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0bticeo · 1 month

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lurk | feyd rautha

part four of five. (part 1.) (part 2.) (part 3.)

summary:

“i need you,” he rasps, etching a molten kiss on the dip of your collarbone. “need to get rid of his taste.”

his hand crawls up your thighs, the folds of your velvet dress gliding against your skin. you can still hear the soldiers outside, feel the low thrum of their clamour in your very bones. should you focus, you’ll perceive the baron’s suspensors sucking away at gravity, the servants’ roaming about, feet like neelde-ants on cold marble.

anyone could catch you.

“what are you waiting for, my lord na-baron?”

wc: 1.6k

tw: political machinations, reader being inches away from killing everyone in the damn place including feyd, kissing, biting, mentions of breeding, possessive & needy feyd, sub!feyd, oral (fem receiving), fingering, hallway sex.

you’re getting tired of dreams.

there’s terrible, terrible purpose dripping from their edges. you see it all - snapshots of horror, fractals reflecting endless bodies dropping to the ground. sixty one billion people, dead. ten thousand worlds burning, the universe begging for respite under your brother’s crushing fist.

paul. little mouse, whom you’ve shielded all your life, whom you’ve sparred with, crysknife pressed against his throat, his shield a feeble protection against your blade. something shatters. blades. so many of them. your blade. jamis’ blade. feyd-rautha’s blade.

your dream has you standing in what you know to be the emperor’s ship, shrouded in bene gesserit veils. two silhouettes stand against the bleeding sun of arrakis.

the realisation embeds itself in your mind, marble-carved. fate is looking down upon you and tells you: one of them dies in the end.

when you wake up, there’s a scream dying on your tongue.

you don’t know where you are. you don’t know where you are, why your side is on fire, why you taste blood in your mouth.

slowly, you rise, heart beating furiously, breath laboured. i must not fear. your fingers dig your sheets. the infirmary. fear is the mind killer. you close your eyes, will yourself to breathe. fear is the little-death that brings total -

a hand settles over yours, bone pale fingers weaving with yours. warmth settles on your shoulder. you relax, ever so slightly, leaning into the touch, burying yourself in the crook of feyd-rautha’s neck. he’s all sharp edges, honed to deadly perfection. in the quiet midnight of geidi prime, he softens for you.

“what troubles you?”

you wonder if you should tell him. of the golden path, paved with blood, so much blood it clings to the soles of your feet, you see it rise, rise, eager to seize you-

a low mumble of your name.

“dreams are messages from the deep,” you whisper in the crook of his neck.

his hold tightens over you, brings you closer to the warmth of him, thumb running over the smooth skin of your belly, over your unborn child growing there. from your position, you can feel it, the way his vocal cords vibrate. he’s purring, soothing you bit by bit.

you tilt your head, hand coming to cradle his face, knuckles brushing against his cheek.

“i should be plotting your death.”

a low chuckle, a flash of almost eagerness in his eyes.

“i don’t doubt you will.”

his hand wraps around your neck, resting on the soft skin of your throat, bringing you closer to him, shifting your bodies until you’re straddling him, arms wrapping around his neck. you could strangle him. you could use the voice. ask him to take the knife you know rests on the bedside and slit his own throat like the harkonnen beast he is. use it yourself.

but you’ve sealed your fate the moment you stepped on arrakis. so instead, you let the darkness swallow your confession.

“i don’t want you to die.”

“i won't,” he mumbles against your lips, words like an oath as he kisses you.

they say the beat of a butterfly wing can cause a tempest on the other side of the globe. you wonder what tempest will be borne out of the fury beating in your chest. here goes: morning comes. the spice rules it all, even the baron’s affairs, so he gathers his troops to make a planetary governor out of feyd-rautha.

the glorious sun of geidi prime shines its lifeless light upon you all.

the finest harkonnen soldiers, ruthless hounds barking their sovereign’s name in fervent adoration, thousands upon thousands of ants stretching as far as you can see. they corrupt it all the harkonnen, eating away at the horizon. waiting.

you’re waiting, too, hands folded before you, lone silhouette clad in dark robes, veils like a mask before your face. bene gesserit, the court calls you.

not quite.

by bearing feyd-rautha a child, you’ve gained a modicum of respite. the bene gesserit will spare you, the mother of their precious kwisatz haderach. they will keep your survival a secret and bury it behind inscrutable eyes.

plans within plans within plans. you’re a pawn in the baron’s meaty hands, he’s a pawn in yours, and the bene gesserit have been pulling the strings for ninety generations.

your gaze flits to the scene before you. feyd-rautha harkonnen, clad in dark leathers, silver embroidery like pauldrons over his shoulders. the mass of his uncle hovers above him, a hovering beast eager for power. two meaty hands encompass his face - absolute disgust coils in your chest as you watch vladimir harkonnen kiss his nephew. he kisses back. a show of dominance.

the soldiers howl his name, earth trembling under the clamour. they salute, arms crossed over their heads, a living, breathing organism, synchronicity at its peak.

arrakis has a new ruler.

a hand clasps over your wrist, drags you away from the adoring masses, in the sweet darkness of the palace’s hallways. you’re pinned against the wall, and feyd-rautha looms before you, terrible hunger burning in his eyes. slowly, he lifts your veils, high enough to bare your mouth to him.

“my lord-”

you’re cut off by his lips on yours, eager, desperate, savouring you like fine arrakean spice-wine.

“i need you,” he rasps, etching a molten kiss on the dip of your collarbone. “need to get rid of his taste.”

anyone could catch you.

“what are you waiting for, my lord na-baron?”

he nips at your ear, grin sharper than his blade as he sinks to his knees. slowly, intimately, a shadow curling at his mistress’ feet. he unravels you, nails raking up your thighs, liquid desire burning in their path.

“eyes on me.”

your eyes snap open. oh, he’ll be the death of you, with the way his eyes freeze you in place, willing, begging for his touch. you shiver, a low, needy sound escaping you.

he grins, a flash of black teeth against the liquid darkness of your robes. shadows will swallow you whole - he will swallow you whole. already is, with the way he trails kisses up your thighs, teeth sinking in the meat of it until blood drips on your skin.

he’s lapping at it, hands wrapping around your leg, spreading you apart inch by precious inch until he fits the broad expanse of his shoulders in the space he’s carved for himself. he raises his head, leans his cheek against your thigh, nuzzling in its softness. there’s blood coating his lips, sweet like forbidden fruit, and an unquenchable fire in his eyes.

“exquisite,” he purrs, nail digging in the blossoming mark he’s left, until your hips seek his touch.

he puts his mouth to you. you bite your lip, hard, as you feel him tease you, tongue lapping at you like sweet pomegranate, skilled fingers coaxing pleas for more. the cold of his silver ring has you keening - you're melting against him.

it’s obscene, how the only sounds you can hear are the pleased moans of your lover, the squelching of your juices dripping down his face, his wrist. it’s too much, too fast - your nails dig into his nape, bringing him closer. fucker’s purring, hands digging in your hips. he’s making a feast out of you, and you’ve never seen prettier sight.

feyd-rautha, kneeling at your feet, a pretty, pretty blush dusting his cheeks, his soft mouth on your cunt, ruining you as he denies himself sweet release.

“feyd-”

a jolt - he’s just nipped your clit, and you’re falling apart with his name on your tongue, burning, melting in the pits of desire. you grow boneless, faltering on unsteady legs. he pulls you to him before you can fall, kissing you, moulding his devouring mouth to yours.

distantly, you register that he’s breathless, that he’s pressing you against him, that you can feel the dampness at the front of his pants.

his voice is a low, needy rasp.

“you taste divine, my dear.”

there’s a commotion. someone, somewhere, is calling. a servant. a feast is prepared. blasphemy - the baron is a beast, and he will not have his nephew leave without obscene amounts of food. good. it leaves room for you to plan - you’re running out of precious, precious time. there are too many variables for you to act alone, yet you are.

you’re sitting at feyd-rautha’s side at a banquet table. on you watch, a mockery of a bene gesserit, nails digging in your palm. there’s a knife before you, of course. the baron’s sitting at the head of the table, stuffing himself until he’s about to burst.

repulsive.

you could do it now. put an end to the harkonnen, avenge your family. plunge that knife in the baron’s throat and watch him die like an animal.

but revenge is best served cold. you remember princess irulan being seated in front of you. you remember the emperor at the head of the table. you remember his knife slicing through unknown poultry. a falcon. he’s doomed your family to death.

the emperor is old. paranoid. anybody would’ve seen that the atreides were far too loyal to even consider rebelling against him, rising influence or not. someone convinced him otherwise. the truthsayer, reverend mother gaius helen moriam.

you take a bite of your own meal and find it tasting like ash. the only dish you yearn for is revenge.

you want the baron dead. you want the emperor stripped of his power. you want to watch the split second of horrified realisation on the reverend mother's face.

you want them to burn, and burn they will.

taglist: @kpopnstarwars @moonsoulk @alexandrainlove @saturnhas82moons @coureurs-de-bois9 @kamcrazy123 @beebeechaos @avidreader73 @yzuposts @jaiuneamesolitaiire

#obticeo writes #feyd rautha x reader #feyd rautha #bald freak supremacy #feyd rautha smut #feyd rautha x y/n #feyd rautha x you #dune smut #austin butler smut

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fieldofdaisiies · 8 months

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Just A Little Bit of Your Heart

ship: Azriel x Reader type: angst word count: 2,4k warnings: curse words, mentions of a one night stand, unexpected pregnancy summary: It was just a one night stand, or that is what you thought... fic masterlist

"The baby will have wings!"

Your hands tremble. And they tremble so much the plate you are holding slips out them, and then shatters when it hits the floor. Splinters fly everywhere, but your best friend is quick to shove you away.

She is faster than you, gently shoving you away before you can lean down to collect the shards. "Not in your current state! Let me do this."

You huff. "I am pregnant, not fragile or ill," you say, still dried tears on your cheeks, and more burning behind your eyes.

"Yes, with a winged baby, because this fool did not pay attention." There is so much fury inside of your best friend, you have never seen this side of her before, her voice drips with venom.

"For making a baby it always needs two people. I am not innocent in this." You crouch down and help your best friend collect the shards of broken glass and—

"Fuck!" You lift your index finger to your mouth, licking the droplet of blood away.

"I told you to let me do this, you are hurting yourself and—" "And what? They baby will still have wings and I will still be pregnant. I just cut my finger, nothing dramatic."

You swallow thickly, slumping onto the ground. You immediately regret your tone and snapping at your best friend. She only wants to help and be there for you…

But it is so much to deal with and then the hormones just intensify everything you are feeling.

The fear, the apprehension about the baby having with wings and the prospect of having to raise the child by yourself, should you survive the birth, finally reach the surface. You tried hide these emotion for so long, but now you fail — they all bubble up, overwhelming you.

You lean against the kitchen counter behind you, pulling your knees up and fold your hands over your face.

Then the damn breaks, tears running out of your eyes, rolling down your cheeks as you sob into your hands.

"I am so scared," you bawl.

Your best friend has already scooted over, careful of the broken pieces of porcelain, and wraps her arm around your shoulders. She pulls you to her chest, letting you cry into her shirt. "I know that the babe has wings, the healer confirmed it. And I am just working in this little shop, I don't earn enough to take care of the child alone."

Your tears wet her shirt, and your best friend holds you tightly, her hand clasping your upper arm. She is becoming your anchor, the only thing you can hold onto in this moment.

"It was so foolish. He said he took the tonic. I also drank the tea the same morning, and neither of those things worked. Conceiving for fae is so difficult, why…"

Your voice breaks and you can't finish your sentence, your throat is dry, burns and the back of your mouth aches.

"It wasn't foolish. You were both careful, and it just happened." Your best friend's voice is softer now, although inside of her a burning fire of fury about the shadowsinger putting a baby that could harm you inside of you. It could cost you your life and she would never forgive him for that.

You exhale a long breath when you lift your head a little, still leaning onto your friend. You rest your head against her shoulder, staring at the window opposite you.

A veil of grey is being drawn over the sky, dark clouds passing by — rain is about to start. You keep staring at the window, sitting in silence as the first raindrops start to fall, landing gently on the window pane. You watch as the rain intensifies, and the sky darkens further until heavy rain pours down and wind whips agains the windows and the walls of the apartment building you are living in.

The atmosphere outside mirrors the whirlwind inside of you, the storm brewing there, the cold and gloomx atmosphere.

There are so many emotions. And these emotions, mostly fear and nervousness, mingle with the hormones that actually make you so very happy that your are growing a little babe inside of you, but at the dame time so sad that the child will have to grow up without a father.

The whole previous evening you spent staring at your round belly in the mirror, sobbing silently to yourself.

With the big wool sweaters you always wear the belly is barely visible, but when naked, one can obviously see the growing bump.

You best friend draws in a deep inhale and leans her head against the top of yours.

"You need to talk to him," she says in a soft voice. "And before you protest, I say so because first of all, he has a right to know. And secondly, and most importantly, he might be able to help you."

You sniff loudly. "How should he help me?"

"The High Lord, who he is close with, has a son with wings. And our High Lady is also only fae, so there must be a possibility."

"What if he wants nothing to do with me?"

"Then you at least tried."

"Don't you think I will only be hurt more?"

You lift your head to look at her. There is a small smile on her lips, one that conveys support and warmth, her eyes shining with empathy.

She shakes her head. "You still have me. I won't leave you alone with this. I never would. But you still have to tell him."

You don't want to do it, you don't want to face Azriel, don't want to tell him, but you know she is right. You have to do it. He has a right to know.

This was a one night stand.��

You somehow caught the male's attention in a small bar in Velaris, and somehow he ended up in your bed. When you woke up, Azriel slipped into his trousers and out of your flat within a few moments. He was gone without a word, disappeared into the shadows, and you haven't heard from him since. You don't even know how to contact him.

You don't know where he lives? Does he live with the High Lord? Or in this huge house on the mountain? With the general of the Illyrian armies and his mate?

"I don't know what to say to him," you whisper.

The rain outside intensifies. Your friend uncurls her arm from around your shoulder, bringing it forward so she can clasp your hand in hers.

She places a soft kiss to the top of your head and in a calm voice she says, "Tell him what you told me. That you don't understand how it happened and that you are afraid and want nothing more than his help."

"What if I want more than that?" You bite back a sob and turn your head a little.

"What if I want a little part of his heart. For the baby. If it—if we survive this, I want my baby to have a father. I want my baby to know its father." A single tear slips our of your eye and your friend quickly wipes it away with her thumb.

