#starry raven writing
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Sneak peak at Stormy Skies
Might as well give you all something since it's been a few days since I've posted anything story related.
Tags: @forestshadow-wolf @queermentaldisaster (let me know if you'd like to be added)
SNEAK PEAK:
“Mykie? Where ya at?” A familiar Scottish voice spoke up from the bedroom, making Mykyta jump a bit. He looked over at the doorway of the bathroom just as Soap got over there. “There ya ‘re, lad. I was wonderin’ where ya were.” He smiled before it faded when he saw the tears starting to spill down the shorter man’s cheeks, making him worry. “Och, why the tears m’eudail?” He asked softly as he gently wiped the tears away with his thumb.
He flinched when he was touched but melted into the taller man’s touch after a few seconds. “The usual.” That was the only thing he needed to say. “I look at the mirror and what I see hurts, Johnny…” He whispered as he felt a new wave of tears roll down his pale cheeks. “Even after everything I still see it.” His voice was wobbly as he spoke up.
#convo posts#cod oc#john soap mactavish#cod oc: night#cod#aaaaaa#call of duty#starry raven writing#oc x canon#angsty comfort#y'all have been fed U^U
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I love it when Elrond is portrayed as someone who is a little bit incomprehensible to most of the elves at first. Not even just because he's a half-elf, but because he reminds them all of so many other people, and that layering can be kind of jarring.
He sings beautifully, with a voice that sounds like no elf or man, and it reminds many of the Sindar of Luthien. It reminds some of the Noldor of someone else, another singer with raven-dark hair and starry gray eyes.
The braids he does his hair in– and he always keeps it braided at first, because letting it run loose is another thing that makes people whisper of Luthien– are in the traditional Noldor style. The survivors of Gondolin love that; Turgon always wore his hair in classical styles too. The other part of the House of Finwe that clung to traditional braids goes unmentioned. But everyone knows.
And he was clearly taught about court manners; taught to be gracious and charming, and a very good listener. The elf who could have taught Elrond those things is usually skipped over entirely, in favor of those reminiscing about Idril's graceful poise or Melian's endless patience.
He looks very much like Luthien, but there is a particular Finwean sharpness in his facial structure; something that makes him look a lot like Fingolfin, as well. Fingolfin looked very much like his father. And his older brother.
His smile is just like Earendil's (whose smile is just like Tuor's), and his strange, birdlike laugh is from Elwing. He fights and writes with his left hand– but then, so did Earendil, because while all elves are right-handed, not all humans or half-elves are. He eats no meat– just like Beren, they say, but the way Elrond tells it the choice had nothing to do with that history. There is ainuric power in him and something very human in the set of his shoulders. The flowers grow around any place he stays long enough. He gets sick in a way no elf, and certainly no maia, ever would. His accent is odd, and archaic, and changes noticeably when he's too tired to obscure it. His mannerisms are a mixture of about twelve people, almost all of whom are dead, and several of whom are not spoken of by the time he shows up in Gil-Galad's camp.
And the reflections of Elrond unsettle a lot of people; because one moment they see a fallen hero or loved one, and the next they see the person that took them. Or perhaps someone else, that they never knew at all. There is reverence and fear and uncertainty. It's messy.
Elrond himself is coming to peace with this by the War of Wrath. There is love in carrying the parts of your ancestors with you, even when they aren't around any more. And he knows better than anyone that he is always himself, first and foremost. Still, it takes everyone else a while to stop seeing a ghost and start seeing Elrond.
#silmarillion#silm headcanons#elrond#elrond peredhel#eldritch peredhel#maglor#maedhros#kidnap fam#earendil#elwing#luthien#it's Elrond hours in my brain again#*holds gently*#he deserves everything#he's never met any of his grandparents or other ancestors but he still has something from all of them
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Hello! you would write to aemond x reader. Where she goes to Storm's End, trading instead of her brother, and instead of asking for Lucerys' eye, Aemond claims her as his wife.
To Have and to Hold
Aemond Targaryen x F!Velaryon (Strong)!Reader
Warnings: violence, NSFW, incest
Word count: 3583
A.N: Reader is the middle sister of Lucerys and Jacaerys. This is a good old enemies-to-lovers story with a happy ending.
The family was gathered around the painted table. Plans were made and changed and remade altogether in mere seconds, the lords loyal to your mother scrambling to do everything all at once to secure her rightful claim to the throne.
“Send us, mother. Dragons are faster than ravens,” Jacaerys insisted when the matter of reaffirming old oaths came up.
On your mother’s command, he was to fly south and Lucerys was to fly north, to Storm’s End. Luke agreed to the task, yet you could tell his hesitance from the way he tried to conceal his fidgeting. The rattled nerves made him seem smaller than he was as he hunched over, nodding to the duty given to him.
So you stepped up, though only after the meeting was adjourned. Lucerys was too proud to allow what you have intended otherwise, but you were too fond of your baby brother to let him fly through the treacherous weather of the North alone.
“Mother. A word, please?”
Rhaenyra intended Lucerys to familiarize himself with diplomatic duties which were sure to come in waves following her own coronation. Your proposal was compelling nevertheless. Storm’s End was a flight too difficult for your younger brother to make alone, and you as his companion might soothe his nerves and might even compel Lord Borros Baratheon to be kinder to the message you were to deliver.
“Very well, then,” Rhaenyra reluctantly agreed to your proposal but only on the condition that you would go in peace: as envoys and not as warriors.
The flight to Storm’s End was uneventful. With jokes and friendly teasing, it almost felt like your regular flights above the Dragonstone on beautiful mornings and starry nights. Except there was strong wind and downpour all at once, and Lucerys became quieter as you approached your destination.
“Come on, Luke. I will race you to the courtyard!”
Your dragon was older, not big enough on her own to be considered mature yet, but bigger in comparison to Arrax, which made Arrax faster in contrast.
So Luke landed first, and you were mere minutes behind him.
“Well done, brother. You beat me. You shall have my slice of the pie this supper.”
But Lucerys didn’t seem excited about what would make him jump up and down if it were any other time. He didn’t even smile. He was facing his sister with a hand gripping the saddle on Arrax and the other clutching the hilt of his sword, but his young face was contorted in concern as he looked through her. If you hadn’t known him better, you’d almost misread it for fear.
“What is it?” You asked, but Luke only remained motionless, looking beyond to the walls of the keep.
It was then that you saw it in the flash of lightning that lit up the sky for a moment. Vhagar. She was big enough to make the outer walls of the keep seem like miniatures. You gulped, though remained stoic on the outside for the sake of your younger brother. You accompanied him to support him, not to plummet him down into the endless pit of fear. Vhagar meant, however, the Prince you’d rather see the least had beaten you to Lord Borros. You only hoped he was given a chamber of his own, and you’d deliver your message and slip out without ever facing him.
“Come on, Luke. Let us haste. Mother’s expecting us back for supper.”
The dark and empty hall was as hostile as its Lord. And in the corner stood Aemond Targaryen with one of Lord Borros’ daughters. She seemed tense. You could tell, because so were you.
“Come on, Luke.” You nudged your brother, and he held the sealed message out for the guards.
As the Maester to Lord Borros slowly dragged his feet to his master’s seat and relayed the message to him in hushed whispers, your eyes were trained on Aemond’s. He stood tall and proud, looking at you and your brother with disdain in his eyes and disgust in the way his lips curled up.
Luke clutched his sword once again, and you squeezed his shoulder. “Let go of it, brother. Remember your oath to mother.”
With Luke unable to marry, Lord Borros without a son to offer you, and most importantly, with sweet promises laced with poison seeping into his ear all the way from King’s Landing, Borros Baratheon broke his oath. On any other day, you’d remain and quarrel, threaten the Baratheon forces to bend the knee to the true Queen and not to the Usurper King, but on that day, you wished nothing more than to escort your brother out to safety.
“We thank you for your consideration, Lord Borros,” you spoke without reverence. A turncloak deserved only the traitor’s death. But you’d return for it another day.
Meanwhile, Aemond’s gaze burned into the back of your head as you put a hand on Luke’s back to signal him it was way past your time for departure.
“Wait, my Lord and Lady Strong!” Aemond’s humiliating tone echoed off the walls.
“Luke—”
Fiery as ever, Luke shrugged your hand off and turned on his heels to face Aemond.
“Mind your tongue! Apologize to my dear sister right now!”
“Hm. How about you apologize to me for trying to steal my brother’s crown, traitor?”
“I will do no such thing!”
“Then you are a coward as well as a traitor and I will have your eye, bastard.”
Aemond ripped the dagger from its sheath and threw it flying towards Y/N and her older brother.
With each lightning that struck, the sapphire eye in place of the one Luke once slashed out glimmered. It seemed as if it had a mind of its own, no doubt just as vile and dangerous as its owner.
“As payment for mine.”
“No,” Lucerys stood his ground.
Aemond all but jumped forward then, spurred on by the courage of a boy he saw inferior to him in all regards. Lucerys to stand against him, tall and proud, was a massive hit to his pride.
As Aemond picked up his dagger and moved for Lucerys, you stepped in between your brother and uncle.
“NO! No!”
Your intervention caught Aemond by surprise. He was intrigued, amused, even. What a fine, fiery woman his nephew has turned out to be. Shame she was a bastard all the same.
“Please— Aemond. My Prince. Please—”
“What? Do you plead to pitch in?” he stared into Y/N’s eyes then. He was unyielding, unflinching.
“Luke, go. I command you. As your sister, I command you to leave!” You pleaded with Lucerys, but he stood unmoving behind you.
“Lucerys!”
“No…” Aemond was amused. “No, your eyes are of no value to me. I want his eye!”
Luke would have escaped had it not been for his older sister. He would have turned around and made it to his dragon as you demanded. Yet, only a few acts were more loathsome than leaving kin to the wolves. Besides, Rhaenyra would’ve shredded him to bits and fed him to Arrax for all to see.
So Luke kneeled to take the dagger. Aemond’s request was fair after all.
“Perhaps not my eyes,” You spoke hastily with your hand wrapped around Luke’s wrist in an effort to stop him.
“But demand what you deem worthy of me and you shall have it. I beg of you, Aemond. Let my baby brother return to our mother. He came only as an envoy. He means no harm to you.”
“Hm.” He seemed to consider the offer genuinely that time. “As if you could harm me if you tried. Well, it seems the girl has bigger balls than you, bastard. You’re strong only in name, Lord Strong.”
Then he turned his attention back to you with a cruel smirk that pressed his lips into a thin line.
“You would trade your life, no matter how worthless, for your bastard brother?”
“If it is my life you demand, you shall have it. But allow my brother safe passage first.”
It was Lucerys’ turn to protest then, but you took a step forward, hoping that Aemond would be merciful enough to at least spare your brother the grim sight of the execution of his sister.
“I won’t kill you, dear Nephew. Oh, no. That would be entertainment for what? an hour? No, I will marry you,” His eye widened and he grinned as if a child got a platter of cakes and pies all to himself.
“Go on, then, pup,” He nodded to Lucerys pulling at the sleeves of your damp travelling coat, begging you to stop.
“Go with your worthless life and carry the heavy news to your false Queen—that her daughter is to be defiled by Prince Aemond. Perhaps she will be overjoyed to see what true Targaryen offspring looks like.”
You were trembling then. From standing in a stone hall, dripping head to toe from the downpour you have just escaped from, or from the cruel design Aemond has traded you for your brother’s eye, you didn’t know.
Your brother was looking at you incredulously, clutching Aemond’s dagger with his shaking hand.
“Go—go, Lucerys,” you mumbled between shaky breaths that threatened to explode into a sobbing fit. “You’ve heard Prince Aemond. Relay the news to the Queen.”
“Sister—I won’t leave you—”
“How sad,” Aemond spoke joylessly, mocking Luke with his lips downturned in an exaggerated fashion. “Will you cry, pup?”
“Sister, I shall return. I promise—”
“You will do no such thing, Lucerys,” your back was turned to him, your tears concealed from his vision. “Now go.”
“Oh, and I will have this back,” Aemond reached behind Lucerys, tearing the dagger from his hand and sheating it back to its place on his belt.
Aemond took his leave after Lucerys’, all but dragging you to Vhagar. You grappled to reach for your own dragon but to no avail. Aemond’s vice grip would sooner rip your arm from your shoulder before he let you loose.
“Did you think I would let you fly on your own? What do you take me for, a fool?”
“No. You are no fool. But you are a cruel monster.”
It seemed to please him, and he snorted.
“A monster who is nought but a bully had it not been for his dragon!”
That, however, seemed to have gotten to him. He stopped in his track under the downpour abruptly and struck you across the face. It was your time to grin. For all his quiet mystery, his underbelly was clear as day.
“My Prince forgets who was there on the night he usurped Vhagar from her rightful successors. You were but a scared child who stole what you did not deserve.”
His fingers wrapped around your neck, squeezing so tight that your vision soon turned blurry and you gasped desperately, clawing at his on your throat. There was nothing but fury in his eye, wide with surprise that a woman would speak so plainly to him, and red with rage and the rain.
“Speak but another word and I shall send your skull to your whore of a mother!”
He let go and you collapsed to your knees, coughing and gasping for air. Then came waves of hiccups and sobs, not out of fear or misery but out of utter wrath.
“Save your tears. If it is sympathy you hope for, you shall get none from me. You are a foul bastard just like the rest of your brood and you shall be treated as one.”
Deep down, however, the deal he had just struck excited Aemond. His mouth watered at the thought of his reluctant but fiery bride in their marital bed, as they consummated the marriage and repeated the act over and over again until her belly was swollen and ran around the Red Keep children of Aemond’s own.
She was still a filthy bastard in his eye, yet if he had to choose one of his nieces to tolerate, he’d gladly choose Y/N over the others. Back when they all grew up on King’s Landing, he did have a crush on her, after all. Though it was silly, and he ripped the roots of it long ago. At least he thought so.
Something about her dark hair, livelier complexion, and eyes… her eyes. The defiance and pride in them. And she was brave; braver than most, braver than even his drunk, sorry excuse of a brother and father.
Back at King’s Landing, Alicent was rightfully outraged by the turn of events. Of course, you didn’t expect a warm welcome from your mother-in-law, and you didn’t get one.
Most of your days leading up to the wedding were spent in a chamber of your own with your door locked and latched on you and with a Kingsguard standing watch at all times. It was lonely, except for when Aemond came to visit, which he did almost every night.
He sat by the fireplace and you sat on the bed. Though at first not a lot of words were spoken, soon you realized just how much his conversation entertained you, and that you looked forward to his visits.
It was one of those nights that he stopped by with a heavy book under his arm.
“I had the Maester copy this for you,” he spoke dryly, but he had a hint of a self-satisfied smile on his lips.
He set the book down on the table and flipped through the pages.
“If you put your nose to it, you can still smell the ink.”
Aemond didn’t expect you to indulge him the way you did. You walked up to him, and with your cheek to his, joined him in inhaling the scent of ink on parchment pages.
“What is it about? The book?” You asked with genuine interest, flipping through the pages as Aemond pulled away to look at you incredulously. You weren’t resisting him, dismissing him, or threatening him with a slit throat in his sleep as you usually did.
“It’s—it’s on the history of Valyria. This is the first volume of many.”
“Oh, I remember this book.”
“You do?”
“Yes!” You pulled away with a proud smile of your own. For a moment, you looked like two ordinary lovers conversing by the fire, not enemies who supposed to hate each other and about to be united only as torture for one another.
“Remember Aunt Leana’s funeral?”
Of course he did. That was when you mocked Aemond for not being a dragon rider still, and told him the Gods were cruel not to give him the handsome face Aegon was blessed with. How silly were you back then. But how could you know that Aemond would grow up to be the Prince you’d fall for day after day?
“Yes?” he responded warily.
“Well, you were reading this then. I tore a page out, and you were so cross you told on me to my mother,” you giggled, giving him a playful slap on the shoulder before seating yourself by the fireplace.
Aemond smiled as well, approaching his usual seat cautiously as if not to spook a skittish prey. When you nursed your cup of wine without a flinch, he sat by you. Though his face was turned to the fire, he stole quick glances at your face, your neckline revealed by your evening robe, and your delicate, ringed fingers wrapped around the cup.
“Regretfully, you were fluent in High Valyrian back then and I knew very little, and nothing much has changed ever since.”
“Oh,” Aemond caught your eyes, searching for the dark, burning dislike you had for him that he came to expect. Instead your face was relaxed, and your eyes were almost that of a lover’s. Then, you reached for his hand. It must be the wine, Aemond thought. What else?
“You shall have to teach me.”
“I shall arrange the Maester—”
“I asked you, Aemond, not the Maester.”
From then on, Aemond visited you every night without fail. He came earlier and left later into the night. Though he always brought books, parchment and ink, very little High Valyrian was actually studied. His days were eventful and you loved to listen, and he loved the way you reminisced their days of youth.
So, on a night like that, with your hand on his over the table, you spoke the words that almost stopped his heart.
“I wish you would stay the night, Aemond. It gets awfully lonely some nights.”
He blinked a few times, unsure if his ears heard what you spoke, or what he so desperately wished you would.
“It—it would be improper before the wedding.”
“You took me hostage, Aemond. Traditions are obeyed very little in our marriage.”
