; the corridors and walls all flash before his eye. Her chambers greet him with her absence, the maids all share his concern. Aemond tries to look for clues — a letter, a piece of anything that once belonged to her — but she had no belongings, he remembers then.
Despair crawls out, like a predator sensing blood; Aemond isn’t about to give up without a fight. He goes to question the guards — surely, she couldn’t just disappear into thin air, no matter what her talents are. The men in silver-plated armor are doubtless striving to help, but only one of them recalls her visiting the yard not long before the sun emerged. That knowledge is rather scant and hardly helpful, and Aemond’s determination traitorously falters.
Help comes in the form of a stable boy passing by who gleefully chirps:
“The lady must be a skilled hunter,” he says to no one in particular, dreamingly impressed. “Not many people stick to traditions these days.”
“...Come again?” Aemond throws him a glance so piercing, the boy stammers.
“I only m-meant that it’s a full moon,” he hurriedly explains. “They say, on that day deer move more at night hence why the hunters favor it so much.”
That’s when her words resurface in his mind —
“I will do better by the next full moon.”
“Lord Dykk Hersy always called himself a man of traditions.”
He thinks that for a man who’s only lost one eye, he surely couldn’t have been more blind. Because the clues he’s been so desperate to find were all before his eyes this entire time. He promptly knits together all the fragments — her tireless training, haunting memories, her asking to repair the dress. Only, the one occasion she wanted it for was not some silly dinner.
Disappointment clashes with worry in his chest as Aemond leaves the castle once more, this time with a destination in mind. He blames himself for not guessing sooner; he hopes and prays that it’s not too late.
>>> The grounds of Grassy Vale are robed in green, a canvas of valleys and flats with lone wooden shacks interspersing; Aemond reminds himself he didn’t come for sightseeing. He gazes into fields sprawled underneath, and Vhagar’s body casts a shadow that sweeps along the earth like a water stream. With how low they are flying, it won’t be hard for any of the smallfolk to spot the dragon but Aemond can’t find it in himself to care.
His gaze is searching for one person only, his longing for her immense against everything in his life that’s been measured. But soon he sees the river, and the valleys smoothly give way to forests; Aemond admits with increasing concern that he’ll have to continue on foot. Vhagar grudgingly plops into the high grass, burying her claws in the ground, the flap of her wings so strong, it brings down a couple of trees. Once their rustling is stilled, the sullen peace settles in the vale.
As if to add to his unrest, the sky gets blanketed with clouds, and he can hear the thunder humming in the distance, his heart already hammering in tact. The Gods, it seems, certainly have a penchant for drama.
The sound of the branches crackling is what catches his attention first, and he discerns heavy footsteps fast approaching. In just a second, Aemond sees a man running out of the forest, and there’s no need to take a guess — not only does the stranger look clearly aghast, he’s also got an arrow sticking out of his shoulder.
Aemond throws him a disdainful glance but Lord Hersy is too distraught to notice. “Please, help!” he begs and whines, “I am being chased by a mad woman!”
The prince holds back a snicker, trying not to wrinkle his nose at the sight. “Oh, how unfortunate,” he drawls, and every feature of the man looks hideous to him. “A woman instilling that big of a fear? It is the rarest of things.”
Lord Hersy can’t seem to share his amusement. “She’s truly evil!” he assures with wide eyes, his legs unsteady, hand pressed to the wound, red seeping through his fingers. “She led me into an insidious trap, and I am left completely disarmed!”
“It sounds like it required quite a lot of planning,” Aemond notes. “Might it be that she has a reason to be cross with you?”
“I am a righteous lord, I wouldn’t hurt a fly,” the man lies profusely, and a dark look crosses Aemond’s face. “My only fault was trusting her, that scheming wen—”
With one hand movement, Aemond grabs him, his fingers holding the man’s collar so tightly, Lord Hersy has trouble breathing. “But you are surely cross with her, it seems,” the prince remarks in a dry tone, his gaze blistering cold. Underneath the ice, there’s a flare, a spark; he is actually enjoying this. “Would you mind, my lord, telling me more about her?”
Lord Hersy seems taken aback by the request but obeys implicitly. “She’s n-not lacking beauty, that I will admit,” he weakly tries to free himself yet to no avail. “But ignorant of manners and so terribly short-tempered!”
“Is it her temper you are so afraid of?” Aemond doesn’t hide his mocking.
“She’s got a dagger!” the man complains in distress. “An angry woman armed poses a horrid threat! Gods know, I’ve done nothing to merit that mistreatment!”
He opens his mouth to accuse her some more — but then finally takes note of the frighteningly stiff look on Aemond’s face. The prince’s lips curl up into a wrathful and malignant smile, and the air gets heavy with silence.
His anger is a beast that breaks the chains with its teeth.
“Hm,” Aemond shakes his head with derision. “Worry not, ser, you are in good hands,” the prince lowers his face to his, his voice spewing poison when he hisses, “I was the one to give her the dagger.”
Lord Hersy does attempt to escape Aemond’s grip, he’ll give him that. Pathetically and weakly he twitches and wails, tries scratching his face, then reaches for the eyepatch, wobbly fingers tugging at the stripe of leather, gasping and swearing and —
all of his efforts fall short, and Aemond’s iron grip doesn’t loosen one bit.
And then, out of nowhere, another hand grabs a fistful of the lord’s hair, yanking his head back so harshly, that he gasps. They both were too distracted by the scuffle to notice her draw near, but once she reaches them — engulfed in red, her gaze equally flaming — she truly is force to reckon with. The fury looks so good on her, it makes Aemond hold his breath.
“I see your luck did finally run out,” she says to the man, words filled with resentment.
Lord Hersy grows unsure about his every accusation. “I think there’s been a grave misunderstanding,” he protests in a whiny tone. “I deeply regret causing you any offe —”
“I don’t remember you regretting dragging me down from a horse to try and crash my skull with a rock,” her voice is low, biting. The grin that follows makes her face look sinister. “I knew you couldn’t finish.”
His frown betrays his irritation — he puts it out the second he pulls out the dagger. “There are still ways for me to make amends,” Lord Hersy pleads so sickly sweet, Aemond lets out a growl. “I made a terrible mistake, I shall admit, but I did search for you! Day and night, I prayed to the Gods to find you, I cried my eyes out!”
Her face seems empty while she listens, and Lord Hersy is enough of a fool to mistake it for reluctance. But Aemond thinks she’s never looked more sure, and there’s no mercy she can grant the man whose fate has long been sealed.
She tilts her head, the corners of her mouth twitch, and the prince reads this expression with ease — she’s finally facing her most wanted target. He loosens the grip, and Lord Hersy falls to his knees, gulping air, the breath of death no longer tickling his neck; but his relief is premature.
The blade in her hand pale-glimmers in the vanishing rays of the sun — the man only catches a dreadful glint before he feels the metal pressed against his throat. Her gaze is just as sharp. “Go on then, dear lord,” she sneers without a sign of mirth, each word hastening his end, “Cry me a river.”
He barely gets a breath in when she swings — unmerciful and with the backhand grip; the dagger draws a scarlet cut across his throat. The wound is deep and fatal, and the blood runs fast and thick, cascading down his chest, his body going limp and falling lifeless to the ground. The red seeps out into the grass, splashed beads of it shining dully against all the green, and it’s almost alluring to look at.
Unceasingly and invariably Aemond only looks at her.
The trees sway in the wind, and the clouds race, the sky now veiled with the darkness of the unfolding storm. He’s never been the one to value landscapes, but it makes him think: the same lush wilderness surrounded her while she was growing up, a rose among the weeds, her thorns repellent to most but no obstacle for him. With bloodied hands, disheveled hair, dirtied clothes — she’s still the only one he wants, irresistible as life.
She stands in reverie, her gaze boring into the huddled body of the lord: “I must admit, this is poor planning on my part.”
As if on cue, Vhagar’s roar echoes in the distance, and Aemond smirks: “I know of a way to get rid of a body.”
She hums and slightly leans over the dead man, wiping the dagger off on his coat, and Aemond sees that she ripped the dress again; he finds it funny.
“Not the best choice of clothing, I might say,” the prince notes.
She follows his gaze and doesn’t even bother to adjust the damaged hem. “He thought I came back from the dead to hunt him,” she lets out a dry laugh, “I counted on that.”
“Wish I could see it,” Aemond says, a gentle admiration in his tone.
Her mask of concentration crumbles, replaced by the expression he remembers from the day before. The same astonishment mixed with timorous indecision, with a tint of shyness, washes over her face as their eyes meet.
“You came for me,” the words fall from her mouth as if she only now becomes aware.
“Why do you find it so surprising?” he wonders because leaving her was never an option for him.
“Unreasonable, mostly,” she bashfully remarks. “You’ve been so kind to me, and yet I left without saying goodbye.”
“You did,” he agrees, thinking that shyness only adds to her charm.
“And I never told you of my plans,” she admits, even more coyly, and he just nods.
Her gaze falls, mouth unsurely half-open, as if she’s trying to pluck the right words from the grass. He watches her, and there’s that pull again, the flowering desire in his chest.
“I think it’s time for us to go our separate ways,” she musters out, and it knocks the air out of his lungs. She’s curbing her own pain, deeming it to be a relief for his. “You’ve done more than enough for me... I think your conscience should be clear.”
The wind picks up, and so does his pulse. “And where will you go?” Aemond asks, his voice faltering.
“I am my father’s only heir” she shrugs, mostly burdened than pleased. “He will take me back and,” she works up the courage to find his gaze again, “I won’t be a problem of yours any longer.”
The thunder is approaching, a rushing sound disrupting the peace of nature. Aemond knows he will never find peace if he lets her leave.
“So you can go,” she offers but they both don’t want it, and he instead allows himself a step to her. “If this is what you want,” she blurts out in a shaky voice that gives away her struggle no matter how much she tries to put up a face. “If this is what your heart desires,” she adds so quietly, she isn’t sure he will hear her. But Aemond does.
Something snaps in him, and his body is an arrow shot out — he closes the distance in a heartbeat, and his lips all but crush into hers. She kisses him back with the same fervor, without a moment’s hesitation, and neither of them is timid or holding back. His hands find her waist, follow the gentle bend of it as she presses herself to him, as her mouth opens more, and his craving turns into hunger, his desire not hidden any longer, erupting right through.
Aemond grabs onto her hips, desperate to feel more, ravenous in his need, and each of his kisses is a plea for her to heed to; she does. Her fingers frantically travel up, then tangle in his hair, untieing knots of his restraint, his quivering sighs all disappearing into her mouth. There are no other sounds but their shuddering breath, their lewd touches, moans — hers or his, he can’t tell.
The massive storm is brewing when they part, both breathless, their lips still brushing.
“It’s you,” his confession is hot against her mouth, “You are the only thing I desire,” the syllables flow, pouncing like a waterfall, “He was undeserving of you, foolish, pathetic excuse of a man, and if only I—”
His words die down at the feeling — her fingers dancing right above his cheek. The one that’s scarred, unloved, detested by him; the gruesome sight that was supposed to be covered by the eyepatch. He must’ve missed the moment when he lost it, too wrapped up in his anger to notice the despicable lord succeed in his attempts. Aemond can’t find it in himself to ask for confirmation, to even move his hand to cover half his face.