"That is something to think about in the future. You need to think about yourself now, sweetie. You matter now, everything else is open for the future."

You nod, trying to agree with her, but the thoughts about the possibility of the baby never meeting its father are gnawing on you.

And they keep gnawing on you the whole night where you lie awake, shifting and turning, your back aching, and tears still wetting your cheeks and pillow.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Cold sweat coats your back, your palms. Your knees wobble, and your whole body trembles as you lift your hand, drawing in a deep inhale. Then another. And another. Your hand rests on the cool door handle, but you can't bring yourself to pull it down.

He really came.

You can hardly believe it. He got your letter, and he is truly here. Until a few moments ago, you doubted it. You did not think he would really follow your invite. You were very vague in your letter, only mentioned that if he remembers you you would have something important to discuss with him. It could have been a trap, but he must have recognised the urgency in your wording, must habe known he could trust you.

Drawing in another breath, you finally pull down the handle and your lips part as your eyes land on him.

He is…still the most beautiful male you have ever seen in your life, covered in darkness and shadows, expression stoic, eyes glowing with curiosity.

But he came!

"You came," you whisper, voice trembling.

Your heart beats in your throat, hammering so fast and hard you think it might burst right through your ribcage.

It was just a one-night stand, a fleeting moment of passion, but you still remember him so vividly. How he touched you, how he kissed you, how he held you. And how he left. You felt used and sad after it, but you shouldn't have. Both of you only wanted fun for a night, but still it somehow hurt when he left.

"You called." His voice is flat, no emotion in it as he speaks. His face is not necessarily cold, but nonchalant, emotionless.

Azriel is nothing but darkness as he stands there, shadows swirling around him, stretching out towards you.

He eyes you closely, jaw clenched slightly.

You barely know him, only know his body, but he is now connected to you in the most profound way possible. You carry a part of him inside of you. Your child. His child.

Azriel's face is a mask of unreadable emotions, some clouds darken his eyes and you can’t tear your eyes away from his.

"I wasn't sure you if you—" "I do remember you."

Something, some unreadable emotion passes over his face, and a muscle in his jaw ticks. His hands, those scarred hands you felt all over your body, are folded behind his back, and he stands in a stance, almost like he is ready to fight whatever is about to come. A stern warrior, and not the passionate male you lay with.

"Come in?" you say, your voice trembling slightly as you step aside to let him enter. Azriel hesitates, but eventually he walks in, gaze wary as it sweeps through the inside of your room. He is looking for possible danger, making sure the place is safe and you can't blame him for it. Your invite must have sound cryptic, he is careful and that is alright.

"Why did you invite me?" Azriel asks, finally speaking up and taking the weight from your shoulder to open the conversation.

You are wringing for the right words to explain it all as you lead him over to the kitchen counter. You lean against it, your gaze moving to his eyes.

You drop your glamour, and try to hold his gaze, but suddenly Azriel starts to sniff the air, his brows furrowing as he looks around him. It almost looks like understanding dawns on him, whirlwinds of emotions glowing in his eyes. He must sense it in this moment.

"I am with child!" you blurt out.

The words are so loud in the room, they bounce off the walls and hollow through the room. Through your mind, making you feel dizzy for a second.

You move your hand over your round belly, smoothing out the sweater, to show him the bump.

The silence that follows is deafening, broken only by the sound of your own ragged breaths.

Azriel says nothing, his face pales, his shoulders slump, and his whole expression and posture crumbles.

He blinks, as if trying to process what you have just revealed. Although his face is unreadable, you can see the storm of emotions swirling beneath the surface.

"Is it mine?" he asks and you want to face-palm him. You would do it, if it were under different circumstances.

"Of course, it is yours. The babe has wings!"

The tone you have chosen wasn't alright, he could not have known, you could have been with other males…but why would you invite him and tell him then?

This revelation shatters him truly. Azriel begins to vehemently shake his head, like he can feel the weight of what the baby having wings means.

"No," he whispers, and then repeats the word over and over again. He brings a hand up, brushes his hair back and shakes his head again. "No, that can't be. You took the tonic, I did too. How did that happen?"

"I also don't have an explanation, I only know that I am with child now. A baby with wings." Your chin quivers, lower lip starting to tremble. You feel how your body begins to shake, blood rushing in your ears.

"And I am afraid."

Once again the damn breaks, and a sob rips itself free.

Azriel says nothing, just stands there.

"I understand that it is a lot to take in, that this is difficult, but I needed to tell you."

You suck in a sharp breath, your tears tasting salty in your mouth. "I just thought you deserved to know. It was a one-night stand, and I never planned for any of this to happen, but it did, and I can't keep it a secret from you."

You feel so vulnerable in this moment, your heart cracking open, everything inside you convulsing.

It somehow angers you that he says nothing, but you had more time to deal with the newly learned information, he only found out now. Maybe he just needs more time to process.

"I don't know what to say," he admits, his voice softer, and for the first time he lets his own emotions show, vulnerability flashing brightly in his eyes. "This is... unexpected. Overwhelming."

You nod, biting down on your lower lip. With the back of your hand you wipe away some tears.

"I don't expect anything from you, I just…if the baby and I survive this, all I am asking for is a little bit of your heart. Not for me, for the babe."

Your voice is so terribly shaky, tears welling up in your eyes again as you try to hold his gaze. "I didn't expect it either," you whisper, wiping away a tear. "But I want the baby to know its father. If it ever comes to that."

Azriel is the one to suck in a breath now, the weight of his own childhood crashing down on him. Everything, every little pain when he was a child, bubbles up inside of him and his body starts to shake.

The room is filled with a heavy silence once more. It feels like the walls are moving in on you, the room growing smaller and smaller, almost suffocating you.

As you wait for his response, your heart still races, but now it's not just with fear. There's a glimmer of hope, a spark of possibility that maybe, just maybe, he will grant you this wish and be a father for the child if it comes to that.

"We are going to see my healer, the High Lord's healer. She knows about wings, she knows about babes with wings. You are not alone in this."

Azriel's steps are so fast, so unexpected, he hesitates for a moment, but suddenly his arms wrap around your shoulders and he embraces you tightly, his chin coming to a rest on top of your head.

"I am not leaving you alone in this. It comes as a shock and I am sorry about my reaction, but this child is as much mine as it is yours, and it will have a part of my heart." His arm wraps around you tighter. "It will have my whole heart."