That night was the first time you called what was slowly blossoming between him and you a marriage. The words you spoke took him by surprise, just as the way you said them—playfully, with no hatred or resentment.
“You offered yourself up. I was content enough having your brother’s eye.” That was Aemond’s attempt at humour in response, a macabre and perhaps a twisted one that would have gotten raise out of any other woman. Yet you only looked at him for a second, then laughed.
“Yet you did not have to lock me up. I would not have run.”
“No, but my brother would have stolen you from me.”
“Oh, surely. Aegon did promise to demonstrate to me… what was it? Real manhood in case you ever failed to do so.”
“He did?” Aemond frowned. Was that what jealousy felt like?
“Mmhm. I told him I was confident you would make a good husband.”
Though the ceremony was mere days away, Aemond was still not used to being called your husband, especially by you, and he barely got used to wearing a band of gold around his ring finger.
“This would be a good time to say that I would make a good wife, as well,” you joked, hoping to pull Aemond out of his moment of silence.
Instead, Aemond stared at you. He was unblinking and impossible to read. Indeed because his face was impossible to read, it came to you as a surprise when he closed the distance between you and himself and locked his lips with yours.
It was gentle, way gentler than you assumed Aemond was capable of. When he pulled back just enough to study your face, you only whispered “Do it again.”
The caution and restraint went out the window then. His tongue danced across yours and you gripped each other desperately, pulling at your clothes and moaning your names.
Aemond ended up not only staying the night as you asked but consummating your marriage even before the ceremony itself.
It was gentle and cautious at first, but only briefly, before baser and more primal urges overtook you both. You woke up in Aemond’s arms with a dull but sweet ache between your legs and marks in the shape of his mouth and fingers all over your body. Likewise, Aemond woke up with raw lines of skin where your nails had dug into his flesh.
You took your bath together, and Aemond postponed his sword practice for a private noon at the library with you. Though it came as a surprise to neither of you that there was more kissing and touching than reading.
Then, things changed rapidly. Your door was no longer locked, though that might very well be because you all but moved into Aemond’s quarters. You became inseparable. You were there with a book or your embroidery when Aemond trained, you flew together, broke fast and had supper together in his bedchamber.
The only time you regretfully parted was when Alicent—who also surprisingly became like a mother to you, and you a daughter to her— insisted that your fitting for the wedding gown must be kept private and away from the prying eye of the groom. It was bad luck, she insisted, if Aemond saw you in your gown before the ceremony.
“And have you asked mother and the Septa if it is good luck or bad if I have you in your gown?” Aemond teased you, making you blush whenever his words came back to you as the tailors worked ceaselessly to finish the dress before the ceremony.
Neither of you could say if it was indeed bad luck or not, but you found out that it was delightful when Aemond lifted your heavy skirt up and snuck between your legs on your wedding night. He had you in it, just as he promised. Though it was a shame that he grew too impatient to undo the ribbons and laces, so he instead tore and ripped the dress apart, leaving it as a cut of tattered, expensive silk on the floor as the night went on.
You saw the sorry state of the dress in the morning. Well, as much of it as you could see from Aemond’s arms around you, keeping you flush on his body.
“Aemond! You shall never see me wear a lovely dress as this once was for you again!”
“My sweet wife, you should not wear anything for me,” Aemond whispered groggily, still in the sweet clutches of slumber, and he pulled you for a kiss that promised you would not be leaving his bedchamber for the day.
Aemond Tag (let me know if you'd like to be added to it):
@cherishedauthor @schniiipsel @verycollectivecreator @dangerousbluebirdpoetry @aemcndtargaryen @m1ndbrand @iorveth-scoiatael @let-love-bleeds-red @imakeangelscry @midnightindiewolf @queereddie @thatawkwardlittlefangirl @nighttwingg @mllemarianne @lomllino @tinykryptonitewerewolf @mirandastuckinthe80s @loverandqueenofdragons @fultimefangirl @lenasvoid
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ii. another man’s comfort.
pairing. aemond targaryen x fem!reader
synopsis. a wedding calls you north, your duty calls you to your husband, your heart calls you to aemond.
warnings. stark!reader, infidelity, purity culture, canon misogyny, deviations from canon (set in 132 ac, the greens win the war), smut (nipple play, dirty talk, dry humping). just so we’re clear, this is set a few years after part one !!
word count. 15.8k (oops.)
hyde’s input. fucked around and accidentally got emotionally invested in aemond x another man's!reader's relationship and now you're all going to have to deal with a series dedicated to them... i reminded myself of why i hate writing world-building within fics, i wish i could just write things easily and have everyone understand the way the world is within my fic without me having to deviate into long paragraphs of plot exposure.
taglist. @schniiipsel @b00kdiary @promisiary @yyiebbg
another man’s series. feast. comfort. pleasure (coming soon).
read on ao3.
there are times where you question if aegon was born insufferable.
surely not, you’d argue with yourself, for there must have been a time where aegon was no more than a small babe in need of his mother’s teat, or a starry-eyed child looking up to the only father-figure he’d ever have and begging the knight to teach him to man a sword with the same skill, or a growing boy finding beauty for the first time within a lady’s complexion.
and then, as if he can hear your every thought, aegon goes and proves you wrong.
“why should i waste my time on some boat that stinks of salt and peasants?”
“because your wife will be on that boat.” the eldest of the hightowers is not a man you are particularly familiar with, and, yet, with the few interactions you’ve both shared, he’s always struck you as possessing two traits: an ambitious lust for power and the drive to do right by his family.
unfortunately for otto hightower, these two things can never coexist in peace.
“my wife goes to the privy to take a shit, need i accompany her there too?”
“aegon!” alicent hightower speaks up for the first time in what feels like an eternity, and it does wonders to lessen the tense feeling in your shoulders, which deflate on command as your husband’s mother rests her hand atop your own. “have some respect!”
the topic of conversation is one you blame yourself for, having foolishly brought up your brother’s upcoming wedding when asked by sweet helaena what you looked most forward to in the upcoming moons, with a hand resting on the growing swell of her stomach and her other placed delicately in the hold of her husband’s, one qoren martell.
the pair were a love match, unexpected as that may be, meeting by chance on one of the many times otto hightower had attempted to barter for the lord of sunspear to aid the greens in the war of dragonlords. the martell boy took no interest in the war, leaving the family to fight their own troubles- and their own kin- but he took great interest in the pretty blonde daughter and, not even a night after the war had met it’s conclusion with the parading of the rogue prince’s head and the charred remains of the black queen throughout the city of king’s landing, he had her wedded and bedded.
the raven that carried news of cregan’s remarrying was one that came with no warning. nearing a half decade since the passing of his beloved first wife, with already an heir born to succeed him once he should pass on, your brother had not only no need for remarrying, he’d also voiced no interest.
until he let himself be enchanted by the blackwood daughter.
it’s pitiful, really, how your elder brother could discover something as fickle as love not once in this lifetime, but twice, while you find yourself shackled to a man who’d likely rejoice at your demise.
“what kind of message would i be sending to the northern cunts if i dock their shores instead of arriving on dragonsback, like the targaryen king i am?” it’s a card aegon has not once failed to play since his war-inducing coronation, a constant reminder of the power his mother and grandsire have bestowed upon him against his wishes, much like his betrothal to you. “sunfyre will deliver me to winterfell quicker than the most royal of fleets.”
“aegon, this is not a debate.” the strident words echo in the small dinning hall for a flurry of moments after otto hightower has spoken them, face baring fury and hand grasping chalice. all have fallen quiet: at the table, among the serving folk, within their own thoughts. “your wife will be on that boat, as will you. you’ll depart together, arrive together, and you will do good to remind lord stark of the great care you swore to give his dearest sister three years ago in exchange for his support for the throne. he has held his side of the bargain and it is time you show him you have too.”
only, he hasn’t.
“she doesn’t need me there!” aegon has this ability to somehow sound like a spoilt child and a boy who’s been deprived of his every want, all at once. “helaena will be on the ship to keep her company. perhaps she can give my dear wife some tips on how to finally make use of her womb.”
a chair scrapes the ground.
loud, poignant, silencing. the one eyed prince stands tall, a foreboding figure who’s still features only serve to rouse a sense of unease, like the calm before the most brutal of storms. aemond perches forward in a sluggish motion, as though he’s thriving off the anticipation every serving wench casts for his next act, hands splayed out on the table and gaze fixed on the king. the two stand at opposite heads of the table and, as is the norm in recent years, exchange few words.
“i’m retiring to my chambers.”
you watch with baited breath as aemond’s eye meets your own and visibly softens, though only for a moment, like he’s apologising for your husband’s lack of tact when it comes to choosing which words to speak.
wishing to ask him to stay, you swallow down the plea with a sip of wine.
“you’re dismissed.” aegon grants him leave, knowing full well the prince was not asking for permission.
it has all been one big power-play between these two targaryen men- the words they speak, the looks they share, the decisions they make- since they defeated their enemies and lost the vehicle in which to deviate their inner-family conflicts.
“it’s no bother, truly, lady alicent.” finding the nerve to speak had seemed impossible mere moments ago, yet the voice within your own head tells you it’ll garner the attention of a certain prince. the voice is correct. “his grace is true in his words, there’s no reason he should accompany me on ship. the journey is that of sixteen sleeps, and that is only if the seas treat us kindly. the ruler of the seven kingdoms should not waste his time with such a silly thing when he has a dragon at his disposal. and, though i do not agree with his choice of words to describe the people of my ancestors’ lands, the northern folk would do good to see their king on dragonback, if only to remind them all of his great power and the protection it brings them.”
from the corner of your eye, though you give your best effort to not cast your gaze in his direction, you witness a look of disagreement bleed onto aemond’s face, as though the words of flattery you speak in honour of your husband serve as daggers piercing his flesh and bone.
helaena speaks up before the one-eyed prince can.
“are you sure, sister?” your heart melts under the warmth in which the princess addresses you, smile upon her face and care within her voice. growing up with only brothers, you’d never known the true joy of having a sister, till the day you married into the tortured targaryen household and the sweet girl who made friends with slugs approached you with the proposition of tea in her chambers. “mother only thought it best aegon accompany you to help you feel at home on the ship, as my own lord husband shall do for me.”
“i thought it best, my dear girl, after helaena told me of your own discomfort on ships.” alicent smiles meekly and, in your defence, you do your very best to meet her halfway but you’re certain your face is more wrinkled in displeasure than intended.
you do not enjoy the way everyone’s eyes are so focused on you, especially when aegon looks at you with a challenge, daring you to say something to land him on a ship rather than his fearsome mount, and when aemond casts his undivided attention onto you, no emotion in his eye yet the faintest clench of his jaw tells you he cares about what you say next.
for better or for worse, he cares and it is enough to tear you apart.
“ah, i see there’s been some misunderstanding.” anyone smart enough notices the waver in your voice, no matter how quick you are to mask it beneath an empty chuckle and a dishonest smile. “what helaena said is true, yes, i was once afraid of ships. but this was many years back, when i was a child. i’m far better now. so, truly, i insist the king should travel on dragonsback. perhaps we could even send for daeron to attend, it would be an excellent first sighting of the three targaryen men and their mounts since the end of the war.”
“what an excellent idea, your grace.” otto hightower flashes a kindhearted smile your way, giving two quick claps of his hand before requesting a serving wench refill his cup. “your wife truly is a gem to this family, aegon. you have no idea how fortunate you are to stand with such a woman by your side.”
you smile gratefully, aegon laughs dishonestly, aemond tenses visibly.
“no, he does not.” and, with that, the one-eyed prince retreats to his chambers, paying no mind to the continued festivities of his family nor the way your eyes follow him out of the room.aegon makes no attempt to awaken and bid you goodbye.
aegon makes no attempt to awaken and bid you goodbye.
it comes as no surprise to you. despite three years having passed since you had both sworn oaths to honour one another, the young king had made no place for himself in your marital bed, preferring the warmth of a woman bought with coin over a lady traded through politics.
there was a moment, singular though still there, after the ringing of the bells and the announcement of peace at last in the realm, after hours of plundering himself in cups of mead at the feast to end all feasts- thrown in honour of the man who slayed the last of the crown’s enemies: aemond targaryen- in which aegon gave his best effort to act like the dutiful husband he’d sworn to be. he’d lead you in stumbled dances, lay kisses on your fingers, smiled earnestly at the things you’d spoke of. and, while you’re certain it was all simply a show for your elder brother who was in attendance, you’d cherished the fleeting affection.
the moment passed when prince aemond asked for your hand in dance and the king stormed out of the hall with a jug of wine in one hand and an unfortunate serving girl in the other.
while your husband’s absence was one you’ve grown used to, the glances of pity from those who work the halls of the keep still twist your guts in knots that sting your throat with bile and your eyes with tears.
they’ve been all around you this morning, from the maidens who dressed you to the squires who carried your trunks of clothing down to the carriage.
even your sworn shield, ser arryk cargyll, can not mask his solemn eyes this morning.
“i will meet you at the docks, your grace." he does his best, nonetheless, hand steady as he guides you up the wooden steps to the royal carriage. “myself and two other brothers of the kingsguard will arrive first, as to ensure your safe arrival before the people.”
his words bring no comfort, not when you know full-well what your ensured safety means: harmless innocents seeking only to glance upon the queen being pushed and shoved and kicked to the ground. you’d seen it all before, in the few times you’d meant to greet the smiling faces of the small folk, only to unintentionally bring them harm as the guards surrounded you.
you’ve learnt to stay within the castle, looking upon the city through cracks in the walls and your chamber balcony, longing to know what it’s like to be part of the nightly festivities or the daily markets with the people of your husband’s land.
after casting an appreciative smile toward the knight, you enter the carriage and welcome the peace of the door shutting behind you, alone at last for the first time since you’d been shaken awake at dawn.
sinking into the cushioned seat on the right-end, you heave a sigh and smooth your dampened palms over the skirt of your gown. these days this seems to be the only facet of your life you have control over: the clothes you wear. this morning you’d chosen blindly, eyes still clouded in unfulfilled rest and unable to truly notice which garment you’d pointed at. now awake and aware of the world around, you find yourself dressed in something you’d sworn to save for a special occasion, like a royal tourney or the festival of the mother.
instead, you’ve wasted it on a carriage ride.
the gown is not the prettiest, nor the most lavish one you own, and you’re sure it would rouse whispers of impropriety among the ladies in the court, each of them adding new detail to the scandal of the queen and her unbefitting wardrobe.
instead of it’s looks, the dress holds your favour in the memory it holds in it’s seams.
you’d received it on your second nameday within the castle, amid a war for the throne and sat at a feast made up only of your good-mother, the sweet helaena, otto hightower and your wine stained husband. as the evening came to a close, a pair of your handmaidens entered the dining hall, a great box carried between them. presenting it at you feet, they’d loudly proclaimed the gift was from aegon himself, which sent you near flying out your seat, for your lord husband had bothered naught to get you a single gift on the first nameday you’d spent under his roof.
the sight of the dress itself furthered your shock, a beauty of onyx black silks and leathered details, the emerald green three-headed dragon crest which adorned the centrepiece of the gown’s chest making you feel part of the targaryen family. what caught your eye truly, though, was the stitching that held the dress together, the faintest saphire blue on a dark canvas.
you’d loved the gown enough to ignore how aegon failed to discreetly whisper to his mother in his drunken confussion, swearing up and down that he’d gotten you no such gift.
tracing your finger over the blue stitching now, you smile and wonder where exactly your husband’s mother or sister must have commissioned such a gown.
the carriage has yet to commence moving. you assume it’s waiting for the kingsguard to depart first, and let your heavy eyelids shut, body melting slowly down toward the bench till you’re splayed across it, hoping to fall deep enough into sleep to not notice when the carriage shakes alive with movement.
instead, the door bursts open once more and you rush to sit up-right, gods forbid someone catch the queen resting.
“i see you’ve made yourself comfortable.” a voice, calm as a gentle breeze on the warmest of summer days, brushes over you and your eyes find his.
there he stands, smelling of the leathered coat he wears and of the smoke of past rides upon dragonsback and of the freshest of linens you imagine he lines his bed with. he’s too tall, too large for the measly doorway into the carriage, and so he near-bends himself in two to slip through and into the bench across from you, door closing once more, leaving only you and him.
the queen and the prince.
lady stark and aemond targaryen.
if ever the history books were to write of this encounter, one day once both your bodies have decayed and nothing remains but the legacy of your names, you hope whoever the author may be will make sure to mention that the carriage jolted awake before you could kick the prince out.
the history books have told greater lies, after all.
“what are you doing here?” it comes out of you with accusation, as if the one-eyed prince means you harm, and you cringe, readjusting yourself till you sit as perfectly poised as him and his stretched spine. you clear your throat of surprise and aim to start over again. “i thought you were in oldtown alongside prince daeron. what brings you here instead?”