She never looks away. And then, in the gloomy evening, she smiles — the sun rises again, a crack of dawn formed by every feature of her face. Her fingertips tenderly graze his scar.
“You asked me once if I thought it was worth it,” she recalls, her gaze affectionate, without a shadow of a doubt. “It was. Because I would do it all again if I knew the fate was leading me to you.”
The warmth of her touch heats him up, then ignites every part of him. She’s still caressing the side of his face when he reaches for her — his kiss so searing, her hand trembles, while his confidently moves to the hollow of her throat; this time, the sound of pleasure is undoubtedly hers. With his eye closed, his mouth on hers, Aemond sees the vision, bright as day: him going through the layers, lace and red, until she is all bare in his sheets, and he can put his lips to every inch of her skin. And feel her, drink her, worship her, their limbs intertwined, him drawing moans from her until the night sky lets in the first streaks of light.
He has to take a labored breath to blink the dream away, to hold his ardor back for just a little longer. By the look on her face, she’ll welcome his every offering.
“It seems that all those years I’ve been searching in all the wrong places for you,” Aemond whispers, holding her tight in his embrace.
“But you found me,” she follows the contour of his jaw with her finger, her smile never fading. “And you can have me,” she makes a vow, and her lips trail for his to seal the promise.
And no storm can compare to the love for her that rages deep in his heart.
✧ if you are into stories about revenge (enemies to lovers, with angst, fighting, and quite a bit of fire involved), I have a multi-chapter fic for you
✧ two more stories inspired by songs (modern!au): with Aemond & with Aegon
✧ my masterlist
tagging @amiraisgoingthruit who was kind enough to ask (girlie, I’m sorry this one is so enormous…)
also big thank you to arcielee for approving the gif it was driving me insane 💙
English is not my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any major mistakes. reblogs and comments are very much appreciated!
#aemond targaryen#it took me 3 (THREE) months to find inspiration to finish the gif and I can't say I'm 100% happy so I will take NO criticism#to the ten people who will read this — I am forever grateful (I'm sending you cups of cacao as a treat)#my stuff#aemond targaryen fanfiction#hotd fanfiction#aemond x y/n#aemond targaryen x y/n#aemond targaryen fanfics#aemond targaryen fic#aemond one eye#aemond one eye x y/n#hotd fic#house of the dragon fanfics#hotd fanfic#aemond x reader#aemond x you#aemond#aemond the kinslayer
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A/N: Blatant Asmodeus propaganda. After betraying Raphael in the HoH to save Baldur's Gate, they steal his corpse back from Meph and entreat Asmodeus. Also. A Dracula gif. To push my agenda.
Raph x GN!Tav: A Pact Struck, A Contract Sealed
Ages have passed, and empires have risen and fallen since a mortal last attempted to bind his Aspect. Asmodeus feels a tickling in the back of his psyche, barely a drag at his near-infinite energy. His awareness fragments and then shifts, searching for the source of the petition. The words come second, the feelings first.
Desperation. Pain. A soul-deep grief. Physical hurt, too, but it's a stinging afterthought. The Lord of the Nine Hells cocks his head to the side, eyes closed. They are petitioning his avatar. They whisper in the darkness. A chill winter breeze howls around them, bowing the branches of dead trees. How fitting, he thinks, that this little creature should surround itself with such things. They wear death like a shroud.
He is not in the habit of entertaining such low-hanging fruit…but there is a touch of something in their desperation, a sweetness Asmodeus has not sampled in many years. It amuses him. And he is not above indulging his amusement—the Archdevil motions with his right hand, passing a fraction of his awareness to the Aspect. The darkness of his throne room fades in favor of a moonlit night—the sickly sweet tang of blood colors the air.
Ah, and there is his petitioner. They sit with their back pressed to an ancient white birch, skin badly frostbitten. Cania's stink lingers across their skin, brimstone and hellfire marrying together. They curl around their prize, clutching a badly mangled figure to their chest. Asmodeus hums, kneeling. Its wings are broken. So many bones shattered.
"Tell me, child." His voice is low and pleasant in the chill air, a warmth chasing along the baritone. "Do you know whose name you have called? The attention you would court?"
They nod, grip tightening on their prince. Tears cut through the mess of dirt on their skin. Crying, he thinks, and what a charming little oddity. Who shed tears for a devil? How curious. How delightful. "Lord Asmodeus, Prince of the Darkness. Lord of Lies."
"Indeed, I am. Pretty titles, aren't they?"
"I thought…" they catch themselves. Asmodeus notes the tremor in their right hand and the way they struggle to stay upright. His presence is overpowering at the best of times; the wounded little creature is fighting valiantly not to succumb to darkness, mind breaking under the weight of his Aspect's attention.
"My apologies, little one. It has been some since I treated with your kind. Allow me." He reaches out with one clawed hand, tapping his nail to the center of their forehead. The ward will protect them from the worst of it. They blink at him. "Continue, please."
Their right hand tightens in the corpse's dark hair. "My Lord, I had hoped to make a deal with you. I know…I am beneath your attention…"
"Most are. The benefit of being a god, I suppose. But it has never stopped me in the past."
Despite themself, they smile. Shuffling, the adventurer turns their burden outwards. Though badly burned, cheekbones shattered, he recognizes the features—so much of the father in the son, an agony to both parties. Mephistopheles' boy stares blankly forward—a hollow shell of himself, a waste of potential.
It pains the Prince to see so promising a resource wasted.
"I made a mistake. I…" they swallow. "There was something that had to be done. And it came at a cost. Raphael…”
"The boy is known to me, child. If I may?" They hesitate. Asmodeus forces his temper down, the air around them heating. He is a god and not in the habit of being denied. But the Hero of Baldur's Gate relents, shifting their burden into his arms. The Lord of the Ninth cups his hand over the pretender-king's mouth, his forehead. Asmodeus shuts his eyes. "Such a waste."
"Can you help him?"
"Do you doubt me, little one?" They shift back, dropping their eyes at the sharpness of his tone—a warning, barely veiled. "Mephistopheles has devoured that which he gave—the infernal. The mortal soul…is uncontested. Lost somewhere in Avernus. It could be located…for a price."
"Anything."
Asmodeus chuckles. He is not ignorant of the sudden rush of color in the little creature's cheeks or how the sound makes them avert their eyes. This guise is pleasant, after all, tall and angular and dark. The wind catches in the blackness of his hair, the long strands falling well below his shoulders. "How dearly naive. I've half a mind to take advantage of such generosity." They shiver under the force of his stare, reality undoubtedly going dark around the edges. He hums. "But…the alternative could prove a more pleasurable distraction still."
The Lord of the Ninth stands, holding out his hand. The hero, Tav, sets their palm in his. He helps them to their feet, settling his other hand on their shoulders. So close, he can feel the weight of their exhaustion and desperation rolling off them, an ambrosia. The depth of their affection for the boy-king. Interesting and useful. Asmodeus touches their cheek.
"I will treat with you, little one, and more fairly than I ought. Your dear one's potential: a few more centuries, a stern hand, and Raphael might have made a powerful piece on the board. His sire is…" Asmodeus tapped his chin. "Increasingly irrelevant. Immutable and tiresome."
Tav stares up at him, such a little thing. And there is potential there, too, the ability to warp and mold this boy-king into something suitable to his grand design. He touches their cheek with a claw. "I will give the means to locate Raphael's soul. In retrieving it, you will prove your worth and dedication. I have no use for the faint of heart. Is this clear?"
"Yes, my Lord."
"Clever pet, very clever." He smiles, chucking them under the chin. "You bring the boy to my court in Nessus, where he shall be given the means to decide his fate. Is that clear?"
"Yes."
What an amusing twist of fate. He bends, collecting the Prince's mangled body in his arms. Tav looks ready to protest, to fight for their dear one (and again, how delightful; Asmodeus cannot help but feel charmed), only to remember what precisely stands before them: a god in truth, the Lord of all the Nine Hells. Asmodeus smiles at them, bowing his head. "I shall keep him for you, little one. You have my oath. Collect his soul, and we will meet again."
He leaves them without another word, a touch of the dramatic, a hint of mystery to whet their palette. Asmodeus inspects the corpse in his arm.
Sweet Prince, broken and bloodied.
Asmodeus will make him whole again.
#bg3 raphael#raphael x tav#d & d asmodeus#asmodeus#my writing#bg3 fanfiction#longfic#by tumblr standards#Tav: i sacrificed my loved for the greater good#Asmodeus: Cool story fam would you like to go on a quest to get him back? We stan some love. Like. For my own gain but.#raphael x durge#Gonna fight the desire to make this a whole ass story lol
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Can you write fem reader x mother Miranda smut
Me: I SURE CAN.
Also me: This might get a bit ... gory.
And though this may not contain as much Mother Miranda as you might have liked, I hope you enjoy it.
So with that... 18+, smut, gore, blood material below.
(Also posted on AO3 - Click here)
Your God Can't Hear You Now
You had prayed to your God until you had fallen asleep, still kneeling at the side of the bed. Your husband's side of the bed, empty. Not that you cared. The nights you slept alone were a blessing. Still, there was much on your mind and a crippling weight on your heart. Feelings that nearly ripped your insides to shreds; the guilt clawing at you constantly.
You did not love your husband. Nor did he love you. You shared gold bands on your ring fingers, last names, and a bed, but it meant nothing. He lusted after another woman in the village.
...and so did you.
Your husband hated that you refused to worship the Black God, that you did not bow before Mother Miranda and her four lords. He was embarrassed to be seen with you in the village and he despised the looks he received while in church.
"Mother Miranda is a healer, a miracle worker!"
"She is not my God." You whispered.
He shook his head. "You are a disgrace," he said before slamming the door, leaving you to go drown his disappointment in ale at the tavern.
As the clock struck midnight, you woke with a start, its chimes ringing just loud enough to stir you from your position on the floor. Your legs and back ached from kneeling, and you pushed yourself up from the floor and paused.
A rapping sound?
With an oil lamp in hand, you crept to the front room to look out a window, pulling the curtain aside to see who had come calling at this hour. For a moment, you worried. Had your husband had some sort of accident and someone had been sent to inform you? The moon provided just enough light to allow your eyes to make out the form standing at the front door.
It was a woman. You unlocked the door and opened it a crack, your lamp illuminating the stranger's face. Yet it was not a stranger. There, standing before you, was the woman you had secretly pined for.
Izabela.
Her family had a produce stand at the market. It was there you had first laid eyes on her, selling produce. Cautiously you circled the stand, discreetly watching her as you pretended to shop. Your knees grew weak when she smiled at you, thanking you for your purchase. Every day the stand was open, you went back, not for another parsnip, not for a bundle of carrots; only for her smile, and for that you would pay a hefty sum of lei to see.
"Forgive me for intruding," the woman's voice shook. She looked over her shoulder quickly, then back to you. "May I seek shelter here?" She begged.
From somewhere in the village you both heard a howl. It was hard to tell where the sound was coming from exactly. You pulled the woman inside and shut the door quickly, bolting it several times.
"Lycans?" You whispered, moving swiftly to the window to peer into the street.
"I'm not sure." The woman's voice was now calmer. "I saw your light on, it was the only light on in the street. My father's beloved dog bolted from the house and into the night. I gave chase through the streets and lost her near the cemetery." She said, a visible shiver coursing through her. "It was there I heard the first howl, and I turned back."