He swallows, his chest heaving with a deep inhale and your curl your own arms around him, loud sobs ripping themselves free, muffled in the fabric of his shirt. "And so will you."

~~~~~~~~~~ tags (crossed-out I couldn't tag) : @juulle987 @marimorena06 @danikasthings @younxii@nightcourtwritings @mrofontaine @lunalilyf @whor-3-crux @tired-all-the-time @anni-was-here @ummmmmwat @azbracadabra @j-pendragonx @hollyismentallyillhelp @famousbasementpainter @bsenpai @lena-davina @red-highlady @thesugatoyourtae @azrielsbabyg @aroseinvelaris @moony-thoughts @wrensical003 @cherryjain17 @moonfawnx @crushedcloudsx @devilsfoodcake22 @valeridarkness @azrielscertifiedslut @mulansaucey @cynicalpotato95 @hanasakr @high-bi-andreadytocry @eerievixen @feyretopia @moonlightazriel @randomness-it-is @brekkershadowsinger @eliieee23 @girasoli-e-sorrisi @illyrianvalkyriecarynthian @kennedy-brooke @highladyofillyria @theworthlessqueen @marina468 @topaz125 @illyrian-dreamer @azriels-mate123 @eos-princess @courtofjurdan @a-frog-with-a-laptop @insufferablebookaddict @callmeblaire

#azriel x reader #azriel #azriel shadowsinger #azriel acotar #acotar #acosf

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heart-of-a-rebel16 · 7 months

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I think about it a lot, how the name of Spectres is incredibly fitting for the rebels of Lothal. Each is a ghost, and each is haunted by one, or many.

The ghost of the Jedi Order haunts Kanan Jarrus. He is one of their last relics: a symbol of a forgotten creed and age. He tries his best to pass his teachings on to his own padawan, but deep down he knows that the traditions of the Order will die with him. He tried not to let it bother him. Sometimes in the corner of his eye, he will see a tall woman in brown robes, smiling gently at him.

The ghost of her mother, Eleni, haunts Hera Syndulla. To look at herself in the mirror is to look at the face of her beloved ryma. Hera possesses the fire and iron will of Eleni, the very will that followed her to her end. Sometimes, when Cham Syndulla reads the headlines of Imperial newspapers, decrying a new terrorist cell known as the Spectres, he will think of the woman he loved, and how she lives strong in their daughter.

The old C1-10P unit known as Chopper is the ghost of the Republic; not the Jedi, nor the Sith, but the everyday soldier who took up arms for their galaxy, soldiers who could not know the full breadth of evil that threatened them. Chopper does not sleep, but on occasion, his memory core will play back a scene of a burning ship, and the scream of the pilot behind him.

The ghost of his people haunts Garazeb Orrelios. He is the last of his kind, completely alone in a galaxy of quadrillions. His people follow him in the words no one understands but him, in the weapon he wields that has been passed down through generations, in the small traditions only he observes, if only to remind himself that he is still a Lasat. In the golden light of a star cluster, some of those ghosts are put to a much deserved rest; the rest follow onwards in quiet reverence.

The ghost of her family haunts Sabine Wren. To her clan she is dead, and to her, her family is dead as well. Though the mere thought of them makes her chest ache with want, she stands strong in her solitude. Mandalore still throbs within her in every shot from a blaster, in every stroke of a paintbrush, in every explosion that paints the night sky with fire. When she is alone, though, the face of her beloved brother, the voice of her father, the warm touch of her mother will keep her company.

The ghost of Mira and Ephraim Bridger, and the planet they call home haunt their son, Ezra. As he grows old in a distant galaxy, Ezra Bridger has no trouble remembering his fathers face, for it had become his. In every step, in every breath, he radiates the howling of wolves, the chitter of cats, the towering spires of rock, the natural music of Lothal. He is driven by his ghosts; two of them are laid to gentle sleep in the fluttering fury of fyrnocks wings, the other in the pulsing glow of purrgils.

The ghosts of his brothers, even those who did not die in battle, follow former trooper CT-7567, better known as Rex. He sees them in the weathered faces of those who did survive, in a cloudy handprint on a wall, in the clocks as they strike five, in the symbol of the republic he fought and failed to protect. He is both a paragon of the endless cruelty of the fallen republic, and the gentle humanity of the long gone Jedi.

The ghost of a unit of boys on Onderon, barely old enough to know they had been sent to die, follow Alexsandr Kallus. He is the whisper of misplaced, frantic hope that things could become better if he only tried hard enough, if he only pushed himself further. His ghosts only appear to him in his dreams, beyond the veil of smoke and fire and screams, where he is not strong enough to push them aside.

In each there is a ghost, and in each a ghost follows them, shaping their world, driving their choices, changing their fate.

#Look lads!#I finally posted it!#star wars rebels #swr #sw rebels #star wars #kanan jarrus #hera syndulla #chopper star wars #garazeb orrelios #zeb orrelios #sabine wren #ezra bridger #captain rex #commander rex #agent kallus #alexsandr kallus #meta analysis

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baahsu · 3 months

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That marimo op clip got me thinking about a zosan scenario

What if they dock on an island and everyone scrambles off the ship to do their own thing

Sanji returns later in the day after finishing buying groceries and restocking the supplies and finds a moss ball on the deck

He cocks his head to the side, curiously observing the creature, and an idea pops into his head

He'll take care of this moss ball, put it into a jar and make sure its living its best life. Then, when zoro comes back, he can show it to him and say he's found his long lost cousin

Days pass by and the moss ball has taken residency on a side table next to sanji's bunk bed. Sanji talks to it everyday, before going to sleep and when he wakes up, also during his breaks from cooking, to make sure it's doing ok

And the little marimo is thriving! Its green is becoming more vibrant each day and it seems like it's grown a little too! Sanji's really proud of it and tell it as much, cooing that "you're the best and cutest marimo around, oh yes you are!"

The creature also becomes sanji's confidant

Sanji tells it about his cooking, about what he expects from their next adventures, and about the feelings he's been harboring for a certain human marimo

He talks about how infuriating zoro is and how the little marimo is definitely cuter than him. And ok, sure, he can reluctantly admit zoro's not bad looking. He's actually really good looking and really strong and reliable and secretly a softie inside, and it's really hard to keep his feelings at bay when he's around

The more he talks about zoro the more he misses him (because he wants to tease him about the moss ball, of course) and realizes he's not back to the ship yet. They're about to set sail and the swordsman's nowhere to be found

Sanji huffs. Zoro got lost again, how surprising. He shakes his head fondly and tells the little marimo he'll be right back, he needs to go look for the bigger marimo

His search is fruitless, though. He spends hours walking around the island but the sun's already setting and he needs to go back to work on dinner for the crew

He walks into the men's bunk room to change clothes and is startled to find the glass jar he was keeping the marimo all shattered on the floor. There's a pit forming in his stomach and he gets on his knees to look for the little green ball

In the middle of his frantic search a voice reaches his ears coming from the direction of the door, "So I'm the best marimo around, huh? And a good looking one too?"

Sanji gets up and turns around so fast he almost loses his balance, but he takes a hold of himself and stares at a smirking zoro with fury in his eyes and a deep shade of red covering his cheeks, "You stupid piece of moss, it was you the whole time??"

When zoro doesn't respond, only smirking wider, sanji goes after him with his leg lighting on fire, ready to make him forget all the embarrassing things he's told him the past week

But he doesn't go far on his revenge, zoro ducks to the side and surprises him by taking him into his arms in a tight hug

"Thank you for looking after me", the swordsman whispers

Zoro pulls back after a few seconds so he can stare into sanji's eyes. He sees how the cook shivers slightly and how his mouth parts, and can't resist covering it with his own lips

Zoro kisses sanji softly and feels him slowly melting into his arms, the cook's fingers hesitantly coming up to play with the hairs at the nape of his neck

Zoro smiles into the kiss and silently thanks the weird drunk he met at a bar that used his devil fruit powers on him

#zosan #one piece #sanji #zoro #one piece headcanons #zosan headcanons #roronoa zoro

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doromoni · 2 months

Text

Clash of Champions | LH44 , MV1

Act 2 . Part 1 : A Taste of their Downfall

Ships : Lewis Hamilton x Engineer! Reader , Max Verstappen x Engineer! Reader

Genre : Drama , Angst , Romance

Warnings : Morally Grey Characters

A/N : I need pics for future scenes so im faceclaiming Sofia Carson as Y/N ~

Summary : The rivalry between the titans of Formula 1 go off track and only one will reign victorious

‼️Read Act 1 First

Act 2. ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

“Y/N, where were you? “ You and Lewis were back in his driver's room inside Mercedes.

You were still in shock about how you just quit your position as Lewis’ Engineer. You cannot believe that they had tried to demote you after all the successes you’ve brought to this team.

“Y/N? Are you even listening? “ Lewis had once again tried to catch your attention.

“Toto demoted me from being your race engineer” you suddenly said, you waited for Lewis to react. But there was nothing. You tried to gauge his face. Suddenly, realization stuck right through you. He knew. Lewis knew.

Horror and absolute terror filled your system. You cannot believe what you were seeing.

“You knew? Lewis, please tell me you didn’t ” your voice broke , as you begged. You again tried to ask Lewis. Maybe you were mistaken, maybe you had it all wrong. You hoped … you prayed that Lewis had nothing to do with any of it.

Lewis was hesitant, he tried to hold your hand. You stepped away from his touch. He looked wounded from your action, but you didn’t care you were adamant to know the truth.

Yet , He was remained silent.

“ LEWIS FUCKING HAMILTON TELL ME THE TRUTH RIGHT NOW! TELL ME YOU HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH THIS!” You were ballistic as you demanded an explanation

“ YES, I KNEW! HAPPY?! Toto said that you were distracted and that you were becoming soft on Verstappen! We cannot lose this Championship! Y/N! I’m this close to being the best that this sport has ever seen! This close! You will not be the reason that I lost this! “

As you hear his words, life drains from your face. Lewis was in on it. The person that you love had been a part of your betrayal. You cannot believe it. The person that you gave everything to , the person you trusted the most had stabbed you in the back and dug your grave. And for what? For a stupid fucking title.

Angry cannot explain what you were feeling now. You were seething.

“ Oh, i’ll make sure that I will be the reason that you’ll never win that title. You can count on that , Hamilton”

No, you can’t believe it. You didn’t cry, because you could not comprehend what you had just discovered.

Villains are bred, not born. The fine line between a hero and a villain is slim — pull too hard and the line will snap. Blurring the line is far too easy. Everyone and everything has its limits, no matter how vast and far the maximum is, there will always be an endpoint.

The line has been crossed, You have had enough. Six years you’ve swallowed your pride and took beating after beating with a smile, as if it were normal — turning over the other cheek so they can hit it too. For six fucking years, you’ve suffered being belittled and taken for granted by everybody. The numbness you’ve forced yourself to feel to handle the pain had transformed into rage.

Fire, you felt the burning of fury manifesting in your body. Too much, it has just been too much. They had lit the match and threw it into the powder barrel.

The coldness of your apartment held no comparison to the burning you felt inside. The shock and anger electrocuting you still. You cannot comprehend the depth of monstrosity that loomed over the motorhome of Mercedes and the people in it. Till now ,they are continuously celebrating the win as if it is something festive and joyous. Mercedes celebrated the win in Silverstone as if a person was not lying in bed in immense pain due to their driver’s fault. Mercedes dared to set ablaze fireworks and pop bottles of liquor as if they were clean and innocent from all their dirty actions.

They were celebrating as if they did not just try to screw you and your career over. It was as if the years of maltreatment and abuse that they caused you were being swept under the rug. Ravenous, you felt completely ravenous.

They said that revenge is best served cold, but you digress. Oh no, revenge is best served sweltering, blazing and scorching— enough that they feel the heat of the fires of hell with no return. They did not hesitate to hurt you, why should you show mercy? An eye for an eye was not enough, you demanded a corpse.

Vicious, Cutthroat, and Merciless are words that they associated with your name behind your back. These words used to bring you insecurity, now you’ll wear it like a badge — proud and unashamed. They’ll get what they want. Call it petty and deceitful, but nothing good ever came from you swallowing your pride.

They deserve what’s coming to them.

Game. Fucking. On.

***

It was the morning after, and you were seated on your couch, your leg bouncing up and down. Lewis did not come back to your apartment. No, he had partied with the rest of them.

Leaving Mercedes was easy, but Lewis… Lewis Hamilton was another story.

It was different when you’ve spent 6 years of your life loving someone. Your love for Lewis was deeper than you could’ve understood. To you, he was the light that shined through the darkness. You imagined that you’d spend your lifetime with him. Creating a future for both of you. Lewis completed you.

But it seemed that you were alone in the journey that you painted. Because what you saw on that podium is a man not wanting to be tied down. You saw a man that wanted all the freedom and glory that this sport gave.

Maybe at first, He had wanted you, but along with the speed and fame that Formula 1 brought … he no longer needed Y/N L/N, the woman that he loved. Lewis Hamilton wanted Y/N L/N the engineer that gave him his championships.

It was hard to let go. But you knew that you didn’t deserve any of that. You're not someone who should be kept in the shadows. You deserve to be loved by someone who’ll proudly show the world that you’re theirs. You deserve someone who knows your worth apart from what you can give.

You looked at your apartment, letting yourself feel and reminisce the memories that you and Lewis made, for one last time.

One last time, you let yourself cry for everything that Lewis never gave, the empty promises and the heartaches and even the happy memories that you two shared…this was finally goodbye. Because, from now on you’re choosing yourself.

“ Goodbye, Lew”

And you were gone.

***

“Y/N, Baby? Why weren’t you at the party? And what’s Toto talking about you quitting?” Lewis came into your apartment, the headache pounding on his temple from the alcohol from the night before.

He rummaged through the fridge, looking for a sip of water. Lewis expected you to come up behind him and hug his waist, just like how you did every time. Yet, this time you weren’t here with the usual morning kiss and a coffee at hand.

“Babe? Are you still in bed?” Lewis trudged his way to your shared bedroom, only to find it empty.

“Y/N? Where are you? Look I’m sorry, alright!? Please talk to me.“

Lewis searched every part of your house, looking for a sign of your presence.

And then in the living room, on top of the coffee table, a letter you wrote was pressed under a ring — the promise ring that he gave to you on your anniversary.

With shaking hands, as panic started to envelop Lewis, he held up the letter and read.

My dearest, Lewis.

I never imagined myself in the position that I have to say goodbye to you. Despite my best efforts to mend what's broken, I can't shake the feeling that our relationship has run its course. The love that once bound us together now feels like a faint shadow of what it once was, and I can't bear to see us continue down this path.

I can’t forgive what you’ve done. No matter how much I love you I cannot bear to think of your betrayal. But also please know that I am sorry. I had led myself to believe that we wanted the same thing. I thought that we both wanted to build a future together. But now I see that I was wrong. And I don’t think it would be fair of me to force you to want the same. You deserve to follow the path that you choose. I’m sorry, Lew but I also want freedom. I want someone who would shout to the world that they love me. I’m sorry but I can no longer wait on your promise.

You can now run free, Champ. I’m letting you go. Enjoy the glory. Goodbye, Lewis.

- Y/N

Dread washed over him in an instant. Like freezing water was dumped over him. The nausea of his hangover is gone. Lewis felt his chest growing heavier by the second and his stomach had started twisting with fear a sudden pit growing. Tears started to blur his vision as he clutched the paper in his hands.

The memory of your fight replayed in his mind. How could he do that to you? You were the person who was with him through every challenge that life had thrown at him. You were the person who supported him when no one did.

And suddenly his phone vibrated. To Lewis’ surprise — a text from Nico Rosberg

I knew , she’d leave . Y/N deserves better.

Lewis couldn’t believe what was in his hands. No, Lewis couldn’t accept that you were gone. Lewis couldn’t believe that you had left him.

“What have I done?”

***

“Welcome to Red Bull Racing , Y/N! It’s a pleasure to finally have you!”

“ The pleasure is all mine”

