#Crown Glass Skull | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

lucid-loves · 2 months

Text

First Light ~ Simon "Ghost" Riley Part 1

Pairing: bodyguard!Ghost x princess!reader (fem!reader)

Word Count: 4.5k

CW: angst, violence, blood, strong language, scars, verbal abuse by parents, physical abuse by parents, psychological abuse by parents, opposites attract, forbidden love, slow burn, fluff, attraction and sexual tension, reader POV and ghost POV, minors DNI, eventual smut, virgin reader

Let me know if I missed any CWs.

Story Synopsis: After receiving death threats from a mysterious terrorist organization, your royal parents make a decision to reach out to the United States for help. Specifically, they want the US to send a bodyguard to protect their precious princess. When the 141 is called upon to investigate, Ghost is the one assigned to protect you. With your lack of experiences outside of your royal life and his experience with nothing but deadly, worldly affairs, opposites attract.

Chapter Synopsis: Ghost travels to the small country of Stuoca to meet the person assigned to guard for the next month. When you lay your eyes on him, you can’t help but feel scared, yet also curious. He feels the same when encountering such a precious, fragile thing like you.

Part 1 ~ Part 2 ~ Part 3 ~ Part 4 ~ Part 5

The porcelain teacup felt warm in your hands, holding your favorite blend of tea flavored to your preference. The grandfather clock in the room ticked by, filling the silence. While you normally liked to play some music to fill the space with sound, your parents told you that you must be quiet. That you had to sit pretty and be patient until you were allowed to do so.

You stared into your cup, slowly losing your appetite for teatime as the pit in your stomach grew bigger. You felt like there was something wrong, but you couldn’t figure out what it was. Normally, your parents were eager to show you off to any guest that was coming to the palace. Right now, it is different. You were locked away in one of the many palace studies. There was your butler with you who watched your worries grow. There were a couple of guards outside the closed doors, stopping anyone from entering unless the king or queen allowed it.

Looking out the arched window and overlooking the lush palace garden, you wished you could enjoy your teatime outside like you normally did. Feeling the fresh air, hearing the birds chirp in the distance, enjoying the subtle aroma of flowers flowing with the wind. It was really the only time you were allowed to be outside.

Even though you were a grown woman, your parents have always seen you as their little princess.

While you sat silently in the study, the king and queen of Stuoca was meeting the man that would guard you with his life. It was jarring being in a place like this. Everything from the floor to the ceiling was crafted with exquisite, polished stone. Anything made of wood was a rich cherry. On marble pedestals along the halls held works of art behind glass. Jewelry, crowns, busts. Golden chandeliers with crystals reflecting the light hung from the ceilings that were painted with angels.

Everything in the palace was worth billions upon billions of dollars. Standing in the middle of it all was Ghost, a man that once was just scraping by in his younger days. He still stood out like a sore thumb among it all. The skull balaclava secured over his head, tattoos revealed on his forearm, the black t-shirt that clung tight to his muscles. It was like death himself walked the bright palace halls.

“Pardon me, Lieutenant Ghost, but you don’t have to wear that mask here, do you?” The queen, your mother, nervously addressed from her red velvet seat. The mask was making her scared. That was how people normally reacted when they saw him for the first time.

“Yes I do, your majesty.” He curtly responded, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. Ghost was just as uncomfortable as your parents were. When he heard that he was being deployed to guard a princess, he laughed, thinking it was a joke. But now, here he was being served tea and cookies with the king and queen of Stuoca. As much as being on base was a pain in the ass at times, he missed it.

The king cleared his throat before taking another sip of tea from his teacup. When they reached out to the United States for a bodyguard, they weren’t expecting someone so. . . rough to be sent out. But, if this was the right man for the job, then so be it. As long as his princess was safe. “Thank you for traveling so far away from home in order to help us with our problem. Being a country so small, we weren’t even sure if your country would even bat an eye at us.”

Ghost shifted on the balls of his feet, growing more uncomfortable with the sudden gratitude. He just wanted to start the job already. The sooner he starts, the sooner he can end it. “You said that you’ve received threats. Anything else happened while I was busy traveling here?”

With a snap of the king’s fingers, a maid came over and presented an opened envelope. Ghost quirked a brow under his mask as he took it. Opening it revealed the original letter that was reported to Laswell. The one that he’s already seen with his 141 team. Handwritten, black ink, very articulated. The letter detailed how the royal family would burn down along with their palace. That the princess will be kidnapped and tortured if they didn’t get what they wanted, which was power to control the country.

Ghost sighed, feeling like he got the short end of the stick on this mission. The entire 141 was working on this case. However, Ghost was the one stuck with babysitting duty while the rest of the guys got to experience all of the action. They were off investigating while he was sitting on a velvet couch in the grandest office he has ever seen.

“That’s all we have for now to physically show you. The only other concern is the graffiti that has been popping up around the city.” The king explained calmly as a different maid brought over a manilla folder full of pictures. Pictures depicted a graffiti crow on various different buildings. They weren’t murals, but the symbols were prominent enough to be noticed.

“A crow is a symbol of misfortune and death. A bad omen, wouldn’t you agree?” The queen spoke up, taking a slow sip of her tea as she tried to read the lieutenant’s reaction. It was impossible to do so with his mask.

“Where is the princess right now?” He inquired. It seemed odd that you didn’t come in with your parents. He figured that they would want you right by their side at all times if they were really concerned about the threats.

The king and queen stood as if on a cue. The king gestured for Ghost to do the same. “Our daughter is in one of the studies waiting to meet you. For her sake, please refrain from bringing up the letter and graffiti. We don’t want to startle her more than what has already been done.”

Ghost gave a curt nod before following your parents to the study where you stayed. The way they spoke about you, you seemed more like a caged bird rather than their beloved daughter. It unsettled the lieutenant, but perhaps it was just the consequence of formality. They wouldn’t have reached out to the United States for help if they didn’t care after all.

Once they approached the door, the guards saluted and opened it up. Beyond the doors was the most ornate office Ghost has ever seen. Once his eyes settled on you, you were the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.

Every hair on your head was in place with the help of maids. There were no wrinkles in your dress and no stains in sight. Your makeup was light and only flattered your features. The gems on your necklace complimented your bright eyes. Ghost was almost at a loss for words. When you stood up and curtsied to greet them, he could feel his heart beat against his ribs.

“Good evening.” You simply greeted, your tone polite as ever as a princess should be.