"You're safe here." You said placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Come away from the door. I'll put the kettle on."
You were able to calm her over a cup of tea. It was now 2:00 am. If your husband was coming home, he would have been here by now. You showed Izabela to the spare room and wished her a good night. Once in your room, you shut and leaned up against the door. You could not believe the woman you had been yearning for was in your home right across the hall. For the past two hours, you had conversed in your small kitchen. The sound of her voice, her smile, her face in the dim light of the oil lamp; everything about her made your heart race and it was only now you felt like you could breathe.
Slowly, you made your way over to your bedside, placing the oil lamp on the table, turning down the wick, and blowing out the flame. As you pushed back the covers you heard the door click. Your mouth went dry when you saw her standing in the doorway. Izabela's long, wavy hair cascaded down her back, the moonlight shining through the window illuminated her white gown.
You swallowed hard. "Is there - there something you need?"
She smiled and came closer to you, gently shaking her head, each step with more and more purpose. "I've seen how you look at me. At the market?"
Your eyes grew wide.
"Always in the market, but never with your husband."
"He-he has other things to tend to-,"
"Such as...church? He is quite devout, isn't he? But I never see you attend."
You shook your head. "One does not need to set foot in a church to worship." Your hand shot up to the pendant that hung around your neck. Thankfully it was hidden beneath the collar of your gown. "Where one chooses to worship should not matter. God is everywhere."
Izebel tilted her head, considering your words with a low hum. She was so calm and it made your skin prickle. The speed at which her hand grabbed the one upon your chest was shocking. Had you not been backed up against the foot of your bed you surely would have fallen to the ground.
She removed your hand from the pendant around your neck, its gold engravings catching the light of the nearby lantern.
"God," she said almost mechanically. "And this God of yours," she asked, her fingers playing with the pendant, "What does your God think of a woman...a married woman at that... yearning for...the fairer sex?"
Her last words escaped her lips in a near whisper, dangerously close to your own. Air broke free from your lungs in small pants as your eyes began to water, unblinking, from staring into her icy blues.
"I don't-I,-"
Her grip on the pendant tightened and she yanked, the chain snapping and left to dangle in her clutches. You didn't even have a chance to object let alone gasp.
Izabel chucked the necklace across the room and you could hear it slide across the wood floor and disappear into the darkness. "Tonight, there is no God to worship." She said, her hand coming back to your chest as she pressed against you. "Allow me to show you how to properly worship a divine being."
The hand on your chest made haste at unbuttoning your gown. At first, you protested, your mind was scrambling to keep up with the woman before you. Her fingers came back to your shoulders and slid the gown from your body, leaving it to pool around your feet. Izabel's tongue, sweet from the honey she had put in her tea, slipped into your mouth, prodding at the muscle within to respond. You were too stunned to move, eyes locked on her icy blue orbs. It was only when you closed your eyes, that you felt her smile into the kiss, a sinister moan escaping her lips.
She shoved you onto the bed, knocking the wind out of your lungs and giving you no time to respond to her nails that clawed at your hips as they removed your underwear. And not that you wanted to object; the woman you had secretly craved was now between your legs, nipping at the sensitive skin of your inner thighs.
But this was wrong and it was happening so fast. Your mind was clouded with lust but your gut was cramped with worry and guilt. Your husband could walk in at any moment. You may not love him, and he was indeed having relations with another woman in the village, but he was a man, he was your husband. You must obey him; respect him.
You looked down at the woman who was now on her knees and caressing your calves. She returned your gaze as if she were waiting for you to object. When no objection came, she immediately pulled you to the edge of the bed with a strength you did not expect and went to work pleasuring you.
The gasp that escaped your lips turned to sinful moans that clawed their way up your throat as your hands gripped the sheets. Izabel wasted no time, latching on to your swollen bud, sucking and moaning while she sunk her nails into your hips. They were unusually sharp, and you hissed when they made contact, your hands shooting to hers to pry them from your body.
Her grasp relaxed, and slowly her hands trailed down your body. You panted and whined as she rose above your womb, her fingers finding you and taking the place of her tongue, sliding through your wet folds, her other hand coming to rest beside you on the bed to keep her balance.
"Mmm," she licked her lips, her mouth and chin glistening with your arousal, "are you this wet when you are in the market, watching me, yearning for me?"
Your eyes went wide as her hand stilled and she stared at you, waiting for an answer.
"I, mmmfuh" was all you were able to eke out as she plunged two fingers inside your warmth.
"Perhaps if you attended church, you'd see me more often." Her tone was perplexing; a mixture of arousal and disdain. She looked down at you, eyes half-lidded, lips parted, her breath steady yet her hand sped up. "Soaking through your dress, staining the pews with your desire...could you imagine?"
Feeling your velvet walls begin to close in on her wicked fingers, she pulled out. You screwed your eyes shut and nearly screamed at the loss, but it caught in your throat. She cocked her head and watched you with great fascination. Your body was a limp mess on the bed, glistening with perspiration and quivering with the occasional tremble.
Suddenly, your voice cracked and rasped out a plea. "Please, Izabel. Ple-," you begged as tears of frustration welled in your eyes.
"Begging, are we?" She whispered. Izabel shifted and leaned forward, placing a hand over your frantic heart. "Perhaps you should pray to Mother Miranda for relief."
"Wha-,"
Your eyes opened and locked with hers. Was she serious? Or was this part of her game?
"You heard me. Pray. Beg." Her fingertips pressed into your chest. She lowered herself back between your legs, her icy blue eyes never leaving yours for a moment. As her lips hovered over your throbbing core, she whispered, her hot breath mixing with your warmth, "Pray, girl."
You racked your brain for a moment, sputtering out a few words as you tried to remember the prayers from all those years ago; the prayer your parents made you memorize in hopes of keeping you safe from the monsters that ruled over the village, from the beasts that lurked in the woods and attacked without warning. The prayer your husband made you recite on your wedding day. Oh how the words on your tongue burned, but so did you with an all-consuming desire for this woman.
"Great ones, h-hear our voice, together as one in reverence. We call on thee, ahhh-"
Izabel's tongue shot into your dripping core, exiting, flattening, and slowly trailing up to your clit. Her arm was still stretched across your torso, her fingertips continuing to prod at the tender flesh of your chest.
"...within the endless da-ahhrk to-to-to deliver us into fate's hands."
Her free hand found your pulsing clit, and her tongue returned to your opening, darting in for a taste.
At this point, your chest was heaving and you were gasping for air. Finishing this prayer would be a miracle in itself. She was stealing every bit of focus you had to give, and if you didn't come, you might literally crumble. This woman wanted to wreck you, but you were not sure why she chose to be so malicious about it. She had seemed so pure and kind in the marketplace. But now, now it felt like the devil was between your thighs, and if the devil was a woman, you would gladly go through the gates of hell to burn with her for eternity.
Her touch and her tongue were relentless and your mind was melting, forgetting the words as all you could concentrate on was your climax.
Your volume increased and your speech sped up. "As the midnight moon rises on black wings, so we make our sacrifice and await the light at the end. In life-" you swallowed hard and tore at the sheets below as your orgasm approached, the words were stuck, "I-I-in life!..."
"Finish!" She commanded loudly, barely breaking away from your core.
You came before you could complete the prayer, and as you did, a searing pain joined your ecstasy. The gut-churning sound of tearing flesh and crunching of bone picked up where your last gasp for air had left off as the hand on your chest plunged through your thoracic cavity. Blood filled your mouth as your primitive brain kicked in, your body flooding with a numbing panic in the seconds of consciousness you had remaining.
The taloned hand that literally gripped your heart pulled you into an upright position, just long enough for you to see the woman you had loved from afar, dissipate and morph into the black-winged priestess herself. She glared at you through her gold mask, her icy blue eyes, the same ones you thought had been Izabel's, burned into yours. You sputtered and choked as blood exploded from between your lips, running down your chin and chest, back into the gaping cavity below. As your body went limp, Miranda chuckled darkly, her hand pulling out of your chest, leaving you to fall back to the mattress.
She brought the failing organ to her lips, her tongue running over the warm muscle as your blood ran down her arms and into her robe. Turning back to you, she observed the blood seeping into the sheets beneath you.
“Just as I thought,” she snarled, squeezing your heart and letting it fall to the floor with a sickening splat, “an unfit vessel for Eva.”
#fanfics#fanfic request#resident evil 8#re8 mother miranda#mother miranda#re8 village#re8 fandom#mother miranda x reader
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A New World
"So nice of you to join us, Cinder."
"My queen." Cinder bowed, holding out the Relic of Knowledge to the Queen of Grimm.
Taking the relic from her hands, she then notices the girl standing next to her. "And who might this be?"
"This is Neopolitan, your grace." Cinder answered. "She's an... asset in my getting the relic."
At this, Neo rolled her eyes. From there, she noticed the group begin to devolve into bickering and in-fighting, with only the scary woman in black acting as any authority. Suddenly, the wall behind the throne became a window with a clear view of the approaching Atlas. From here, in what she assumed was the head of monstrous Grimm, Atlas seemed so small. She and Roman used to dream of hitting banks here, but now that she was so close, those dreams seemed less interesting, especially without Roman here to share it with.
Then, in the distance, she saw the silhouette of something. Something in the air a distance away. It was too large to be a bird, and it was too small to be an airship. As it drew closer, Neo could see exactly what it was, pointing at it in warning. It was a person, and they were heading right for them.
Smashing through the "window" of the Grimm, a howling, blistering cold wind blustered into the room. The man with the scorpion tail opened fire on the figure hovering over the throne, only to be forced to the ground with a wave of a hand. Then it happened again to Cinder, which brought a smile to Neo's face before she too was forced to the floor. Emerald, Mercury, everyone in the room was forced to kneel to this floating figure.
Except Salem.
"A bit dramatic, don't you think?" The witch asked, standing from her throne to look at the intruder.
"It's necessary." The figure replied in a woman's voice. With a tap, she landed on the floor next to Neo. "Especially since you aren't affected by my semblence."
"Oh? And what's to stop me from ending your semblance?"
"This." In a blink, the relic flew from Salem's grasp and into the stranger's hands. As Salem reached out to destroy her sudden foe, the relic was held between them, in danger of being destroyed. "I'll be taking this, Salem."
"You know my name, but I don't know yours." Her eyes narrowed. "Who are you? Another one of Ozma's soldiers?"
"No. Not anymore." This earned a smirk from Salem. "I will release your soldiers, but they cannot attack me." Cinder was pushed down further into the ground by a boot, leaving the woman straddled over Neo. "Especially this one."
"I cannot speak for them," Salem said, seating herself on her throne again, "but if it means an end to this standstill, then I can give my word that I will not."
Leaping from Cinder's shoulder, causing her to grunt in pain, the woman landed a distance away from the group. Neo stood up quickly but knew better than to act. The others didn't and were ready to strike when Salem raised her hand. Most of them stood down. Most of them.
A fireball flew from Cinder's hand, sending the sphere of inferno hurtling towards the stranger. The woman ducked and rolled underneath, leaping into the Fall Maiden. Magic brought blades to bear as Cinder charged her opponent.
As Neo watched the two duel, she noticed that this was the first time she got a good look at the stranger. Her body was covered completely in red armor, head to toe, with a helmet that spit in the center as a Y for her to see. Neo also noticed that the relic hanging limply from the stranger's hip.