Taglist : @vicurious28 @xoscar03 @barnestatic @stelena-klayley @sopheeg @imagandom @4-20-21-12 @doofenshmirtzevil-inc @g-l-o-b-e-w-h-o-r-e @minkyungseokie @d3kstar @kimialaia @cosmicwintr @younxii @ssrcsm @paigem00 @seokjinkismet @wcnorris @jayjay11122 @embersparklz @sam-is-lost @peterholland04 @luckyladycreator2 @lovemesomeescapism @yettobedetermined7 @nikfigueiredo @ironmaiden1313 @alliwantisadonut @uuoozzii @marshmummy @kemillyfreitas @yaesflorist @pretzelcat4-blog @smdrl @zoeyjadetice2010 @splaterparty0-0 @likedbygaslyy

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moris-auri · 20 days

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Heaven is not fit (to house a love like you and I)

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Baela Targaryen

Summary: The war, bloody and devastating, is over. Having bested his uncle over the God's Eye, Aemond returns to King’s Landing and to his elder brother.

But his victory is short-lived when Aegon dies in 131 A.C. without an heir. After more than a half year of peace, the realm is thrown into chaos once again. Made to choose a bride after having the ruby studded crown of Aegon I placed on his head and made King, Aemond chooses his cousin, Baela Targaryen.

And Baela Targaryen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, grows more than fond of saying "Fuck the realm."

WC: 8k

Beta'd by @vampire-exgirlfriend ILYSM Alex ❤️❤️

Warnings: NSFW 18+, spoilers for Fire and Blood (A Song of Ice and Fire)

Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

The title sits like ash in her mouth, lingering on her tongue like sour, spoiled wine. It had ever since her arrival nearly three days prior; carried from the ship that had brought her from Driftmark to the Red Keep, she has done little else but think about it, over and over and over again.

Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

Her conviction only grows stronger each time the thought comes, her conviction that becoming his wife and Queen is the very last thing she wants. That Aemond is quite possibly the one person in all the realm she despises. She has still not forgotten the things he'd said and done in the past, the half-sullen, half-angry boy he'd been in their youth. She has not forgotten the words he had spat so cruelly in the tunnel the night he claimed Vhagar just after her mother's funeral, the same night Luke cut out his eye. Has not forgotten his toast to Jacaerys, Lucerys and Joffrey the night her father took Vaemond Velaryon's head, nor has she forgotten the manner of Luke and Arrax's deaths over Shipbreaker Bay.

She's had dreams sometimes of what it would have been like to be Jacaerys' queen, late at night when she could not find sleep and spent half the night tossing and turning in her bed. Dreams that were hauntingly vivid, things of what could have been if he had survived the Gullet. Glimpses of what it might have been like if war had not broken out, damaging the realm so much it was near irreparable in some places.

But he had not.

None of them had, save for herself, Aemond, Rhaena and little Aegon.

If only her uncle were here to see the utter ruin of their House, what their family had become. The Crown cannot stand strong if the House of the Dragon remains divided.

Divided indeed.

It's almost laughable, she cannot help but think, letting out a faint, mirthless huff of laughter, how the might and entirety of House Targaryen- a line going back to the Dragonlords of Old Valyria, was now all but wiped out in less than five years. And over a chair no less.

"I've been looking for you, girl."

The sound of her grandfather's voice from behind her drew her back to the present, his tone sounding sterner than she can ever remember it being.

"You've found me, grandfather," she said testily, resisting the desire to roll her eyes as she stood, still facing the windows of her chamber that overlooked the city, arms crossed over her chest, fighting the urge to shout her fury.

His voice came again, but she didn't catch whatever he said. Except for one word.

Husband.

"I won't do it," she says as she shakes her head. She crossed her arms over her chest, not caring in the slightest if he thinks she seems petulant as she squashes the desire to toss her head back and laugh, instead savoring the bite of pain that ricochets up her arms when she presses her nails into the skin of her palms. "Let Rhaena wed him."

Silence.

She immediately regrets it, feeling the guilt rise inside her, chasing the anger away like a tide. She knows as well as he does that the pit of snakes and rats that the royal court is would eat her twin alive and spit out her bones. "He's a kinslayer," she says instead, a not so small trace of bitterness lingering in her voice, "Or have you forgotten how he murdered Luke?"

"I have not. But he is king now." her grandsire reminds sharply, disapproval rolling off him in waves. "This realm has seen enough war and bloodshed, child."

Baela feels her cheeks heat at the chastisement, clenching her hands into fists at her sides again. "I won't do it," she repeats, but she can feel how futile her protests are even as she says it. She doesn't want this fate; the fate of so many women before her. She feels her eyes begin to sting then, the unwanted thought of what a Queen's duty was bouncing around inside her head, bile rising to the back of her throat. Would her fate be the same as her mother's? As Queen Aemma's?

Corlys sighs, the sound almost as heavy as the hand he places on her shoulder. "You'll be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, girl. Be grateful."

"Be grateful?" she says incredulously as she whirls around to glare at him, her anger returning stronger than it had before. "Be grateful? For being bartered off like a chest of riches?"

His face tightens, his hand falling back to his side. "Be grateful," he adds gruffly. "That the king has chosen you."

She snorted derisively. "As if you gave him any other option. I know he only chose me because you dangled me before him like bait." She hisses the words at him spitefully, eyes narrowed. "I wish Father had killed him," she added vindictively as an afterthought.

"Enough of this," he grounds out, his voice a low rumble in his chest. "You will. For the good of the realm."

"Fuck the realm." She says again. A final, futile effort to stop this.

"Baela!" His voice grows in volume, in frustration, all but bordering on a bellow. She doesn't so much as flinch, bold and willful thing that she is. Her mouth twists, blood roaring in her veins. She opens her mouth, but closes it just as fast when he sends her a warning glance.

You will marry him.

"Now," Corlys cleared his throat. "He requests your presence in the Small Council chamber."

"Now? But I'm-" she glanced down at herself, a thread of panic entering her voice.

"You look fine," Corlys said, as if he could sense her panic. The reassurance in his voice does little to calm her, though, made clear in the look etched on her face. "Now come," he said, steering her forward with a hand against her back.

She's barely been in the room for a minute before she feels the weight of Aemond's gaze land on her, the burning intensity of it making the hairs on the back of her neck rise. She swallowed then, tucking away the unsure part of herself, pushing back the sliver of self preservation that reared its head in recognition that she was no longer the only dragon in the room, the sliver that felt like she could potentially even be prey when in his presence. The eyes she fixed him with then were hard, the weakness she resented shoved down deep within her, eagerly ignored.

She cannot help but admit how much he looks like a king in that moment, with his spine as stiff as a board and his hands clasped together before him in an almost penitent manner that was at odds with the unreadable expression on his face. The blank, carefully crafted expression on his face that made her feel disconcerted, wary and ill at ease at not being able to tell what he was thinking or what he was feeling. Did he hate this farce as much as she did? This plan to mend the shattered, broken shards their family had become? Or did he want it more than he let on?

And if he did, why?

"Cousin," her soon to be husband says from where he sits at the head of the long table, his hands clasped together in front of him. "Sit," he murmurs, the command clear when he gestures towards the vacant chair to his right. She does so without a word, but not before glancing at her grandfather, who only nodded at her with a look of pride on his face.

"Cousin," she returns once she's situated, her tone bordering on saccharine and falsely sweet as she forces herself to remain at ease, to remain calm and not spit a slew of curses at him when the rage in her eyes did not affect him in the slightest.

She ripped her gaze away from his face, sliding upwards before stopping, her lips parting as her gaze landed on the crown situated atop his head, the crown that had once sat on his brother's head. The sole ruby in the center winks in the light, the valyrian steel surrounding it looking almost black despite the sun shining into the room.

"What are your plans for the ceremony, Your Grace?" her grandfather interrupts after a long moment, elbows resting on the edge of the table as he leans forward.

Her gaze drops back to Aemond's face at the sound of the low hum he lets out in response to the question, watching as he presses his steepled fingers against his mouth, as if in thought. "In the Old Valyrian way, of course," he responds, casting a fleeting look her way, his gaze searching, before averting his eye almost nervously.

‘Let him be nervous,’ she thinks almost vindictively, feeling her mouth twitch in response. He says something else that she doesn't catch entirely, listening with one ear as they speak of other things pertaining to the realm that she knows she should care about but cannot bring herself to truly care about.

Not yet at least.

Her mind drifts to thoughts of her father as she tunes the sound of their voices out, knowing without a doubt how he'd make no attempt to show or let his obvious disapproval at this be known if he were here. Pain lanced through her at the thought of him, chased by the knowledge that he would never speak again. That she would never see his face or hear his voice again - not in this life, at least. Not when he was nothing more than a decaying corpse at the bottom of the God's Eye now.

"What say you, cousin?" Aemond asks as he leans closer to her, the sound of his voice dragging her back to the present. "The way of our House? Or the way of the Seven?"

"Excuse me?"

"For the ceremony," he repeated steadily as he met her gaze. His expression had gone unreadable again, save for the slight tightening around his mouth, the sound of his fingers drumming against the table drifting towards her.

Baela felt her cheeks go hot as her eyes widened in surprise, caught off guard by the question. She swallowed her sudden apprehension as she opened her mouth to respond, a memory of the day her father had married Rhaenyra in the traditional Valyrian way resurfacing.

He was asking her what she wanted.

She hesitated a moment before biting her lip, her heart pounding behind her ribs. She stiffened her shoulders as she looked up at him from under her lashes, her mind made up. If she was to do this, she'd do it in a way she knew would've made the Rogue Prince proud.

"The Valyrian way."

The day of her marriage comes a week after her arrival and she wants nothing more than to scream. The bedchamber that is hers now has been a hive of activity for the last several hours, the space full of chatter from a handful of different voices, namely those of the seamstresses and the Dowager Queen.

She has seen neither hide nor hair of Alicent Hightower since she stepped foot into the Keep over a week ago, though she had heard far and few in between whispers from the servants. Spun tales of a bereaved, grief stricken Dowager Queen who had retreated to her bedchamber after losing almost everything but the son that now sat the Iron Throne.

She had not put much stock in them before, but the sight of her soon to be good-mother is more than enough to make her believe them. She remembered the woman who had sat at her Uncle's left, glowing and resplendent in rich green and gold, hair laying across her shoulders in a sheet of burnished auburn waves.

There is hardly a trace of that woman now.

Now Alicent Hightower is pale, drawn and almost ghostly. Her hair is done plainly, an unadorned braid wrapped around her head, her dress a shade of black that seemed to swallow her whole, making her look slight and diminutive. That had been another thing she had heard, her complete disavowal of wearing anything made in the colors of her House, and as much as she does not want to pity her soon to be goodmother, she cannot help it.

Drawn from her reverie, Baela turns her head at the sound of the head seamstress clearing her throat, her gaze falling to the final part of the ornate robes the woman held in her hands. Resisting the desire to roll her eyes, Baela made a motion with one hand, beckoning the woman forward without a word.

Rhaena only had to take one look at her face as soon as the final clasp on the bodice was closed, no doubt catching the steadily heightening agitation brewing like a storm cloud in her eyes, a wordless communication passing between them. "Leave us," she says sharply as she stands from the chair she had been sitting in since early this morning, the hem of her dress soundless on the flagstones as she neared.

If there was one good thing to this, it was that she still had her sister at her side as a pillar of support. Everytime she had thought about it, about being alone in this cesspool with only the distant attention of her grandfather, she felt dread churn low in her stomach. And so it had been the one thing she'd refused to budge on. 'If I must do this,' she had said to their grandfather the second night, the look in her eyes daring him to argue with her, 'I will have her with me.'

Baela shot a fierce, withering glare at the servant who wavered by the door, the order to get out burning in her gaze. "By the gods-" she mutters the instant the chamber is fully empty, her chamber now, she thought belatedly as she rolled her shoulders in an effort to lessen the tension. She could already feel the weight of the robes she wore bearing her down like an anchor, stifling and heavy; as did the ornate headpiece, brought from Dragonstone on such short notice. She reached up to tug on it, only to let out a startled yelp when Rhaena smacked her hands away with a glare. You'll mess it up, her sister's eyes seemed to say.

Baela scowled at her as she rubbed at the now stinging skin, but let them fall to her side nonetheless, her head twisting to the side a minute later at the sound of knocking, followed by a voice partially muffled by the thick wood of the door. "Are you ready, Your Grace?"

She let out a breath as she dropped her hands to her sides. She was not ready, and she doubted she ever would be but she raised her voice nonetheless, just loud enough to let her reply carry the distance to where the servant could hear her clearly. She glanced down one final time, inhaling a breath as she steeled herself silently, the thump of her heart as loud as a drum in her ears.

"You look beautiful, sister," Rhaena murmured, as if she sensed the conflict raging beneath her skin.

"As do you," Baela said as she shot her a grateful smile, squeezing her fingers gently. She let go of Rhaena's fingers a minute or two later as she pulled away, smoothing her palms over the stiff cloth, exchanging one last glance with her before stepping past her and out into the corridor.

The ride to the Dragonpit was torturous, and she hated it.

Her previously half pleasant mood was gone, having vanished like smoke what felt like ages ago, replaced with irritation and the steadily growing urge to snap at someone, despite the fact that it was only herself and Rhaena in the wheelhouse, a fact she cannot help but be grateful for.

"If I must suffer one more-" she all but snarled as she grit her teeth each time the wheels of the wheelhouse jostled over the uneven streets the closer and closer they got to the Dragonpit. Or what was left of it, half demolished as it was now.

Her hands dropped to her lap, resting one over the other as she began twisting the gold ring around the fourth finger of her left hand in a nervous tic.

"At least we're almost there," Rhaena murmured half under her breath from the seat across from her, an attempt at placating her, leaning forward to rest a hand on her arm. Baela made a wordless sound of agreement in her throat as she turned her head to the side, blinking every time sunlight filtered in through the star-shaped holes. Rhaena opened her mouth to say something else, but Baela had turned away, in no mood to hear another word.

They rode the rest of the way in silence, save for the jubilant sounds of shouting from the people lining the streets on either side of the carriage. "Gods above-," she grumbled out in relief when she felt the wheelhouse rock to a stop, seeing stars as she raised her hand to her eyes to block out the glare of the sun, the sight of their grandsire standing hardly more than a foot away, the Velaryon seahorse stitched out in silver thread, bright against the dark hue of his tunic.

"Grandfather," she greeted shortly as she stepped down, ignoring the hand he had extended towards her, exhaling when both her feet were flat on the ground.

"Granddaughter," he said gruffly in response as he set his hands on her shoulders, tilting his head to look her in the eye. She squinted against the sun as she tipped her head back to look up at him, caught off guard by the odd look in his eyes, one that she did not know what to think of.

"If only Rhaenys and Laena could see you now," he murmured, his words doing little except to startle her further, "They'd be so very proud of you. I know it."

Blinking in surprise at the mention of her mother and grandmother, Baela felt the pricking, tell-tale sting of tears in the corners of her eyes as his words sunk in. She opened her mouth as if to speak, a question on the tip of her tongue, but he turned away before she could.

She knew he grieved for his wife as she and Rhaena did, mourning her in his own way. He fell silent again, the look in his eyes turning into something more scrutinizing, as if he was studying her. "His Grace is waiting," was all he said, his voice turning brusque once more, brooking no room for an argument. Baela watched him go silently, the broad width of his back filling her vision as he ascended the steps of the Dragonpit before disappearing inside.

"Ābrazȳrys." Her husband's tone is cold and flat, carrying nary a trace of affection- not that she expects him to have any.

Husband.