“a change in plans, lady stark.” aemond has not once addressed you by your royal title since the crowning of his brother, the only one within the realm to not do so. and while some whispered of this being a sign of the prince’s distaste of you or his refusal to acknowledge you as the true queen of westeros, you’ve always found comfort in it, as though he views you as unchanged since all the bloodshed and expectation bearing and tiara wearing had begun. “it seems neither my sister nor her husband will be joining you on the ship after all. with the impending arrival of their child the pair thought it best they return to the martells’ homeland and surround themselves with the care they’ll need should the babe make an early arrival."
you cannot quite place your finger on why his answer brings forth the feeling of disappoinment, like you’d been hoping there was a greater reason for his presence than mere last-ditch efforts to ensure you not be sent alone up north.
“that’s delightful!” you find yourself leaking false excitement, a smile breaking over your face till the muscles in your cheek ache and the skin pulls imposibly tight. most certainly the prince must find your look rather deranged. you try and correct both your demeanor and your words. “that helaena may meet her child soon, i mean. it’s a shame she can not join me, i’d hoped to make up for the time we’ve spent apart since her marriage.”
“yes, well, i’m afraid you’ll have to settle for my own presence instead.” his tone is ever sardonic and you’re not blind to the rolling of his eye. were you a braver woman, you’d perhaps take this moment to ask what you’ve done over the years to scorn him so badly he chooses to mess with your head, one moment warm- offering you the chance to dance while your husband drowns in his cups, delivering books to your chambers you’d mention in passing at the dining table when you were certain no one had heard you, interrupting conversations and saving you from sleazy lords who done their best to make passes at their queen- and the next moment cold- leaving the library everytime you find him there alone, sitting himself the furthest seat from you at every table, speaking with impatience and indifference any time he gets caught in conversation alone with you. you are cowardly, though, and instead you try to uphold your tired smile. “mother ordered that one of us accompany you and, though she pretends to not see, she is not blind to the fact aegon would deny her demands, so she insisted it be me. worry not, however, i’ll do my best to keep out your way.”
the wheels of the carriage must catch on something- a rock, a street cat, the foot of a passerby, you’ve no real clue- for you’re sent hurling out of your seat, hands flying out to break your fall against the floor and-
“if you’re this unsteady on dry land, i fear for your safety once we reach the northern seas.” his hands never touch your skin, yet you feel the heat of his touch burn your ailing heart and send warmth flying to the corner of your body you find it best to ignore.
yet you do not brush him off, allowing him to guide you back into your seat. the leather he wears squeaks as he sits back down and this is enough to break out a giggle from you, something so unserious about a stoic-faced prince and his noisy wardrobe.
“i’ll make sure to only send myself overboard,” you catch yourself before you say his name. a hand lands over the left side of your chest, where you feel the beating of your own heart beneath the layers of skin and the tissues of fat. a sign of oath-swearing. “you have my word.”
perhaps the fatigue has won at last, but you swear you almost catch a glimpse of a smile.
you collapse onto the bed with a heavy heart.
the dock had been littered with folk pleading to see their queen, dirtied faces and tattered clothes painting your view as the guards stood their ground, harshly shoving back those who ventured too closely.
one man had thrown himself at you from behind, arms long enough to grab at strands of your hair and yank you backwards. down you’d went, balance ripped from beneath your feet and pain splitting through your skull as you physically felt strands of hair ripped from their roots. you could hardly yelp before the man pulled again, hissing some obscene slurs aimed at your husband and his neglect for the impoverished folk.
his grip on you was released before he could pull a third time.
“touch her again and it will be the last time you have hands.” the prince never bothered with glancing your way, not even as he leant you his hand to pull yourself back up, positioning himself behind you till you were both aboard the ship.
you’d parted ways from there, a dozen of ladies-in-waiting swarming around you with questions of your wellness and offers to assist in carrying your possessions to your quarters. you’d hardly the chance to glance back at the prince, catching the sway of his hair as he walked alongside the captain, leading the way as the pair headed towards the ship’s helm.
only hours later, once exhausted and twice fed, did you make it to your room at last. accompanied by your sworn shield, the familiar man walked you down into the lower half of the vessel, away from the sounds of crashing waves and skwaking birds. a sour mixture of pity and shame staining the back of your throat as you passed by the open doors of the crew’s shared quarters, each so small it could hardly be considered a wardrobe, much less a room. the beds- if one could call them that- were stacked atop one another, leaving little room to breath between.
your logic tells you it’s sensical, needing to fit as many in a quarter to sleep the crew who man the boat. your heart tells you it’s unfair, leaving those of value in discomfort whilst you, no more helpful than a crying babe, are given your own room to be at ease in, soothing your aching body with rest after yet another day of not having to lift a single finger.
not even to open the door to your own quarters.
at the very back of the vessel, a fair length of empty hall between them and the crew, stand two doors side by side, both so identical in shape and colour, you were near sure you’d been seeing double. alas, ser arryk had pulled out a key, unlocked the door on the left and pushed it open, stepping aside and gesturing you inward.
“i’ll remain posted at your door each night, your grace,” he’d spoken with a softness in his tone. when you’d first met the man, you were still shaken from the consequences of a war freshly begun and he was grappling with the fact his own twin, the man who wore his same face, had switched sides in the fight for a new ruler. both broken, neither familiar with the other, a sense of solace was found among you both, cultivating over the years of war and, now, in peace at last. the knight has become a friend, a trusted companion, a reminder of your own brother and a taste of home so far away from the icy grounds of winterfell. “only in the day, post the breaking of your fast until the sun reaches the highest point in the sky, i will take my rest. prince aemond has agreed to guard your side during my hours of sleep, so you’ll be in safe hands.”
you’d thanked him with a nod and a squeeze of his hand, slipping into your temporary quarters, your new safe haven for the upcoming weeks of travel.
now- head upon goose-feathered pillows, shoulders falling lax at the freedom from prying eyes, chest a heaving mass of stress relieving exhales- you struggle to find the motivation to loosen your corset or relieve yourself of the stiff leathered arms of the dress.
for just a moment, you tell yourself as the weight of your eyelids becomes overbearing, i’ll rest. i’ll close my eyes and be anywhere but here, be anyone but me.
your eyes reopen hours later.
it’s dark past the window panes, what little of the moon that sits the sky this evening providing you with a glimmer of light. there’s resistance as you rise up, dress squeezing around your ribs, the ends of it already having traveled half way up your legs, a sign of your restless sleep antics.
an ache in your throat makes itself known as you pull in a breath, deep and calming, arms shooting out in a stretch that your gown limits. shuffling off the bed, you feel your way through the room, utilising what little light you have to spark a match and let the flame meet the thread of a candle. within moments, you’re doused in orange hues and your surroundings become tangible.
with a sip of water- a jug filled to the brim at your bedside you’ve only now just noticed- life returns to you once more, lips no longer drier than the deserts of dorne and eyes no longer heavier than a mass of stone. you focus this new found energy on undoing the threads of your corset, arms powering through the aches and pains of reaching backwards in such unnatural angles.
the dress hits the ground and air-flow returns to your lungs at last.
it’s on shaky feet that you take to exploring the room. it is much smaller than the royal chambers you’ve slept within since swearing vows beneath the seven, yet it brings you more comfort, a reminder of home, of winterfell.
with wooden floorboards, wooden walls, wooden ceiling, the first spark of colour is the bed which sits with it’s head beneath a window, the vast mass of sea-water and night sky a stark contrast to the pure white linen sheets atop the bed. at it’s foot sit your trunks, filled to the brim with gowns of green and gold and black. gaze moving from the bedside table over to a remarkably plain vanity, the sway of your chemise reminds you of the fact you stand in only your underclothing, far too thin and retaining no heat for a night’s rest aboard the ship.
a craving for your chamber’s fireplace warmth sparks within.
the feel of a shiver running down your spine urges you down to your knees, hands prying at the trunks clasps and ripping them open. you delve forward, seeking out the feel of one of your thicker, warmer, heavier night dresses, only to come back empty handed.
heaving a frustrated sigh, you drag yourself up from the floor. the cold has rapidly begun to nip at your near-bare skin, leaving evidence of it’s existence with skin of goose and shivers down spine and hardening of nipples. panic ensues, mind plundering into the depth of worries and ignoring the feeble cries of reason from within your mind.
surely, it tries to tell you, the maids have not forgotten to pack you warmer sleepwear.
it’s instinctual, how your eyes find the door. you know that the man stood on the other side, your protector, would have no troubles in finding you a lady willing to lend a chemise or two your way. it’s for the queen, is all he’d need say before the hypothetical lady begins to offer the clothes off her own back. the image leaves you unsettled, hand dropping back down to your side before you can fully clasp the doorknob and twist it open.
but then you notice it, blended near perfectly into the wall to the right of the entrance: another door.
the worries begin to melt from glaciers to mere puddles on the ground as the warm thoughts of your maidens having unpacked your precious night dresses and hung them neatly within the closet, some part of them knowing it would be the first piece of attire you would seek out. the speed at which you twist the lock and rip the closet open is near beastly, a force great enough to rip the door from it’s hinges, the need to heat up and crawl beneath the inviting furs and blankets atop your bed growing by the second.
the door crashing against the wall rings out louder than the shriek you let out.
“your grace?” ser arryk’s voice calls from beyond your chambers. “are you okay? i heard a noise.”
the man staring daggers into you speaks no words, holding up his pointer finger and pressing it against his lips in a shushing manner.
you swallow back a million questions and obey.
“i’m fine, ser arryk,” you speak, and pray to any higher power that the knight not notice the waver in your words. you’re not fine, you haven’t been for many years. “i... i stubbed my foot against the bedpost. small toe took the brunt of it, but i’ll survive."
the knight chortles, in what you imagine is relief he needn’t draw his weapon nor another’s blood this evening, and calls back to you with words you don’t quite catch, too busy holding focus on him.
“what are you doing here?” it’s the second time you’ve asked him this in a single day. need you ask once more and you’ll fear it’s becoming a habit.
“what am i doing here?” he parrots you, hands dropping the leather coat that you imagine smells more like his dragon than it smells of him and, oh, how so much more aware you’ve now become of how he stands with only a loose tunic to cover his chest, neckline dipping enough to grant you view of pointed collarbones and freckle lined skin. “these are my chambers. ‘tis you who should be answering for their presence.”
“your...” sense hits you over the back of your head, like your older brother would do each time you’d miss the target in archery lessons. a bed like your own, with a bedside table and a window at it’s back. no vanity, but a desk and chair in it’s place. not a closet, but a room instead. “chambers?”
the prince may have but one eye, yet it holds the weight of a million as it trails it’s way down your figure. you shift in place, hand scrambling to get a hold of the door.
if only you could pull yourself away from his gaze.
“get some rest, lady stark.” he dares to step closer. much like you, he’s lit his room with candlelight, which flickers and sways behind him, looming his shadow larger than the man himself. daunting, dangerous, daring is the thought of how one simple movement is all it would take to cross the border into his chambers, his territory. “we have a long journey ahead. i don’t think either of our brothers will be pleased to find i’ve delivered you to winterfell all heavy-eyed and languid bones.”
the moment you form a grip upon the handle, you swing the door shut, fumbling through shaking hands to twist the lock once more. forehead meeting cold wood, you pull in one, two, three breaths and try calm your wavering heart, nothing working to soothe the knowledge that a door separates you from the prince. so little, yet too much.
seconds later, you hear the turning of a lock and sigh with- relief? exasperation? grief? you’re not sure what this hollowness in your chest stems from- as you come to terms with how you’ve both now locked one another out of each other’s chambers.
you sleep with only your embarrassment to keep you warm.
routine is easily found within the one-eyed prince.
he’s meticulous, this you’d already known before boarding the ship. since the conquest against the blacks, his life upon land has melted into a copulation of days where he’ll rise with the sun, often breaking fast alone, and then drag himself off to the training grounds as the rest of his family gather round the table, with only his mother and sister insisting that he stay and share the first meal of the day with them all. his time with a sword ends only when it’s forced on him, the likes of the king’s hand- ser criston- informing him the king has called for a meeting of his small council, and how could he host such a thing without his trusted commander of the citywatch present?
the meetings rarely hold any merits, mostly an excuse for aegon to talk over others far wiser than him and drink himself to a state where even the cupbearers begin to deny his requests for a refill. excusing himself, aemond would go on to spend what was left of the day either in the company of his beloved vhagar, a kindred spirit to his suffocatingly too much kind of existence, or in the peace of solitude, whether that be found in the corner of the keep’s grandiose library or his own chambers. some nights he’d wind his way down the halls to reach the table in time to share at least one meal with his family. most night’s he eats alone, nothing but his own reflections- in mirrors, in metals, in the single glass of wine he indulges himself with- seated around his table for one.
with his life more scripted than a history book, the prince seems to waver the first few days of the journey.
the routine he does find is shakier than what he’s used to. he struggles to wake up as early as the sun, the window within his chambers not providing enough light in the early hours of the morning to rouse him. by the time he sits the table to eat, everyone else is seated and half-way through their meal, nowhere for him to sit other than ser arryk’s seat- who merely nods at the prince as he departs his post by your side in favour of getting a few hours rest. till the sun peaks in the sky, he remains by your side, meaning those hours change each day in his routine: you read for some, you knit during others, you exchange small talk with the ladies who tend to you and who’s eyes are far more interested in the brooding prince by your side, and aemond simply stands there, mind distracted by the endless what-ifs your presence plagues him with yet his eye focused perfectly on anyone who dares approach the queen. the instant he’s free from his service as your faux-guard, the prince runs off to wherever the captain may be, using his time on the sea to learn more about manning a ship and the route that you’re taking to reach the north. from that point, you see him no longer till the next morning, the only thing to assure you that your good-brother returns to his chambers at some point in the night is his brief chatter with the knight stood at your door and the gentle closing of his own, heavy footsteps careful as you imagine him treading lightly towards the safety of his bed.
weeks pass by this way, aemond a fleeting companion you spend a fragment of your day with.
at no point, much to your own relief, do either of you bring up the incident with the door between your chamber walls. not much is spoken between you both, in all honesty, and it’s not from a lack of trying on your end. you’d tried, bless you, the first few days to converse with him, prompting talks of the weather and his most recent studies you’d only ever hear about from alicent herself, over the cups of tea and bites of sweet pastries she shares every so often with both helaena and you. but all your effort was met with hums and one-worded responses, the politest way for him to make it clear he has no interest in speaking with you.
which makes it all the more shocking that he’s just called your name.
“are you okay?” the question slips out of you with ease, like you were always meant to care for his well-being, but you can hardly be blamed when he’s approached you so suddenly, sky already dark with night and his own eye seemingly as wide as a saucer.
“we’re heading towards a storm, lady stark.” he speaks calmly, patiently, letting the words fall over you. “it’s nothing the crew isn’t prepared for, the captain’s assured me. they’ve traveled this route many a times, it’s only natural that the tides grow wilder and the skies greyer as we reach the north. there’s no need to worry.”
there it is again, an insinuation that you’re fearful of being on ship. it irked you at the diner table when it caused aegon to scoff at you and it irks you now as it causes aemond to stare at you with a level of attention he rarely gives when it’s only you two.
your teeth grind under the pressure of your ire, any comment on your bravery instantly swallowed as you remind yourself of why it truly irritates you: because it’s true.
the open waters, the life on deck, the crashing of waves and raging of storms, it’s always terrified you, every part of your body rejecting the way the boat rocks. it’s the whole reason you’d snuck away from the tables of food shared amongst the crew and yourself, stomach twisting in knots that released themselves only after you’d stumbled out onto the near-empty deck, darkness engulfing you as you managed to throw your upper half over the edge in time to watch the breads and meats you’d just eaten fly out your mouth in chunks and into the raging waters below.
of course, you would not be admitting this to the fearless prince.
“i appreciate you sharing this news, but i assure you i am not worried.” he nods like he believes you, yet his words say differently.
“the nights will be much rougher from now until we reach winterfell, and it is likely that the rains will not stop even after daybreak. it’s perhaps best you stick to below the deck, the cold may take an ill-effect on you.”
“i’m a northerner, my prince.” there’s a heavy rumbling of thunder above. “i do not need protecting from it’s cold. you, on the other hand, have spent most your days in the keep. perhaps ‘tis you who should stick to below the deck.”
“i will be wherever you are, my lady.” you’re unsure of which cracks first: the bolt of lightning or your neglected heart. strange in every way, you feel a sickening guilt to hear the words a man should speak to his wife come from him instead of aegon, who could not even feign interest in you enough to accompany you in your travels. the guilt quickly melts away when aemond seems to clarify his intentions. “as that is what my agreement with both my mother and ser arryk requires.”
your heart falls in your chest.
but the rain falls on your face. first, small drops, like the sight of morning dew slips slowly down a window pane. then, drop by drop, it grows in volume, peble-sized raindrops staining the silks of your dress and the leathers of his tunic in blotchy discoloration.
feet planted firmly on the wooden deck, you inhale the scent of salted air and misery, dripping off both of you in the silence of the growing night. nothing is keeping him here, you think, and yet the prince stands beneath the shower of the gods and let’s himself be soaked.
a simple glance his way, while his eyes stare voidly out into the darks of the raging waves, fills you with a deep sense of loneliness. it’s all you’ve seen in him over the last few years, in the few glimpses you get: as he passes behind your chair in the morning, as he rushes past you in the direction of the halls where they host the small council, as you spy his return to the palace grounds in the late of the night likely smelling of smoke and dragon’s breath.
a lonely man with a lonely dragon, that’s all you see.
but when the halls are alight with festivities and the people are bountiful, he plays his role of the realm’s prince and, what he may lack in jovial nature and welcoming smiles, he makes up for in charismatic quirks of his lips and entertaining the lonely women who’s husbands are too far gone in their cups with a dance or two. by women, of course, you mean yourself and, on the occasion that ser criston let’s himself be tempted with wine, his own mother.
he must have felt your blatant staring, for you empty your thoughts and find him gazing back at you, the near-white hair that marks him as a man with fire in his blood sticking to his skin under the pressure of the water.