“Sweetheart, this is going to be your personal bodyguard from now on. He’s going to keep you safe, no matter where you go. Isn’t that wonderful?” Your mother gave a sickly sweet smile, her efforts to meet the status quo seeming a little more forced as she interacted with you.

You definitely knew that something was wrong now. You may have been a confined princess, but you weren’t stupid. However, you decided to refrain from asking what the trouble was. It wasn’t appropriate. Not with your parents watching you.

For now, you focused on the news that you were now going to have a bodyguard. Your eyes shifted towards the large man. Muscles clearly defined under his shirt, posture straight and strong, mask hiding his identity. Compared to him, you were much smaller and much weaker. It intimidated you a bit. It made you hesitant to accept him. However, there were expectations to meet, regardless of how you truly felt.

“Princess Y/n. It is a pleasure to meet you.” You softly spoke as you gave another sweet curtsy towards him.

He quirked a brow. You were taking this awfully well. A part of him expected some more push-back. He honestly expected you to be a spoiled brat. Yet, here you were, taking everything in stride for now. You knew how to compose yourself better than he expected. “Lieutenant Ghost. I’ll be keeping you safe. For me to do that, there’s going to be some changes.”

You looked to your parents, looking for the explanation for this change. There was not even a bat of the eye as they faked their smiles. “You will still complete your studies as a princess should. Attend the parties as needed to keep up appearances as well.”

Ghost shook his head, authority taking over his baritone voice. “Negative. The princess will not be attending any more parties. Doing so could risk her safety.”

Something was definitely wrong. Your eyes widened at the news. A part of you, though, was celebrating. No more parties? Would your parents really accept this? The sudden shock on their faces morphed into strained smiles, telling you that they weren’t going to accept this so easily. The king cleared his throat. “Lieutenant, it is very important for the princess to still make appearances. It is essential for her.”

Ghost looked at you all of a sudden, wondering how you felt about this change compared to your parents’ obvious protest. You tried to remain unreadable, not wanting to set either party off with your personal opinion. If you had the choice, though, you would sacrifice the parties. They were more for your parents than they were for you anyway.

Ghost sighed in slight frustration. Normally, he was excellent at reading people. He did it all the time with new recruits, enemies, and his team. Their poker faces were nothing compared to yours. “One party if absolutely necessary. No longer than an hour. Just to keep up appearances.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, holding back your disappointment. Well, at least you weren’t expected to be present during the entirety of your parents’ showing off. “Understood, Lieutenant Ghost.”

At least your parents seemed happier with the compromise. Your mother grinned brightly. “Wonderful! Give him the princess’s schedule!”

Your butler hurried over and gave Ghost your schedule. He nearly stumbled back with how packed it was. Piano lessons, dance lessons, tea times, dress fittings, and independent study went on and on for pages and pages. Did you have any time to yourself besides sleep?

“The show must go on! If you have any questions or procedures to discuss, don’t hesitate to reach out to us. We hope that you two get along well.” The queen concluded, eager to leave the room so that she could go on with her own daily life. The king followed close behind as they left the room, leaving you and your bodyguard to get to know each other.

You didn’t mind being civil, but you doubted that he would try to get to know you. He simply didn’t seem like the type to stray away from his responsibilities for anything. For now, you silently went back to your seat to finish up tea time. Ghost stood awkwardly for a moment before finding his own place to settle. Leaning against the stone wall, he examined you further.

The way you held your teacup was gentle. Your dress draped against your legs like a smooth waterfall. The way you looked out the window was melancholic. After a few minutes, you spoke up, curiosity getting the better of you. “Why are you my new bodyguard, Lieutenant Ghost?”

Ghost didn’t expect your question. He hardly even knew what you meant when you asked it. Still, he kept his cool as he dug further. It wasn’t like there was any malice in your tone. In fact, your tone was nothing but innocent. “What do you mean? Are you asking me why I took the job?”

You shook your head, staring into your teacup once again as you got a little shy. Lieutenant Ghost wouldn’t report your conversations to your parents, would he? But, you had to know. “Is my life in serious danger?”

Behind the mask, Ghost’s mouth was partially opened with shock. His body grew tense as he realized what was really going on. “They haven’t told you, have they?”

“My parents can be. . . protective. Their priority to maintain normalcy can cause them to make certain judgments in regards to my life.” You subtly worded, fearing that the guards outside were listening to what you were saying. Hopefully, Ghost would understand what you meant.

Thankfully, he did. Now more than before, you really did seem like a caged bird. You deserve the truth. “Your parents received a threatening letter from a terrorist organization. They seem to be after your life in order to manipulate your parents. I serve under Task Force 141 that specializes in missions like this. The rest of my team is investigating the organization while I am to protect you personally.”

Your grip around your teacup tightened slightly as you learned the truth. It seemed that your intuition was correct. This was a serious problem. You swallowed your new fears down hard before proceeding as normal. “Thank you for your honesty, Lieutenant.”

Ghost sympathized with you as he finally saw a shred of how you really felt about this entire situation. His perception of who he was protecting was completely wrong. You were no brat or clueless royalty with too much time and money on your precious princess hands. You were sharp. You were polite. You were obedient. It made him want to know the real you.

He knew that he shouldn’t get closer than what was necessary. Yet, the anxious look in your beautiful eyes as you stared out the window made him want to provide you with some comfort. Some way to break the ice while also doing his job. He opted for a simple conversation about your daily schedule. “What’s independent study for you?”

“It’s my time to study what I wish within reason. Any subject that I may find interesting as long as it is appropriate for a princess.” You delicately explained, putting everything as nice as possible.

All Ghost heard was that you were restricted from real knowledge. However, it wasn’t his place to make a comment on it. It didn’t matter if he didn’t find it fair. You were a princess and you obviously took your responsibilities, fair or not, seriously. He gave a simple hum in acknowledgment for the time being on that matter. “What are you studying?”

You looked at Ghost curiously, wondering how much of this was just workplace conversation and how much of this was genuine attempts at knowing you. The way Ghost looked at you with such resolute, cold eyes made you shiver. Something told you that this was his usual look. “I’m studying many things at the moment that would be proper for me to know.”

It seemed like subtle and vague answers were the only things he was going to get out of you, but he already picked up on the fact that you didn’t do this to be cold towards him. The tone you carried was careful. Gentle. You didn’t want to say anything that could get you in trouble. Simon knew what that was like.

The conversation was dropped for the time being. It seemed like your physical being wasn’t the only thing he had to protect. Your social reputation was at stake as well. Respecting that, he focused back on guarding you. Not without noticing every little thing about you though.