It still felt more than strange to call him that, the sole word as foreign to her as anything, even though it's been a month since their marriage. No matter how fervently she wishes to forget, she can still remember some parts of the ceremony as clear as day. She doubted she ever would now, not with the way they all but clung to her like shadows in the back of her mind.

The feeling of the dragonglass Aemond had pressed to her lip and to the skin of her palm. The sharp pain that had followed it and the iron smell of the blood that welled in its wake. The look in his eye when he had drawn the Valyrian glyph for fire on her forehead. The look on his face when she had done the same to him, the glyph for blood standing out as red as garnets against his skin.

"What do you want?" she demands of him, knowing what he'll say anyway. She braces her weight on her elbows as she looks towards where he stands in the doorway, not missing the way he's still wearing the same tunic he had been earlier.

Aemond frowned at her words, a crease forming between his brows. "We must do this for the realm-" he starts to say, his voice now carrying a steely edge. "Our duty-"

He was standing close enough for her ears to pick up the breath he let out, the sound long and slow- a sign of his growing agitation. Baela fought the urge to smile as she half turned on her side to face him, her shift slipping down her shoulder. "Damn the realm," she said viciously as she all but bared her teeth at him like some wild beast.

Even with the urgings of the Small Council, as well as those of her grandfather and his mother, she had hardly, if any desire to know him. "I do not want you here. So go away," she repeated, her voice little more than a snap now, doing her hardest to ignore the heat crawling up her spine, more than acutely aware of his stare, feeling the heavy weight of his gaze burning into her skin. "You're more than welcome to go slake your lust elsewhere, husband."

He retreated a step or two at her words, a wounded look darting across his face.

"Another day," he said finally, when she didn't relent, making his way towards the door.

She ignores him anyway.

"Cousin."

Rhaena's head lifted at the sound of Aemond’s voice, eyes trailing to fall on his expression.

Even from this far, she could taste the tension all but oozing from him like wine overflowing from a cask, his brow furrowed, his mouth turned down in a frown, as if something was troubling him. He looked half out of place in her chamber, looking rather like an inkblot, the dark of his tunic and his breeches standing out against the lighter, paler colors.

"Ae-"

No, she could not call him Aemond- not anymore at least. He was the King now, and her sister's husband to boot. "Your Grace," she says cautiously, setting aside her book as she rises to her feet. "Is there something I might-"

He cuts her off before she can finish speaking, his eye darting around her chambers before settling on her face. "Your sister," he all but blurts out, before clearing his throat, spots of color infusing along his cheekbones. "Baela," he amends as he twists his arms behind his back. "I…I do not know what to do. She-"

Rhaena tilted her head as she studied him, her gaze as sharp as a knife's edge, more than aware of how he seemed almost nervous, her good-brother, flustered in a way she cannot remember ever seeing from him- not even when they'd been children.

"What have you tried, Your Grace?"

"I-" he seemed to stumble over the word, glancing up at her before dropping his gaze downward to his feet. Rhaena watched as he removed his crown, holding it with one hand as he ran the other over his hair, sending the pale silver-gold strands further into a state of dishevelment.

"My sister is being unfair," she admitted, feeling a faint pity for him. "But she is headstrong, willful and proud. She always has been."

"You do know her best," he murmured quietly as he met her stare, a sliver of light skirting over his face in a way that illuminated the smudged, half-moon shadow under his eye. Her pity for him grew, though she kept it to herself as she nodded wordlessly, gaze dropping down to his boots, a slew of thoughts churning in her skull.

"If I might speak freely, Your Grace?"

He nodded, the bobbing of his almost eager in a way. "Please."

Rhaena hesitated. "She likes hawking," she said finally as she bit her lip in thought, "And riding. We used to do it on Dragonstone when the weather was favorable."

He nodded again, humming as he listened to her, a resolve growing in his eye.

His eye met hers then, an unspoken agreement passing between them. Baela would no doubt be angered by this, but her anger would fade, it had to- for the good of the realm. Rhaena let a half rueful grin form on her lips, practically able to hear the sound of her sister's voice in her mind, seething and laden with fury, as well as the saying she had taken to like a fish to water.

Fuck the realm.

"Thank you, goodsister," he said lastly, half turned towards the door. Rhaena dipped her head, the sound of her braids sliding over her shoulders filling her ears.

She could only hope that it would work.

And it does.

As one turn of the moon becomes two, then three, the change within the Keep grows more than noticeable with each day that passes, much to the relief of them all.

They have been married for four moons when Baela enters his chambers, crossing the room in several short strides to stand before him, arms folded behind her back, tapping the heel of her riding boots on the flagstones, her stare lingering on the sight of his bowed head, unused to the sight of him without the crown, his hair falling loose and unbound over his shoulders. She does not blame him though, not really, not when she knows the weight of it.

"Will you take me flying? On Vhagar?"

Aemond's head lifted at the sound of her voice, grinning softly at the sight of her before him. "Hello to you too," he murmured as a greeting.

"Well?" she asked again, more than a little impatient now, rocking forward then backward on the balls of her feet. She could not help but think of her own dragon then, pretty Moondancer, who had perished during the fall of Dragonstone, and even thinking about her now felt like a shard of glass embedded in her chest, like a phantom limb, the pain of which would never truly go away.

Aemond's stare only seemed to grow sharper the longer he held her gaze, searching and almost intrusive in a way, as if he meant to cut her open from the base of her throat to navel, and Baela cannot help but shiver faintly at the thought of it. “Why do you want to go so badly?” he countered, voice laden with suspicion as he stands, unfolding himself from the chair behind the desk with a languid, effortless grace.

“Can I not wish to spend the day with you?” She grins, her tone taking on a teasing edge as she stared down the bridge of her nose at him. Or tried to at least, the action made all the harder by the inches he had over her. He only hums as he raises an eyebrow, standing near enough to where the ends of his boots touch her own.

She can practically feel the heat bleeding through his clothes, the blood of the dragon running hot indeed, she muses. His breath fans across her face softly, still smelling of the baked apples soaked in honey they'd broken their fast on hours before.

"I cannot simply abandon my duties to go flying. The realm-"

She huffs a laugh, raking one hand through the braid Rhaena had been successful in wrangling her curls into. "Fuck the realm. It can spare you for half a day. I am your wife and I wish to go flying with you." She says as she stares at him, daring him to protest more.

"Very well," he relented with a sigh, turning his head to the side to glance back to the stacked parchment on his desk.

She fought the desire to grin victoriously.

Her lips parted slightly at the sight of Vhagar before her, little opaque wisps of smoke coming from her nostrils as she slumbered.

Since the war had ended, she'd taken to sleeping more and more, her chosen resting spot the patches of now flattened grass just beyond the city gates. One of her eyes opened as they neared, the great orange pupil surveying them.

Aemond's shoulder brushed against her own as he moved forward, "Lykiri, Vhagar," he murmured as he laid his hand flat on her snout, the sight making the sliver of affection that had lodged in her chest grow, warmth pooling low in her stomach.

Aemond stretched out his other hand to her, the look in his eye almost gentle. "Come."

Baela stared up at him, hesitating for a moment, before she edged forward, keeping one eye trained on Vhagar as she slid her hand in his, letting him pull her up. She let out a sound, one as close to unbridled delight as Vhagar began to lumber forwards, each flap of her wings sending them higher and higher into the sky. She let her eyes fall shut at the feel of the wind whipping through her silver curls, lashing like shards of ice against her cheeks, the space all around them empty save for clouds and the blue of the open sky stretching as far as she could see.

It was peaceful, flying on dragonback this high up, so much so where she could almost forget anything and everything that was happening miles below her. Her breath hitched in her chest at the feel of Aemond tightening his hold on her, the arm he'd wound around her waist before they'd left the ground growing almost impossibly tighter, constricting like a serpent.

The aquiline slope of his nose nudged against her cheek as she half turned her head to the side, the sound of him muttering something against her skin drowned out by the shrill whistle of the wind, his words faint enough for her to miss, too distracted as she was by the sound of his breath against the shell of her ear. By the steady rise and fall of his chest behind her and the feel of his lean frame, a hard line at her back.

"Look," he rasped, his voice coming louder this time as he raised a hand from the ropes, applying the faintest bit of pressure on her face to turn her head forward again. They were still flying, but it wasn't the city under them anymore. Instead it was the coastline and the familiar waters of Blackwater Bay, the almost dirty gray hue of the water lit gold by the sun, and her eyes widened at the sight before her.

It was beautiful.

Startled, Baela shrieked when Aemond's hand tightened on the reins, angling them downward into a nosedive. She let out a sharper sound when Vhagar leveled, angling to the right, one wing brushing the water's surface and sending a spray of water into the air.

Full of exhilaration, she felt a laugh bubble up in her chest, blood roaring in her ears.

Oh, how she had missed this.

They had returned to the Keep just after the sun had set, the almost rose hue that had made the houses and buildings of the city all but glow fading as the sky darkened to the familiar indigo of the approaching twilight, the two of them windblown and stinking of dragon.

The servants had needed no further warning before a line of them entered one after the other, bringing in bucketfuls of steaming water. Baela had watched them fill the gleaming copper tub almost impassively, arms folded across her chest as she had waited until the last one had left before turning her focus back to where Aemond had sat in one of the chairs situated around the hearth.

His hair gleamed, shadows from the flames highlighting the angles and lines of his cheekbones, dancing across his face. She drew herself up tall, spine going taut like a drawn bowstring as she stared at him, desire pooling low in her belly.

"Aemond…" she crooned from where she stood, still wearing the black dragon riding robes she had earlier, her desire clear. "Are you going to fuck me now, husband?"

His head snapped towards her, half startled. His eye narrowed, lust warring with suspicion on his face, his fingers flexing against the arms of the chair. "You-"

"Are you deaf as well as stupid?" She cannot help but say snidely, watching his pupils dilate as she loosened the lacing on the front. "You're too far away." Come closer, she does not say.

He shot to his feet, not needing another word of encouragement. Baela shivered as he stalked towards her, the almost predatory hunger burning in his eye. He had the singular ability to make her feel exposed now, cut open and laid bare before him.

Weak.

Soft.

A mockery of everything she was. Everything she wasn’t.

His jaw clenched each time she took a step backwards, the predatory look in his eye morphing into something more dangerous, a wicked smirk cutting across his mouth as he followed her, stopping when the backs of her legs hit the bed.

His hands fell to rest on the curve of her waist, standing out stark and pale against the night-dark fabric of her riding tunic. Baela pushed at his chest slightly, scarcely daring to breathe as he drew even closer, resting one hand on her neck. Her fingers closed around his wrist loosely, every brush of his thumb over her skin making her breath catch in her throat.

She felt warmth heat her cheeks, taking the opportunity to look up at him from under her lashes, wondering if he could feel her pulse thrumming under her flesh. She watched him as he took a half step closer, his eye darting from her eyes to her mouth and back again. It almost seemed like he was just as nervous as she was, but she did not put much stock into it.

She trembled, half out of fear or something else she could not name, tentatively flattening her hands to his chest, feeling the muscle lurking beneath the surface shift under her palms as she stilled, the sound of her heartbeat echoing in her ears.

He pushed at her riding clothes roughly, sliding the fabric down her arms before tossing the garment away blindly, his breathing seeming to grow shallower as his face lowered to loom mere inches from her own, his fingers disappearing into the curtain of her curls before kissing her again. Baela moaned against his mouth, her fingernails leaving half moons in the leather of his tunic.

He let out a low noise as her legs lifted then, wrapping around the narrow line of his waist, the sound hovering halfway between a snarl and a groan that had the coil at the base of her spine tightening. "You are a wicked temptress," he groaned again, eye closing at the feel of her pressing kisses to the side of his neck.

She reached for his eyepatch then, fingers stilling mere inches from it, an unspoken question in her eyes.

Aemond nodded, wordlessly bobbing his head, his hand splayed flat against her back.

Her fingers brushed over the raised skin of his scar, skirting upwards to slip beneath the square of leather before gently tugging it from his head. The sapphire in his eye socket was more lovely than she wanted to admit, glittering at her as it did now in the low light.

She traced the planes of his face, her touch gentle and as soft as a feather. Was he surprised by it? Surprised that she could be gentle with him? That she wanted to be? Her eyes slide over him, all but devouring the way he is almost beautiful. She kissed him again, her lips brushing across his own.

Aemond hisses quietly, a breath rattling from between his clenched teeth as she does. The sound is as loud as a dragon's roar in her ear, and were it not for the near-nonexistent distance between them, she's more than certain she would not have heard it.

His eye followed the path of her fingers, watching as they dropped lower and lower before coming to rest at the laces of his breeches, nostrils flaring with each breath, the sensation of her fingers brushing feather-light across his stomach almost too much to bear.

She glanced up at him from under her lashes, a half coy smirk lifting one side of her mouth up.

Tormenting him. Taunting him.

His eye trailed up again, the sight that greeted him made his cock ache all the more. He pressed closer, his lips dragging down the line of her throat, vaguely aware of her fingers digging into the flesh of his shoulders, the distraction of her kiss overpowering any rational thought he might have previously had.

"Only a dragon can love a dragon, Aemond. And you are mine."

Aemond moans in her ear at that, his fingers tightening on her hips, bruising almost. He could barely breathe, dizzy and almost breathless as the potent, rich smell of her all but ingrained itself into his senses so very thoroughly, like an insect burrowing into the ground. “If you want me to stop,” he rasped, feeling his heart slamming against his ribcage, “Tell me.” His voice was a low murmur in her ear, his breath fanning hot by her ear as he trailed his hands down her sides.

“No,” she breathed, trying to press closer to him, feeling his cock hard against her belly. “Please, Aemond-” She nipped at his skin, a barely noticeable scrape of her teeth against his pulse point, grinning as she felt it jump beneath her lips. She kissed him again, and again, feeling her pulse fluttering under the thin as parchment skin of her wrists and her throat.

Aemond only chuckled, the vibration from it rolling through her, only to choke out a moan a second later, the noise weaving and twisting with hers.

They are married five moons when she blocks his exit from the council room with a hand on his chest, feeling the steady thump, thump, thump of it beneath her fingers.

She bit her lip as she held her breath, keeping her eyes trained on his face. "I'm with child."

His eye goes wide at her words, wider than she's ever seen it. She shifted on her feet, feeling the half elated sensation in her chest fading the longer he didn't speak.

"Truly?"

"Yes," Baela nodded, feeling the giddiness grow stronger, unfurling low in her belly like a ship's sail. "The maester confirmed it this morning."

A buoyant smile splits his face cheek to cheek. It was not the smirk she had all but grown used to seeing, a genuine one that stretched his lips, making his eye crease.

"Baela."

She stilled, the thought that this was the first time he's called her by her name echoing in her head as she turned to face him. "Say it again," she demanded.

"Baela," he repeated, drawing the word out slowly.

Between one blink and the next, she all but launched herself at him, twisting and coiling around him like a serpent around its prey. She thinks later that it was in that moment she could almost love him.

The news does not stay between them for long, and soon enough a feast is hastily prepared in celebration.

Glancing at Aemond from the corner of her eye, Baela could feel the tension thrumming under his skin, all but radiating from him in waves where he sat beside her, one hand curled loosely around his cup, his other tapping an almost agitated rhythm against the cloth covered table, the line of his shoulders stiff and his posture unrelenting.

She leaned closer, her hand grasping his arm as she arched upwards, ghosting her lips over his ear. "Dance with me," she murmured boldly, delighting internally when he stiffened at the contact.