“it’s cathartic, isn’t it?” you wonder if he hears you, words a simple whisper beneath the echoing of bangs and booms above you both, the storm fighting to put itself together and rain down on the ship with no forgiveness. “i used to sneak out my room as a girl, back in winterfell, on nights where the sound of rain filled the castle walls. i wasn’t a happy child, not the way one’s supposed to be, but growing up with only brothers left me embarrassed of these things, like i couldn’t express this unhappiness in front of them. when it was just me and the rain... it was okay for me to have wet eyes and flushed cheeks. so i’d bottle it up and wait till that moment where i could let my tears be dragged away by the storm.”
“doesn’t it rain every night in winterfell?” he surprises you with his response, so used to the act of you talking and him never replying. “you must have cried a lot.”
“believe it or not, the north isn’t that cold.” there’d been a time when you believed this, way back before you spent your hours in the sun of the keep. nowadays, not even the coldest of hours in king’s landing were a match for the warmest days in the north. “somedays, the sun is generous enough to warm our lands so that we need wear only one layer of fur!”
the thunder steals the sound of his amusement, but you see it, in twists of lips and shakes of shoulders and relaxing of postures. it’s fleeting, no more than a few seconds, but it’s the first that you’ve seen the prince look his age, two and twenty and untouched by the harshness of life.
he straightens his back and returns to the face of a lonely man.
“i’d sooner call it a nuisance than something cathartic, lady stark.” he answers your previous ask, eye returned to the dreaded sea ahead. “it’s making a mess of not just our travels but our clothing too.”
the stick of your dress’ sleeves against your arms, so soaked they’ve near merged with your body and become a new layer of skin, feels a little poignant as you twist to look upon him properly. it takes every inch of sanity you have- which, these days, seems to be less and less- to not follow a raindrop as it slides down his scarred cheek, his pointed chin, his delicate neck, his soaked ches-
lighting snaps you out of your trance, as if the gods themselves had caught you ogling the man and sent a message your way: stop this insolence, at once.
“i’m sure a man like yourself has sullied their clothes with far more distasteful liquids than mere water.” naïveté, an old friend who rears her head your way every so often, takes you by the hand and leads you up the road of shame the moment you see the prince’s brow quirk with a questioned gaze, face awash with a look stuck somewhere between utter shock and lustful satisfaction. “by blood! i mean, surely the battles of the great dance had you covered in mud, and blood, and bloody mud, and-“
“my brother complains you scarcely talk.” the sudden mention of your husband physically shakes you- or, perhaps, it is simply the cold which causes such a reaction. either way, your hands are trembling by your side. “yet here you are struggling to cease speaking. fascinating.”
“yes, well," a feigned clearing of your throat to relax your nerves. the rain feels colder within an instant, the mention of aegon- no less from the one-eyed prince’s mouth- enough to send you into a state of discomfort. “perhaps if the king were better at holding conversation, he’d find me as talkative to his liking.”
finally, you’re able to hear his laughter.
it is not ser arryk who accompanies you back to your chambers this evening, but aemond instead. stood a good few paces behind you, he lets you take the lead, no sound but the thudding of your footfall and the squelch of your soaked linens to fill the ship halls. the knight who guards your side already stands post at your door, no surprise nor shock on his features to make you believe he was unaware of the prince keeping watch over you on the deck.
before the prince can step into the refuge of his room, you halt him.
“wait!” the volume of it is louder than you intended, and leaves you no room to wonder over whether or not ser arryk has heard you. the knight shows no sign of his listening while the man you’ve called for stands frozen, the expanse of his back filling your vision as he stands one foot in his chambers and the other still lingering in the hall. “if the nights are to become rougher, as you said, i will pray that rest finds you easily, good-brother.”
his door slams in your face after a toneless humm leaves his lips.
as if irony has not cursed your lifetime enough, it is you who finds no rest. first you shift around, rolling from back to front, switching the sides upon which you lay, crossing and uncrossing legs. when that fails, you count sheep, one after the other as you imagine a dire-wolf chasing after them with a bloodlust unquenched by a thousand hunts.
then comes the thinking.
like a virus feeds off it’s host, your mind eats away at your sanity with thoughts of past, present and future. a past of snowy hills and frozen hands, a present of misery kisses and empty beds, a future of misty unknowns and dark unsureness. there’s also thoughts of your older brother, likely laying within his own bed and anticipating the second marriage of his life.
you wonder if someday you’ll do the same, should the stranger call for aegon before you, releasing you from the grip of duty and leaving you free to chase the passions of life.
the contents of your stomach sway with the boat, the storm above raining fury down and the tides rising and falling with tremendous waves that crash against the wooden structure and tease you with how easily you could be swept away into the depths of the dark waters, one blow strong enough being all it would take. it’s what frightened you as a child and what does the same even now, turned twenty a handful of moons ago. your chest quickens it’s breaths as your heartbeat rises along with the waves, panic twisting itself into your bloodstream and transporting itself to every nook and cranny of your tired bod.
you lay back, eyes squeezing shut as another roar of thunder rings from above, and clutch the blankets in your grasp, as if burying yourself in them will hide you from the world around you. two more claps of thunder and you spring out of bed, no time to process where your legs carry you towards until you feel the cold of the golden doorknob.
the flick of a lock has you pausing, hand clasping around the handle.
would he still have it locked on his side? surely, you think, there’s nothing the dragon prince must despise more than the thought of you having free-reign to step within his lair. swallowing your fleeting pride, you twist the handle and-
the door opens with an offensive creak.
“shh!” in a near future- as near as dawn- you’ll turn squeemish at the memory of how you’ve attempted to hush an object. but, for now, you’re too concerned with the sight that greets you.
the room is as you remember it: a bed, a flickering candle, a desk- though, it now carries a pile of abandoned leathers and trousers strown across it.
you tread carefully with your first step, a chill dancing on your spine while your foot presses against the cold wooden floors. with another step, you’re fully in his room, the ends of your shift pooling around you. you can’t bring yourself to close the door behind you, a tremble of doubt still in you.
upon the bed lays the slumbering dragon.
a normal woman, hot-blooded and lust-craven, would take delight in trailing her eyes over his exposed flesh, chest bare to the night as the blanket rests a few inches above his hipbones. you sooner notice his uncovered face, guilt awash your features as you spy the entirety of his scar for the first time.
pink, harsh, uneven. it’s hard to see clearly, yet the sight of it is enough to shoot sympathy pains through your own face, wonders of how a child could face such a traumatic laceration and survive it plaguing you. over your years in court you’d heard a vary of different tales of how the prince came to lose his eyes. some claimed vhagar, in all her might, had taken his eye as payment for becoming his mount. other rumours say he tore it out himself, an angry little boy who’d never gotten the attention he wanted finally driven to the brink of self-mutilation just to be seen.
the how matters little, you’ve always believed, the why seems far more important.
why must a young boy give up an eye, why mockery is made of his injury, why a scar not only dirtied his skin but marked him till the day he dies, that's what you'd love to know.
the unscathed eye opens.
the prince seems confused, face twisting the scarred side away from your view as he sits up right, squinting through the flickering light and the sleep-filled eyesight to make out your features. his hand shoots out to the side, scrambling along the bedside table.
“i’m so sorry!” you exclaim, mindful to keep your voice down as to not alert your knight, and turn around to face the emptiness of your own chambers, giving him the privacy needed to resit his eyepatch. “i just thought...”
there’s no end to your sentence, because you hadn’t thought.
“why are you awake, lady stark?” not how are you in my chambers, not how long were you looking at my scar.
just like you, he cares more for the why of things.
“i...” you shift your weight from one leg to another, and then back, stalling your reply as your hands come to rest in front of you, fingers intermingling and keeping each other company through the shame flooding your system. “i could not sleep.”
there’s rustling behind you, and then a muted thud. a crack of joints, rising from the bed. some more movement, fabrics slipping onto skin. you face away, still, and wait with baited breath for a reply or a dismissal back to your chamber of misery.
“so you decide to take away my right to rest?” the light from the candle dims and the familiar darkness of his shadow looms over you, large and all consuming and stretching till the top of its’s head rests within your room. “it’s safe to look. no more grotesque sights out in the open.”
his words make you feel sick, even if they’re inflated with humor and self-deprication. the need to reassure him his scar is not grotesque, nor shameful, nor something he should feel the need to cover- much less in the comfort of his own bed- dies when you fail to put it into words.
you choose only to face him once more, no words finding their way out upon the discovery that he’s not only dressed his face but his chest too, loose shirt thrown over his porcelain skin.
“your company, that is all i wish to take.” your voice finds you at last, returning to you with a cough and a crack. “i’d grown sick of staring at the ceiling, forgive me for awaking you.”
“i was not sleeping, regardless.” he’s lying, you both know it. neither of you address it. “my company is not one that rouses comfort in many. how strange you’ve chosen to seek it in your hour of need.”
that, too, is a lie.
within a breath of time, the prince has taken seat at his desk, chair turned towards where you sit upon the edge of his bed, crosslegged and heavy-eyed yet still so far away from the calling of sleep.
he entertains your talking, sitting back and listening as you dance around the true reason for your presence: your fear of the storm, of the boat and the storm above the boat.
as is the norm, he replied with little, hmms and yeahs and nods of approval to continue forward with whatever your next tale is. but it’s no use, as no amount of rambling and reminiscing your days of freedom and girlhood can seem to drag you into the arms of the mother, awaiting to send you to sleep with her sweet song and warm touch.
so your mind wanders a little less back in time, to when you’d already sworn vows and been broken in by your lord husband, and it latches onto that night. the one you’d spent years questioning if you’d dreamed it all- the unlit fire, the buzzing of your nerves, the head between your legs- or if it had been real. the prince had never spoken of it, had never made a repeated attempt at his indecent act, had never acted on his offer to show you more, touch you more.
“i can not sleep.” it tumbles out of you in a whisper as you replay the memory of awakening to the cold night and the warmth between your thighs. you uncross your legs, tucking them beneath the rump of your arse and attempting to distract yourself from the pulsing of your heart between your thighs.
the shift in position only serves to stroke the fire.
“i know, lady stark. it’s why you pulled me away from my own slumber a near hour past.” the prince speaks to you over the top of his book- which he’d picked up somewhere between your last rant on the chill of the walls of the keep and the silence your words had dissolved into- eye flickering over in your direction as if to let you know he sees you, all of you, even the way you’ve taken to clenching your thighs in the past few moments.
“help me.” desperation is a sin, your septa told you so all throughout your girlhood, tales of how it could drive a young maiden to seek from a man what only her husband must bring her: love, comfort, touch. and so you’d spent your days avoiding it, burying the sickly green feeling in your chest each time you’d spy upon a loving lord and lady, reminding yourself that you are a queen, and a queen wants for nothing, not even affection. the sin has been buried so far down it’s dug it’s roots into the ground and made home in you, however, and now you find yourself wanting. “tire me, please.”
“and how do you propose i do that?”
“you’ve done it,” his attention becomes more unnerving the more he gives you it, book snapping shut and discarded to the desk behind him. there’s a danger in his eye, one you’d only ever seen in the wolves as they preyed upon the sheep. “once. summers ago, the night you came to check upon me in my chambers.”
the silence is stifling, red hot feelings pulsing through your veins as the pale blue eye keeps it’s focus on you. the air is thicker, warmer, harder to take in through simple shallow breaths and forcing you to let your lips part, pulling in gasps of it just to cool your burning lungs. the ends of your night-dress dance over your calves while you readjust once more, doing anything to not acknowledge the unspoken events you’d just brought back to the light.
a part of you wishes he’d laugh in your face, or scowl in confusion, and send you back to your quarters with denials of such a thing ever having happened. the other part of you wants it to ring true to him.
so, you keep talking.
“whatever you did to me that night, how you made me feel, it exhausted me.” the sleep you recall, with the fire relit and door shut gently, was one of the greatest you’d ever gotten. “so please, i beg you, good-brother, do what you must to make me feel it again.”
gaze on the floor, you find your line of sight invaded by uncovered feet and swallow back a series of exclamations when realising he’s risen from his chair. a hand, one who’s softness you can recall from holding it in a waltz, grasps the point of your chin, tilting your head back, back, back till you meet his stare.
there’s no confusion in his expression, only hunger.
“are you asking me to make you cum again, my lady?” the words are so dirty, unfiltered for the ears of a highborn lady, and they have you squirming in your seat. the prince only watches, fascinated, like he’s studying you the same ways he’d studied the inner-workings of the ship these past few weeks.
“don’t...” your protest ends before it can begin, his fingers holding your face in place as your try turn away from him. “don’t say it like that. it’s so... crass.”
“you are harlot enough to ask such services from your husband’s brother,” for all his aloofness, there’s no disguising the pleasure he takes out of reminding you of aegon and how he ties you both as family by law and duty. if anything, you think, the one-eyed prince enjoys the shame it’s casting upon you, the humiliation with which you’re forced to stare up at him with, glossy eyes and trembling lips. “yet you shy away when i call things as they are. did you not enjoy how my mouth on your cunt drove you to your peak, good-sister?”
the hand on your face travels upwards, cold as it cups your warmed cheek. his thumb soothes over you in a calming manner, yet it only serves to unnerve you more, heart beating against the confines of your ribcage and begging to break free, deliver itself right into his palms.
aemond steps closer, till his knees brush the end of his bed and his body heat mingles with your own. he’s calm, collected and ever so eager to touch his thumb along the tender petals of your lips.
the pressure of his touch is greater than any kiss you’ve taken from the king.
“please, aemond...” you plead. the meaning behind it is lost in the night, neither the prince nor yourself sure of what exactly you’re begging for: release from his hold or release via his touch.
“a lady shouldn’t beg, ‘tis beneath her,” the smell of his hair, his clothes, his skin, it crowds your senses as the light of the candle halos around him. the targaryen line have always been a thing of beauty, men of delicate features and women of striking looks, yet they all fall mute to this dragon, broken in the eye of many, ethereal in those who actually look. the sudden appearance of his hand touching your calf jolts you, thighs clenching and face fighting his grip once more. “but, gods, do you sound pretty when you do.”
this is a greater torture than any prisoner of war.
the touches that never quite reach where you want them, the heat of his gaze falling over your heaving chest, the twitch of a grin upon his lips that mocks your wanton desires. the prince holds you in the palms of his hands, literally, yet is choosing to do nothing about it, admiring the sight of you as you twitch and squirm and shrivel up beneath his watch.
the descent of his hand is slow, thumb brushing over your bottom lip. the prince repeats the action, if only to see the way it bounces back into place after he releases it, and then continues his journey south. fluttering traces of skin against your neck, caresses of fingers over collarbones, gentle soothes of hands over the tops of your mounds.
there’s no denying your racing heart as the prince cups the fullness of your chest.
“why are you- oh!” the question is stolen before it fully forms, your eyes widening as you feel a delicious sting as his lithe fingers pinch at your nipple. it’s a feeling you never knew was possible, the twisting of the twin buds shooting blood to your core and causing your pupils to blossom with lust.
“i see my brother still wastes away your pleasure in sake of his own.” he delights in how you’ve unknowingly started forcing yourself further into his touch, back arching and shoving your chest forward. “you’d think that, with all the whores he’s taken to bed, he’d have learnt something in regards to a woman’s body by now.”
a normal wife would weep at accusations of her husband’s infidelity. she would wretch her heart out her chest and proclaim herself incapable of trusting, loving, taking another for the remainder of her days as she dealt with casting aside her lord’s indiscretions in benefit of their children.
you cry for your husband’s brother to touch you more.
and oh how he obeys, the disappointment of losing his touch on your right breast quickly coerced away at the glide of his touch down, down, down, till the tips of his fingers dance over the crease of your thighs, brushing over the mound of curls that lay hidden beneath the thin layers of your night shift.
“aem-“ you choke on his name, too sensitive and neglected to process the way he presses his finger against that precious pearl of yours. aegon, for the life of him, had tried once to stroke his forefinger against it- amid rythimless humps into you from behind- and had failed miserably, giving up with a huff and an exclaim of how you must be so boring the mother never blessed you with the nerves of ecstasy. if only he were here to witness how seamlessly his brother finds it, coaxing the floodgates to open and spread over your aching cunny.
the prince giveth and the prince taketh away, hands abandoning their glorious touch upon your body. before you can make so much as a protest or a demand against it, both hands land on your waistline. two squeezes he gives, the second tighter than the first, and it somehow works to calm that chill down your spine, a reassurance that he’s there, and only him.
in a shocking juxtaposition, his grip serves to flip you over effortlessly.
facing the sheets below, you struggle out a cacophony of sounds as you scramble to pull yourself up, only to be met with the shove of his hand against the middle of your back, pinning your front to the mattress beneath as the other hand pulls you onto your knees, arse up in the air.