You stole glances at him every so often as well as you sipped your tea. The more you looked at him, the more he intrigued you. You’ve never had a guard that had his build. You’ve never even seen someone with tattoos in person before. He stood out against the pristine white around the palace. A shadow in the light. You were curious about what he looked like under the mask.

The rest of the night proceeded as normal save for your new shadow. You were ushered by your butler to your routine lessons, Ghost always close behind. He stayed silent throughout it all, but observant. You did feel like he was watching your every move. While you were used to being heavily monitored, having Ghost be the one observing you made you more nervous than normal. Music lessons, dance lessons, and studying didn’t go as smoothly as you made more mistakes under the pressure. For some reason, you wanted to impress him like you were one of his newest soldiers.

Ghost thought nothing of it as you did what you had to do. In reality, he found your abilities to be quite impressive, mistakes or not. He did chalk it up to him being an intimidating presence. Despite it, he could tell that you were skilled.

When bedtime rolled around, he followed into your room. A grand room with a king, white canopy bed, cherry-wood antique furniture, and large, arched windows leading to a balcony. The windows were the second problem that Ghost needed to address if he wanted to keep you safe. “You can’t sleep in here. It would be too easy to-”

Meeting your eyes made him pause. You waited patiently for him to finish as he was going to say, prepared to take the steps necessary to ensure that the next change would be as smooth as possible. Looking at you, though, Ghost saw a pretty woman that he needed to be more gentle towards. Less explicit in language. You were already afraid for your life. He didn’t want to make that anxiety worse for you.

“Is there another room in the palace that has less open windows?” He asked cautiously, minding his words this time.

You appreciated his careful consideration, feeling more and more safe with him as he made decisions to protect you. “I believe there is. I can sleep there tonight.”

He followed you to another room in the palace that was away from any windows. He nearly sighed in relief as the new bedroom was windowless, smaller, and much more comfortable to be in. The bed was still massive and the antique furniture was polished, but the warmer palette of the decor made the room feel less like a museum display.

You felt better too as you looked around the cozy room. The windows in your usual bedroom just reminded you of what you couldn’t have. Though, your anxiety grew as you realized that Ghost was still within the room. Your cheeks grew a subtle pink as you chose your words with precision. “I would like to get ready for bed. Is it necessary for you to be here while I do?”

“Well. . .” Ghost thought carefully, trying to make the best decision here. After a few seconds, he determined that you needed your privacy. He was already invading it enough by being your personal bodyguard. With an accepting, silent nod, he stepped out of the room while you changed into pajamas. A few maid staff passed by, gawking at the lieutenant. A glare was enough to have them scurry on their way.

While you changed, you thought about Ghost. About his real personality, his job, his friends. What kind of work does he normally do? Has he ever killed someone? It certainly seemed like he’s gotten into his fair share of fights from the scars you have seen on his arms. Was he dreading this job? At times, you thought that you could see him get antsy while waiting for you. You probably wouldn’t like waiting on a princess either if you were in his shoes.

Once you were changed into your silky pajamas, you knocked on the door. “Lieutenant? I’m all dressed. You could come in now.”

Swiftly, he came in. For a second, he admired the way you looked in your pajamas. You looked so much more comfortable. The way you were letting down your hair in front of the vanity had him gulp too. “I won’t be watching you sleep all night. Just until you fall asleep, and then I’ll wait outside the door.”

“What about your sleep?” You asked, tilting your head to the side. The way his arms were crossed over his broad chest made you shrink within yourself a bit.

“I’m used to not sleeping. I don’t usually sleep well either. Don’t worry about me, princess.” He responded bluntly, putting some more personal distance between the two of you. He would be lying if your concern over his own time didn’t make him melt a little though.

“I see. My apologies, but I am unsure that I will be able to fall asleep quickly tonight. You might be waiting for a while.” You honestly admitted, feeling the anxious pit in your stomach begin to swallow you like a blackhole. You already felt enough like a burden to the maids and butlers with how strictly your parents had them wait on you.

Ghost shook his head, noticing how lightly you scrunch your brows in concern. How you nervously bit a tiny part of your bottom lip. Subtle behaviors that no one would notice if they weren’t truly paying attention. You were so different from what he was expecting when he was first told that he would be guarding a princess. “It’s fine. This is my job.”

You turned away from your reflection in the mirror to look at Ghost. Your heart skipped a beat as you noticed how blue his eyes were. Such a deep, oceanic blue that held so many secrets. He stared right back at you, noticing how your worries couldn’t be quelled with just two simple sentences. Finally, he was able to read you.

“If it will help, you can talk to me until you fall asleep. Anything you want. I promise that I won’t tell the king and queen.” He offered, taking a seat on the Victorian-styled couch that was at the foot of the bed.

His offer came as a complete surprise to you. You didn’t expect him to be so kind. You have learned long ago that there was a difference between being civil and genuinely kind. Ghost was being nice, which felt like a rarity given his outward personality. Quickly, you finished getting ready for bed. Once you were cozy underneath the cotton covers, Ghost turned off the main light. The small lamp on your nightstand stayed on, allowing a comfortable dim to illuminate the otherwise dark room.

An awkward silence fell between the two of you as you tried to think about what to talk about. There was still a fear in you that he would tell your parents, but Ghost didn’t seem like the type to break his promises. Besides that, you never really talked about yourself before. No one has ever been interested in what you liked and disliked. Not that you had a lot of experiences with how your parents kept you in the palace and filtered what you could learn. However, that wasn’t to say that you were curious enough to find a way to learn anyways. At the very least, you had plenty of questions about the outside.

“For my independent study, I am focusing on classicism art. At least. . . that is what my parents think. I. . . I have been studying other things in secret. My handmaiden sneaks new books into the library for me sometimes if she can.” You confessed, feeling a weight of your chest as you admitted your truth. You didn’t like lying and sneaking around in secret. While you loved new knowledge, you still carried that weight with you.

Ghost listened carefully to your confession. His back was turned towards you, a comfortable thing for you since you weren’t keen on the idea of someone watching you fall asleep. It was enough for him to just sit at the foot of your bed.

“What new books have you read?” He inquired, wondering what sorts of books a princess could possibly want to read in secret.

You took a deep breath, feeling your cheeks flush as you admitted more of your secrets. Without interruption, he let you speak. He listened to your voice that lowered into a pleasant whisper when you told him about all the books you were reading and wanted to read. A couple of times, he couldn’t help but crack a smirk at some of your opinions that were refreshingly assertive.