"You know I abhor dancing, ñuha jorrāelagon."

Aemond’s voice is barely more than a whisper, low and hushed, in that manner that is entirely his own. It is a trait of his that she has grown rather fond of, his ability to not be one to speak when he did not need to, choosing instead to stay silent and observe those around him like a bird of prey.

"And you are-"

Her gaze sharpened, daring him to say it.

"Forgive me."

He must have sensed her irritation as not even a minute later she felt his hand settle on her thigh, the warmth of his palm bleeding through the fabric of her dress. She huffed under her breath, lips pressed together tightly. "I might," she says nonetheless, knowing full well the effect her words would have on him.

Sure enough, his hand tightens on her thigh, his touch turning slightly painful. She can feel the weight of his attention on the side of her face, not having to even turn her head to be able to tell his eye is heavy-lidded, his pupil no doubt swallowed and dark now.

"Do you think they'd notice? If we were to depart," she murmurs innocently, offhandedly, keeping her gaze straight ahead, pressing her lips together to repress a smile when the sound of his breathing changes, growing ragged and hoarse with each second.

They have been married for six moons now, and it is the first time she does not wake up alone.

"Good morning," she breathed quietly, watching as Aemond cracked an eye open, his breath little more than soft huffs of air against her face.

"You're watching me," he noted, his voice low and rasping, still carrying miniscule traces of sleep.

"Perhaps I like watching you, husband," she said in return, brushing a loose strand of hair behind his ear, letting the earthen smell of him envelop her then, the heat he radiated making their bed almost stiflingly hot.

His mouth twitched at her words, faint and almost hardly noticeable. There was a softness in his eye as he looked down at her, thumb swiping as light as a feather across her lower lip. “Gevie,” he murmured as he cradled her face between his palms,, the golden glow behind him caught in his hair, setting the pale strands alight.

"I love you," She breathed as she tugged his hand away from her face. She twined her fingers with his, turning his hand over to trail a nail over the lines in the center of his palm, lifting it to her lips, watching his expression as she did, knowing deep down that there was no going back.

Not now. Not ever.

More time passes, the months going by one after the other, her belly swelling until she cannot see her own feet. She has few visitors, not that she minds, having her twin and Aemond beside her more than enough. Though there had been times she'd been seconds away from snapping at him out of ire.

He is locked within the council chambers- has been since that morning, a fact that she is more than grateful for, to be honest. It is only Rhaena and one of her handmaidens now, both of them hardly breathing a word.

"Rhaena," she forces out, fighting to keep her face blank at the sharp bite of pain in her belly. "I think-" she does not have to say another word, watching with wide eyes as her sister scrambles to her feet.

"Should I-"

Baela nods, a single, sharp dip of her head.

She squeezes her eyes shut as she lets out a guttural breath from between clenched teeth and wishes the pain would stop.

"Push, Your Grace," the midwife ordered, not unkindly. Baela only glowered at her as she gritted her teeth, nostrils flaring with each inhale and exhale she took.

"Where is he?"

"He's outside, sister," Rhaena soothed, squeezing her fingers lightly. "Waiting."

"Bring him here," she growled, uncaring of the way the midwives exchanged slightly uneasy looks with each other. "Do it!" she all but snarled at them. They did, scattering like a flock of birds, one of them moving brusquely towards the doors.

"Aemond."

He moved towards her quickly, half settling beside her. "Ñuha jorrāelagon," he murmured as he clasped her hand in his, pressing his lips to her brow.

The midwife comes forward again, mouth opening to speak, though Baela hardly hears a word as she closed her eyes, hearing Aemond's sharp inhale of breath as she squeezed his hand, her nails leaving reddened marks in the shape of half moons in his skin. Time seemed to tick by as slow as a snail's pace before she let out another breath, her chest rising and falling quickly as she half slumped against his chest, tendrils of her sweat soaked silver hair clinging to the skin of her neck, hearing the wailing of not one babe two split the quiet like a crack of thunder.

"Twins, Your Grace."

"Let me see them," she said as she held her arms out.

"She looks like your mother," her grandfather says later, the tip of his finger tracing over her daughter's face from where he stood beside Rhaena. "Does she have a name yet?"

"Laena," she says softly, "Her name shall be Laena. For my mother." She half turned towards Aemond, a question lingering in the depths, "And Aegon for your brother?"

Aemond shook his head. "No," he echoed, feeling his throat tighten, "not Aegon. Daeron."

"Daeron," Baela murmured in agreement. "It's a strong name for your heir."

"It is," he agreed, albeit weakly from where he stood over her, his eye flicking from the newborn boy cradled in her arms to the girl resting in Rhaena's arms opposite him. The boy who was the spit of Aemond, right down to the shape of his eyes and the slope of his nose.

His son.

His daughter.

Twins.

He swallowed as he took a half step closer, keeping his eye trained on them. "May I?"

Baela's head snaps upward at the sound of his voice. "Are you truly asking to hold your own children?" she asked, an incredulous expression spreading across her face. She let out a laugh as he sent her a more than unamused look. "I jest, husband."

He only frowned at her, hardly looking convinced, but let it go anyway.

She shifted against the pillows, careful not to jostle their boy too much as she sat up straighter. "Here," she said, softer this time as she placed Daeron in his arms. She watched them carefully, not missing the way Aemond stiffened, watching with rapture as his son's eyes opened, already a light shade of purple.

"He has my father's eyes," she noted, drawing a finger over the skin of his cheek, meeting Aemond's gaze when he glanced up at her, a look in his eye that she'd never seen before.

Rhaena had been right that day, she couldn't help but think as she grinned at him. He had been trying to be a good husband to her, patient even when she rebuffed and refused him those early months, refusing to budge over and over and over again.

Or maybe she had been too prideful, too full of her own hubris and too blind to admit it.

#my fics #aemond targaryen #baela targaryen #house of the dragon #prince aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #prince aemond #aemond smut #aemond targaryen fan fiction #aemond targaryen fanfiction

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thefrogdalorian · 3 months

Text

Hold You in My Arms

Din Djarin x GN!Reader

Summary: Even with its outdated interior and the limitations that entails, The Razor Crest is your home. You find there is a certain charm about the old ship even if the bunk is a little uncomfortable. Though, it's even better when there is a Mandalorian to cuddle, armour and all. Word Count: 2k ✯ Rating: General ✯ Content Warnings: None! ✯ Author's Note: This is set pre-series! A little tooth-rottingly sweet fluffy oneshot for this fine Friday. I wanted to make Din a human weighted-blanket and I yearn to run my fingers through his curls. This was the result. Hope you enjoyed! (The title comes from the song Starlight by Muse).

✯ My Masterlist ✯ Read on AO3 ✯

The sensation of cool metal against your cheek rudely interrupts the warm embrace of sleep, within which you were blissfully enveloped until only moments ago. You recoil at the sudden frigidity, your sleep-addled brain struggling to comprehend the cause for your discomfort. The presence has mercilessly encroached into the peaceful state of slumber you had drifted off into. Which is a miraculous feat, given the cramped surroundings you retire to each night.

Somehow, nestled between the thin sheets that lay atop the firm bunk – which causes your back to ache if you fall asleep in ever so slightly the wrong position – you have been in such a deep, restful state of sleep that being so rudely awakened from it almost makes you want to sob at the injustice. After all, it is a marvel that you ever found yourself so comfortable in the first place. The cramped bunk is tucked away like an afterthought in a corner of the dark hull that forms the main living area of the ship you soar through the stars in.

Yet, the ship has not been racing through the stars for the past few days. Instead, you have found yourself confined to the groaning metallic structure as you await the return of the man who made your new life possible. Din Djarin rescued you from a monotonous, destitute life and whisked you away in the stars, a debt that you are certain you will never adequately repay. It doesn’t stop you from trying your best every day that you are privileged enough to spend at his side though. A feat you at least attempt, by pouring every ounce of yourself into loving him. You know that Din never expects anything in return. Everything he has is yours and he adores providing for you, finally having a purpose for the payments he receives from bounty hunting. Even so, you can’t help but feel as though you owe him. So, you do your best to love him unconditionally.

Before you met Din, he was a solitary figure, cutting a lonely path through the galaxy. You changed everything. Din often compares you to a sunrise after a dark night, one that he did not realise quite how grim and gloomy it had been. You are a vibrant presence that brought light into his life. He never tires of telling you how much you mean to him, how deeply he loves you. With all of that in mind, how could you not put everything into loving a man as incredible as Din Djarin?

At present, though, you almost want to throttle him.

As when your eyelids fly open at the frigid contact, it is the distinctive gleam of beskar that you find next to you. Din’s helmet sparkles even in the dim light of the ship. Until you noticed Din’s dazzling headgear, you were fully prepared to admonish the perpetrator for being so cruel as to wake you up. Yet, when you discover that it is the man whose presence you have been pining for, your anger begins to subside.

It seems that Din has decided to join you on the impossibly small bunk. A fact that would not be such a problem, had Din not clambered onto the bunk without removing a single piece of his armour. Still, at the sight of him next to you, your anger dissipates as quickly as it had begun. The bubbling raging cauldron of fire and fury in the pit of your stomach soon evaporates with a whimper. Your momentary enragement at the intrusion into the serenity you had found in the bunk, despite the uncomfortable odds stacked against you miraculously faded the instant you laid eyes upon the culprit.

While you were sleeping, Din apparently returned from collecting his latest bounty. Clearly, the job has taken its toll, as he has sought rest instantly, still clad in his beskar'gam. Din nestles into your shoulder and you can feel the full heft of his armour, cool and hard against your skin, even through the thin sheet. Even though Din is exhausted and desperately needs sleep, he was so eager to be close to you that he decided to enter the cramped space to lie with you.

Even though you are certain that Din can't possibly be comfortable given the position he has taken up, you still have no desire for him to leave. Somewhat selfishly, you are enjoying the sensation of him and the warmth his presence causes in you, despite the coldness of his beskar.

“Din,” you finally sigh, “There isn’t enough room for both of us.”

“Am I hurting you?” Din asks sleepily.

“No, but—”

“Then, there’s room.”

Din’s tone of voice does not leave room for debate. You can’t help but smirk at his determination to remain cuddled up with you. Collecting his latest bounty has rendered him so exhausted that he cannot even muster the strength to remove his armour. With its inflexibility and heft, it cannot possibly be pleasant to lie in, but Din is apparently so desperate to be in your arms that it seems he has sacrificed his own comfort to be close to you.

“You can’t be comfortable, Din,” you observe, shaking your head at his determination to lie in your arms. “Let me get up and give you the bunk to rest properly, I’ll nap in the cockpit chair.”

Your offer to sleep there is an attempt to repay the debt you feel you owe Din. While he frequently allows you to sleep in the bunk, Din is happy to sit in the chair. It is a position he seems content in, with his arms folded and head slumped to the side. For much of his life, sleeping in a bunk was a luxury seldom afforded to a man who lived such a nomadic life as Din. Even though he is unaccustomed to sleeping in a bunk and probably still prefers the chair, you want to give him the marginally more comfortable option.

Din, however, has other ideas…

“No,” Din murmurs in response to your offer, shaking his head furiously at the suggestion. “Want to be close to you.”

“Okay,” you sigh. You shake your head at the stubbornness of your favourite Mandalorian, but you are content to let him be.

“Can I at least remove your helmet? It feels pretty cold against my cheek, you know…” you ask playfully.

You feel that coldness in motion against your cheek as Din nods slowly, too tired to vocalise his answer. You move instantly, propping yourself up with one elbow while you carefully remove the pesky barrier between you and the brown eyes you adore. Removing Din's helmet is something that you are well accustomed to now, but you still feel your pulse race with excitement each time. There is still a small part of you that can't quite believe you get to see Din in this way, his beauty unencumbered by the armour which usually shields his handsome features from you.

After removing Din's helmet and setting it down on the corner of the bunk, you are finally free to gaze upon the face of the man you have missed so dearly. Instead of joy, however, you feel your heart constricting at the sight of him. Din looks utterly exhausted. Your eyes roam across his features and you notice the tiredness which clouds his brown eyes, dulling their usual spark and vibrancy. There are dark bags lingering under his eyes, too. It seems that Din has scarcely slept since he ventured out from the Razor Crest several days ago.

He looks up at you tiredly, a small bashful smile on his lips. You are captivated by his beauty, even in the low light. Even when he looks so drained. His is the most handsome face you have ever laid eyes upon, you are certain. With his strong nose and jawline, his features are distinctively masculine. Yet there is a certain softness there, too. Either way, you are sure that you will never tire of looking at him.

In response to the feelings his appearance provokes in you, you run your fingers through his surprisingly soft, dark curls. You gently rake your fingernails across his scalp in a soothing motion. Din hums in response, an appreciative sound that goes some way towards calming the anxiety you felt upon first laying eyes upon his exhausted face.

Now that he's lying in your arms, you hope that your careful ministrations go some way to soothing his exhausted soul. Even though he is too drained to vocalise it, you know that there is nothing in the galaxy that could relax him more than your embrace and presence.

Eventually, Din’s shallow, even breaths indicate that he has finally drifted off. You still feel slightly groggy after being awakened so abruptly, but with Din asleep on you, you know there is no chance that you will be able to get back to sleep. For one, there is the considerable heft of a fully-armoured Mandalorian resting on you, who you are keenly aware is somehow managing to sleep while maintaining the position so he is not placing all of his weight on you and inadvertently crushing you. Additionally, you are enjoying the comfort you draw from Din's presence. Knowing he is close to you and not off hunting bounties, putting himself in dangerous situations soothes your soul.

You are unsure how long you lie there for, with Din lying half on top of you, before his eyelids flutter open and those familiar brown eyes meet yours once more. To your relief, they have regained their spark.

Unfortunately, while his eyes have regained their vibrancy, other parts of Din's body have suffered.

“Can't feel my arms or legs,” Din whines, his body numb after contorting himself into such an uncomfortable position.

“I did warn you,” you tease. There is not a single trace of anger or frustration evident in your tone. You merely enjoy the opportunity to playfully admonish the man you adore.

“I know,” Din nods.

You lean down to kiss his forehead softly. As you place your head back on the pillow, Din gazes up at you with a look of pure adoration in his eyes. Then, he winces slightly, clearly deciding that enough is enough. Din grunts in discomfort as he pushes himself up, and you regretfully watch him go. You are disappointed to have lost an initially disconcerting presence which ultimately became a comfortable one in spite of your initial reservations. Din lingers at the edge of the bunk, looking back at the space with a quizzical look across his features, as though he is appraising something about the space.

“After we’ve dropped off the bounties on Nevarro, we’re paying a visit to Peli on Tatooine. I’m getting a more spacious bunk installed,” Din says decisively.

You look at him questioningly, and Din does not hesitate to elaborate:

“I want to make it so that I can cuddle you properly, every night until we’re grey.”

You shake your head and smile to yourself, touched at the sentiment. For a man with such a reputation of violence that precedes his every move, there is a surprisingly soft centre beneath the tough exterior. You are thrilled with Din’s proposition and you know that the kooky Tatooinian mechanic will have you sorted out with a new bunk in no time—even if the price you pay will be well above the going market rate.

Despite Din’s stoic appearance and ruthless efficiency, you wonder if the galaxy would view him in a different light if they knew his weakness. You quietly question whether the Bounty Hunters’ Guild would hold a lesser opinion of him if they only knew the truth.