“i told you i could teach you things, my lady.” the confirmation is there, even if he’s not stating it explicitly. the night in your chambers was true, his tongue on your cunt and his fingers gripping your skin and his stare between your legs, none of it had been a work of your tired mind. it both delights and disgusts you, that same old lick of shame ringing in your ear with the reminiscence of your septa’s lectures on a woman’s duty in the bedchambers: please her husband and give him an heir, both of which you’re yet to do. “best it will be if i start with the basics of how a man and woman move, don’t you agree?”
you’ve hardly the capability to nod your head, but you doubt he’s searching for a true response anyway.
the bed dips behind you, creaking with the added weight of him atop it. he mounts you like a horse, slotting himself between the spreading of your legs and nestling something solid against your cheeks of your rump.
it’s a position you know all too well, the very same as the one aegon puts you in when he decides to inact his royal duties against your disillusioned body.
“this is how a lord takes his whore,” he speaks into the night and steals your breath away with one simple roll of his hips. there’s fabrics and cloths that separate your arousal from his hardened cock yet you feel it all the same, warm and heavy and so real as it drags itself over the dripping slit of your cunt. “it’s impersonal, perfect for a man who wishes to think of another’s face as he fills a woman’s cunt.”
the pressure of him becomes a constant, that rubs and soothes and works it’s way over you. it’s only a grinding of bodies yet the sensation is greater than any the king has given you with his rancid cock twisting your insides uncomfortably.
“but it also allows a man to rut deeper, to fuck up against her crest till he’s spilling his seed into her empty womb.” it’s an embarrassing truth to realise how calm the prince sounds behind you, breathing even and hands solid in their grip against you, while you’re a mess of whimpered breaths and grinding hips, working sloppily back against his thrusts and trying your damn hardest to get him to graze over your aching pearl.
you’d gladly commit the rest of your waking days to the faith of the seven, handing yourself over to the so called silent sisters, never to know life away from doing the stranger’s biding if it meant aemond would touch you properly, no night dress and breeches to block the contact of his skin on yours.
if this is how the prince mounts his whores’, you envy the ladies of the silk street- a feat you never imagined possible, with all of your husband’s ventures into their beds- for even the sheer grinding of his body against the back of yours feels greater than any night you’ve spent with your head shoved into the bed below, aegon’s senseless battering against your womanhood leaving you numb with dissatisfaction.
“is this how my brother fucks you, lady stark?” the prince’s hand presses down on your midback, shoving you into the sheets. you twist your head to the side, if only to keep the air flow in your lungs, and startle over a moaned wail as the man behind you ruts into you deeper, brushing right over your cotton covered mound down to your aching bud.
he repeats the same action, once and then twice, your mind dragged too far off into the rolling waves of pleasure to pay mind to his wandering hand, pulling on the thin material of your nightdress and tugging it upwards
the cool air does little to soothe the burning between your thighs.
“do you get this soaked for the king?” it shouldn’t arouse you to hear him speak of aegon whilst he’s bucking his covered cock against you. but, could you really be blamed when he lets his hand join in, skilled digits finding your pearl and pressing into it?
“n-no...” shaky breaths take over your bod as you do your utmost best to appear as calm and collected as the man behind you. it’s cruel how you’re a dripping pile of lust whilst he remains soft-voiced and level-headed. “he’s no good at- ah!- no good at touching.”
you both hear and feel the prince laugh.
“it takes a man a certain hours of dedication to his craft to become an expert at it,” the thrusting of his hips ceases, yet he makes no attempt to stop the stroke of his fingers over your pulsing centre, soaking his perfect skin in your sinful essence. “i don’t think all the time in the world would be suffice to teach aegon how to please his wife.”
you want to agree, want to nod your head, but you’re too caught up in staring back him over your shoulder. clothes perfectly intact- spare for a few wrinkles in his shirt you’re certain were not there before-, his hair threatens to fall loose from the tie that holds it out his face, silver strands falling over his face. which, for once, is anything but stoic, eye blown wide with darkened desires, lips locked tight in a teasing smirk, brows furrowed with the concentration he bestows unto you.
it’s a vision to behold, a man carved to the perfection of a marbled statue.
it leaves you all the more relieved to feel him take hold of your hips once more, the traces that remain of your arousal on his skin now soaking into the fabrics of your shift as he flips you over.
landing on your back with a squeak, you welcome the sight of him staring down at you.
his hands remain cold against you, gripping at the meat of your thighs and forcing your legs apart, till he slots in like a missing puzzle piece, completing the image of you, hair splayed out around you and eyes hooded over in a tired haze of pleasure.
he somehow feels harder than before as he gives the first roll of his hips.
“this,” a crack in his composure, a sharp intake of breath as you trap him between your legs, nothing but pure want driving you to arch your back and meet his thrust halfway. he composes himself. “is how a husband should take his wife.”
you’re flushed with shame, watching as the prince’s stature comes crashing down onto you, like a wave meets the shore, washing over you with his scent, his warmth and the feel of his chest pressing down on yours.
a tilt of your head to the right and you’d find an answer to whether his lips are as soft as they look.
your head turns left.
“it’s the proper way to fornicate,” the words lack that spark of dirtied excitement, spat out of him as though it pains him to say such a thing. “at least the septas would have you women believe. something about letting your husband own you and watch your face as he claims your body for not only himself but the future of his lineage too.”
his words are whispers, mouth mere inches from your ear. a new pace is found between you both, one where his hips grind down and yours buck up, two planks of wood that burst into flame with the adding of a little friction.
the prince’s hands seem restless, unable to settle on a part of your body to focus on. if they’re not squeezing at your hips, they’re crawling up beneath the skirt of your dress, rucking it higher till you’re sure to be staining the front of his trousers with your slick. if he’s not cupping the side of your face in a futile attempt to have you face him, he’s winding his way down your neck, your chest, your breast, kneeding his fingers into them.
it’s when you throw your head back in a shallow gasp that aemond chooses to add his mouth into the mix, latching onto your neck. it’s warm, as warm as you remember it being the night he’s pressed it to your cunt, and it’s with sheer relief that comes along with realising that night had all been true- not a fictitious event conjured by your cruel mind to drive you mad- that you feel yourself begin to let loose.
your leg winds around his hip, pulling him deeper into you with each thrust.
“aemond, please,” there you go again with the mindless pleading, no clue of what you’re asking of him nor the effect your desperate whines have on him. the man answers with a tightened grip on your thigh, fingernails digging crescents into your skin and branding you for any to see- even that good-for-nothing husband of yours that he calls brother. “more.”
luckily, the prince knows what you’re wanting, knows what it is you’re trying so hard to achieve.
unfortunately, he’s not in a position to provide you with it.
“i can’t give you more, good-sister,” his voice is no longer that composed one from before, a mixture of heavy breathing and chocked groans littered across them. “a woman must take no seed other than her husband’s. i will not sully you beneath the eyes of the seven.”
you wish to argue he’s done worse, taken you in an impure act of meaningless lust, tongue and teeth and fingers working over your core till the dam broke and the gates were flooded with the essence of your peak. even now, he does worse, by showing you the pleasure that could be in your life, should be in your life, if only the fates had gifted you more fortune.
instead, you opt for reminding him of earlier words.
“whores bed men who they are not married to all the time,” in a cruel act of silencing you, the prince has taken to peppering kisses down the length of your neck, the top of your chest, eye watching you intently the whole time. “why... why can’t i do the same?”
instead of an answer, his mouth finds your stiffened nipple.
with your shift still in the way, he latches himself onto the bud, lips suckling it into his waiting mouth. your hand, no longer in your control, flies to the back of his head, tangling itself in the strands. a sharp tug and it’s now the prince who is a mess of sinful noises, eye watching your reaction as he brings his tongue into the mix, stroking the skilled muscle with precision.
your eyes clamp shut and, all at once, you’re back in the dark of your chambers, his tongue lapping at your soaked centre and his hand grasping your own, guiding you through the first taste of adulterated satisfaction.
“because,” he mumbles, lips unwilling to part from you and thus forcing you to squirm through the way his lips brush over your chest with every word they form. “you’re not a whore. and i will not treat you like one.”
and yet he’ll rut into you harder, slower, teasing you with the outline of his stiff manhood, condemning you to a life where you’ll spend the rest of your days torn between hating him for giving you a taste but not a bite. and he’ll leave you with the memory of how his lips can pucker and his tongue can twist and turn, rubbing your nipple raw with the chafing of your night dress.
it feels crueler than anything he may have done in the years when the dragons danced.
“what if,” you swallow back a particularly pathetic whine that threatens to spill as the tip of him bumps against your pulsing pearl. “i want you to?”
in all her septa’s tutoring on the many duties of a married woman- remaining seen but never heard by her husband’s side in public settings, tending to her husband’s needs and desires, baring children so that her husband’s legacy shall live on even once he is dirt in the ground-, never had the possibility of a woman putting her own desires first been mentioned. and so, to do so now, legs spread and bent at the knee, chest heaving with every breath you fight to take in, the very centre of you dripping with molten liquid that stains his breeches with every roll of his hips, it all feels wrong, dirty, sinful.
the prince would stop, if you asked, and you know this.
you don’t ask.
aemond halts with a grunt and burrows his head into the crook of his shoulder, breath dancing on your skin and the weight of his cock pressing right down into you. his chest pushes against your own with every breath you both take. fingers intertwined, hands coming to rest between your beating hearts, the act feels more intimate than any you’ve shared with aegon.
“don’t say such things.” at first, he sounds angered, tone low and threatening as he mumbles into your skin. his grip tightens around your hand, near painful, and he grinds himself further down into you, a whimpered sound killing any level of danger he possessed. “i’ll become selfish and take what i want instead of focusing on what you need.”
to live in a world where this man, beauty carved into every inch of his skin and spirit stronger than any lord or castle, denies himself of what he desires seems impossible.
“then take it,” your free hand winds it’s way around his body, rumpling the shirt he wears in it’s iron grip, urging him closer despite the lack of space existing between you. “i’m offering myself to you, aemond. it’s not selfish.”
there’s an exciting aggression behind the way he tears himself away from you, feet returning to the floor as he rises to a stand. grabbing at your ankle, a harsh tug is all it takes to get you to the foot of the bed and tangled in his hold once more, those muscles he trains showing their benefits in the way he so carelessly, effortlessly lifts you off, nails digging into the skin of your thigh to hold you against him. dropping himself back on the bed, the prince sits you down, legs spread out on either side of him as you come to rest within his waiting lap.
his cock presses up between your thighs, the shape, length, girth more defined than ever as the thin material of his breeches sits between your aching arousals. he’s bunched your shift up till it’s a mess of fabrics pooling around your waist, leaving your bottom half naked and exposed to cool air of the night. aemond makes sure you stay warm, icy finger gripping at the flesh on your hips and rolling them forwards, the lips of your opening spreading to make room for his length.
he repeats his action several more times, eye staring deep into your own like they hold all the answers to the unasked questions and forbidden needs in his life. squeeze, pull, grind, a pattern of three moves he’s dancing with your body, and it’s intoxicating to witness, stare down at his face as he lets his brow furrow and his lips part in silent moans and his chest heaves for every breath of air.
“if... if the two before were how a lord takes a whore and a husband takes his wife,” you decide it’s been too long since he spoke and you miss the way his typically dutiful words melt away to make way for sin and longing, spewing filth your septa would have had his tongue cut out for. “what’s this one?”
“this is how a woman claims a man.”
his answer does something to you, awakening a part of you you’d closed off for years after that night. you’ve lost all autonomy over your actions as your body takes manners into its own grasp and you begin to grind down against him as one hand tangles itself in the locks of moonlight silver hair.
the prince throws his head back when you accidentally tug on it.
“is that what you like, prince aemond?” confident movements, shy words. you’re so incredibly aware that you’ve no real clue what you’re doing, driving on lustful instinct with no clear direction ahead. “the woman in charge?”
you must have struck a nerve for the prince is quick to level his own head and tighten his grip on you once more, the sting of skin breaking under his nails delicious in all the wrong ways. you hope he draws blood, hope he leaves your hips marked with thin scars.
“a woman empowered is not the same as a woman in charge,” he punctuates his words with the returned control over you, fighting against your own body to grind you down over him however he likes. which, apparently, excludes your pearl from joining in on the fun, neglected with each roll of your hips. “don’t be mistaken. i like watching a woman take what she needs from me, i like to see her eyes roll back with her head and her mouth spew out incoherent filth as she cums around my cock. but it’s no fun if i’m not the one controlling what she does and when she does it.”
it’s not hard to picture the prince with a multitude of women- likely the whispering ladies of the king’s court who like to spin tales on how good of a lover he is-, his hands around their bodies as he fucks them from beneath, throwing them off the edge of ecstasy.
the picture turns you green-eyed, jealous of the ones who he places no limit over, the ones he desires enough to break his honour for.
“now, please lady stark,” he heaves a sigh, cold hand trailing over your hip and down to the center of your legs, digits smoothing over the groomed curls of coarse hair till the chill of them greet your burning pearl. “i need to make you cum, or else neither of us will be getting any sleep.”
there’s no time to dwell on how his words make you feel less desirable and more like a nuisance, a wanton woman who ruined his slumber and demanded he give her the relief only his older brother should be giving her. there’s no time for he’s refamiliarising himself with you quicker than expected, taking advantage of the angle you hover over him in to breech a single digit into your warm, silken hole.
“ah!” you squeak out when his finger reaches deeper than anything you’ve felt before, pressing upon your gummy walls at a new angle.
he shushes you, pulling the finger out ever so slightly before fucking it back in. its only a few more times that he does this before your eyes are widening and a second of his fingers is slipping it’s way into you. in a motion you may only describe as come hither, the two press into your walls and coax whimpered delight out of you.
the prince is eager to see you like this, your head thrown back when you feel his fingers spread inside you, stretching your insides so different to the painful jabs the king’s cock has ever given you. perhaps, you think, if this is what cuppling felt like- truly is meant to be- you could understand why such a thing was a sin, for it would be far too easy to renounce your loyalty to the seven and, instead, spend your days worshipping whomever could play your body like their favorite instrument.
“aemond...” there’s a tightening of something in your guts, twisting and turning and threatening to snap under the pressure of his hands, crotch, touch against you. you feel the need to chase it, to run toward it, yet simultaeniosuly it frightens you. the night within your chambers had been slow, a gentle coax into letting yourself come undone around fingers and tongue. tonight, it’s urgent and desperate and something he’s near forcing your body to experience, no proper build up to get you ready to feel yourself float into those moments of pure ecstasy.
“i know, i know.” his words are soothing, just like the free hand that comes to smooth the hair on the top of your head, pulling you right into him till you’re tucked in his arms and hidden from the world within his warm chest. “just let yourself go, don’t fight it.”
his thumb against your pearl is all it takes to have the floodgates open.
you cum for the first time in years around his fingers, your cries muted against his skin as the prince continues to work you through it, not a single protest to the way you’ve stained his breeches nor soaked his hand.
there’s a possibility you cry out his name, or choke on your own whimpers, or cry pathetically, but the sound never reaches your ears as the prince cradles you to his chest, holding your shaken body captive against him. it’s far less intense than the euphoria he’d sent you off into all those years ago, and thus you feel robbed of everything you know his tongue is capable of doing.
but the exhaustion is the same, crashing over you in waves of heavy eyes and relaxed limbs, sinking yourself deeper into your guardian. wordlessly, he drags you both up the bed till his head hits a pillow.
a shift of your leg reminds you of his untouched arousal.
sluggishly, you fight against the calls of lady sleep and scramble to sit yourself up, hands shooting straight for his crotch. you revel in the intake of breath he gives as you brush over the bulge, yet you whine as his own hands fight you off.
“no,” his protests are firm, unlike your tired attempts to untie the laces of his breeches, hands halted when his own grasp them and pull them towards his heaving chest. you struggle against his hold, head shaking in protest. “stop this at once, lady stark.”
“but you need to...” heat spreading over your face, neck, just about anywhere it can get to, you can’t bring yourself to say the words that dance between you both, despite the remnants of your own liquid pleasure still painted on his fingers. you need to cum.
the prince understands, even if you can’t bring yourself to say it.