It didn’t take long for him to hear you start dozing. It started with quieter words morphing into sweet slurs. As soon as he heard your steady, deep breaths, he silently got up and left the room. Standing guard in front of the door, he contacted his team by phone to give an update.

“Lieutenant, how is she?” Captain Price cut to the chase, his voice low as he investigated matters on his side.

“She’s. . .” Ghost began before trailing off. He had to think about the right words to use.

“She's a spoiled rotten princess?” Another voice came through. The chuckle was no doubt Soap.

“Honestly, no. She’s a princess, but she’s anything but rotten.” He finally admitted, keeping his voice quiet since the halls seemed to echo.

There was another laugh before the captain cleared his throat, regaining authority. “I’m glad that she is much more pleasant to deal with than what was expected. Just be careful not to get too personal. I know you will be around each other a lot, but the mission is our priority.”

“Of course, Captain.” Ghost promised, wondering if this particular promise would be easy to keep or not.

383 notes · View notes

halcyone-of-the-sea · 5 months

Text

To Hunt a Silver Stag (I)

AU MASTERLIST || PART II

PAIRING: Knight!Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x F!Fae Princess!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 6.9k

WARNINGS: Arranged marriage, talks of childbirth, traditional views of women & men in medieval times, talks of war, death, heavy religious imagery/symbolism, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You wore a crown of deer antlers atop your head. Charms were woven into the gaps between the tines, attached to golden thread; jewels of starlight strung like teardrops from the moon. Your feet, staying still on the hard stone of the Great Hall, are bare though attract no dirt or dust—it is as if the very ethereal aura that coats your gown of pure white repels any such thought of uncleanliness or corruption of this mortal plane.

You are so very far from home.

Standing in the center of your soon-to-be husband’s court, your eyes seem not to be on the man himself, who watches you greedily from the throne of black iron, but instead behind him. Blank of any emotion, your long lashes blink in the direction of the stained glass windows with a horrible longing. Whispers from the multitude of court attendants go in one ear and out the other—useless to you. Their time would be gone in a blink, and yet here you would remain, immemorial. Their words were nothing, and their utterances would turn to dust faster than their bodies would.

You can’t help but wonder if those colorful depictions in that glass window, of God and his valiant angels, are mocking you as you blink at them slowly. Not only for what you are and where you now find yourself in the kingdom of your enemies but for being so full of the very qualities that would normally resign a woman of this age to the stake.

Independent, confident, and curious, among others.

A voice raises above the rest, and your eyes blink elegantly, the silver hue to them unnatural in all senses. Yet, you do not look away from the mighty white stag, its soldered bits of thin glass a patchwork of an overwatching Lord. Saint Eustace is there, staring at it, just as was told from generation to generation.

A pagan man converted to Christianity, the symbol of a cross set between antlers very much like the ones adorning your head. Humming under your breath, your eyes dip down, chin moving. Below the window, there stands a tall knight, and your gaze locks with his softly.

“Today,” the King’s voice echoes over the crowd as brown orbs stare at you, blinking. “We are here to celebrate the joining of two great bloodlines!” He stands with a grand cape over his shoulders, falling to the floor as his boots stand at the top of the stairs to the throne. Yet, this knight holds your attention more than your Promised does as the cheering starts, loud; making your ears twitch.

At your waist, a golden belt is engraved with expert attention, stories woven into metal that even seem to move with the magic embedded into it. It seems to hum with an energy that makes your eyes narrow in confusion upon this stranger.

He had brown eyes, the knight, and the hues reminded you of brown that you could see in the trees of your home—those old beasts that grew still with the magic of your line and your gentle touch. Surrounding him, there was silver armor and a strip of red fabric that went over one shoulder, hanging beside the items of his station; a sword and a dagger on a brown leather belt.

Brows furrowing, your head tilts slowly, unblinking, as the eye contact persists.

A bold man, it seems.

The knight’s eyelids slightly widen, as if realizing he had been staring, and his face swiftly moves to the side, his short hair close to his oval skull. You hear the faint clearing of a throat come into the shell of your pointed ears.

Sighing, your focus returns to the matter at hand, the crown’s adornments clinking together as your head rotates. The speech.

King Michael spreads his hands out, a man far into his older years but still had the gleam of malice in his eyes. Those beady things. They remind you of a rat—a small creature, while intelligent, that cannot win unless through tricks.

“We all know that magic has slowly been disappearing from the lands,” the King utters, voice echoing off the walls. Your hands are holding themselves near your abdomen, grace embedded into your bones. Watching how he speaks, you can’t deny he was influential. But influence didn’t matter when you had no wife—no children. He has a dying line, and that means weakness…which is why you’re here, after all. “And in that time, our war with the Fae has fallen into a stalemate.”

Your expression sharpens, fingers twitching. Stalemate? There were humans in your lands—spreading their fires and swinging their defiling iron swords. There was no war here except the one that this King was perpetuating.

But you held your tongue, even if your silver eyes narrowed in an ancient, bitter, anger. Your head raises itself higher, hanging gemstones swinging. The knight near the stained glass is back to watching you—his feet shifting from under him, hands behind his armored back with loose shoulders.

“...Today, myself and the King of the Fae have come to an agreement in confidence, and in the fashion of old, I am to be wed to his daughter, a princess!” Gasps, cheers, clapping. They spring up from all corners of the Hall, bouncing. Your body longs for nature, to be away from rock and metal, these suffocating walls that close in with the gaggle of wretched corpses walking. “Peace shall be beholden to all of us! Magic shall come back into my bloodline through our many children, and all will share in its wealth!”

You had compared yourself to a broodmare when your father had given the news of your journey here. A womb to be filled until you could give no more; restrained to a bed—away from any privilege and right.

And you’d been sent here anyway. A price needed to be paid, your father had told you. A daughter to stop the war. A child to bring back mortal magic and keep the peace through generations. Was your head to be put to the block for that? Who was to say that children would bring peace? That there weren’t more conflicts to come?

This was a momentary sacrifice, and here you were wearing white.

You hum under your breath and feel shackles tie themselves to your ankles; tying you to this place. But what other option did you have?

Your ears listen to the loud rapturous cheering, the exclamations of love that mean nothing to you—you do not love these people, do not love their need for violence and their pride. You want to go home, to find where you can rest among glades and grass. Converse with the birds and the beasts to learn of their news of far-off lands; run your hands through clear streams and watch plants grow where you walk.