"I am here to usher in a new world." The woman said. "And I have an offer for you, Salem." With a swipe, Cinder was knocked onto her back and sliding across the floor before her queen. The stranger extended her hand. "Join me. End your pointless mission to destroy this world and instead let us create a new one. Together."
Salem was quiet for a moment before giving her answer. "You said you no longer served Ozma. But I can still sense their magic on you." With a glaring red eye, she asked. "Who are you?"
"SHE'S DEAD!" Cinder roared, throwing her hand out to blast her towering foe. However, the woman simply walked through the fire, flames licking over her body, but leaving no scars. Reaching out, she grabbed Cinder's wrist, the heated armor searing into her wrist, making her scream in agony.
"I have one question for you, Cinder Fall." The helmet around her head began to shift and shrink, curling into itself until it formed a ring around her head, like a halo, before stretching to look more like a crown. Green eyes pierced into Cinder's soul as scarlet locks draped over the openings in the crown. Cinder was in too great a shock to gasp. "Do you believe in destiny?"
"Well done." Salem said. "Neo, was it?"
Pyrrha turned away from the reeling Cinder, seeing Neopolitan behind her with the relic in her hands. She'd been so distracted by Cinder she didn't notice the relic leaving her side. And now it was in the hands of Salem once more.
"Now, give it to me."
Neo wasn't sure what was going on in her head in that moment. She was caught between two incredibly powerful people who could easily kill her without a second thought, and in her hands was the only thing keeping them from killing her. She blinked and saw the relic was still in her hands. Looking up, she saw Salem glaring with malice in her red eyes on one side and the suddenly revived Pyrrha pleading with a tenderness in her green eyes. Green eyes just like his.
She made a mad sprint towards the two of them, grabbing Pyrrha by the hand and leading her to the wall she arrived in. She flew in, so she can fly out, right?
"Seize them!"
"Hold onto the relic." Neo then felt arms wrap themselves around her and the ground leave her. The clamoring of killers and psychopaths became distant as cold wind filled her ears instead. Looking around, she saw Atlas getting closer and the massive Grimm she'd just left getting further away.
"Thank you." Pyrrha said, giving a sigh. "I don't know if I could have taken it from Salem twice." There was a silence for some time. "I'm... I'm Pyrrha Nikos, and, well, I'm going to become the new god of Remnant. Would you like to join me, Neo?"
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Signature Spell (Unique Magic) Names and Incantations
These are the Signature Spells revealed thus far in-game. This is a work in progress, and will be updated as we progress through the story. Some incantations have not been revealed, and others have been revealed in other media. Those will be noted.
Last Updated: Stage in Playful Land Event End
HEARTSLABYUL
Riddle - OFF WITH YOUR HEAD (Lit. Behead Them)
ABILITY: Summons a collar around the target’s neck and seals their magic.
INCANTATION: “I’ll hand down my sentence. The verdict comes afterwards. Are you ready? Off With Your Head!”
FIRST APPEARANCE:
Unique Magic: Prologue 3
Incantation: Twisted-Wonderland Manga Episode of Heartslabyul: Volume 1 (p.50)
Ace - (Not Revealed)
Deuce - BET THE LIMIT (Lit. Tit for Tat)
ABILITY: Builds up damage taken by attacks and returns it all at once twofold.
INCANTATION: “I’ll make you pay for that! Brace yourself! Bet the Limit!”
FIRST APPEARANCE:
Unique Magic/Incantation: Episode 5-64
Cater - SPLIT CARD (Lit. Scattered Hand of Cards)
ABILITY:Creates clones of himself.
INCANTATION: “I am him, and he is another. Split Card!”
FIRST APPEARANCE:
Unique Magic: Episode 1-15 / P.E. Cater Vignette
Incantation: P.E. Cater Vignette
Trey - DOODLE SUIT (Lit. Paint The Roses)
ABILITY: Temporarily overwrites a specific component of the target item.
INCANTATION: “White to red, and red to white. Doodle Suit!”
FIRST APPEARANCE:
Unique Magic: Episode 1-14
Incantation: Twisted-Wonderland The Novel Episode 1: The Red-Rose Tyrant (p.249)
SAVANACLAW
Leona - KING’S ROAR (Lit. Roar of the King)
ABILITY: Touches anything he touches into sand.
INCANTATION: “I am hunger. I am thirst. I am what robs you of tomorrow. Kneel before me. King’s Roar!”
FIRST APPEARANCE:
Unique Magic: Episode 2-25 / Dorm Leona Vignette
Incantation: Dorm Leona Vignette
Jack - UNLEASH THE BEAST (Lit. Shattering Howl on a Moonlit Night)
ABILITY: Allows Jack to transform into a large white wolf.
INCANTATION: Not revealed/unknown if needed.
FIRST APPEARANCE:
Unique Magic: Episode 2-26
Ruggie - LAUGH WITH ME (Lit. Fool’s Parade)
ABILITY: Controls others to mimic his movements.
INCANTATION: Not revealed/unknown if needed.
FIRST APPEARANCE:
Unique Magic: Episode 2-2 (first seen), 2-23 (name spoken)
OCTAVINELLE
Azul – IT’S A DEAL (Lit. Golden Contract)
ABILITY: Lets Azul take any power from the target once they sign a contract.
INCANTATION: “The song ends, the sun sets. Extend mercy upon these poor souls. Now, the deal is struck! It’s a Deal!”
FIRST APPEARANCE:
Unique Magic: Episode 3
Incantation: Glorious Masquerade (Event) Episode 5-5
Jade – SHOCK THE HEART (Lit. Gnawing Teeth)
ABILITY: Compels the target to speak the truth. Can only be used once per person.
INCANTATION: “No need to fear, I only wish to help you. Shock the Heart.”
FIRST APPEARANCE:
Unique Magic: Episode 3
Incantation: Episode 4
Floyd – BIND THE HEART (Lit. Coiling Tail)
ABILITY: Blocks and diverts an opponent’s magic.
INCANTATION: Not revealed/unknown if needed.
FIRST APPEARANCE:
Unique Magic: Episode 3
SCARABIA
Kalim – OASIS MAKER (Lit. Everlasting Grace)
ABILITY: Summons a large amount of water (usually in the form of rain).
INCANTATION: “Respite in the scalding sands, a never-ending party. Dance! Sing! Oasis Maker!”
FIRST APPEARANCE:
Unique Magic/Incantation: Episode 4
Jamil – SNAKE WHISPER (Lit. Snake Charmer)
ABILITY: Hypnotizes a target. They must look into his eyes for it to take effect.
INCANTATION: “The one you see reflected in your eyes is your master. Answer when I ask. Bow when I command. Snake Whisper.”
FIRST APPEARANCE:
Unique Magic/Incantation: Episode 4
POMEFIORE
Vil – FAIREST ONE OF ALL (Lit. Poison From a Beautiful Flower)
ABILITY: Places a curse with a touch by specifying the conditions.
INCANTATION: “Nothing to lose, nothing to fear. The shining crown is meant for me. Fairest One Of All.”
FIRST APPEARANCE:
Unique Magic: Episode 5
Incantation: Episode 6
Epel – SLEEP KISS (Lit. Crimson Fruit)
ABILITY: Places target in glass coffin and puts them to sleep.
INCANTATION: “Close your eyes, still your breath. Sleep Kiss.”
FIRST APPEARANCE:
Unique Magic/Incantation: Episode 6
Rook – I SEE YOU (Lit. Arrow that Flies to the Furthest Reaches)
ABILITY: Once cast on a target, he can pinpoint its exact location.
INCANTATION: “Come, let’s see you try to outrun me. I See You.”
FIRST APPEARANCE:
Unique Magic/Incantation: Episode 6
IGNIHYDE
Idia – GATE TO UNDERWORLD (Lit. Opened Gateway to the Underworld)
ABILITY: Opens and closes the door to the “Underworld” in STYX HQ.
INCANTATION: “Game, Set, Match. Gate to Underworld.”
FIRST APPEARANCE:
Unique Magic/Incantation: Episode 6
DIASOMNIA
Malleus – FAE OF MALEFICENCE (Lit. Blessing)
ABILITY: Casts a web of thorns and places everyone within to sleep.
INCANTATION: “Spinning wheel of fate, keep pulling the thread of disaster. As King of the Abyss, I shall bestow this upon you. Fae of Maleficence.”
FIRST APPEARANCE:
Unique Magic/Incantation: Episode 7
Silver – MEET IN A DREAM (Lit. Let’s Share the Same Dream)
ABILITY: Allows the caster to jump into other people’s dreams. Only can be used while asleep. Cannot choose the dream that is jumped to. The dreamer is indicated by a white bird-like wisp.
INCANTATION: “To the one I’ve met before, to the one I’ve yet to meet. Meet in a Dream.”
FIRST APPEARANCE:
Unique Magic/Incantation: Episode 7
Sebek – LIVING BOLT (Lit. Flash of Lightning)
ABILITY: His body becomes electricity, like a lightning bolt.
INCANTATION: “Strike through the stormy heavens, O lightning! Living Bolt!”
FIRST APPEARANCE:
Unique Magic/Incantation: Episode 7
Lilia – FAR CRY CRADLE (Lit. To the Furthest Cradle)
ABILITY: Allows the caster to play back the memory of an “object” for a short time.
INCANTATION: “All is as if it were days long past. No matter where it takes us, it will all be over in the blink of an eye. Far Cry Cradle.”
FIRST APPEARANCE:
Unique Magic/Incantation: Episode 7
OTHERS
Rollo Flamme – DARK FIRE (Lit. Burning Desire)
ABILITY: His body is wrapped in flames that he can manipulate at will. The more his foes are afraid, confused, or frustrated, the stronger his flames.
INCANTATION: “O crimson flower, scorch my soul and guide me. Dark Fire!”
FIRST APPEARANCE:
Unique Magic/Incantation: Glorious Masquerade (Event) Episode 5-5
Fellow Honest – LIFE IS FUN (Lit. Rose-Tinted Dream)
ABILITY: Those afflicted feel more easy-going and optimistic and are more inclined to do things they wouldn’t normally do.
INCANTATION: “Come on to the theater! Life is Fun!”
FIRST APPEARANCE:
Unique Magic/Incantation: Stage in Playful Land (Event) Episode 5-6
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Ursa wakes Zuko and Azula up the day Ozai is set to become next in line for the throne, but something is off. She’s hurrying them, holding garments they’ve never seen before; something ceremonial. These shouldn’t be for a simple announcement proclamation.
Ursa herds her children to the throne room, where Azulon and Iroh stand. Their father isn’t in sight, he must be getting ready.
Azulon takes one look at Zuko and Azula and begins barking.
“On your knees!” He hisses.
Zuko is struck by the hostility. Azula frowns; but just as Ursa can motion for them to do kneel, Iroh holds out his hand.
“Father, there is no need. My niece and nephew should be here to celebrate their new cousin.”
Azulon leans closer to his son. “Their new cousin is nothing short of divinity!”
“Divinity?” Zuko asks Azula, who shrugs. Iroh motions for the two to stand; he is holding something in his arms.
The brother and sister note the infant residing in their uncle’s embrace.
“Zuko, Azula,” Iroh begins. “This is my daughter, Zion.”
“More than a daughter,” Azulon says, towering over his grandchildren. “A blessing. A miracle; given to your uncle by means you cannot comprehend.”