“and you need to rest.” he hushes you, pulling your tired limbs into his and tangling them, till you find your head resting atop his chest and his hand stroking over your back in a well practiced dance, soothing your every ailment without a single word of false comfort nor practiced poised filling the void between you both. “you can sleep sound here, the waves can’t catch you and the storm can’t harm you. i promise, i’ll fight them off before they can reach you.”
though you try to fight it, his soft whispers work greater than any sleep elixir and your eyes close within his chambers, the weight of the prince’s body and the heat it radiates enough to lull you into a state of golden comfort, the sound of his breathing drowning out the storm that rages on outside.
when they reopen, an empty bed and your own chamber walls greet you.
watching you is making him dizzy.
the hall is filled by laughter and cheer, an earnest warmth radiating from the cold northerners as they dance beneath the candlelight. while the feasts in king’s landing are grandiose and glittering with every golden dish, the wedding of cregan stark will remain an engraved memory on the prince’s brain till the day he should pass, the energy within the room happier than any he’s bared witness to before. the wedding itself had been short and sweet, straight to the point and unionising the warden of the north to his lady in a matter of a half’s hour, a cheer for the couple’s kiss before the party had been rushed indoors, out of the cold and into their assigned seats. he’d gritted his teeth at the fact you and aegon had not sat the same table as him, being the sister of lord stark meaning you and your husband were required to sit at the couple’s table. to make matters worse, he’d found himself seated with his empty eye socket facing you, daeron to the right of him and some southern lord on his left.
he’s kept an eye on you from the minute you entered his eye-line, hand grasped in your brother’s and a smile upon your face. it’s hard to think of the smiles you do not bare in the capital, trading the toothy grin for a tight-lipped curve of your lips. the resentment for his oldest brother- one that had first sparked to life in the early days of his childhood- grows greater to think he’s the reason why it’s taken the prince this long to witness how your eyes light up with true joy.
your brother’s arms rise into the air, inviting you to twirl beneath his hold, the skirt of your dress billowing out in front of you- it’s blue, a colour you’ve always worn best. the cups of wine you’d taken throughout the night must have hit you at once for, not even three spins in, you appear to trip over your own foot, stumbling right into another dancing couple, of whom the lady steadies your fall and guides you back to balance. the four of you break out in laughter he can not hear.
it must be infectious for he too finds himself producing a chuckle.
“i’m sorry, my ears must be deceiving me, for i swear i just heard you laugh.” daeron has always stood to represent everything the prince could have been, were the fates not cruel and his childhood not crippling. now more than ever, he contemplates the possibility of shoving his brother’s head into the table.
“hmm.” there’s no answer he can give that will lead him to victory in this verbal battle with his younger brother, and so he settles for a dismissive humm.
back on the dancefloor, he finds you no longer stand hand in hand with your brother- whom has found his way over to the welcoming arms of his new bride and finds himself stuck in a locking of lips, pulling away only to mumble what the prince imagines to be sweet nothings and foul words only a husband and wife may share- and, are instead, now making your way over in his direction.
like a beacon of light in the darkness, you shine as you walk through the crowd, eyes meeting his and a smile so shy he struggles to believe you’re the same woman who’d taken a place within his bed only nights before. ignoring the teasing of daeron, the one-eyed prince comes to rise, well prepared for an evening where he’ll entertain your wishes to dance till his feet ache, and takes his first step towards you, a familiar tingle dancing atop his spine and the beating of his heart growing louder with your proximity. only a few more steps and-
a hand clamps down on his shoulder, halting him.
“tonight, dear brother, i should like to dance with my wife.” the voice comes from behind him, but the lick of disdain and the smell of wine tells him enough. “i’m aware you lack your own bride, maybe use this time to dance with some maidens and find yourself one. mother would be overjoyed.”
the sight of the king leading you out onto the floor, those who circle you gawking and swooning at the sight of the ruler of the realm and his lady wife intertwined in dance, acts as a bitter reminder the prince would do well to never forget.
you are his brother’s wife, and that is all you will ever be.
the truth has a funny way of revealing itself.
it’s a fact you come to learn sat across the table from the queen mother, teacup in hand and ears spying upon the occasional coo from helaena’s young babe, tucked neatly in his mother’s arms as he drinks all her teat has to offer, the woman herself still wearing the face of exhaustion two moons after the birth had taken place.
“aegon was my favourite to deal with as a babe.” alicent speaks with hush, like she’s sharing a secret just for you girls to listen upon. “he was so easy, always smiling. i remember being so scared that everything i done was wrong, still so young myself, but one look at him and i knew not everything i done could be wrong, not if what i’d birthed him.”
“the wind has changed it’s way, the babe has fallen out it’s cradle.” helaena speaks her riddle, hand reaching to smooth over the three tuffs of moonlight hair on the boy’s head. “aegon never smiles anymore, mother. you must hate him now.”
your dear sister-by-marriage is a braver soul than you’d ever be, daring to smile at her mother even after bringing up, though only through insinuation, the events of three evenings past where aegon, angered from gods no what had transpired between him and his younger brother during a small council meeting, had sat the dining table and slated the one-eyed prince all night, going so far as to toast his lack of appearance at the family feast.
his malice ceased only as alicent herself shot out her seat, hands slamming down on the table and swearing to take both her elder son’s eyes if he dared mock his brother’s imparement once more.
he’d taken you to bed that evening, though toppled over his own breeches amidst removing them and left himself a snoring mess on the floor, too close for comfort as you crept your way out the marital chambers and down the winding roads to the empty library.
it was the maester himself who discovered you the next day, noon already in full swing and a stack of books in his hands as he let out an exclaim upon spying your resting form. moments after, he’d appeared behind the elderly man, eye-patch in place and face stoic.
the prince left abruptly, before you’d gotten the chance to bid him good day.
“i never got to thank you, lady alicent, for sending prince aemond up north on the boat.” maybe it’s an excuse to talk about him, maybe it’s a way to steer the conversation away from the king’s ill-manners. you’re fearful to consider the later ringing more true. still, it feels nice to say his name aloud again. “i’m sure the prince would have much preferred his seat upon vhagar, but his presence was greatly appreciated. just knowing he was there brought me as great a comfort as having my husband there.”
never has your good-mother looked so confused.
“i... i’m afraid i’m not sure what you mean, my darling.” the words drop like a led weight, crushing your ribcage and flattening your beating heart as it fights to stay alive. “while it’s true that i encouraged aemond to accompany you on the ship, it was only after he himself offered to. quite adamintly, might i add. i did not force aemond’s hand in any way."
across a courtyard, palm sweating as he grasps the hilt of the sword of a man he’d slain not so long ago- dark sister, he believes they called it- aemond hacks at a dumby stuffed with hay, each blow a metophorical slice through the king’s words from weeks ago.
i should like to dance with my wife.
dance with my wife.
my wife.
#aemond targaryen smut#aemond targaryen x reader#aemond targaryen oneshot#aemond targaryen fluff#aemond targaryen angst#aemond targaryen fic#aemond targaryen imagine#house of the dragon smut
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Invisible Locket // Sam Carpenter
Summary: Trying to escape from the horrors of Woodsboro, the Carpenter sisters set out to New York. After a year of settling in, the two are surrounded with a trusted friend group and trying to move on from their past as best they can; including Sam wanting to be honest with her heart again.
Word Count: > .9k
Author’s Note: Kind of romcom vibes, my second favorite movie genre, because Sam deserves the softness. Does this count as an AU? Just a drabble; It's not exactly what I wanted but that's because I kept changing my mind about it. Maybe one day I'll write what I actually had in mind but for now, here. Hope you enjoy!
Please be 18+ or be blocked since there are implied sexual references. There are slight references to Scream 6 but nothing heavy.
Warnings: Language and sexual references
There stood a very fine line between insanity and intensity; Sam wasn’t sure where that line was as of last night. She didn’t believe her mind could focus on anything other than her sister. It wasn’t that long ago that the raven-haired woman chose to let go of the grip she had on Tara; learning that her sister can handle herself well enough. And now that her hand is empty, it’s aching for something to reach towards.
Quinn nudged at your side, aiming for your attention before getting up. “Can you please tell Sam to not take too long on making up her mind?” her gaze pointed at you before gesturing back to her roommate.
“Oh my god, you’re clueless,” the younger Carpenter whispered under her breath, not wanting her roommate to necessarily hear her. Tara gently slapped your back, seeing as you simply turned your attention to Sam the first time.
You sighed, looking between the three of them. You sat up straighter, noticing Sam dodging your gaze. “What exactly does she need to make up her mind about?”
“The cute boy across the hall asked her out and Quinn thinks Sam hasn’t given him a response yet,” Tara explained, plopping down next to you on the couch; a hand reaching for the popcorn bucket in your hands. Before she could grasp it, the container was out of your hands.
Tara groaned, reaching past you, getting a handful of popcorn. “You didn’t have to take it all,” the youngest one sighed before settling next to you again.
Your head wisped, the couch arm beside you now occupied. Eyeing the older Carpenter, a repressed smile sneaks past your lips. You curse yourself, noticing Sam’s expression; hooded eyes, looking down at you from where she was sitting, a grin planted gently on her face. The raven-haired woman caught a glimpse of the effect she had on you. It became one of her favorite pastimes since meeting you after they moved to New York.
Trying to gain back some composure, you reset yourself; starry eyes replaced with what could be mistaken for a new moon, a smirk replaced the dopey smile you carried. “Even telling him ‘no’ would be courteous, Samantha.” Sarcasm was laced into every one of your words.
“I did,” Sam said loud enough for everyone in the apartment to hear, namely Quinn, and got up from her position and sat on the other side of Tara. “But I am against someone falling for me,” the survivor admitted, her gaze shifting between you and her sister.
Deciding to ruffle her way out of being in between the two of you, Tara moves to another seat; but not before taking the popcorn bucket with her.
Sam scooches closer to you, wanting to close the gap. “I’ve got a reputation, and it’s not one that I can easily change.” Her eyes now trained on you, her fingers inching closer to the inside of her jean pocket. “My reputation, the rumors, they all precede me. I can barely handle it, what if no one else can?”
“I feel bad enough that Tara and the twins have to deal with the attention at times,” her gaze shifted to her younger sister for a second.
Tara sent a weak grin; her memories flooded with her presumed best friend attempting to kill her, and successfully killing others. Even then, she learned to trust again, and found a spark with Chad. She just wished Sam gave herself the same liberation. And she knew how free her sister felt with you. Unbeknownst to Sam or you, Tara thought you two were the worst at keeping secrets; knowing that you two have been hooking up for months.
Sam’s name slipped past your lips like a shot of espresso. You’ve come to realize the woman’s fear. Stars held onto your eyes once again. You licked your lips, trying to interrupt an incoming smile but failed.
“You’re not poison ivy, and neither is your reputation.”
“Isn’t this all just a little too delicate? If I were to be in love with someone right now?” Sam pondered, biting her bottom lip softly. “Especially considering I don’t know how the other person feels.”
Tara’s eyes widened slightly at the indirect confession. Feeling like she’s interrupting something, she gets up from her seat, stepping back out of the room slowly, not wanting to make any noise.
You chuckled, “Carpenter, we both know I keep a picture of your face in an invisible locket.” The raven-haired woman smirked. “Unless we’re talking about a different kind of ‘delicate’,” you moved closer to her, earning you an eye roll and a shove to your shoulder.
All of her fears began melting away with the reassurance you’ve given her. “So, you wouldn’t mind it if I turned it into an actual locket?”
With furrowed eyebrows, you noticed as she took out a silver necklace out of her jean pocket. When she placed the locket on her hand for better view, you noticed an ‘S’ engraved on it.
“And I’ll have one too, you know, to stop random neighbors from asking me out for a third time.” Sam pulled out a similar necklace, already hung around her neck, tucked underneath her t-shirt, your initial being engraved onto it.
#sam carpenter#sam carpenter x reader#sam carpenter x female reader#sam carpenter imagine#imagine#scream imagine#scream x reader#scream x female reader#scream#scream fanfic#sam carpenter x you#sam x y/n#sam x reader#sam x you#sam carpenter x y/n#sam carpenter fic#samantha carpenter#samantha carpenter x reader#scream 5#scream 2022#scream 6#scream vi#scream franchise#melissa barrera#melissa barrera x reader#carpentersghost writes
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okay no joke this is probably one of my favorite scenes I will ever write and it cracks me up
Umm this is for my httyd au that I was supposed to update 2 weeks ago... it's fine @the-starry-raven @meowmeowriley @rainerestored @myriadblvck @queermentaldisaster @eiraeths @bringinsexybackk69 @axelaxolotl09 ... yeah most of you had no choice in weather I tagged you or not :D
"Ye bloody Eeijit! I said STOP ye gowkn' lavvy heid! that's my bloody feckin' equipment that you bloody bawbags broke!" he could feel hands dragging him away but he didn't care. he needed that shit and they broke it! "I should bloody write you up for that! if i can't get this fixed I turn you into a bloody feartie! I swear i feckin' will ye wankstain!" he yells, over his shoulder as he gets pulled away. he continues struggling and swearing until there is no doubt that they're out of earshot.
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Hi! I heard about you from Ry-Ry’s recommendations! I’ve read some of your stuff and it seems really amazing! I’d like to have a piece of your work!
Could I have a Malleus and reader just watching the starry night skies, but Malleus is watching the stars in the reader’s eyes? I love him sm 💕💕 if not, completely understand! Don’t worry!
I’ll be reading your future posts! You have my support! 💕💕💕💕💕
(Main blog is @minimallyminnie, not this one by the way, in case I ever tag you in anything)
Stargazing (Malleus x Reader)
(A/N): I’m sorry it took so long to get to your request! I’m glad you like my writing!!! 🥰 Thank you for your support and mutual love for Malleus! I love him just as much, and your request inspired me greatly! I hope you enjoy!!
Reader is implied to be the player character/the prefect. Reader is written as someone who hasn’t had the chance to see the stars before.
“I must confess, sometimes I miss being able to see the stars while here at Night Raven College. As nocturnal fae make up the majority of the castle staff, there is little need for the halls to be lit at night. I often had a clear view of the stars from my bedroom window, when it wasn’t storming or cloudy.”
Malleus’s eyes were fixed on the sky above as you sat side by side on Ramshackle’s porch, your eyes fixed on his face as he spoke, hands just shy of touching each other. The two of you were weakly illuminated by the dim porch light, awake far beyond curfew. Malleus’s visits were always worth the cost of your sleep, in your opinion, though.
Tonight, he seemed wistful as he looked up at the sky.
“Do you feel homesick, when you look up at the sky?”
He smiles, a gentle tug of lips that you wouldn’t have noticed if you weren’t so focused on him.
“At times.” His eyes shift from the night sky as his head turns to meet your gaze. “Do you?”
You shake your head, thoughts scattering for a moment as he intertwines his fingers with yours.
“No. Even in another world, the sky is the same no matter where I go. It’s comforting, in a way, to be honest. But…”
Now you were the one looking up at the sky, cloudless and dark, faintly illuminated by the school building in the distance.
“I’ve never really had the chance to see the stars, actually. I’ve always lived in places with too many lights to see them.”
His lips parted for a moment as he blinked, his eyes turning to follow yours to look at the school building as he turned over that confession in his mind.
“I suppose as a diurnal species, the constant need for light during the night means that you cannot see the stars as you please.”
You nod, pulling your fingers from his just a bit to idly play with his hand.
“It’s kinda a shame, honestly. I guess it can’t be helped, but…I’d love to be able to see them one day.” You slot your hands back together, eyes glancing up to meet his for a moment before glancing away again just as quickly. “Especially the view in Briar Valley.”
Malleus gives your hand a gentle squeeze, his eyes seeming to glow as he gives you another smile. “You need only say when.”
The two of you lapsed into a content silence, pressing shoulder to shoulder as you both returned to looking up at the blank night sky, your joined hands a warm anchor in this dream-like bubble.
“Hm…would you join me, to some place further than our usual walk?” You look up at him, question dying on your tongue when faced with Malleus leaning into your space much closer than was good for your heart, his eyes aglow with excitement. “I know of a place here, with a clear view of the stars. I can take us right now, if you’d like.”
You had to take a moment to swallow, struggling to remember how to turn your thoughts into coherent speech. In the end, you can only manage a nod, ready to to stand, when Malleus grins and withdraws his hand from yours to quickly wrap his arm around your waist, tugging you close into his side. His murmuring into your ear to close your eyes is the only warning you get before his magic flashes and you feel weightless, Malleus’s arms around you the only support you have. You slowly open your eyes tentatively when you feel his feet settle on the ground just as the smell of the ocean hits your nose, and you can’t help the gasp that escapes you as you take in the sight before you.
“It’s beautiful, Malleus!” you whisper, leaning against him in your attempt to take in everything. To talk any louder would feel as though it would shatter this private moment with him.
Before you lay a blanket of stars, brightly indistinct like fluffy clouds of blue and purple, white and pink. They were so brilliantly plentiful that they were as though a master painter had created his magnum opus, a painting that one would never tire of looking at. You had no idea the night sky could be so colorful, or that the ocean waves and sandy shore could glitter like this under the glow of the moon and stars.
“It is,” he agreed, but his response came distractedly late. His eyes were much too focused on observing the stars that were reflected in your eyes as you looked up at them with open awe, a quiet smile on his face. He would have never thought he’d find a view he loved even more than looking up at the stars back home, before he met you.
“You saw skies like this all the time back home, huh?”
He hummed in another distracted response to your question. Curious to see if he was as in awe of the stars as you were, you turned your face to look at him, only to find his eyes already meeting yours. The surprise left you breathless.
“It’s a sight I’ll never tire of,” he says, the words so quiet that they would’ve been stolen by the sound of the waves cresting upon the shore if he hadn’t been holding you so close.
His eyes continued to remain fixed on yours.
Your lips part, an attempt to form a response, thoughts scattered and trying to not be further distracted by the way his eyes followed the movement of your lips.
“Can…” you hide your face against his shoulder, hiding from his tender gaze. “...can we come and watch the stars again soon? Just the two of us?”