As your stone body stays still, silver eyes unblinking, the knight near the window is the only man in the room not gazing at you like he wants something from you. While Lords have their eyes filled with lustful envy of your age-less skin—your finery and wealth; the promise of strong children, the knight is the only one with an open expression.

He only watches, handsome face holding the whispers of stubble and eyes that would make many moral women wish to be his wife.

Admittingly, your attention keeps going back to him, just as his own is stuck on you even as he tries to look professional. Back straight, armor glinting, sword pommel fiddled with by long fingers.

The King is walking down the stairs, one withered leg at a time. You don’t offer any help.

“My bride,” Michael licks his lips when he’s in front of you; but he’s more fixated on your stomach than all else. What it will hold for him. “My beautiful Fae bride. My wedding will be known through history for ages to come.”

My.

The world holds its breath. The knight’s jaw clenches, though no one sees it.

You take a heavy breath into your lungs to hold back your snapping tongue. As the words meet the air, they come out as unemotional as a wave at sea. Wind holding mist.

“Certainly.”

—

As it turned out, the castle itself was even less homely than the material that was used to build it. You walk slowly through the halls, hands behind your back and your crown glimmering—the trail of a thin and flowing gown making you look like a specter. One crudely carved window after another passes by your right shoulder, and you look out of every slit; seeing the silver shades of moonlight. In contrast, everything on your left was washed with firelight from the blazing iron sconces, your ears twitching to the pop of wood and fabric saturated in animal fat.

Everything here was horrible.

A prison, you think, slowing near one of the larger windows in the hall. A cage.

Staring outside, trying for only a moment to understand the disgusting castle and adjoined town you look at, there’s a faint noise from far down the corridor.

Wasting no time, your head moves slowly to the side, blinking. There isn’t anyone to be seen, but yet again, your slightly pointed ears twitch.

A firm heartbeat.

Bump-bump, bump-bump, bump-bump.

Staring at nothing, you listen for a moment, taking it in as your visage fights with blue and red light, shadows littering the small cracks and the marks of stone—your hands slightly tighten, but you hold no fear.

You refused to be afraid here; you would go to your spiritual death with a high head, and nothing less.

“It’s unbecoming to stalk as if a wolf,” you call, voice smooth and even. A beat of bird’s wings. “Four-legged beasts have perfected it, yet, the same cannot be said of you.”

There’s a lapse of silence—a swirling of slight tension that comes not from you but another. The heartbeat in your ear lightly skips. Startled. A shadow cusps one of the connected hallways, a gleam of silver armor. You blink slowly.

“Apologies, Ma’am.” The Knight. The one from the Great Hall. “I…didn’t mean to make you nervous.”

His lithe form doesn’t try to hide from your accusation, instead, his body moves to the middle of the stone floor and straightens—one hand going to his heart and the other behind his back; bowing. The darkness of his complexion seems to glow in the light, smooth skin besides the marring of small scars along the left cheek. Tiny things, only two lines.

For no reason at all, your body lightly turns towards him, watching.

“I’m not nervous,” you respond. “Please, stand straight.”

He does so without hesitation, though his eyes are avoiding yours. A guilty pull is to his lips that you can’t help but quirk a brow at. Yet, you remain emotionless, and outside the shadows of flying birds shift past.

“What is your name, Knight?” You see his expression slightly tense at the question, but you continue easily. A test, perhaps, if this man was worth your time. “I recall your face.”

“I can’t give you that, My Lady.” Brown eyes go to meet yours, and the silver flecks in your orbs glimmer. “My orders were clear.”

“And were those orders also to follow me?”

He clears his throat, feet shifting. “...Maybe.”

You hum, moving your body slowly and walking forward to him. The man blinks in surprise, straightening even more but a firm set to his eyes. His attention never wavers, unless it’s to glimpse your crown and belt, perfect pieces of artistry lost to this section of humanity. No mortal craftsman could imagine making something as such. He liked them, you notice at the light impression of awe in his gaze.

Anyone with sense would.

Stopping just a few feet away, you tilt your head.

It was common knowledge that you never gave your name to one of the Fae, your betrothed would have told everyone close to him to avoid doing so. Just as you would never tell your real name to anyone—not even under dire circumstances. Names hold power, and no person in this castle would make you even more of a prisoner than you already were.

You know the names of beasts and plants, flora and fauna—they bend to you, let you manipulate them to your will, though you often find no need to. The animals from any land prefer your company, anyway. The castle’s hunting hounds have already become well acquainted, just as the messenger birds had.

But mortals? No. No, there were no names that you knew besides the King himself, and even then it was a fake one. Second names and such, are common.

“Your title, then,” you say to the Knight. “If you’re to be a constant face to me.”

“Gaz is just fine, I’d say.” He nods his head, a slow smile moving his cheeks. Your brows furrow. Strange fellow. “A pleasure. I really do need to say that I wasn’t following you for long—I was only concerned you might have lost your way.”

You stare.

“Lost?” Owlishly, your head shifts.

Gaz makes a noise in the back of his throat, one hand coming up to rub at the base of his neck. “Yeah—lost. It’s, uh, it’s a big castle, My Lady—”

“Stag.” Wide eyes blink, this meeting is only awkward on his part and not yours. In fact, for how humans go, he was acting far better than most. Usually, there was iron being brandished by now.

“What was that?”

“My title,” you explain, your crown’s gems bright in the light. The fire crackles, popping. “Stag. I do not need my status stated. I know what I am, Knight.”

“Then I’d say the same,” your fingers twitch, liking the word game he plays. Inside of your sockets, the unnatural makeup of your eyes shimmers.

“Very well,” you pause, picking your words. “Gaz. A strange choice to be sure.”

He chuckles, nodding in a very stoic-like way despite the nearly boyish nature of him. “Well, Stag isn’t exactly common, either.”

You hum in your throat, unblinking; staring. Your intrigue grows the longer the man talks. Just like in the Great Hall, his form attracts all of your attention to it, against all laws that you seem to know in your soul.

“Pray tell,” you shift, moving back to the window with your feet not making a single sound. Gaz watches on, eyes flickering between the hanging gems and how you tread over the stone as if you had wings. Your form slips back to the window, and your focus once more goes outward. “Has the King told you to spy on me, Gaz?”

The title, even if not the one of his birth—not the one written on his soul like a brand—still made the air quiver with might. You were older than most of this kingdom, the Knight knew. Older than the oak trees of the nearby forest; older than rock and wind and air.