Iroh chuckled. “Father.”
Zuko walked forward. “Means?”
Iroh turned to hand Zion to her grandfather, who quickly, and reverently took her into his arms. Zuko and Azula had never seen him regard anything as being so precious.
Iroh opened his robes to reveal a gaping, twisting hole in his chest, through which they could see the throne on the other side. Ursa clapped a hand upon her mouth. Zuko stepped back, and Azula’s nose wrinkled in a mixture of disgust and horror.
“Means, as in, a very particular piece of me was used to create our future Fire Lord. My heart has been given the honor of providing the housing for a spirit; my new addition, and the future of the Fire Nation.”
Azula stepped forward. “But dad’s gonna be the next-”
Ursa almost tackled Azula before she could finish her sentence. Azulon’s rage was palpable as the flames from his throne up above reached the ceiling.
“Young lady!” Azulon howled. “Show your future leaders some respect! If you cannot maintain the poise and tact expected from your position, perhaps we should evict you from your place in line-”
“Father.”
Iroh’s calm caused a cease in the flames, and in Azulon’s words.
“There is no need for that,” Iroh smiled. He looked back to Azula, calmly and with the smile he used to wear before Lu Ten’s untimely passing.
“Your father was indeed going to be named the next Fire Lord - but the Spirits have deemed I maintain my birthright, you see. With the creation of my daughter, I have been ordained as the proper next in line, by the will of the spirit world itself.”
Zuko finally exhaled. “That’s incredible,” he murmured. Iroh nodded.
“I quite concur.”
Azulon tutted. “You should be getting ready, Iroh. You and Zion both. The ceremony isn’t long now,” he said, gently returning the child to her father. “It will be like nothing we’ve ever had before; a ceremony befitting our own little goddess.”
Azula leaned towards Zuko as Iroh made his leave. “Uncle’s heart made a girl?”
Zuko shrugged.
Ursa grabbed them by their shoulders. “Let’s go; we must be on time.”
“The guest of honor isn’t even ready himself!” Azula cried out.
“URSA.”
Ursa shuddered, and she turned back towards Azulon. He glowered at his daughter-in-law.
“Teach that girl of yours some respect. I’ve expected more out of you as a mother; and each day you disappoint me.”
Ursa swallowed as her children looked up at her.
“Yes, Fire Lord Azulon,” she warbled, bowing deeply. “I am so sorry.”
“As you should be,” Azulon snapped before dismissing them with a gesture.
Ursa stood and nearly dragged her children out of the throne room. The two of them were silent as Ursa trembled with frustrations.
Zuko frowned at Azula. She carried no weight of Azulon’s words; instead she merely looked annoyed at the old man.
“What a gas bag,” Azula said; but just before she could say anything else, Ursa was on her knees and grabbing her daughter by her shoulders, shaking her.
“Azula!! Don’t you realize what is going on?!” She said through gritted teeth.
Azula’s wide eyes regarded her mother with shock.
“Your uncle has been chosen by the spirit world to father one of their own! Your cousin is not of this world. She is here to guide us to the glory begun by Sozin - this is bigger than all of us! You need to understand the gravity of this situation! We are in the presence of things we cannot comprehend - they now share your blood! I need you to please, please hold that damned tongue of yours!”
Zuko’s mouth hung agape as Azula trembled in her mother’s grip.
“Do you understand me?” Ursa reiterated.
Azula nodded once. Barely. It was enough for Ursa to stand and to continue ushering them through the halls.
As they approached the palanquin, Zuko finally found his voice as they piled in.
“What about dad?”
Ursa sighed. “...He’ll be there. On his own life, he will be there.”
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Ars Amatoria | ch. XIX
-all rights reserved-
Elucien AU
word count: 2,1k words
warnings: NSFW content (only at the beginning)
masterlist
pov Azris
“Fuck, yes!” Azriel has his head thrown back as his lover practically sucks his life out of him. Eris grabs Azriel's ass in his broad hands, bringing him even closer when Azriel buries his hand in Eris’ hair, tugging softly. The new Gonfalionere of Florence so delicately sucks him off, and makes him see stars, kneeling in front of him, Azriel’s back pressed against the armoire in his study. Eris takes him deep, hollowing his cheeks, sucking and licking.
“You did it,” Azriel groans, his cock twitching in his lover’s mouth as release gathers in his spine. Azriel feels the muscles in his lower belly flex, his eyes rolling back in his head when a growl leaves his throat.
He comes with a shout, his hot seed trickling down Eris’ throat as the man swallows around him and then licks over his shaft once again, softly kissing him, and finally straightens up.
Eris, his lips wet with drool and come, kisses Azriel on the lips and curls his arms around him. “Yes,” he whispers and closes his eyes.
Then his lips form a grin. “Because my lover finally grew some balls and stood up for me.”
Azriel only rolls his eyes, then wraps his arms around Eris’ shoulders to bring him closer. “You knew my reasons why I couldn’t do it before.”
“They were shit reasons.”
“These reasons saved our lives. Or would you like to get hanged from one of the buildings in Florence?” Azriel responds, a tinge of frustration in his voice.
Eris knows that he is not wrong and yet is hurts so much, the once-again realistion of what is between them never being something more than an affair. Something secret.
But Eris won’t let himself dwell on these painful thoughts, he wants to enjoy his time with Azriel and that to the fullest.
He slowly guides them back to the bed onto which they tumble, their limbs entangled, Azriel’s head resting on Eris’ chest. “I don’t just want to love you in the shadows. I want to love you like…”
“Like my brother loves his wife?” Eris chuckles a little, but it is empty of happiness and rather filled with a dull ache that mirrors his heart.
He is happy for his brother, but seeing their bliss always makes a tinge of jealousy bloom in his own heart. He wants to love Azriel like Lucien loves Elain, outside, wild and free. He wants go out for dinner with Azriel, go on walks with him, kiss him on a bridge, go to church with him on Sunday.
“They are happy, aren’t they?” Azriel perks up at his lover and Eris bows his chin, his skin tingling a little from where it comes in contact with Azriel’s hair.
“Lucien seemed different today. Nervous, due to the vote, but he looked…more at ease.” Sometimes Eris thinks Azriel would make a good spy, how closely he watches people and the things he sees and notices.
Eris rubs his hand down his lover’s back, only to pull him a little closer. Azriel curls his arms tighter around his lover, his leg swung over Eris’.
A rain storm rages outside, its fury unleashed upon Florence. Rain splashes against the windows, and is accompanied by thunder, the howling of the wind and lightning that streaks.
“He is. Elain…she was and is the best thing that could have happened to him. I am glad it worked out so well.”
Azriel kisses Eris’ pec and hums in agreement, his hand brushing over the fine dusting of hair on Eris’ lower belly.
In those moments, in Azriel’s bedroom, in the shadows, they cherish the simple pleasure of each other's presence. A candle flickers softly on the bedside table, casting a gentle glow upon their intertwined bodies. The world around always fades into insignificance when they are together, when they open their hearts and souls to one other. Every touch, every whisper, is an intimate promise of love that resonates within their souls.
Azriel’s fingers trace delicate patterns upon Eris’ bare skin as he draws in his scent, hoping to remember it forever.
Words are unnecessary in the moments that follow; their silent gazes and gentle touches speak volumes, conveying all the love and admiration they feel for the other. The rise and fall of a Eris’ chest, his warmth and the soft brush of his fingertips against Azriel’s back nearly lures the archivist into a deep slumber. But he wants to stay awake, wants to savour every second of their limited moments together. Their hearts swell with an overwhelming gratitude for the other person and for having been brought into each other's lives — even though their love can never be free or happen outside the confinements of their homes. In this intimate moment, their souls find solace and can finally rest.
“We need to keep our eyes open. I doubt Jacobo won’t act now that he lost the vote.”
“I will do everything possible to keep you safe,” Azriel assures his lover and looks up at him, eyes filled with a hint of sadness trailing over Eris’ face.
The older Vanserra brushes his hand through Azriel’s silken strands and smiles. “I know you will. But I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“Nothing will happen to me.” They keep prolonged eye-contact. “But I will keep my eyes and ears open. But you promise me to stay safe, do nothing that will risk your life.”
Eris assures him that he won’t and kisses Azriel's forehead softly.
Later on, their conversations changes to the topic of Ianthe, before they decide to catch some hours of sleep, both desperately needing it.
And so they remain, nestled in each other's embrace, savouring the presence of the other, as their hearts beat in harmony, in one rhythm, and their breathing gets heavier and their eyes slowly close.
pov. Elucien
“But why are they like this?” Elain asks, the hot liquid embracing her as she glides into the tub, and it elicits a soft moan from her.
The corner of Lucien’s mouth quirks up, but he soon is fetched back to their current conversation.
Approaching the bathtub, Lucien steps closer and gently rests his hands on the edges, bracing himself. A tender smile graces his lips as he gazes down at Elain. She leans back in the tub, her eyes fixed on him, filled with an affectionate warmth.
“Because of money, power, influence. For securing that the next Popes will always come from the rows of the Hybern family.”
He lowers his head, the muscles in his shoulders flexing, and draws in a deep inhale.
The heated water in the tub is scented with fragrant herbs and essential oils, creating delicate aromas that linger in the air of the bathroom. The flickering glow of candlelight dances upon the chamber's walls, and casts shadows over Lucien’s skin.
“I don’t know why they do it, but this is just what those in power do…” His voice is tinged with frustration and bitterness, but when he lifts his head he smiles. “But Eris won and is now Gonfaloniere of Florence. For now we have peace.”
His gaze is locked with Elain's, and he notices the concern etched into her features.
Drawing in a deep inhale, she poses a question, her voice calm yet tinged with apprehension, "Do you think they will attempt to undermine Eris's position?”
“They will maybe try to do something, but let’s not think about it now. Let us enjoy this evening of victory today.”
He grins and Elain wiggles in the bathtub, deciding to accept his suggestion.
Maybe they should really not worry, and for now just enjoy the evening.
“Why don’t you join me in the tub then?”
The water caresses her skin as Elain leans forward, her breasts, that are no longer beneath the surface, capturing Lucien’s attention.
“My eyes are up here, my lord,” Elain purrs and makes his gaze of heated honey turn back to her face.
“Apologies, my lady, I got…distracted.”
Lucien grins, a full toothy grin, spreading from one ear to the other. “But joining you in the bath, you said? Oh, I would love to do that.”
Lucien stands tall, straightening his posture, and rolls back his shoulders, finding a comfortable and confident stance. His hands fall to the laces of his pants, skilfully undoing them.
As he meets Elain's gaze, his eyebrows arch playfully, amusement shimmering in his eyes.
Slowly, deliberately, he begins to unbutton his jacket, sliding it off his shoulders with a fluid motion. Maintaining eye contact with his wife, he proceeds to unfasten the buttons of his shirt, revealing every inch of delicate, tanned skin. A mischievous smile graces Elain's face, stretching from ear to ear, as she observes the wonderful display of her husband undressing. She stretches her leg, placing her foot gently on the edge of the tub, and leans back, tilting her head, and releases a contented hum.
Elain deliberates between continuing to watch or look away when Lucien pulls down his pants, her cheeks hot and flushed, her vision a little blurry with desire. But she keeps looking.
He is so beautiful, and he is hers. All and fully hers.