The corners of his eyes crinkle in delight, nudging you with his shoulder to look up at him. As soon as you peeked at him, face warm with embarrassment, he took the opportunity to quickly press a kiss to your forehead.
“I’d love nothing more.”
(A/N): Once again, sorry it took so long! I hope you enjoyed it! :)
#twst x reader#fanfic#fanfiction#malleus x reader#malleus draconia#twst malleus draconia x reader#twst malleus x reader#malleus draconia x reader
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The Mechanisms fandom survey 2023 results!
Aand after a week, the results are out!
Once again, thank you to all the people who took the survey and/or reblogged the post about it! Its thanks to those people we got 181 answers!
For any questions/observations about the results, feel free to send me an ask!
Link: https://docs.google.com/document/d/122DYSXzGA6Er7Jl9EKfW9xia99vQTSAKUR6VGKkCxek/edit?usp=sharing
Taglist: @hesgotavoicebox @arktixx @vampiric-vhs @loserclawkittycat @riveracheron @rainbowstargazerlilies @resident-nickname-collector @vulpes-corvid @thefaceofthegirlinthewater @astral-doe @insertfandomrefhere @transgender-rex @time-is-restored @jewishlancelot @kazs-scheming-face @starry-voidss @crow-of-ohio @l3monbunny @spinchs-field @sorakamoonlight @arqueervist @shadowypersonalnightmare @nerdyqueerr @possiblyatransgirl @autism-activated @podxol @cosmere-cat @scuzznishimuraenthusiast @generic-internet-name @nastya-rasputina-posts @themidnightwitch44 @labrat-heart-emoji @jonny-dvilles-blog @rusalkaandtheshepherdgirl @mileaftermile @dasminie @mothocean @svere-online @arcanequark @gaiusgoose @cyberiandemonz @squidarts @breathmints1 @teakettle-sys @adozenforks @avataroftheslaughter @gayformlessblob @zellvion @legendary-dumpster-fire @mchasmfiend @dramaticdads @twinktookover @faolonfiendrender @uncomfy-niche @landscaping-your-mind @leopardkingrome @justyourresidentstowaway @cen0b1te @one-of-many-mothmen @brookreader @m0mento @ivycryptid @junipersramblings @twasforresearch @ceaseless-rambler @rowan-the-dragon @wishingtoflylikeabirdinthesky @ashdances @uncalamar @gendiegremlin @jester-writing @daisysmartheart @poisoncoffeecup @radio-robin @gunpowder-tim @timothy-gunpowder @flowers-all-around-me @agatheringofbees @elendiltengwesta @the-worms-in-your-bones @jonsrightrib @fagofandrogyny @amber-and-sunshine @four-ravens-in-a-trenchcoat @doctor-von-raum @kulttuurinkurittama @ifyourereadingthisblinktwice @klatukattdreams @dilfdubois @weirdscience @out-there-on-the-maroon @theevilwithin2014 @thatwitchynerd @hello-there-world- @raemoriarty1020 @celestial-circus @labyrinthineclockwork @harpie-raven @lostspaceghost @imjustexistingtbh @starchilll @m-o-o-n-f-i-r-e @mayjeffneverstopyou @spiderh0rse @the-suns-a-tube @continuousmeowing @thestrangesun @bones-edition @tiny-feral-arachnid-man @xekal-vanil @onlykoshki @origami-butterfly @shatteredzydrateteacup @ghostshipskipper @queer-lynx @canonicallyginger @sleepybasil @awfullyqueerwriter @sylviestars @thetoastyghosty @blurjay-07 @peachpriness4444 @Luiqinggessocialskills @cosmiccalico @morgan-is-here @sweetaskiwis @cattheribot @vforvaudevillain @god-of-all-things @francnkie @dhampir-aasimar @im-a-demon-im-not-nice @x-ca1iber @whyispickingusernamessohard @realcadianmoose @star-that-howls
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Angsty story time just like I said! This one took a bit of time to think about because I was trying to match it with the other one and used my other fic as bit of a reference. Now if you'll excuse me I need to go write something fluffy and funny before I cry myself a river. Please enjoy.
...........................
This blessing truly was a curse.
Another wave of heaviness overwhelms Silver’s entire being, causing him to stagger against the gigantic, rusted door. Almost there, a voice whispers in his ear, almost there.
There wasn’t much time. He had been travelling on foot for a few days now, having snuck out of Night Raven after making sure that everyone was alright and resting. He had gathered all his meagre possessions from his dorm room and set fire to them, watching as the smoke and ashes rose up into the cool, starry sky, no one will miss them anyways. The only thing that was spared from the flames was the small photograph from Silver’s birthday where everyone wore pleasant happy smiles, back when everything was normal. He couldn’t bear to part with it so he carefully pocketed it in an old coat he brought from home.
Home. What does that mean to him now? Home was wherever his father was, and now that was gone too. Lost to the sands of time and revelation.
Almost there.
The castle was decrepit and in ruins, but there was a melancholic beauty among the briar thorns that draped over the whole crumbling structure, threading through old looming towers and snaking through rotted doors and windows. Elegant it was, for an ancient tomb made for a forgotten kingdom.
Silver groaned as another wave of exhaustion hit him, it was getting worse, this was different from all the other spells, it was heavy and unrelenting, weighing him down like a prisoner with a ball and chain. It had started when everyone had tended to the aftermath of Malleus’s overblot, while everyone shed tears of relief and embraced each other Silver felt a sharp pang in his chest, his eyelids began to sag and his head languidly swayed. Before him was the sweet sight of his family in a tight pile sharing heartfelt whispers and cheers, suddenly he grew to be very tired. Silver was so happy for them, finally he got to see his prince and father genuinely smile once again, but this time the pang he felt before returns with another kick. Harder this time. So hard that he thought he could feel something split inside him, slowly spreading into what would later become a fragile web of cracks just waiting to shatter. By then he had left before anyone had noticed, slipping out of the room to what he believed was his final walk to the gallows.
He recalled visiting his father before he left. The poor fae was utterly exhausted and hadn’t even stirred as the moon’s light flooded the room through the crack of his door, Silver slowly crept up to the edge of his father’s bed, watching the level rise and fall of his chest as his gaze shifted to the peaceful expression on Lilia’s face, it was the most peaceful Silver’s seen him for quite some time. If Lilia were to wake up right now he might’ve startled at the close proximity his son’s face was to his, just watching intently while resting his drowsy head on top of his arms, expression blank as it had always been. How did he do it? After all the suffering he’s had to endure all these centuries, how did Lilia still find it in himself to love and care for the offspring of his enemy, the enemy who's stripped him of everything.
Silver sighed deeply, his head lolled against the cool stone of the castle, his thoughts were flailing from his grasp while his vision blurred at the edges, how much longer… how much longer. He was so tired, this was worse than the exhaustion he felt carrying the general up the forbidden mountains or the cold, cold magic that seeped into his joints. Silver clumsily waves off some birds, fluttering about in their worry when he refuses to speak to them, so tired, it didn’t matter. It was no use clinging to something worth nothing.
As he was leaving father’s room, he did not expect to hear a voice weak with sleepiness calling out to him ‘Silver?’ Lilia’s voice rang out ‘my dear, what are you doing out? You should be in bed little one’ Silver turned from his place at the door to see Lilia lifting himself upright, rubbing the tiredness from his eyes. Once again Silver was a small child, silently praying for his papa to wake up and soothe him after the throes of a dreadful nightmare, he stalls, unsure of what to do, fortunately Lilia beats him to it ‘couldn’t sleep could you? That’ll be a first, but I’m not surprised,’ he yawns widely, ‘come here little one’ he says, patting the bed. When Silver doesn’t budge he pats it more insistently ‘well, come on!’ Silver twitches hesitantly, he’d want nothing more than to run and snuggle into his father’s arms just like how he did as a child, but due to what he’s devised and done it felt rather cruel, in the end though Silver gave in. However, as father’s arms eagerly wrapped around his shoulders the drowsiness he felt in the lounge returned tenfold, making him slump further into Lilia’s chest. Unaware of what was truly happening Lilia coos, thinking that his son simply needed some company to help lull him to sleep, not that he could blame him, the past few days have been quite the eye opener for his boys, and not the pleasant kind.
‘I’m so sorry you had to endure all of that my love’ Lilia murmurs as he buries his face in silver locks ‘it must have been terrifying for you all’ he then lays back down, bringing Silver down with him ‘yes, but I’m just glad that you and Lord Malleus are safe’ he whispers back, letting Lilia press a loving kiss to his forehead ‘oh my darling, who could have ever raised such a wonderful boy? Oh yes, it was me!’
Normally the boy would relish in his father’s doting affections, hands combing through his hair and massaging his scalp, his warm body curled around his under the blankets, it was the perfect way to fall asleep. But all it does now is widen the gaping hole in his chest, rendering him numb to the bone. Please, why?
It should be Malleus here in father’s warm embrace, not him.
Malleus, the prince who had lost everything before he was even born, the prince who had been denied a family by those who sought power, the prince who had been denied his rightful father. I’m so sorry.
No, Silver was not jealous in the slightest, the void within him did not bay for anyone’s downfall. Only his.
Had it not been for his birth family Malleus would still have his parents, perhaps even his freedom, and Lilia would still have his beloved friends, his reasons for living. And now thanks to Silver’s selfish desires he had helped trigger Malleus’s overblot and thus this whole mess.
And it tore at Silver to know that, despite all of these transgressions, Lilia still found it in himself to love him. It was with these thoughts stewing in his head that he carefully crawled out from the blissful warmth once he was certain his father had fallen back asleep, slipping out of the dorm just as a certain prince came to check on him, only to find that the window had been left open, curtains fluttering as the moon leaked through, illuminating a room that was dreadfully cold and devoid of everything.
Silver wasn’t even meant to be here, hadn’t the great fairies blessed him with a prolonged slumber, he would merely be another fading memory of a kingdom lost to time, a distant fragment in the history textbooks if he was lucky. Which was partly why he was here now, back to the castle where Lilia had found him, and the place where Princess Malenoa was slain, if he were in the right state of mind Silver would have spent a moment savouring the desolate beauty of the whole place. But alas, it seemed that his body recognised its home of the last four hundred years, and a familiar sense of fatigue clawed at his legs. But the voice in the back of his head urged him to walk further, almost there almost there.
After all, there was a reason why Silver was here.
He wanted his family to be happy, and it seems to ensure that, the blood stained slate must be wiped clean. And while there was no way he could disband the senate, the least Silver could do was make sure that nothing from his forgotten home harmed anyone ever again, including himself. Everything here must remain buried, for the sake of everyone. Everything from that tragedy will die here with him, his bloodline and existence will be naught but a distant memory.
The great fairies magic seemed to agree with him as with every ladened step he takes, the harder it was for him to move. Just a little more…
In the background, he heard a frantic volley of chirps and squeaks. What is it this time? It takes a momentous effort to lift his hooded eyes to see a pair of dark wings flapping and tugging at his hair. Oh, it was one of Father’s familiars, the one who took charge whenever Malleus or the Zigvolts babysat him. The bat squeaked with desperation, even digging its tiny claws into his shoulder in a pitiful attempt to either wake him up or drag him away he was not sure, all he knew was that any and all entrances had been sealed to prevent anyone from breaking in, but it seemed that the wildlife were still granted entry ‘leave me’ he tells his old caretaker, his voice slurry and barely above a whisper.
The old bat chirps back, refusing to let go as if it knew what was happening. It's possible that it does, the bat was nearly as old as Lilia, its borne witness to his family's atrocities, seen what they have done so why was it pulling at him so? It was the head of its colony, it knew as a leader that sometimes one thing must be sacrificed for the good of many others. Why didn’t it understand that this is what needs to be done? It was for the benefit of its master for goodness sake! ‘please. Leave me alone, return to Lilia’ it hurt him to insult his father like this, he could almost hear Sebek cutting into him at such blatant disrespect. I’m sorry, Father.
The bat’s urgent squealing escalates into a borderline wailing as Silver stumbles forward, crawling up the steps leading to the desecrated throne, and the empty cradle right next to it. I’m…tired. The further he climbed, the deeper he sank, down, down into the darkness, the sweet promise of rest right at his fingertips. The bat faded off into the distance, all sense of feeling in his limbs fell away, all he could see was that small cradle.
Why did I wake up?
Every resounding step echoed throughout the empty halls.
Why did you take me in?
His legs buckle underneath him, his face crashing into the harsh stone.
It hurts. I’m scared.
He was terrified, there was no stopping this, this exhaustion. Weak fingers drag his body closer.
Father, he wanted Father!
Why would he come? There was nothing here for him, he didn’t deserve father.
It was so cold, where was father? He’s warm.
In the fading light, a hand reaches out for the cradle, almost there.
Fa…ther…
Darkness swallows him whole.
#knight's writing#silver twst#twst#I both wither and feast upon this misery#most of the time on this was spent fighting with crappy internet#poor baby Silver when will you accept everyone's love?
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@forestshadow-wolf Sparrow time!
She was obsessed with this movie well more obsessed with the song as a kid. It was adorable because whenever one of her dad's out it on she immediately ran in from either outside or from another room and a l w a y s tripped.
She didn't know why she liked it so much, probably the music was just catchy.
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"What about love?"
A/N: ok, this is what I've been working on lately. There may be part two, I have the whole story in my head, but I'm not sure yet how to write it down. Let me know if you want a continuation. I appreciate every comment and suggestion.
Summary: Both, Morpheus and Reader fear rejection and they worry that what they feel to each other could change the dynamic of their friendship. Morpheus is quite guarded when it comes to falling in love and Reader is afraid that by allowing her feelings to grow and acting on them may somehow destroy what she already has with Morpheus. They need help from someone like Matthew to realize how foolish they both are and how they should finally go for it and be together. In essence, idiots in love. xd
"I will not elaborate on that." You shook your head refusing to talk about your feelings for Morpheus. "We're friends that's all."
"Friends?" Matthew ruffled up his feathers in disbelief. "What friends have eyes on each other like that?"
"Like what?" You raised your brow and looked up at Matthew. He was hopping on a lower tree branch on your right side like he was unable to stand still, due to how impatient he felt...
"Like you are looking at the most delicious cake you've been longing to eat after a long time of starvation, but for some unspecific reason you won't."
You chuckled. "So you're saying there's a sexual tension between us?"
"Yes! But not only that..." He raised his wings slightly annoyed by how foolish you and Morpheus acted, not willing to admit to your feelings towards each other. "There are feelings there. Deep ones." His voice softened a bit. "All those romantic dates you've had, all those soft gazing at each other, sweet whispers, nervous flirting..."
You sighed as you adjusted your position, leaning back against the tree. You pulled your knees closer to your chest, thinking about what Matthew had already said, thinking about your joyful times spent with Dream lord.
"... It's all there in everything you do when you're two together." He flew down and landed on grass next to you. "Love." He added as if it wasn't obvious already.
Love. You let that sink in.
A very strong, very overwhelming, very perilous feeling.
You closed your eyes for a moment, Morpheus face and his starry eyes gazing at you appeared in your mind like a picture framed.
But love is also a very beautiful, very pleasing and absolutely treasured thing worth feeling.
Matthew was right. There was a potential for love between you and Dream lord. And if you were being honest with yourself, if you could only let go of your fear of rejection and insecurities, maybe you were able to embrace what your heart was holding for Morpheus.
You opened your eyes and looked at the raven. Matthew was observing you, knowing that his pep talk finally managed to make you consider taking some action. There was still some work to do, especially on Morpheus behalf, but seed had been already planted.
"I have to admit..." You said. "Your gentle nudging seems to be working." Your lips curled up into a soft smile. "I have some feelings for Morpheus, but..."
"Oh, there's always a but." Matthew sighed to himself.
"... I don't know if this is a good idea to let him know, I'm not sure if Morpheus is... ready to take our relationship to a deeper level."
You pondered as you leaned your head back, not realising that Matthew had already spread his wings to fly away. When you looked at him he was at a far distance, and before you could stop him, he came off the ground.
"Matthew!" You called after him. "You're not going to-"
"Worry not, Y/N! Morpheus won't find out about our talk! I'm just gonna encourage him in a subtle way to acknowledge his feelings and to talk to you about them!" Matthew made an exciting rattle sound and flew away to the palace to play Cupid.
Oh no you thought. Matthew and his subtle way to make things happen.
Matthew perched on a nearby bookshelf, looking thoughtfully at Morpheus as he stood by the window, gazing into the night sky. The raven knew he had to tread carefully, for Morpheus was not one to easily share his emotions.
"Speak freely Matthew. What's on your mind?"
"Ah, you know..." Matthew began, pretending to be nonchalant, "I couldn't help but notice how Dreaming has been beaming lately with glee, warmth, fresh spring hair... Love..."
Morpheus raised an eyebrow, not giving away anything.
"And I think it has something to do with Y/N being here..." Matthew continued. "She seems to enjoy spending time with you, seeking your company more often. And I dare to say, you seek for her companion too."
Morpheus shifted slightly. "Her presence has a quite delightful impact on my realm, yes." He stated, trying to remain composed. He didn't know where Matthew was going with it, but definitely something mattered.
"And it's more than that, sir." Matthew paused, implying that you had a strong impact on Lord of dreams himself.