Power dripped off your tongue like water to a leaf.

But it wasn’t your influence that made the man answer you. It was his own nature.

“Yes,” Gaz says, taking a few steps to where you stand, watching a flock of birds dance above the courtyard, silver moon-drips illuminating white feathers. “But I wouldn’t call it spying. Officially, I’ve been put in place to keep you safe, Princess.” His dark brows crease when you don’t pay him any mind. “I take my job very seriously, yeah?”

“I can see that,” you utter, eyes still on the birds. “The only thing I need protecting from is the iron ring on your right hand.”

He startles, blinking for a moment.

“...Parden?”

Silver eyes pierce him, watching; waiting.

Gaz looks down, locking on the hand that has been resting on the pommel of his sword. Cape swishing, he makes a noise in the back of his throat. His sigil ring—the one that had been given over at his dubbing ceremony sat on the first digit, the engraving of his King’s coat of arms glimmering back.

A wolf; a snake caught in its fangs.

Brown eyes dart back, and he sheepishly smiles, huffing a chuckle of sorts.

“Comes with the job, unfortunately,” yet still, his other hand easily grasps and slips the thing off, tucking it away into the leather pouch swinging from his belt. “I thought that was a myth—the Fae being harmed by iron. Conjured up to give people something to cling to.”

“I can name a million things that men and women like you consider myth,” you mutter, starting at that pouch, deep in thought. You hadn’t expected him to give in that easily. Your shoulders loosen their rigidness, but your chin never drops its high pride. “Every story comes from somewhere—be it reality or wives’ tales. Who’s to say that the words don’t give them life in one form or another?”

“Bloody hell. Not a discussion to take up with me, I’m afraid,” Gaz huffs a chuckle, smirking. While still hesitant around you, the conversation wasn’t anything that made him want to not be around you. Everyone deserved to have their character shown, and what he was seeing so far wasn’t ringing any alarms. “Sound more of a scholar than a Princess, if you don’t mind me saying.”

Your lips quirk. “I prefer philosopher.”

“And what’s a Fae philosopher doing out in the middle of the night, then?” A breeze wafts through the window, blowing on your dress and making Gaz’s cape flutter in its bloodish tint. The torches whip and dance. You take a low breath, bird chips coming closer.

“Speaking with an old friend.”

A white dove lands on the stone opening of the window, fluttering wings coming to fold along its sleek form until it shakes and settles all at once.

“Lysander,” you say in greeting, nodding your head. Gaz watches, barely moving as his lips part in astonishment.

Your hand extends itself, bearing no rings or bracelets. All you needed was your crown. Tiny eyes blink as an angular head turns to the side, tiny coos sparking from a rounded breast. Pale feet grasp your perfect flesh, such a tiny weight settles before you lift effortlessly; wings flapping to keep balance.

“What news, then?” You ask in a whisper, bringing the beast to your crown. Lysander settles on one of the tines, head dipping down as feathers puff. Into your ear, words take shape.

You hum in answer, blinking at every clicked sentence; tapping talons.

Gaz stares blankly, eyebrows pulled up on his head and unable to articulate himself.

So many stories about your people—he hadn’t thought half of them to be true. While he’d been stationed in many places during the duration of this war, he’d never actually encountered one of the Fae before. Gaz had been told they were like a plague; they came in when you weren’t looking, spoke magic into your ears, and forced you to come back to their home and live as mindless beasts. Cupbearers and entertainment.

Of the countless knights he’d been in line with, he knew the true names of none of them. A precaution. Forethought.

Yet…you don’t look dangerous.

But the man is far from stupid.

“He says the fires from your forges burn his eyes,” your voice snaps him back to you, and he straightens, fingers twitching. Gaz finds your face already turned his way, owlish in its movements. “The smoke makes his throat ache.”

“I,” he pauses, mouth opening and closing. Brown eyes dart to the sharp-beaked dove; the thing very much like you in the way it watches him. “I’m…sorry?”

Your lips pull in a frown, sighing with a shake of your head.

I can never survive here, you find yourself thinking. I believed this is what I had to do, but if this is how I’m going to live…

“Tell me about your King, Gaz,” your body swiftly turns, feet carrying you down the corridor once more with long, even, steps. “If I’m to marry him, I will know of his nature.”

The man clears his throat and follows after, where you hear the clinking of silver and the scabbard against his thigh. He glances over at you, walking if not a bit behind yourself in proper fashion.

“What do you want to know, Ma’am?”

Your unnatural orbs shimmer, and the bird on your crown hunkers down; puffed contently and eager to rest his wings from a long flight.

“Everything. I will not be unaware of my fate.”

“Well,” Gaz sighs, rubbing at his chin with his opposite hand. He licks his lips, mind running to answer the best he can. “You’ll not want for anything—finery and wealth will—”

“I do not care about mortal revelry. I need neither fine things nor wealth.” Your voice curtly moves along the open air. The Knight’s boots connect with stone while your bare flesh emits nothing. “His character, Knight. Is he fair—just?”

Gaz’s face tightens, glancing from you to the hallway as he takes a moment to think.

“My King has…become troubled with the turning tides of the war. I’m sure when your marriage is official, he’ll go back to how he was before.” He doesn’t seem certain, but loyalty is a trait that a knight knows well. You had been set as his charge, of course, not under the best of circumstances, but he would do his job how he believed would benefit all parties. Even if his guts were stiff at the thought of a forced marriage.

“My Lady Stag?” He asks, and your heart jerks unexpectedly at the muttering of your title.

Blinking in confusion, your hand coming up to rub at your collarbone like a willow branch, you almost miss the question entirely.

“Where you come from, if I can ask, of course, what’s it like?” Your mind strays from marriage ceremonies and consummation—momentary peace slipping in on waves of this man’s smooth accent.

Mouth opening, only to close once and open again, you decide to indulge this man with your answer. If only because he speaks of your home.

“Green,” is the soft utterance of your answer to him. “It’s green. More trees and rivers than you can count in your lifetime. Animals each more fantastical than the last; all of which your people now call nothing but hearsay.”

You can sense his attention, sucking up knowledge as if he had the years to know and understand it all.

Lysander coos, shaking his feathers out, and you glance upward without moving your head. You chuckle like a blade of moving grass.

Blinking, Gaz slowly begins to smile, cocking his skull to the side boyishly. “What’s so funny, then?”

Your high nose twitches.