Lucien gracefully and slowly waddles to the tub. “Where do you want me, my lady?” Lucien asks, his voice soft and warm.
“Behind me?”
With almost cocky confidence, Lucien approaches the back of the bath, where Elain eagerly shifts forward, creating space for him. Gracefully, Lucien lowers himself into the tub, ensuring a careful fit behind her, their bodies aligning perfectly. He lowers his face and kisses her shoulder, arms wrapping around her waist to pull her closer.
“You have the softest skin in the entire world, my lady.” His hand smoothes up her body, gliding over breast which he gently squeezes. Lucien groans softly into the back of her neck.
“And the best breasts in the entire world. You are…you are the goddess. You are Venus.”
“I am not,” Elain argues and her head lolls back to rest on his shoulder. “I—“
But Lucien shuts her up, cups her chin in his broad hand and turns her head. “But you are. Never have seen beauty like yours ever before.”
Elain furrows her brows, leaning in to peck his lips. “But then you accept that you are a god as well!”
Lucien smiles against her lips, his eyes sparkling in the dimly lit room. The fingers of their other hands are delicately intertwined, the water caressing their skin as they meld.
“But I am not Ares…that is Ardinghelli.”
“No, you are not,” Elain answers. “And I am happy you are not. You are Hephaestus, Aphrodite’s husband, the god of fire and craftsmen.” She grins and kisses him again, her eyes aglow with passion. “And I think it is very obvious that you have fire in your blood.”
Lucien’s chuckle sends vibrations throughout her whole body and he can’t hold back from kissing her again, lips meeting hers in a searing, passionate kiss.
Soft whispers and laughter fill the air, mingling with the subtle sounds of their sighs as they bath together. Only the distant rumble of thunder punctuates the silence of their shared and intimate moment in the bathroom. Raindrops cascade down the windows, and drum against the roof while wind whips branches against the house.
With each passing moment in the bath, their worries dissolve, as if the water and their togetherness washes them away. They find solace in being together, in sharing this intimate moment, the outside world disappearing into nothingness.
As the bath comes to an end, meaning the water turns to cool to stay in, they reluctantly rise from the tub, their bodies still close, droplets of water sliding down their bodies.
Lucien dries of quickly, and then wraps Elain into a soft towel, scooping her up in his arms, bridal style. Like this he carries her to their shared bedroom, not at all bothering that he is only dressed in the skin he was born with.
He lays her down on the bed, carefully unwrapping the towel and then climbing on top of the bed and on top of Elain, softly making love to her that night, kissing her, touching her, worshipping her. Her back bows of the bed, her hips rubbing against his as a cry splits her lips and she comes, Lucien only following a moment later. He holds her in the moments after, and also later when they drift of into a peaceful slumber. And then all throughout the night.
~~~~~~~~~~
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👀 if you're still doing the tolkien horror prompts, may i request uncanny/i do not know you/came back wrong? <3
Nimloth’s husband and sons have gone where she cannot follow. But she can still be with her daughter.
—
About half way between Menegroth and the Mouth of Sirion, Elwing smiled for the first time since her nurse roused her in the dead of night.
“Mummy”, she said in her soft little-girl voice, “Mummy’s here.”
The now-refugees did not respond. The poor child had just lost everything. If imagining her mother by her side gave her some comfort, there was nothing to be gained by breaking her illusion.
—
“But why am I the queen,” Elwing sniffled through tears, “when Mummy’s still here? Mummy should be the queen!”
All of a sudden, Círdan felt very, very old. He knelt before the child, still in her pink nightdress and with the violently bright jewel looped around her neck like a noose. “Child, I know this will be very hard to understand-”
—
“My mother likes you,” lisped the thin, wide-eyed child that the Iathrim had introduced to Idril as their queen. “So be welcome, Idril Silverfoot.”
Idril, thirsty and exhausted, bowed to the girl-queen and thanked her effusively. She had no energy left to wonder what she meant. She wished she had something more than thanks to offer her- and later found out that she did.
“The circumstances bringing you here are indeed terrible,” Círdan the shipwright told her, “but one small silver lining is that Elwing will at last have a friend her own age. She has so many responsibilities, and I am afraid the fall of Menegroth still hangs heavy upon her. Often, she speaks as though her mother is still with us. I think she must be very lonely.”
Idril nodded. She thought she could understand - hundreds of years after the fact, she still missed her own mother with an ache that waxed and waned, and the recent loss of her father was a raw wound. “I’ll introduce Eärendil tomorrow.”
—
Eärendil and Elwing were two-thirds done with a bottle of stolen rice wine when his best friend asked, “Can I tell you a secret?”
Eärendil was sixteen and in love and would have done anything she asked. “Of course.”
“Sometimes I still see my mum. I know she’s dead. When I was little I didn’t really understand that, but I do now. So I see her…ghost, I suppose? Especially when I’m lonely, or I need help. You probably think I’m insane.” She took a long swig of wine, and Eärendil could see her eyes misting. He fumbled to save the situation- he could not stand to have made her cry.
“I don’t! Actually, I think I understand… when I was ten, I used to see Salgant. Apparently he’d been taken to Angband, after… everything, and I suppose he died there. He’d come to me, and he used to kneel at my feet. He never spoke. I guessed he was sorry for me, for his part in everything.
I didn’t blame him, not really. With my uncle, it’s a different story. But Salgant was easily led… I told him I forgave him, and to go in peace to Mandos. I didn’t see him again, after that.” It was true, though he had not thought of it for many years.
Elwing lunged forward and hugged him fiercely. Eärendil felt hot tears fall on to his shoulder.
“Thank you. I thought I’d never be believed!”
Eärendil smiled. “Of course I believe you. Even if the same thing hadn’t happened to me, I’d never doubt you. You’re my best friend in the world.”
Elwing pulled back and smiled, wiping away the last of her tears. “And you’re mine. I’m glad Salgant found rest, too. But do you think it’s awful that I don’t really want my mum to go?”
“Of course not. She’s your mum!”
—
Elwing tasted blood and her lungs burned as she ran through the burning wreckage of Sirion, the snarling and howling Fëanorians at her heels. “I have it!” She shouted as she held up the hideous jewel, her voice snatched away in the chaos. “Come and take it!” Then she ran on. She knew where to go.
She knew where to go, because her mother was with her, guiding her, as she always had been. In life, she had offered warm hugs and soothing words and kisses to the forehead. In death, the shade who had been Nimloth could not touch her daughter, nor speak to her. It did not matter- Elwing always knew what she meant.
When Eärendil had first come to the Havens, Nimloth had smiled upon him. When the letter from Maedhros Fëanorian had arrived, she had gestured to the fireplace.
Now, Elwing’s mother pointed silently towards the cliffs.
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wildfire | retrospect i | mohg, neil | 797
The small Omen looks up towards his lord through the wide slits in his mask, a sunny smile behind the ivory grin as he folds the garments in his hands. “It’s been so long since I’ve been outside!” he says, excited and kind, turning to give Miquella’s cocoon a deep, respectful bow — kneeling, almost, like one would genuflect before a God.
He has no idea what’s going on.
“What’s the occasion, Milord?” Neil asks as he sets the fabrics — Morgott’s clothing, both old and new — beside the radiant lily that sprouts from the bloody stone. “You’ve, ah… y-you’re awfully quiet.
And he is. Deathly so.
Mohg forces a smile, trying to calm his faint-hearted little dressmaker. He’s glad Creighton was able to fetch Neil without much fuss — enter the mansion as a guest, and leave as an escort. According to them both, the walls barely creaked at all.
That’s about to change.
The Omen Lord places a hand on Neil’s frail shoulder, sighing long and deep — serious. “I am about to ask thee to assist in a very, very important task,” the Lord says. “Art thou ready?”
Not at all what the young Omen had expected. His mask smiles gently, but he frowns in fear behind, his eyes growing wide in equal parts awe and confusion. “Y—… I would never turn you down, Milord,” he stutters, placing his clawed hands atop his heart. “What… what’s wrong?”
Mohg looks up towards the cocoon — at the lily still growing at its feet — and worries deeply about the pain of death.
But he needs to do this.
Now.
—
It’s hell on earth the very second Mohg has entered the Mother’s realm.
It’s as if the walls themselves are screaming, and those milling about the stairwells drop what they’re holding and cover their ears with gloved hands, whining and pained like dogs beside a whistle. Mohg grimaces as his blood boils — quite literally, like a wildfire aneath his skin, the branches of his veins snapping and leaves of crimson bursting into flame. But pain be a companion, he’s always said. And he’s never had to believe that as much as he does now. He holds its burning hand as he runs.
His voice has never been terribly loud, but he finds himself roaring like a lion amidst the din of the Mother’s distress. She wants him gone — like a disease, a tick or a leech, She wants him out from under Her skin. He does not deserve this realm she offers — not if he is to do something stupid…
Which he is.
Right now.
His voice echoes, growling and roaring, commanding everyone to meet in the foyer. Bodies rush, dishes falling in shattered pieces and laundry being tossed on the floor. It’s a rush, like a panic — like a flood, like a hurricane. A natural disaster within an unnatural world. Bodies in white and brown, panicked, fleeing, freezing, or fighting…
The walls are alive. The walls are unhappy. The walls clatter and bang, crack and cry, shaking as if fit to be wrenched from its very foundation. People huddle, holding each other — some crying, some screaming, some begging their Lord for mercy. Some cry to the Mother, and she laughs in disbelief. Some cry to Gods of old. Some cry for anyone who will listen. Some just cry, and cry, and cry…
He doesn’t have time to ensure all the bodies have gathered when things start to fall.
There’s no countdown — no warning — before the Lord enters the din. He says, “Everybody shut up!” He says, “Everyone, hold one another!” He says “Everyone, hold thy breath!”
He claws into the Mother above, his claws and horns vicious as one attempting to ki, and she writhes and whines and complains. She refuses to offer Her wounds. She screams at his attempts to use Her. He doesn’t deserve Her aid — he doesn’t deserve Her blessing. But Her blood is poured nonetheless, despite her efforts to escape, pooling at their feet like a river — a lake, up to their ankles, hot and boiling, angry and red.
She snaps her teeth. She readies her claws. She bites, she howls, she convulses and constricts. Mohg’s blood is aflame. Mohg’s blood is alive. Mohg’s blood is fit to burst from his every pore like the frenzied flame from a heretic’s eyes.
The surge of red is temporary, but it stings like being consumed alive.
Like being consumed alive.
…
A swarm of bodies is spat out at the foot of Miquella’s pedestal, shaking and pained, terrified and bloody, shocked and screaming and still, still crying.
And a small Omen boy, with dedication behind his smiling mask, helps each and every one to their feet.
Mohg is silent as unconsciousness takes him, and his blood spoils and churns.
#drabble#[ic]#verse [retrospect]#i didnt proofread this just take it#at least miq isnt full of dead guys lmao
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The sword of lightnings
The sky is anthracite and heavy flat. It's torn on the distant horizon, and the gap is coloured gore. The wind has broken. Twelve monoliths of ancient symbols tower in the middle of the dark heath. A woman in a black hooded mantle stands in the centre of the stone circle. A dark knight kneels before her, his long cloak brushes the ground behind him. The lady's green eyes gaze at him from the dark cavern of her hood with sincere love; he looks at her as if he had never seen beauty and power before.