Namely, that the spoils of one of the many bounties that the man they know as Mando so masterfully collects will go towards upgrading the Razor Crest’s modest bunk. All in order to ensure the formidable bounty hunter can have his scalp rubbed every night until his eyelids grow heavy, and so Din can be cocooned in the tight embrace of the one he loves each time he returns from his latest hunt.

Ultimately, Din Djarin is a man of multitudes. A formidable warrior and a gentle, caring man; who never feels safer or more at peace than when you hold him in your arms.

#din djarin fic #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #the mandalorian x reader #mando x reader #mando x you #the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin fluff #pedro pascal characters #my fics #I JUST WANT TO HUG HIM ITS NOT FUNNY #and run my fingers throug h his haiiiiiiiiir!!!!!

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faerune · 2 years

Photo

He looked furious with her, he looked like he loved her.

AEMOND TARGARYEN & ARGELLA BARATHEON

#asoiaf oc #fyeahhotdocs #hotd oc #hotdedit #i like it too much to not share it right away #i probs shouldnt post this at such a late hour cause itll inevitably flop BUT #ship: fire and fury #mine*#gif*

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jar-of-maise · 8 months

Text

incorrect quotes with my new fav trio

starring wriothesley, clorinde and neuvillette bc i said so

Wriothesley: What do you think Neuvillette will do for a distraction? Clorinde: They’ll probably, like, make a noise or throw a rock. That’s what I would do. *Building explodes and several car alarms go off* Clorinde: ... or he could do that.

...

Wriothesley: How's the sexiest person here~? Neuvillette: I don't know, how are they~? Wriothesley: I- Clorinde, from across the room: I'm doing great, thanks!

...

Clorinde: Do you ever want to talk about your emotions, Wriothesley? Wriothesley: … No. Neuvillette: I do! Clorinde: I know, Neuvillette. Neuvillette: I’m sad! Wriothesley: We know, Neuvillette

...

Neuvillette, to Wriothesley and Clorinde: *holding knife out in front of them* Are you or are you not an enemy of the people?! Wriothesley: ... Clorinde: ... Wriothesley: That is such an open-ended question. Clorinde: Yeah, it really depends on a lot of different factors-

...

Wriothesley: We need a diversion. I say Neuvillette gets naked. Neuvillette: No. Clorinde: Who are we trying to distract again?

...

Clorinde, at Neuvillette: Would you like to stay for dinner? Wriothesley, from the kitchen: Would you like to stay forever!?!

...

Clorinde: Ooh, somebody has a crush Wriothesley: Pfft, I don’t have a crush on Neuvillette I just think they’re cool, it’s not like I stay up at night thinking about them. *Later that night* Wriothesley, very much awake: Uh oh.

...

Neuvillette: There's no way they like me back. Clorinde: Wriothesley would throw himself in front of a moving car for you. Neuvillette: Wriothesley would throw himself in front of a moving car for fun.

...

Neuvillette: Why is everyone so obsessed with top or bottom? Honestly, I’d just be excited to have a bunk bed. Clorinde: Clorinde: I'm gonna tell them. Wriothesley: Don't you dare.

...

Wriothesley: Is there a cactus where your heart should be? Clorinde: What’s up your ass this morning! Neuvillette: *walks in* ...Hey. Clorinde: Hmm… nevermind. Wriothesley: WAIT NO!

...

Wriothesley: Do you cook? Neuvillette: I made a cake once. Clorinde: Yeah, it was good. Neuvillette: Really? Clorinde: Don’t make me lie twice, Neuvillette.

...

Neuvillette: Is letting someone win at chess sapiosexual bottoming? Clorinde: Can everyone in this godforsaken group please learn the skill called "Think Before You Speak"? Wriothesley: Ya know... it might be.

...

Clorinde: Did Wriothesley just tell me he loved me for the first time? Neuvillette: Yeah, he did. Clorinde: And did I just do finger guns back? Neuvillette: Yeah, you did.

...

Wriothesley: Where are my fucking keys? Clorinde: Wriothesley, Neuvillette is around, can you say it a little nicer? Wriothesley: May I ascertain the whereabouts of my FUCKING KEYS?!

...

*Neuvillette dies in a game with ships* Wriothesley: This ship is no longer a ship of love, it's a ship of vengeance, a gavel of justice against all that is wrong in the world, showing no mercy, as no mercy was shown to us. Wriothesley: The spark of love will now fuel the fires of destructive glory as I wage my war across the world with righteous fury. Clorinde: Legend has it that Neuvillette still haunts the ship, stealing my fucking drinks. Neuvillette: Of course I do.

...

Wriothesley: How do you tell someone that you wanna have sex with them in a polite way? Neuvillette: Excuse me [insert name]. Would you give me the honours of indulging in sexual activities with you? Clorinde: What the fuck is wrong with you two?

...

Clorinde: Hey, no, you stay out of this, this is between me and Wriothesley! Neuvillette: So Wriothesley knows about this? Clorinde, walking away: No, this is between me and me!

...

Neuvillette: *is wearing silk pants* How does this look? Wriothesley: Like its slips on and off really easily. Neuvillette: Wriothesley: No, I didn't mean it like that- Clorinde: We know what you meant.

...

Clorinde: What have you done with Neuvillette? Wriothesley: Nothing. Why, do you think I should?

...

Neuvillette, gardening: Hey, can you bring me the hoe? Wriothesley: Yeah, sure. *A few minutes later* Wriothesley: Here you go. Neuvillette: Wriothesley: Clorinde: Why am I here?

...

Wriothesley: I’m this close to falling in love with Neuvillette. Clorinde: Your fingertips are touching. Wriothesley: Exactly.

...

Neuvillette: Would you take a bullet for me? Wriothesley: ...yes? *Clorinde angrily burst into the room* Neuvillette: *running away* Great, thanks!

guys i love them a healthy amount i swear. NOW DIE ON THIS HILL WITH ME

PART II is now up!

#wriothesley #clorinde #neuvillette #i love them #they are my new babies #they are so silly #this devolves into a ship really fast but hush #platonic (mostly?) male and female friendships #wriolette #just a sprinkle #headcanons #genshin headcanons #incorrect quotes #genshin incorrect quotes #will become a series

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fandomnerd9602 · 9 months

Text

She was your princess. You were her knight. Sworn to protect her, to let your last action ever be your sword hitting the ground because your opponent bested you. To make sure that she lived while you’d die for her.

How could you have not fallen for her? How could the very sight of her smile not ignite the fury of a thousand dragons’ fire in your heart?

How could Rhaenyra not fall for you? Your steadfast nature, your kindness, the way you smiled when you locked eyes with her from across the royal court. All of it just made her fall deeper in love with you.

You took whatever moment you could just to be in her presence. A second, a minute, whenever you could, you were by her side. A gentle walk in the garden. A token of her favor before you went to train with the other knights. Any time with her was welcome.

You pledged everything to her.

“Everything that I am,” you whisper against her knuckles, “ my sword, my shield my very soul I have pledged to you.”

“Then run away with me” she practically pleaded with her hazel eyes.

“ you and I both know that wouldn’t be a life.” you sadly counter You take her chin in your palm and lock eyes with her, "but know this that after these bones have turned to dust and dragons no longer fly in the skies above Westeros, my heart will always keep on beating for you.”

“And mine shall beat for you" her lips formed a silent promise.

You gave her hand a soft kiss and she walked away from you sadly.

What you failed to notice was that king Viserys had noticed the whole ordeal. An idea was quickly forming in his mind.

The king summoned you into his throne room within the hour. Your heart was beating out of your chest. As you walked into the massive throne room to find it was only you and him. You fall to your knees at the base of the intimidating Iron Throne, fearful for your very life.

"Your majesty" you put your own sword before Viserys' feet.

"Arise my son" he gently orders you, "have you heard of House Valor?"

You've heard of it, "the grand isle to the far west of Westeros?"

"The very one" King Viserys walks down from his throne and approaches you, "I'm sending you at once as my emissary"

"But, your Majesty, my duty as protector to Princess-"

"That is a direct order from your king" Viserys gently interrupts you. "the ship is leaving promptly at sunset"

You could feel the color drain from your face. You couldn't even tell Rhaenyra goodbye, you had to leave in that instance.

Your journey to Castle Valor was a day's journey aboard a ship across the sea to a land beyond the horizon of Westeros. House Valor was long held as a house that held true to its very title. If the world believed that morality was dead, Valor held the lifeline showing that it was not.

You arrived at your destination. A humble island nation, vast villages that dotted its landscape. The castle sat in the middle of the island, not massive by any stretch of the imagination but its stronghold told of its pride and honor.

The guards lead you directly to the throne room and there sat Lord Valor, an elderly man with a kind smile and eyes that told of a life time of heart aches. You kneel before the ruler.

"Lord Valor" you state, "I come on behalf of King Viserys as his emissary. I may not have a title but I will serve you to the best of my ability."

"Welcome my son" the older man greets you, rising from his throne and putting his hand on your shoulder, "we have much to talk about"

A day's journey became a few solid weeks. Rhaenyra's heart was only growing all the more fond of you in your absence. She found herself summoned to her father's throne room.

"Rhaenyra I have selected a husband for you" King Viserys states, not allowing any room for debate.

"What?" Rhaenyra's heart broke in that moment. She could only hope it was not with House Velaryon.

"You are of age and we must secure our borders with House Valor" Viserys explains. "Your betrothed will be arriving shortly."

"But Father I can't marry into House Valor" Rhaenyra tries to explain, "I am in love with-"

The doors of the throne room opened and you walked in, dressed in the royal dressing of House Valor. You carried yourself calmly with every bit of might and pride that a prince would.

"Your majesties" you offer a bow to the two royals. Rhaenyra could feel her heart fluttering at the sight of you.

"Ser Y/N of House Valor" Viserys smiles, catching the smile already forming on Rhaenyra's face. "Glad you could make it."

The truth was that while you were not of noble birth or of privileged title, the lord of House Valor was in search of a successor. A kind man, beloved by all under the banner of his house, he did not have any children or heirs to speak of. Viserys had been in talks with Lord Valor for a while. The king noticed your own sense of morality and kindness, especially to Rhaenyra. Viserys offered you and your sword up as a potential successor. So Lord Valor took you in and named you his 'son'. You had spent the last few weeks learning all that you could from your newly adoptive father. And with it, you finally realized that you could wed the princess. Your heart was brimming with joy over that mere thought.

You walk up to Rhaenyra and gently kiss her hand, "if my lady will have me, i would treasure each second of the day with you."

"I think this marriage is more than agreeable," the young princess giggled, tears beginning to stream down her porcelain face. You pull her into your arms and kiss her tenderly. She wraps her arms around your neck, holding you close.

You briefly look to King Viserys who gives you a wink as you guide Rhaenyra out of the throne room.

#rhaenyra targeryan #rhaenyra targaryen #rhaenyra x reader #princess x knight #house of the dragon #hotd imagine #house targaryen #milly alcock #game of thrones #house of the dragon imagine #hotd x reader #male reader #male reader insert #rhaenyra targaryen x reader #hotd fanfiction #house of the dragon x reader

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mcntsee · 9 months

Text

cold

summary: Y/N faces hypothermia after a dangerous mission. Kaz helps her warm up by the fire, their bond growing stronger.

warnings: The story contains scenes of peril, violence, and life-threatening situations. Kaz is not fully ok with y/n’s touch, but he fights trough it. Ooc Kaz.

notes: Posting this again because it won’t show up in the #

On a moonlit night, the crew moved stealthily towards their next heist, anticipation electrifying the air. The target: the elusive Heart of Nebula, a gem said to hold secrets from the stars themselves, and worth even more, now resting within the hold of a formidable merchant ship. Kaz Brekker's mind hummed with strategies as he and his crew prepared to infiltrate the vessel, a symphony of darkness and cunning.

The assault began with a fierce volley of blows and flashing knives, the Crows expertly weaving through the chaos of the guards. Amidst the clash of metal and cries of alarm, Y/N's prowess shone bright as she fought with a grace that belied her strength. But in the midst of the turmoil, the situation took a turn.

One of the guards managed to corner Y/N, his arm snaking around her neck while a cold barrel pressed against her temple. The edge of the ship loomed dangerously close, its abyssal depths waiting hungrily. Kaz's icy eyes snapped toward the scene, his cane slicing through the guard before him with lethal precision. Without hesitation, he moved toward the guard who held Y/N captive.

The guard's voice rang out, its venomous tone laced with desperation. "Make them leave, Brekker, or the girl takes a plunge."

Kaz's gaze was as unforgiving as the sea's depths as he assessed the situation. A subtle nod towards his crew was met with hesitation, a collective tension palpable in the air. Yet, the Crows trusted their leader's decision and reluctantly retreated, fading into the shadows like wraiths.

With the other Crows gone, Kaz approached the edge of the ship, his voice a chilling breeze. "They're gone. Let her go now."

The guard's laughter was mirthless, his grip on Y/N relenting just enough for her to catch her breath. "You're quite the strategist, Brekker. But this time, you've lost." Kaz's eyes darkened, "You're the one holding the losing hand."

The guard's response was a cold, harsh warning. "One step closer, and I'll blow her brains out, Brekker."

In the deadly hush that followed, Y/N's eyes flickered to Kaz's, a subtle nod passing between them like a secret shared only between souls deeply connected. In the space of a heartbeat, Y/N's hidden blade flashed into her hand, finding purchase in the guard's leg. The gun wavered, and in that instant, Y/N twisted her body, pushing the gun skyward. The guard's grip slipped, and Y/N tumbled over the edge, disappearing into the inky depths below.

Kaz's gloved hand tightened on his cane as he stared at the fallen guard, fury simmering beneath his calm façade. With a swift, efficient motion, he rendered the guard unconscious, the cold weight of his cane delivering justice.

Breathless seconds ticked by, tension thick in the salty air. Kaz's sharp gaze scanned the dark waters, searching for any sign of Y/N. Relief flooded him as her head broke the surface, her voice piercing through the night. "I'm fine!" A sigh of relief escaped Kaz's lips. Y/N's determination was palpable as she called out, her voice carrying above the water's gentle lapping. "I'll swim to shore. Go ahead."

Kaz watched as she began to swim, her strokes strong and determined. With a final glance at the ship, he turned and walked away, his steps resolute and measured.

As Kaz reached the shore, he cast his gaze over the moonlit waters, waiting anxiously for Y/N’s return. His heart was a relentless drumbeat, matching the rhythm of the waves. The moment her form emerged from the darkness, shivering and weakened, he closed the distance between them. Urgency propelled his actions.

“Get rid of the clothes,” he instructed firmly, his voice laced with concern. “They’re wet and will make you colder.”

Y/N’s nod was slow, her trembling fingers fumbling with the soaked fabric as she undressed. Kaz turned his head, a gesture both respectful and protective. In a deliberate and almost rehearsed motion, he removed his coat and held it out to her. She accepted it with a shaky “Thanks.” her voice barely above a whisper.

As Kaz’s sharp eyes examined her, a surge of worry pulsed through him. The sight of her pale, chilled skin and lips tinged with blue sent an unexpected pang through his chest, a haunting echo of memories long buried. But he shoved those ghosts aside, focusing on the task at hand. Y/N needed him now.

“Y/N,” he heard her voice, fragile and wavering like a whispered plea. “We have to get you somewhere warm.”

Nodding at her, he guided her towards the Slat, their steps slow and deliberate. But soon, it became apparent that her strength was waning, her movements faltering as her eyes fought to stay open. Kaz’s instincts kicked in, and he brought them to a nearby safe house. “Stay awake, Y/N,” he urged, his voice a lifeline.

With the gentlest touch, he grasped her sleeve, guiding her with utmost care. Inside the safe house, the dim glow of the fireplace greeted them. Kaz moved with practiced efficiency, gathering wood and coaxing flames to life. “Take the coat off,” he instructed softly. “I’ll get you blankets.”

Y/N’s trembling grew more pronounced. Her weakened state made even the simple act of unbuttoning her coat a struggle, her shivering fingers fumbling with each button. Kaz watched for a moment, concern etched on his face, before taking a step forward.

“May I?” he asked, his voice low and filled with a rare tenderness, pointing towards the buttons. Y/N’s eyes fluttered open, her gaze meeting his as she nodded slightly. A barely audible “Please” slipped from her lips as he delicately unbuttoned her coat. His movements were careful, his touch a lifeline, as he worked the coat off her shoulders.

He noticed Y/N’s weakened posture, her struggle to remain upright, and her eyes that threatened to close for longer with each blink. A gentle tap to her cheek accompanied his soft words, urging her to stay awake. Once the coat was removed, he set it aside, then settled Y/N close to the warmth of the fireplace.

Debates waged within his mind as he assessed the situation. Should he fetch a blanket or offer his own warmth to stave off the cold? Y/N’s sudden cessation of shivering tilted the balance, a sign that he couldn’t ignore. He quickly discarded his clothes, his urgency matched only by his fear. Ghosts of his past slowly attacking his mind. But that fear was replaced with a resolute determination as he reminded himself that he had to help her. For fuck’s sake. She’s dying, do something!