“He says you’re as if a Wyvern hatching. A curious thing.” Brown eyes drift to your companion, whose peaked eye pierces like black fire-stone. Gaz’s mouth releases a puff of a chuckle, chest jerking.

“Hell, never thought I’d get insulted by a bird.”

“Humans have not the ability to speak with beasts,” you ease out, walking on. “On that, I have to say you are at a sure disadvantage.”

“What?” Gaz’s amused voice is in your ear. “Minus the whole immortality thing?”

You side-eye him, visage calm with decades of understanding. “Not everything is built to last forever.”

A momentary silence falls between the two of you. Eyes locked, you both stare, legs carrying bodies across the unfeeling stone until the area Lysander had told you about takes form. You shift a slow right and exit into the inner courtyard, large stone walls making a small square of patchy green grass and dying plants. A fountain sits still.

“If this is to be a game of equal exchange, Knight, I desire to ask the next question.” Your eyes take it all in, hand moving out to capture the blackened leaves of a Medlar tree. Frowning at the dead fauna, you hear Lysander take to wing, flapping until his ghostly form lands on the far-off fountain’s edge.

“Alright,” Gaz nods, looking around at the dying place with a frown as well. He’d never come here before, but the state of things was…sad, really. “Ask away.”

“When you leave the castle—the town,” you let power move to your fingertips, and you feel the tingles of it running the lengths of your arms like ice and fire; taking a low breath. “What do you see? I admit, I’m not used to having company with humans. I know not how their souls feel.”

Gaz walks into the small enclosed space, humming as he taps the pommel of his sword. His shoulders shrug as his head tilts up, blinking at the stars.

“I wouldn’t see it as you would, I gather.”

You look over your shoulder, amusement in your face mixed with a slice of intrigue. “That wasn’t my question. But, no, you would not.”

“Figured,” he chuckles, nodding at you. Gaz articulates himself dutifully. “I see a place far more peaceful than the one here. Outside the stone and smog—it’s beautiful, truly. Calm. You can actually think above the noise, you know? I usually find myself wanting to get out more often, but my duty ties me here.”

Your eyes soften slightly, thumb running the face of the leaf as you take in his words. Lysander stoops to take a sip of water.

“You’re…” You lack the words, only humming and stopping yourself.

“Why are we here, Princess?” Gaz asks you, gazing around. “I had only expected you to walk to the kitchens—the library, even. Don’t get me wrong, you can go as you wish, but I’m not sure this is the most…” He grunts. “Sightly place to end up. Everything’s dead.”

“Nearly,” you whisper, a tiny smile taking over your flesh. “Not quite.”

Gaz’s frown is lost to you, as is his comment that he mutters, “Looks it.”

Leaning forward, you press your lips to the leaf you hold as if a precious object. Into its blackened and shriveled form, you whisper its name—its true name, one you had learned through years of patience and trust that bordered on an entirely trance-like state. A Medlar is a tough and stubborn thing, like the fruit it bears, it will hang on until all else is gone to dust. Its roots are strong, and from them, you had listened to the earth sing its songs one buzzing note at a time.

All things speak, you just have to know how to listen.

There’s a surge of wild order, a dichotomy of will and freedom; the sing of an axe and the memories of young saplings just gracing their leaves to the sun. A circle of death and rebirth as old as the stars that still shone in a sky of black.

You know many names, but those of the trees were the first to come to you, and it was only proper. Before anything, there were trees.

The Medlar shakes, its leaves dropping down one at a time until they come in groups, in clusters—bare branches shiver like dogs do until creaking ballads move over the air.

Starling, Gaz had taken a large step back, hand snapping to the handle of his sword, the blade half drawn. Lysander flies past his face, blunt talons skating the close-cropping of his hair before the bird grapples to your crown. Flinching, the knight watched with a mixture of horror and pure wonder.

The tree was sprouting new greens.

You step back, and from your feet, the dead grass quivers, before the smell of groaning earth makes his nose twitch; fresh blades show themselves anew. The dove atop your crown jumps from one sharp tine to the next, dodging lines of gold—eyes glinting and wings flapping excitedly.

Life is in the very air.

You smile to yourself, silver eyes moving as a nearly ancient-looking spark flares to life in them—a long breath entering your lungs.

Gaz’s face begins to heat as he watches, his heart pounding with something he can’t understand. He stares at your bright face before his fast-blinking eyes move to the grass growing all around; the bushes dancing, flowers opening up and turning to you. Birds gather on the edges of this verdant and fertile land, darting one by one to the fountain and to the trees. Singing.

The knight steps back, feet dancing over the ground with an airy laugh stuck in his throat.

“Holy hell…” he breathes, nearly panting.

Wide eyes move back to you, expression open, innocent. This was a moment when you truly believed you’d never seen a face more bare than this; more giving.

“You…” He laughs. “You’re tellin’ me you could always do that?” You chuckle, and it is a sound that could make roots grow in his heart, flowers bursting from his lungs. “I…I’m speechless, really. This is,” he laughs once more, turning a full circle, with his hand going to the back of his neck in shock. It was entirely new—all of it. Ivy climbed the stone, and the animals spoke and flew in the air; excitement something that transcends species. “This is extraordinary.”

You were something incredible.

Chuckling, you raise a slow brow, feeling a foreign heat move over your cheeks. It’s a moment before you speak, taken aback by the reverency.

“My thanks, Knight,” your head nods his way, a simple dip of your chin and nothing more. “But this is only a small courtyard. A fraction. If I so wished, forests could grow from ashen ground.”

“How?” He asks you, eyes glittering more than the moon.

Smaller birds join Lysander on your head, finches, perhaps, and sparrows. They tweet and chip, speaking their thanks. You reach up and let one move onto your finger, bringing it back to eye level as you move to softly connect your forehead to its own. Moving back, you hum and watch the bird fly off.

“Ages of practice,” you elegantly tip your head his way, careful of your cargo. “Quite verbatim.”

Gaz is speechless, unable to recall something in his life that had made him feel so special to be able to witness it. Magic to humans was a dying thing—you’d be surprised if he’d ever even seen it in this magnitude before.

“...Amazing,” he utters under his breath, smiling like a fool.

For all of your Fae trickery, your games, you had to be honest. “I don’t believe I thought you’d be this moved by it.”

“Really?” He blinks at you, a boyish twist to his face. “How could I bloody not be, Love?”

Your air gets stuck in your throat, eyes minutely widening.