The knight unsheaths his sword and reverently holds it out to her. "I swear my alliance to you, My Priestess. Henceforth I promise to be loyal to you forever and ever."
Morgana nodded softly and solemnly. "Arise, Sir Mordred, Knight of the Old Religion. I declare you ready."
He stands up.
"Do you trust me?" She suddenly wihispers.
He nods slowly.
Morgana raises her head to the moonless sky and the dark melody of incantation flies from her lips. It grows louder and louder. Mordred waits tensely, fearing and marvelling at the picture before him. The wind returns, its gusts lift up their cloaks, tear their hair; it's howling in their ears with anguish. Matter does not want to transform, but the ritual words of the sorceress leave the elements no room for resistance.
When the summoning was sealed, a glowing white lightning splits the black sky, and, like a snake, strikes right at the centre of the fuller. An elliptical flash of light explodes and illuminates the stone circle, swallowing the sorceress and the knight in the glow. But when the astral clock counts down to three, everything falls dark. Morgana and Mordred again appear to the all-seeing zodiac's stare. The two are not affected in the slightest by the bolt, for this fate is not meant for them.
"We did it...we did it!" Morgana exclaims joyfully, letting herself to breathe again. Her heart soars free.
Mordred finds himself smiling. The blade in his hands shines like the pale moon; it's heavy, strong, hardened three times, in three magick quests: in the Avalon waters, in dragon flame, in heavenly light. It's hard not to admire. He puts the sword of lightnings away in its scabbard, bows and presses his Lady's gentle hand to his lips in a burst of emotion.
"I am honoured to to fight with this sword."
She closes her eyes in bliss. "It is done now. King Arthur is gone thanks to you, Mordred, and now we have everything we need to deal with Merlin as well. By his own weapon."
So once Merlin had assassinated the Isle of the Blessed's immortal patroness with a bolt of lightning, and now by the sentence of the last High Priestess the same cup will not pass from him, for even Emrys' power could not resist the magic of the three elements of power.
"We shall have him." Mordred seals grimly but gently.
Morgana takes a step closer to him to envelope his strong figure in a soft embrace. Mordred draws in a breath, a keen love feeling pierces him, and he leans in to find her unkissed lips.
The sky, incandescent by Morgana's magic, erupts in a violent thunderstorm, rain pounds the roof of Merlin's lonely tower, and the wizard awakes in terror. Something dark is coming.
#mordred x morgana#mordana#united in darkness#otp: on the wrong side of history#a work of mine again
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“This is what I mean, slut,” he answers. He expects her to try to struggle, and when she does, he easily crushes her resistance by sinking his nails deeper into her wrists.
She squeals in pain, and it makes him curse, “Fuck, whore, stop resisting me already. I know you want this.” He kneels behind her, and when he wrenches her hair up, her back bows as she whines out for him. “You wanted to know what I meant by warming you up, yeah? This is what I meant.”
He doesn’t wait for her to respond.
He simply presses his hips against her ass, his hard member easily sliding between her exposed folds in this position.
The slow, torturous friction has her whimpering his name, and those black pits of eyes gravitate from her sopping sex to her eyes when she throws her head back, desire glazing them as he releases her hair to wrap his fingers around one of her heaving breasts as he taunts into her ear, “tell me you want me to fuck you like the whore you are, female. Tell me you did all this just because you love it when I get angry and pound into you harder because of it.”
"A-alpha.." his name leaves her lips in a pathetic whimper, her face heating up at his taunting words.
Right.. there it is. She was warm already.
His hand fondles her breast roughly, his nails piercing into her areola and her wrist simultaneously making her howl out in pain, his name leaving her in a panicked, chaotic way once more.
Her body writhes in his hold as she thrashes about weakly, driving him to hold her all the more tighter, a cry leaving her lips at the overwhelming pleasure and pain she feels.
His member prods at her sopping entrance teasingly, and yet another whimper leaves her lips, a sob wracking through her body at the torturously slow pace he adopts as he grinds into her, a low, dark chuckle released from the back of his throat in the process.
She shakes her head, telling him that she was too shy to really say all of that out loud, begging and pleading for him to let her off the hook this once, his name and apologies following it leaving her mouth like a mantra, her body shivering.
She's completely at his fucking mercy.
And there's absolutely nothing she can do about it.
He won’t accept this now that he knows she’s starting to become honest with herself.
His teeth close around the cartilage of her left ear before he utters the words, “I am not letting you get away from this, slut. If you can tell yourself you want all of me,” he lets his cock slip between her asscheeks and keeps it there, “if you can tell yourself you enjoy it when I become cruel to you, “his fingers flick at her abused areola,” if you can admit that you like pissing me off because you know I’ll just exercise my overwhelming strength over this weak body of yours,” he puts his weight onto her back by laying his chest over her back, her arms trembling at the addition of his mass as he goes on, “then you can tell me what you want me to do you. You can tell me you want me to fuck you like the whore you are for me. You can tell me you did all this because it makes you wet when you are reminded of my strength, power, and passion for you.”
Her breath stutters at his bluntness and at the rigidness as it stands to attention between her asscheeks. If she doesn’t pay attention to it, she can almost deceive herself that he’s not fucking throbbing with arousal right now. That he’s not fucking warm and dripping with desire just as she is.
Gods, she needed him.
And fuck, did he want her.
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Ron Pearle's Lear: Act 5 Review
Really goofy-looking bow from Kent.
Kent chats with a dude with epic sideburns.
Flirty Regan is flirty.
Edmund has a super-long coat.
Goneril’s giggles are weird.
Edgar has the perfect disguise: a cloak!
Albany is so confused.
Edmund is still great.
Dude with gun kneels while string music plays. Lear and Cordelia are strolling along together. And now Cordelia gets a gun. That’s awesome. And Lear…also gets a gun. Which seems like a really bad idea.
Weird ballet-esque battle sequence. Why is Lear fighting in this battle?
Edgar’s got a new set of clothes.
We actually get to see Gloucester realizing who Edgar is. Very cute.
Both Cordelia and Lear get shoved to the ground by Edmund’s soldiers.
Whose dumb idea was it to put Lear on the battlefield? No wonder he got captured. Oh, who am I kidding? This was Lear’s idea, wasn’t it?
Cordelia’s face as Lear expounds upon his plans for them living together in prison is worth a thousand words.
Lear and Cordelia get pulled apart by the soldiers. Very sad. Though it is at least temporary.
Albany ended up with one of Goneril’s lines.
Regan is doing a good slow death via poison.
Goneril thinks this whole situation is hilarious.
No particular reaction from Regan to indicate that she’s realized that she’s been poisoned.
“I am reading lines off of a page.”-one of the servants.
Albany is clearly not at all happy about the idea that he might end up dueling Edmund.
Edgar has a superhero mask!
The Edgar/Edmund swordfight is also subpar. Though Edgar has a sick jump.
Edmund stole Edgar’s sword (after elbowing him in the gut repeatedly) before making the mistake of turning his back on Edgar so he could give Goneril a sword.
Edgar…almost stabs Albany for some reason?
Crying Edgar is sad.
Albany has fantastic silent reactions.
Edmund is making a valiant effort to drag himself off stage.
“Oh crap, we forgot about the King!”
Lear’s howling is fantastic.
Crying.
“‘Tis true, my lord, he did”-echoey voice from somewhere offstage!
Lear’s delivery is giving me feels.
Cordelia’s actor is a very convincing dead body.
Very sad music as the play ends.
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RE:Captivity
A bell chimed as the door swung open, the hinges creaking from strain as the howling wind threatened to shove it into the adjacent wall. Frigid air blasted into the small space. Winter mingled with the warm scent of rich green tea. The guest promptly shut the door securely behind him, sealing out the cold and wind.
Without the ferocious chill roaring in his ears, he could hear faint music. Something soft and classical. It complimented the warm lighting of the establishment, which cast a glow akin to large candles rather than standard electric lights.
The guest carefully removed his shoes in the entryway, carefully setting them on the top rack set to his right. He turned back to the tea room. Only instead of an open step, he was startled by a white-haired girl appearing before him. Surely he should have heard her steps in spite of the tatami carpeting the main room of the tea house.
He must be more exhausted than he realized.
The girl was undoubtedly strange regardless. She kept her head bowed, refusing to make direct eye contact with her guest. Her hands were firmly clasped in front of her. She stood stock still, as if cut from cardboard.
A very strange girl indeed.
“Good evening, sir. Welcome to Tranquility Tea House. I am your host, Silke.”
Silke spoke in a way that made it plain she practiced these lines many times over. Her robotic manner of speech was only softened by her slight stutter and hushed tone.
Still he sensed nothing foreboding about his host. Just odd awkwardness.
“Thank you, Miss Silke—” before the guest could finish his sentence, Silke spoke up again. It was almost as though she was on a timer, programmed to speak at certain time intervals.
“May I take your coat?”
Not sure whether he would be able to verbally answer without another interruption, the man merely nodded. He promptly dusted the snow off of his black cashmere coat. He removed his leather gloves, tucking them carefully into his coat pockets. He then slipped the coat off of his shoulders and silently handed it to his host.
He was mildly amused at how delicately Silke handled his possession as she stowed it away in a sliding door closet beside the shoe rack. Perhaps she was aware of how expensive said item was and was wary of damaging it in some way.
Not that it would be of any concern to him. He could always afford another.
The girl stepped back into the room and waved her hand to the table closest to the heater. With a grateful smile, the man stepped up to claim his spot and warm up. With each step, the old wood boards beneath the tatami creaked welcomingly.
Silke handed him a menu made out of thick bamboo paper before disappearing behind some curtains that led to the kitchen.
He let out a content sigh, briefly scanning the menu. He was surprised to see the tea house also served variations of hot chocolate and coffee in addition to an impressive variety of teas. There was even a modestly sized selection of baked goods and ice cream to enjoy with your drink. He also noted the menu was marked “Cold Weather Menu”, suggesting the tea shop also specialized in cold drinks in the warm weather.
It seems his host really put a lot of thought and love into her cute little—
“May I get you anything?”
He almost dropped his menu, startled by the quiet whisper by his side. Silke was once again simply there, kneeling at his side with her hands folded on her lap. For the first time he was able to get a proper look at his host. He couldn’t help but notice the faded scarring scrawling across her skin, even reaching up to her left eye.
“Yes. Black coffee. Nothing added.”
The guest handed back the menu and Silke bowed her head a little lower, rising to her feet.
“Oh, and one more thing.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Get yourself something to drink, on my tab. I would appreciate the company on such a lonely night.”
The girl hesitated, her intent to reject his command written plainly on her pale face. She chewed her bottom lip while she thought of the most appropriate rejection, likely practicing the line in her head as she had her greeting. After several seconds of a painfully drawn out silence, the man refusing to relent in his mute insistence, she let out a soft sigh of defeat.
“Yes, sir.” Another brief pause, another futile attempt to think of another way to politely decline. But instead she merely bowed her head. “Thank you, sir.”
*
Silke gripped the mug of cocoa in a viper’s grip. Occasionally she would dip her tongue into the ludicrous mountain of whipped cream and milk chocolate shavings that topped the already sweet drink. The man was already sipping his coffee, unbothered by the scalding hot liquid that should have been searing his mouth and throat.