“Y/N,” he called softly, his voice a lifeline in the quiet room. He moved swiftly to her side, his heart pounding with a mix of trepidation and purpose. He hesitated for a moment, the depth of his feelings surfacing before he banished them, replacing them with a driving need to save her.

“Y/N, look at me,” he whispered urgently, his hands cupping her face gently. The storm in his eyes met the battle in hers, a silent affirmation that they were in this together. “Stay awake, Y/N.”

With quick, precise movements, he guided her closer, his arms enfolding her delicate form. He drew her legs over his lap, holding her securely, a barrier against the cold that threatened to steal her away. His heart raced as he whispered her name, a litany of small pleas and encouragements, willing her to hold on.

His hands moved over her body, a desperate attempt to generate warmth. His touch was gentle yet purposeful, rubbing and caressing in a rhythm meant to bring life back to her numbing limbs. A sigh of relief escaped him as her body began to respond, her shivers returning.

“That’s good, Y/N,” he murmured, his voice a mixture of relief and reassurance. “That’s good.”

Y/N’s voice trembled, her weariness evident as she spoke of her desire to rest, if only for a moment. Kaz’s response was a gentle yet unwavering plea. “Hold on a little longer, Y/N. You’re doing good.”

As the warmth of the fire seeped into the room, color began to return to Y/N’s face, a welcome transformation that Kaz couldn’t help but watch with a mixture of relief and gratitude. Her lips, once tinged with blue, regained their natural hue, easing the knot of worry in his chest. He assessed her carefully, the weight of his concern slowly lifting as she regained strength.

Gradually, he eased her down, his touch gentle as he ensured she was comfortable before he rose to his feet. “I’m going to get you some blankets, Y/N,” he announced, his voice soft. Y/N met his gaze and thanked him, her gratitude a quiet melody in the stillness of the room.

Kaz put his pants back on before he climbed the stairs, his steps measured, his mind focused on the task at hand. In the closet, he found a collection of blankets, each one a comforting refuge against the cold. When he returned to the room, he laid one blanket on the ground for Y/N to sit on, then carefully wrapped a second one around her, his movements deliberate yet tender.

Settling back down beside her, Kaz draped the third blanket around himself, creating a barrier of warmth between them. The room was filled with a palpable sense of quiet, an unspoken understanding that permeated the space. Moments stretched on, the fire’s crackle and pop providing a gentle rhythm to their thoughts.

Y/N, who looked remarkably better now, broke the silence with words that carried a depth of meaning. “Thank you, Kaz.” Her voice was soft yet sincere.

Kaz’s response was equally quiet, his tone carrying a hint of vulnerability. “No problem.”

Y/N glanced away briefly before turning her gaze back to him, her eyes holding a mixture of gratitude and something more. “I’m sorry you had to do that,” she said, her words holding a weight that was both apologetic and appreciative. “I know it must’ve been hard.”

Kaz’s mind churned, reflecting on the moments they had shared, the emotions that had surged through him. He hesitated, grappling with his own thoughts before the words emerged, honest and unfiltered. “For you, I would do it again,” he admitted, his voice a gentle affirmation of his feelings.

In response, Y/N’s smile was soft, her eyes reflecting a warmth that mirrored the fire’s glow. “I would do it for you too, Kaz. Anything.” Her words held an earnestness that touched him, a willingness to stand by him no matter the challenge.

#fanfiction #kaz brekker x reader #six of crows #six of crows x reader #fluff #kaz brekker #oneshot

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violetasteracademic · 2 months

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Lucien Vanserra's Hero's Journey with Vassa- The Firebird Legends

Hello friends! This is my very first tumblr post, and is IN DEPTH. It seemed like a good place to explore some of the the themes I've been discussing on TikTok regarding Sarah's book structures, how closely Sarah utilizes The Hero's Journey for ACOTAR, and how many "ingredients in the fridge" as I like to call it are already there for Lucien and Vassa's story, despite arguments that there is very little on page action with The Band of Exlies. If anyone is interested in nerding out about book structure with me, I'll do a quick run through of The Hero's Journey with ACOMAF as the example (I made a video about this already!) and then fill in a possible hero's journey beat by beat for Lucien using only what is on the page. I'm not being hyperbolic when I say I could literally plot out and write this book today with everything Sarah has given us!

A few things to know about me: I love all of the characters involved in these ship wars. I am a die hard Elain stan, Az is my favorite Bat Boy, Lucien is one of my all time favorite characters and one whom I deeply relate to (I actually think I relate to Elain and Lucien the most, and I'll share how they mirror each other quite well) and I literally had to pull over in a Sprouts parking lot listening to the ACOSF graphic audio when Gwyn told her story. An elderly woman knocked on my window to ask if I was okay because I was sobbing. I do get passionate about my ships (Elriel and Vassien) because of my reading experience and how I process Sarah's structures. It would be the shock of my life if it goes in a different direction. BUT I love all the characters and respect all ships. My only goal is to get people excited about everything possible for our Bird of Flame and Lord of Fire, because their story stands to be by second favorite after Elain and Azriel!

Here is a quick rundown of The Hero's Journey: A three act structure famously based on the works of Joseph Campbell, an author and educator in the field of comparative mythology.

I will try my best to *briefly* break down the first act of A Court of Mist and Fury (I could do the same for Nesta's Journey in A Court of Silver Flames!)

Step One: The Ordinary World Status Quo. Feyre's status quo after Under The Mountain is the simultaneous evolution of her new life as Fae, and devolution of her spirit and personhood. In her new ordinary world, she is being kept in the dark. She is relegated to wedding planning and isolation.

Step Two: Call to adventure. Feyre is called to adventure on the day of her wedding, when the status quo has become unmaneagable. She calls out for help, and Rhys whisks her to the night court. In the Call to Adventure, our Hero learns a truth about the world that they will have to face. In Feyre's case, it is that the war is immenent. She realizes there is a threat to the safety of her sisters, and Rhys pushes her to train so that she is not unprepared if she is the only thing standing between them and Hybern.

Step Three: Refusal of the Call (in other structures or variations this is called The Debate.) The Hero is not sure if this is their story, if they are the one to face the call. They experience a period of maintaining the status quo a little longer. This is when we see Feyre sinking back into life with Tamlin. He is loosening the reigns, she doesn't want to rock the boat. She believes The Ordinary World might improve without her having to take the next step.

Step Four: Meeting the Mentor. Our hero meets someone that will assist them in their journey, and help them move forward in answering the call. This can be friendships, trainers and teachers, mystical guides, any number of things. In Feyre's case, it is dinner with the Inner Circle. She hasn't yet decided if she will join Rhysand's court and work with him in the efforts against Hybern, however she agrees to meet his court members. Each of them provide guidance to Feyre. In strength and training (Cassian and Azriel), emotional resilience (Mor), and histories/education on how the court and Fae lands function (Amren). Feyre agrees to work for Rhysand and then we cross the threshold into act two.

When I talk about "ingredients in the fridge," I am talking about a dinner that has been planned, ingredients purchased, and everything ready to go for book dinner to be on the table tonight. At this point, Sarah has been grocery shopping for future book plots for many many years! This is my personal interpretation of a really powerful story for Lucien and his hero's journey to free Vassa from Koschei.

Step One: Ordinary World. Lucien wakes up in the human lands in the manor he shares with his Band of Exiles. (I also am obsessed with how messy and hilarious it is that this was gifted to him by his mates ex fiance but I digress.) He has become so close with Vassa that he is no longer trusted to do his job for the Night Court. All the while he is worrying about Koschei, and when he will come for Vassa. Her enslavement to the deathless sorcerer pains him, and the pressure is building.

I hate to poke holes in another ship, however it is important to note that during all of these conversations Elain is not present or mentioned by Lucien in any way. However, Mor states that Lucien is choosing to live in the human lands despite Elain. And of course, in ACOSF Lucien makes it clear that even being in Velaris doesn't mean it is to see Elain, and the thought of his presence being expected only for his mate makes him uncomfortable.

I'm not saying these things couldn't change in the next book, I am however just setting Lucien's Ordinary World or Status Quo. Lucien is living in the human lands with the Band of Exiles and his main areas of concern and growing conflict are with Vassa and Koschei. This is what is being built to send the status quo to a breaking point *at present* His interest or efforts in Elain are devolving while his connection to Vassa and interest in defeating Koschei or freeing her are evolving.

Step Two: Call To Adventure. Lucien already has a powerful possible Call to Adventure (or inciting incident, as other similar structures call it) set in place. Koschei decides to reign in the leash on Vassa and force her to return to the lake, being ripped from her home with Lucien and Jurian and no longer able to provide assistance with the human queens.

Step Three: Resisting the Call. The reason Lucien is so perfectly suited for this is because he is the only character with such torn loyalties. He is loyal to Feyre and the Night Court, he attempts to be respectful to his mate, he is glad to work for Rhysand. There are many other threats present, Lucien's own father Beron suspected to be at risk of allying with Koschei. The human queens in the wind who have powers and a vendetta. While the Firebird legends retelling *could* take place with Jurian and Vassa, my issue with that is similar to my issue with Gwynriel. There is literally nothing, and I mean NOTHING that would create conflict for the character or a debate period. There are no obstacles or stakes in place that could keep the characters apart, which is critical to all storytelling but Sarah utilizes so much conflict. Lucien is the lost wanderer, torn from court to court, abusive home to abusive home, without a true family until the Band of Exiles. But it is still a matter of chosen family over loyalties he still feels to Feyre and her court. So, Vassa is taken by Koschei. Lucien now must be spurred into action, but is *he* the hero of this story? Is he going to be the one to take on Koschei?

Step Four: Meet the mentor. Oh, I think we all know where I am headed with this! What better mentor could there be in place for Lucien in freeing Vassa from her curse than Helion Spellcleaver. Aka Lucien's biological father. Helion also has maintained a consistent presence, being called in to attempt to manage the dread trove items. He has returned to the page in ways other High Lords haven't. We are gearing up for Helion 100%

Now, to get a little farther into some of the details beyond act one, tests allies and enemies, innermost caves, ordeals, so on and so forth, I simply want to focus on the stakes of this story specifically, and why I find them the most powerful.

As far as theme for Lucien, he has been aimless and suffering and ultimately ended up with no home and nowhere to spend Solstice. Feyre and Elain were a default because, in his own words, he had nowhere else to go.

Feyre urges him to call the Night Court home, but he has found a true home with Jurian and Vassa. He cares deeply for them and for their safety. He is amazed by Jurian's leadership, literally saying "Thank god for him" keeping everything together. Even at his best with Rhysand, Lucien has never put full faith in Rhys as a leader (which is very similar to Nesta who, while still an Archeron sister, continues to dismiss Rhys as her high lord and has found her calling and found family with The Valkyrie's.)

Lucien learning Helion is his biological father pairs perfectly with his metal eye, which can see through glamours. We may come to find that Lucien has hidden spell cleaving abilities making him uniquely suited to save the woman he loves. However, this brings us to...

THE BLOOD DUEL.

Lucien and Azriel blood dueling over Elain makes no sense plot, character, or world building wise. Lucien does not identify with the Autumn court or its laws, and he has been nothing but respectful of Elain's lack of interest in him and by all accounts is moving on in a very healthy way. It is stated clearly that Beron knows Lucien is not his son, hence why Lucien received such additional torment and ab*se as well as Beron's treatment of Lady Autumn. However, for Lucien to publicly display Helion's powers would make Lady Autum's affair public knowledge. This gives Beron cause to call for a blood duel with Helion over LoA. These are incredibly high stakes and obstacles. Does he risk the life of his mother and newly discovered father to save the woman he loves by revealing his true power?

As far as Lucien being sole heir to the Day Court, there is another possible outcome where Helion wins the blood duel (thus securing Eris's place as the new High Lord of Autumn, another long established plotline) and Lady Autumn and Helion get a second chance while Lucien still chooses his found family. Or, at the very least, as long of a life with Vassa as he could get before taking up the Day Court. Sarah also of course has had both mortal characters choose mortal life spans for love (Elorcan) or make mortals immortal (Feyre and Miryam.) However, Lucien stated he never had any interest in being a high lord. Of course this is up for interpretation, but I believe his character development still maintains that. This man has been through so much. He just wants to live in peace, and I think it would be a beautiful thing to know that his mother is now safe and not a political pawn.

Speaking of political pawns, this is also why I believe Elain and Lucien have a lot to heal with each other. When Lucien discovers that he could have been raised by Helion and not Beron, but his mother was sold and used as a political pawn and her agency taken away, he is going to face quite a few demons. I do not personally think Lucien's story (or Elain's) is most powerfully served by he and Elain choosing to de-escalate all the conflict and spend time with each other and wind up falling in love. It COULD happen, and if it's what Sarah chooses to do, it will be lovely! But Elain is such a mirror to Lucien's own mother. The only difference being that Lucien is a good male while Beron is a monster. Lucien, when faced with this, would be motivated to prevent his story repeating itself. Elain and Lucien's mother are the only two alive today presenting as unhappy with their pairings. I believe this is what Sarah was referring to when she said Elain was a better mate for Lucien than Nesta (her original plan) because of the healing they could provide each other. While I am not stating this as fact, it is my opinion that there is enough foreshadowing for rejected mating bonds, the suffering of poor matches and females being owned with archaic laws, that Sarah always intended to have Lucien participate in the rejected mating bond story line with one of the Archeron sisters. Lucien and Elain as a rejected bond is a much better fit as Lucien and Elain are actually both quite passive about their mating bond, letting the plot develop and build elsewhere whereas Nesta would have likely just burnt Lucien to a crisp or had it take up a lot more of ACOSF which would have been truly tough to fit in.

I could go on and literally plot out the whole book beat by beat with the Hero's Journey, but I would be here all day. I truly think Lucien and Vassa in the Firebird Legends would be so beautiful and powerful. I've teared up thinking about it! It always disheartens me to see characters getting thrown under the bus for the ship wars, or to be accused of hating Lucien because I ship Elriel. I am brand new to the online ship space, and this was truly how I experienced the books as someone who loves all the characters and wants the best for them. I believe Lucien has been nothing but respectful towards Elain and deserves to be happy. I just don't think Elain is his happiness. Even Feyre and Rhys had moments of trust and connection building in A Court of Thorns and Roses before ACOMAF. Their relationship was not out of left field at all. Elain and Lucien have a LOT of work to do to make their interest in each other suddenly believable, and in my opinion now we are getting into poorly paced and structured writing to accommodate it.

I've definitely seen compelling compilations about how both Elain and Lucien are tied to Koschei and it could just as easily be their shared love story while saving Vassa, and I won't go into a rage if that is what happens. It is simply difficult for me to ignore all the conflicts that would conveniently resolve and obstacles that would be removed. I know people love to call the three brothers and three sisters "lazy" but three is simply a motif, not book structure or line level prose. In my opinion, a sudden resolution to active political conflicts by putting two characters together is much lazier when it comes to the actual writing of the book.

These are just my musings, and the things I picked up on whilst reading (and re-reading a million times tbh) and experiencing books! What do you guys think of Vassien? I personally am so excited by how beautiful it could be!

#elriel #vassien #elain x azriel #lucien x vassa #elain archeron #pro elain #pro elain archeron

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