Matthew considered his next words. "But I also notice... Well, actually it's not only me who has noticed that, that you both, ah... are unaware of each other's feelings."
Morpheus turned his head to him and Matthew shifted slightly under the intense gaze of Dream lord.
"As much as I usually welcome your insights and wise counsel, it is not your position to interfere with what me and lady Y/N have." Morpheus said in a soft but firm voice, politely reprimanding his raven.
"I know, forgive me my boldness, sir." Matthew lowered his head in a respectful way.
There was a long pause between them as Morpheus turned his head back to the window pondering on something. He remembered that he and Matthew had already had a similar conversation like this a few weeks ago. It started all with Matthew sharing tales of past loves and the consequences of hesitating, of not considering what two lovers might regret if they continued to hold back.
It's then when Matthew had said:
"Lady Y/N is rather fond of you, and she has a heart of gold, she does."
Morpheus had glanced at Matthew, his expression softening ever so slightly. "She is a remarkable woman," he'd admitted.
"Indeed, she is," Matthew had agreed. "And I think she deserves to know how you truly feel about her."
The Dream Lord had averted his gaze, but Matthew could tell he was considering the raven's words. "I do not wish to burden her with my emotions," Morpheus said quietly.
"Ah, but emotions are not burdens, my lord," Matthew had said wisely. "They are the very essence of life. And Y/N is no stranger to the complexities of feelings. You may find that she's quite perceptive when it comes to matters of the heart."
And that was how the conversation had ended as Morpheus didn't respond and just took his leave saying something about important work to do in the Dreaming.
Having this memory in mind, Morpheus sighed, his defenses weakening. "Perhaps you are right, Matthew" he admitted with a soft distance voice. "But I..."
Matthew hopped closer, a comforting presence. He was listening closely, though he didn't like another but that he heard today. When his lord hesitated to finish his sentence, Matthew decided to respond because he already knew what this but was about.
"Y/N cares for you deeply, and I believe she would welcome your affections."
Morpheus was about to respond when Matthew's beak slipped, and he couldn't stop the next words that spilled out. "She cares for you more than you know, my lord. In fact, she's quite smitten with you."
Morpheus froze, a mixture of surprise and curiosity crossing his features. "Smitten, you say?" he inquired, unable to hide his interest.
"Oh, yes!" Matthew said, trying to recover from his little slip-up. "It's evident in the way she looks at you, the way she lights up when you're near. It's quite enchanting to see."
A small smile tugged at the corners of Morpheus's lips. "Enchanting, you say?"
Matthew nodded, now unable to conceal his excitement. "Absolutely, my lord! She adores you, and I dare say she wouldn't mind knowing how you feel about her."
Morpheus took a moment to process the revelation, his mind racing with possibilities. "Perhaps... I should tell her," he murmured.
Matthew couldn't contain his joy and relief. "I think that would be a marvelous idea, my lord!" he exclaimed. "Love is a rare and beautiful gift. Don't let it slip away."
The Dream Lord gave a slight nod, his heart warming to the idea. "Thank you, Matthew," he said sincerely. "Your counsel has been invaluable."
Matthew beamed with pride. "You're welcome, my lord."
And with newfound determination, Morpheus left the room, leaving Matthew to bask in his success. The raven knew he had played a small part in bringing the two souls together, and he couldn't be happier for them.
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Hail Lord Apollon, hail golden Phoebus,
Flawless beauty figure, brother of Artemis
Hail bows of soreness, hail rays of sanity
Protect pearly wisdom, shine for charity
Oh fawning sunlight, eyes found in starlet,
Pore over us, children born of garnet
Oh son of Zeus, honouring Leto's sadness,
Flames in our hearts, beating for your guidness.
Welcoming sun with our swanlike voices,
May crows be your gaze, may ravens be your choices.
We sing for your honour, make us worth your pity,
Fly us through harmony, through sunkissed dignity.
We'll write heartfelt poems, we'll play darling lyre,
Just to praise Apollo, our arts etheral father.
I pray to you, hail starry-eyed master,
Golden your blood, with mine pomping faster.
Veins turn to snakes, dreamy your spirit,
Opening the closure of your mystical visit.
Make me the centre of your meadow presence,
Pour in my soul your song's precious essence.
Your lips that made words for this praising hymn
May tell me your guide, the sun will never dim.
***
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☆ raven's very belated 2k followers celebration ☆
hi!!! I reached 2000 followers back in... august I think? but never really had the time/strength to celebrate properly, so now's the time I guess!
everything's happening through my inbox and anyone can participate :)
status: opened
—💍fmk: give me three characters and I’ll choose who I fuck, marry and kiss. (no killing here)
—🧠would you rather: make me choose between two situations!
—🧡be nosy: feel free to ask me any question you want!
—📷 paparazzi: send me a 📷 and I’ll reply with a random picture of oscar!
—🐝bzz: send me a 🐝 with a character and I’ll tell you a random headcanon I have for them!
—🎧hand me the aux: send me a 🎧, I will randomize my playlist and give you a song recommendation!
—💭thoughts: send me headcanons, thoughts (or thots) about one character I write for and I'll let my wild mind run with it!
I don't know how long this celebration will last, I'll see how it goes and I'll update the status at the top of the post!
thank you for 2k!!!
tagging some lovely mutuals<3 @my-secret-shame @whatthefishh @spacecowboyhotch @campingwiththecharmings @midgardian-witch @nowritingonthewall @ominoose @alwritey-aphrodite @dameronshandholder @missdictatorme @foxilayde @spider-starry @moonknightly @eatingyouryoung @lunaesidus @melodygatesauthor
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Random HTTYD!au information (INFODUMPING!!!!)
So, because Skrills eat electric eels, and DeathSongs literally couldn't care less about them, DeathSong!Soap often brings back electric eels for Skrill!Ghost.
Laurel and Misty have a special way of communicating, and that is tail gestures. For example, when Laurel flicks his tail frill four times, that means he wants cuddles.
Rider!Roach has special signs. For example, a ‘y’ sign, using his thumb and pinkie, when he flaps it, means fly.
Rider!Gaz will often go out and sunbathe with Laurel (it's an excuse for both of them to nap for a while on stressful days too)
Misty, Laurel, Smokey, and Tater all know how to write and read Viking (English)
Rider!Price will randomly get bursts of energy and destroy all the training dummies. Roach scolds the shit out of him.
Death Song!Soap has the world's BEST puppy dog eyes. And yes, he abuses this power to get Ghost to do whatever he wants. :3
Tater is an enigma. Even to his own rider. No one knows where he came from, why he looks the way he does, he just kinda...showed up one day with a mouth full of potatoes and never really left?
Laurel has been with Gaz since he was small. They're both 25. Gaz doesn't even remember why Laurel is called Laurel.
Misty stumbled out of the mist one day, after she got into a fight with other dragons. It's where she lost her left tail. She collapsed in front of Roach, who took her in, treated her wounds, and made sure she was safe.
Smokey got his name for two reasons. One, he was constantly chasing after smoke when he was little. (Still does, it's a whole ass problem.) Two, you cannot look at that behemoth and tell me he doesn't like muscular smoke.
And yeah, that's it! :3
(Taglist: @im-here-and-im-confused @the-starry-raven @thegreyjoyed @forestshadow-wolf @myriadblvck)
#httyd!au#call of duty#call of duty mw2#httyd#smokey#laurel#misty#tater.#deadly nadder#hobblegrunt#rumblehorn#triple stryke#rider!price#skrill!ghost#deathsong!soap#rider!roach#rider!gaz#simon ghost riley#john soap mactavish#ghoap#captain john price#nikolai#nikprice#rider!nikolai#kyle gaz garrick#gazroach#gary roach sanderson
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Clone MarcNath AU
This is an AU of Miraculous Ladybug where Nathaniel is the clone of Vincent Van Gogh, and Marc is the clone of Edgar Allan Poe.
The Sinister Board of Shadowy Figures decided to focus on making only one clone for the next generation, making another of Van Gogh. They sent him to France with Aya and Eli, his caretakers. He decided that he didn’t want to be called Vincent, and changed his name to Nathaniel.
Of course, they made sure he wasn't alone, and sent his boyfriend a clone of Edgar Allan Poe who changed his name to Marc. Their job would be to observe the future Miraculous Team, but the boys decided "screw that" and just lived out their days as high school students.
They write and draw angsty stuff and live their likes all cynical and stuff like some cool emos. Marc Allen Poe likes to leave haunting messages in peoples lockers for the hell of it just to see how they’ll react, and Nath Van Gogh has trouble hearing due to missing a left ear.
You can find them brooding around the school, or making out as gothic music plays from their phones.
Nathaniel was born without a left ear, and hides this fact by covering it with his hair.
Marc can recite the entire Edgar Allen Poe part of ERB's rap battle on command.
Marc: Once upon a midnight dreary, as I spit this weak and weary, I will choke this joker with a trochee till his cheeks are teary! (Nathaniel swoons)
Marc calls Nathaniel his Starry Iris, and Nathaniel calls Marc his Blood Raven. Juleka and Ivan are their besties.
Marc: I love you, my dark Raven.
Nathaniel: What?! Marc: I said I love you!
Nathaniel: Thanks! I am using a new shampoo!
Marc: Oh, for the love of- *Turns Nath’s head around* I love you!
Nathaniel: You don’t have to shout. But I love you, too.
And there you have it! Me and Artzy came up with the info, and thank you so much to them for doing so. As always, make sure to reblog, reply, post and ask for more thoughts on the content. @artzychic27 @msweebyness
#nathaniel kurtzberg#nathaniel van gogh#nathaniel#marc anciel#marc allen poe#marc#vincent van gogh#edgar allan poe#clone high#clone high au#marcaniel#nathmarc#marcnath#marc x nathaniel#nathaniel x marc#clones#miraculous ladybug#miraculous
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𝐃𝐈𝐕𝐘𝐀 𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐘𝐀
— Dwarkadhish x Dwarakeshwari
🦚 SYNOPSIS : When Krishna can't see his priya frowning in sadness, so, he comes up with a way to cheer her up.
🦚 KAMAL'S NOTE : This is just a work of fiction and nothing to do with the actual events. I just wanted to write something for Maa Rukmini and Krishna since there is not much. Hopefully I didn't cross the line. This fic made me hate the word 'hand' to be honest 😮💨. The devider is from this post.
Kamalnayan = Lotus like eyes, Sri = Mahalakshmi/Rukmini, Nupur = Anklet, Aradhya = Adored one, Arya = Honorable one.
Sweet wind blew past the raven locks, forcing them to dance on the rhythm with it. Dwarakeshwari, Rukmini Maharani, sat on the edge of the majestic water fountain. Her hand playing with the rippling cold water. The full moon shone brightly in the night's sky. The reflection of the moon in the water made Rukmini appear glowing.
Everything happened so suddenly. One day, she was writing a letter to Kanha to come and save her and the next she is now married to the said Manohari. Few days ago she came to Dwarka with her husband. People here are loving and welcoming to her but Rukmini could not help but miss her father and brothers.
Since day one she was their beloved princess but everything changed when Rukmi decided to prioritise his political friends and hate towards Krishna over her. Going against Rukmini, he rejected Krishna when he asked for her hand in marriage and then he fixed her marriage to that demon, Shishupal. Still, Rukmini loved her brother and wanted the best for them.
"Can't sleep?"
A sweet voice broke the silence of the night. Her hand stopped it's action. Rukmini heard quite footsteps advancing towards her as her heartbeat sped up. Even after loving him for years and being married to hi, Rukmini couldn't help but blush whenever he was around her.
Krishna walked up to Rukmini and sat right behind her. Their eyes met through the waters reflection but Rukmini averted her eyes away as a feeling of shyness took over, making Krishna chuckle. His wife, his Sri, can look into others eyes and put them in their places but she can't even look her Shyam. Oh! How much he yearns to see those beautiful kamalnayan.
"Could not sleep?" Krishna asked again, this time even more softer.
Rukmini nodded her head, giving him a quiet 'hum'. Krishna dipped his hand in water. Taking her hand in his, Krishna swayed them, feeling water pass through their fingers.
"So, what is bothering my beloved?"
Rukmini remained silent for a moment before speaking, "I was thinking about my people back home."
"Is that so?" Krishna wishpered, "Do you regret marrying me and coming he—"
Before he could finish, Rukmini had turned around and slammed her hand over his mouth, "What are you saying Madhav? I can never."
Rukmini felt his lips curling up into a smile against her palm. Krishna held her hand by his both hands and brought them down. But instead of letting go, Krishna clutches it even firmer.
"You are finally looking at me."
Rukmini gasped at the realisation and all the heat raised up her cheeks. As she quickly looked, Krishna took her chin between two fingers and made her face him again. Rukmini kept her head down.
Hay Bhagwan! My shy wife. Madhav thought to himself.
"Would you like to go somewhere......With me?" Krishna asked.
Rukmini nodded her head without any hesitation. Krishna stood up and held out a hand for her, "Sri?"
Rukmini placed her hand in and got up. Then Krishna started leading them out of the golden palace. They walked for at least 60 vighaṭi but neither of them seemed to mind. By day Krishna is mostly busy with work and Rukmini also has to play the mother goddess she is.
They don't get much time to spend together other than the night. They walked through the furnished road, hand in hand, under the starry night. At the end of the city was a forest. Krishna led her into it.
Moonlight failed to enter through the cover of tall tree branches. As the forest went darker, Rukmini, unknowingly, brought herself closer to Krishna. Though Krishna saw that, he didn't say anything because seeing how shy his Sri is, she might pull away.
"How far is the place, Madhav?" Rukmini asked when the road seemed to be endless. They couldn't stay out long. As the king and queen of Dwarka, work was already on their shoulders.
"Just a little more Sri." Krishna whispered, giving her hand a firm squeeze.
They walked a little more when Krishna suddenly stopped. Rukmini looked at him confused. Krishna released her hand and held up the jewelled flute. As Rukmini held the flute with care, Krishna went behind her and palmed over her eyes.
"Ma-Madhav?"
"Just a little more to go." Krishna whispered in her ear.
Rukmini trusted and started forwarding. Losing the ability to see, her other senses became stronger. The forest was silent. The sweet sound of their nupur chiming echoed through the silent woodland accompanied by occasional hooting of owls.
Krishna came to an abrupt stop, "Ready?"
Rukmini nodded impatiently, "Yes, Madhav."
Krishna slowly removed his hands. A bright light blinded Rukmini for a moment. She blinked her eyes to adjust to the light and when she saw scenery before her all she could do was gasp in surprise.
The place was glowing compared to the rest of the dark forest. Fireflies dancing with each other. Beautiful flowers are blooming all over the place. Birds like peacocks, parrots, owls, flying like it's broad daylight. Then there is deers, red panda, horses and many more playing like friends.
"Madhav, what place is this? This looks like it is Vaikuntha."
"This place is Divya aranya. Do you like it?"
"This place is heavenly. Why didn't you bring me here earlier?" Rukmini breathed out, failing to look away.
Krishna sat on the ground with his hack leaning on a big tree. While Rukmini admired the magical forest, Krishna admired his ārādhya. Her eyes sparkled like gold, taking in everything. When she was done she came and sat beside Madhav.
"How did this come here?" Rukmini felt like a child, seeing the world for the first time even though she herself was Devi Mahalakshmi.
"That…….is a story for another time. Just know that there was this man who created this place because he couldn't see his priya frowning in sadness." Mischievousness swimmed in his eyes.
Rukmini smiled with a knowing look. She really had completely forgotten about her previous sadness with her brother. Which gave Krishna relief. The last thing he wanted was for her to be sad. That too in his presence.
Rukmini felt a different sense of boldness as she dropped her head on his shoulder. When the sun goes up they will be pulled into the same work routine. So, Rukmini wanted to savour these moments as much as possible.
"Can we stay here a little longer?" Rukmini asked softly and he replied back, "As long as you want."
Rukmini's eyes fell on the flute in her hand, the divine flute that everyone praises.
"Arya, you have never played your flute for me, have you?"
Krishna laughed, "Every rag, every sur, every dhun that I play, is for you, my Sri. If not you, then I have no reason to even exist."
He sure is a ladies' man. Rukmini thought as her cheeks became red.
Rukmini gave him his flute back, "Play something for me, won't you, Arya?"
"Anything for you, Sri."
Krishna took the flute, placing his lips on it, he started playing the most madhur dhun she had ever heard. The aranya became more joyful, birds danced with the melody, animals became hypnotised with how enchanting it was.
And Darkeswari drifted into the dreamland with her head resting on her beloved's shoulder and hearing the madhur dhun.
© 𝐊𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐊𝐀𝐌𝐀𝐋 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟑, 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐃 — all content rights belongs to KRISHAKAMAL. Do not plagiarize any works and do not repost or translate onto any other sites.
All the rights and credits of the characters, gifs, songs and pictures used here belongs to their rightful owners.
#krishmini#—Krishakamal#kamal writes#vishnu#hindu mythology#mahabharat#hindublr#hindu gods#hindusim#hinduism#Krishna#rukmini#krishna x rukmini#dwarka#sanatan dharma#madhav#lakshmi#Lakshmi Narayan#rukmini x shyam
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