He allowed the silence between them to simmer, self assured in the knowledge that it would reach a boiling point and the girl would break. Of course she would initially be relieved for not being forced into conversation, as per her obviously timid nature. But he was a strange man on a strange night. Questions were inevitable, even for—
“Why do you wear those sunglasses? It’s nighttime and… You’re inside.”
Everyone always asked about the sunglasses. Some assumed he was blind but then wondered about his ability to navigate without guidance of some kind. Others simply made light jabs as “one of those assholes”. No matter how the question was posed, he always had an answer at the ready.
“Unfortunately I suffer from photophobia.” From the tilt of the girl’s head, he figured she had no clue what that was. “In plain terms, it is an extreme sensitivity to light.”
His host made a silent “oh” of understanding before meekly licking the melting mountain of whipped cream from her drink again.
A short silence followed as he allowed the space for either more questions or some utterance of pity for his condition. Instead Silke merely focused wholly on her drink, finally daring a sip of the cooling cocoa. It seemed she didn’t know how to respond so instead opted for uncomfortable (for her) silence. He should have expected as much, seeing how socially incompetent this supposed tea house host really was when forced outside her script.
Not that it mattered. He had his opportunity. She had asked a question and that left him in a position of being able to pry without raising immediate red flags.
“So, Miss Silke, if I may ask a question of my own.”
The girl tilted her head, acknowledging that he spoke but still refusing to look directly at him. He was starting to wonder if this behavior was more than just simple shyness.
“What brings a young lady such as yourself to such a remote place? You don’t seem to be a local.”
At first there was no answer. The only sign that she had heard him speak was another small nod before she finally released the mug she had been clinging onto like a lifeline. Instead she folded her hands in her lap.
“I wanted to get away from it all. I wanted a peaceful, quiet place to live.” Silke’s voice was a mere whisper, cracking as if she had become overwhelmed with emotion.
“I see. That is quite a popular sentiment nowadays,” he sympathized. The girl visibly relaxed, even glancing at him momentarily.
Perfect.
“I myself was just passing through until this storm forced me to stop in town.” A simple bait, an open ended suggestion that left the door open for many questions. It was essential that he not ask more than she did, lest the conversation start to feel more like an interrogation and scare her.
“Are you heading to the hot springs for a vacation? I’ve always wanted to go. I hear they’re absolutely wonderful.”
She was now even adding information, a very good sign.
“Oh, I wish. After finding out about them, I plan to return. However, this time around I am on a work trip.”
Silke took a sip of her drink, finding the temperature finally perfect. Hot but not burning.
“What do you do for work, sir?”
“Actually it’s funny that you ask, my dear.” The man finished the last sip of his coffee and stood up, knowing full well that he Fled her into that question.
Silke looked puzzled, forgetting to keep her head down in her confusion. The hair that shielded her eye fell away, revealing a mismatched milky white iris instead of the silvery blue hue. The gray veins that traced her ghastly pale skin were not scarring at all but something underneath the smooth flesh.
“As of right now, my work is bringing you in…
moldy little freak.”
#resident evil#resident evil rp#resident evil oc#re oc#re#resident evil fanfiction#resident evil fanfic#fanfic#fanfiction#roleplay#re rp#literate rp#albert wesker#wesker#oc#original ch
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Poetry Internet Scavenger Hunt
Lyric 17
by Jose Garcia Villa
First, a poem must be magical,
Then musical as a sea-gull.
It must be a brightness moving
And hold secret a bird’s flowering.
It must be slender as a bell,
And it must hold fire as well.
It must have the wisdom of bows
And it must kneel like a rose.
It must be able to hear
The luminance of dove and deer.
It must be able to hide
What it seeks, like a bride.
And over all I would like to hover
God, smiling from the poem’s cover
6 words impression: Talks about the characteristics of
poem
The Sick Rose
By: William Blake
Rose thou art sick.
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night
In the howling storm:
Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.
six-word impression: Love and art can be destroy
Deception
By: Antonino Soira de Vyra
ten floors up
a lizard
punctual
at six o'clock
crawls down
stopping
every now
and then
along the
slender
tree trunk
and kisses
the ground
nitrified
loam of the
arboretum
ten floors
up
six-word impression: Every hardships will be paid off
Lament for the Littlest Fellow
By: Edith L. Tiempo
The littlest fellow was a marmoset.
He held the bars and blinked his old man’s eyes.
You said he knew us, and took my arms and set
My fingers around the bars, with coaxing mimicries
Of squeak and twitter. “Now he thinks you are
Another marmoset in a cage.” A proud denial
Set you to laughing, shutting back a question far
Into my mind, something enormous and final.
The question was unasked but there is an answer.
Sometimes in your sleeping face upon the pillow,
I would catch our own little truant unaware;
He had fled from our pain and the dark room of our rage,
But I would snatch him back from yesterday and tomorrow.
You wake, and I bruise my hands on the living cage.
six-word impression: Sorrow of being imprisoned by
problems
Order for Masks
By: Virginia Moreno
To this harlequinade
I wear black tight and fool’s cap
Billiken*, make me three bright masks
For the three tasks in my life
Three faces to wear
One after the other
For the three men in my life.
When my Brother comes
make me one opposite
If he is a devil, a saint
With a staff to his fork
And for his horns, a crown.
I hope for my contrast
To make nil
Our old resemblance to each other
and my twin will walk me out
Without a frown
Pretending I am another.
When my Father comes
Make me one so like
His child once eating his white bread in trance
Philomela* before she was raped. I hope by likeness
To make him believe this is the same kind
The chaste face he made,
And my blind Lear* will walk me out
Without a word
Fearing to peer behind.
If my lover comes,
Yes, when Seducer comes
Make for me the face
That will in color race
The carnival stars
And change in shape
Under his grasping hands.
Make it bloody
When he needs it white
Make it wicked in the dark
Let him find no old mark
Make it stone to his suave touch
This magician will walk me out
Newly loved.
Not knowing why my tantalizing face
Is strangely like the mangled parts of a face
He once wiped out.
Make me three masks.
six-word impression: Shows different persona of the
woman
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bro bro.
7. kissing scars, yelena and kate.
if u want<3 please giggles
(prompt list)
Fifteen seconds.
It takes fifteen seconds for Kate to notice Yelena, perched in her open window, back to the fire escape.
In fifteen seconds, Yelena could lunge from her place in the shadows and tackle Kate Bishop to the ground, yank her arms above her head, pin her legs down with her knees and have her in a chokehold so tight it would only add five extra seconds to that time.
Or she could launch two daggers from her belt, poison tipped to render Kate motionless, one impact for each leg; Kate Bishop would drop to the floor in mere seconds, her legs failing her, then slowly the poison would travel further up her body until her whole self was paralyzed, trapped in a prison of her own contorting muscles.
In fifteen seconds, Yelena could steal Kate’s bow from her room. She could outfit her entire kitchen with hidden cameras. She could raid Kate’s fridge.
Yelena does none of these things. She sits on the windowsill for fifteen seconds, watches Kate strip herself of her coat and quiver, let Lucky off his leash, and walk all the way into the kitchen. She does this for fifteen seconds, and right at the cusp of sixteen, Yelena makes her presence known.
She lets out a low whistle. “Welcome home, Kate Bishop.”
“Fuck-ing shit, oh my god.”
Kate jumps like a startled mouse, and Yelena only barely tries to mask her smile. “Did I scare you?”
“No, no.” Kate stammers. She fumbles for her kitchen light. “No way. ‘Course I knew you were here when I walked in.”
“Yes, of course you did.”
Kate finds her light switch. “What are you doing here?”
“Currently? I am staining your kitchen’s wood floor a lovely red shade.”
The yellow industrial light in Kate’s kitchen buzzes on, and Yelena watches as Kate’s vision drops very rapidly from her face, to her toes, where a not-inconsequential pool of blood has slowly accumulated over the last fourteen seconds.
“Oh, shit, Yel.” Kate groans. “What happened?”
“I fell.”
“On a bullet?”
“Er. Yes?
Kate is already out of the room. When she returns, she returns with a familiar red bag, filled with bandages and first aid equipment. How cute, Yelena thinks. We’ve settled into routine.
Kate kneels before her. “Can you- um. Can you take off your pants, please?”
“Kate Bishop!” She howls. “Ask a girl out for drinks first, will you?”
Kate grumbles, “I did ask you, and you turned me down to try and kill my partner.”
Yelena just pats her softly on the head.
With Kate’s help, Yelena peels off her cracked armor pads and slim, blood-soaked suit. She’ll ask Kate if she can use her building’s laundromat later.
Kate tends to her wound gently, gentler than Yelena has ever been cared for. She holds Yelena’s hand (even as she swears she doesn’t need it) when Kate pulls the bullet from where it’s embedded in her thigh. She cleans the area with gentle strokes, squeezing Yelena’s fingers when she tenses from the sting, and stitches the wound closed with clean sutures and the steady hand of a marksman.
When she finishes, she doesn’t pull away. Instead, Yelena watches as Kate Bishop’s ever so perceptive eyes drop from the gunshot wound, to a wide, jagged scar beneath it.
Kate runs her thumb along the ridge of it. “I’ve never seen this before.”
Yelena glances away. “You never needed to.”
“It’s old-”
“It’s ugly, and it never healed right.” Yelena sighs. “Leave it, please, Kate.”
If Yelena’s words have hurt her, Kate does a fine job of not showing it- in another world she would make an incredible spy. “I’m sorry,” she just says, giving Yelena a comforting smile. She drops her hand to Yelena’s knee.
But Kate shouldn’t have to be sorry. Not after everything she’s done for her tonight. Maybe that's why Yelena blurts out, “It’s where they put my tracker in.”
Kate blinks. “The- uh.. the Red Room, right?”
Yelena nods. “When I first broke away from their control, I had to cut it out so they wouldn’t find me.”
Kate looks up at Yelena as she brings her hand to once again hover near the scar, asking for permission. Slowly, Yelena places her hand, feather-light, atop Kate’s and together their fingertips trace the length of the scar. The the raised, uneven space where she had to cut herself open and put herself back together is sensitive, as all new skin is, and feeling Kate Bishop tend to it so gently makes her breath pause.
Then, before Yelena realizes, Kate leans down and presses a hovering kiss to the bottom of the scar.
Its enough to make Yelena pull back, her hand squeezing Kate’s a little too tight. Kate understands, slowly leans back from Yelena’s leg to sit on her heels.
“I know you think it’s ugly.” Kate whispers, fingers tapping on the side of Yelena’s knee. “But I think it’s really powerful. It’s the first mark on a body that was yours.”
She chuckles, shaking her head. “Only you could think of such things, Kate Bishop.”
Kate smiles, thumb pressing one final circle into Yelena’s leg. “I”m gonna put the first aid kit away.” She stands, grabbing the bag of supplies and tucking it under her arm. She gives Yelena a quick glance over her shoulder. “You better not jump out of that window.”
Yelena rolls her eyes. “I would not dream of it.”
When Kate returns just in time to see Yelena’s feet slip off the edge of the railing, she can still hear Kate whisper, “Damnit, Yelena.” and then, “Gosh, that's still so cool.”
And then, as Yelena is halfway down the fire escape: “You left your fucking pants!”
#prompts#kate bishop#yelena belova#bishlova#bellhop#okay here u go mickey#idk what happened this was supposed to be like 200 words max and i blacked out and i wrote a whole one shot#hope you like !#mike writes
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