Gaz quickly comes back to himself, straightening and clearing his throat as your face suddenly blazes in a way that startles you. Heart pattering like a horse’s hooves not only at the…different title but his awe at your magic as well.

“Forgive me, My Lady,” you choose not to correct him. “I overstepped.”

His body bends forward in a deep bow, hand to his heart, resting over his armor as the cape drapes its crimson fabric to the now vibrant grass.

It had briefly eluded you that you were to be married soon. A comment like that could get the Knight and his tree-bark brown eyes put to the sword. You hold back a long sigh, eyelids fluttering shut softly.

“Is he kind?” Your question is small, but it moves like a knife.

Gaz stares hard at the ground, once dead and nothing but a reminder of nature. He clenches his jaw, a worry swirling in his gut. The man knows who you’re asking about, and he holds the same dread he did in the Great Hall as you were led like a sacrificial lamb to the altar.

Maybe the Knight was broken, but even if he’d never met one of your kind before, he knew that no person deserved to be bartered for the illusion of peace—forced to give children like they were only objects. But maybe he was also just a man not meant for this lifetime.

It was the way of things.

Gaz swallows the tension in his shoulders. He will not lie.

“...No.”

—

This tall knight had become a constant at your side. Officially, he’d been placed for your protection, but you knew it was because the King didn’t want you to cut and run.

But unless there was a very good reason to, he should have known that you were not the running type. It was a battle of wits, and even into your marriage, you would always come out on top.

It started easy enough—Michael would invite you for tours of the castle ‘making it a home’ he’d said in front of his court. It was a power trip.

He’d talk about his wealth like it would make you swoon; like you cared at all. You could only hide your sneer for so many hours, even with your infinite amount of patience. Time had mellowed you like the rocks of the ocean, but even they cracked when the storm was strong enough.

Yet still, you considered yourself too intelligent for baseline insults.

“My palace was much the same, your Highness. Our towers rose high—nearly gracing the clouds themselves.”

“Oh, lovely, my King. Pray tell, do you also have pet dragons? Oh…unicorns, perhaps? My, I had the most lovely unicorn companion when I was just shy of my two-hundredth birth year. A little thing—all legs and neck. Beautiful creatures.”

“Gorgeous little trinkets. Tell me, do you have a coffer for fallen stars? They create the most magnificent illumination for late-night reading.”

Gaz nearly lost his composure at times, even if no one else could tell except for you and your pointed ears; twitching at every breath that was fought to keep still. The over-the-lip huffs and chuckles. In fact, you found yourself perpetuating the back-handed insults just to hear those noises. Such small and meaningless things, in the grand scheme.

You took…enjoyment from it.

Seeing the effect it had on the King was also a bonus—his raging eyes, snapping tongue held back for only his reputation and little more. He wanted to take you by the arm and shake you, you knew, yell in your face.

Kind, King Michael was not. Gaz had been correct.

In the nights, you would discuss with the Knight—sitting in the dense and growing courtyard with your body comfortable on the grass; Gaz’s on the fountain’s edge.

You have much of the same confidence in one another as you do tonight.

“Do knights marry for love?” Your voice wafts out, petting Lysander with a single finger in your lap; itching at his neck as he coos. “Do they get to choose?”

Gaz fiddles with his cape’s clasp, fingers dancing over the silver make. He has made a motion to always take off his ring when it’s just the two of you, easily slipping it away until he was forced to put it back on. He doesn’t know if you feel it, but he believes the two of you to be well-off acquaintances—perhaps even friends.

The man enjoyed speaking to you. He reveled in the limitless knowledge that spilled from your tongue, your stories and tales. Gaz, unlike so many others, enjoyed your company not for the power that it offers in a physical sense, but for the words that you freely give. Often your sentences were like honey to him, seeping into his head.

A princess speaking with a knight? Unheard of. A Fae princess? Blasphemy.

It was easy to forget that you were older than many generations of his family line.

“No,” he says, glancing over. “All knights take a vow of chastity when they commit to service. None of those alive in this kingdom will wed unless they willingly break their oaths.”

Your head tilts, crown resting comfortably a small distance away on a rock.

“That sounds lonely.”

Gaz smiles, “Worried about me?”

You stare, eyes traveling the little deaths on his face—the lines, the scars. “If it’s what you wish to do with yourself, who am I to tell you any different?”

The man’s face softens, lips pulling as his cheeks heat under the moonlight. “Figured you’d have some opinion of it.”

You hum, raising a brow. “It’s your life—it’s so fleeting. Tread it as if water between your fingers. Before you know it, it’ll be gone.” Lysander leans into your flesh, shivering. “Live it.”

“For someone who says they don’t know humans that well,” Gaz grumbles, though his chest is light. “You sure know a lot about them.”

“Intuition,” your mouth twitches in a smile. “And a bit of reality.”

Delicate looks are shared.

You do admit, you liked these conversations with Gaz. The long nights and the feeling of grass under your flowing dresses; the horrid contraptions that your betrothed had tried to make you wear stuck far back into the wardrobe of your room. Heavy items—suffocating corsets, unlike the simple but elegantly sewn one you wear now. You could feel it trying to sneak in when the days drew on.

Control.

It was all becoming more and more apparent. You did not want to live like this.

Your face goes troubled as the calm silence moves over the Medlar with its reaching branches. Fireflies hang like miniature stars as you take your crown and slip it back on; to feel the comforting weight of antlers.

The knight pauses as he slips his cape off of his shoulder, blinking over at you in a slow confusion. You look troubled. He’d never seen that expression on your face before.

“Stag?” Your head swivels, as if in another world.

“Just thinking,” your voice moves into his ears, making them hum with energy. Gaz’s brows furrow, a frown taking over. After a second, he stands, moving closer on quiet feet.

You watch him as he goes to kneel near you, one arm moving over the bent nature of his leg while the other holds fabric—letting it cascade over the earth. Brown eyes narrow, and a joking tease moves with the undertone of slight concern.

“I’m usually the talker, I know, but when you look a bit like that it makes me nervous.”

You frown. “Look like what?”

“Like someone’s got a sword to your neck, Princess.” The air is cool here, the deep throws of night taking you by the breath in your throat. A smooth smirk. “It’s my job to make sure that doesn’t happen, yeah?”

If you leave, if you find a way out of this…the war will never end. It will go on until stone cracks like glass and generations forget why it even started in the first place.

But why were you put to the axe because of it? Why must you take the blade to the stomach—an object of greed?

Gaz’s amused voice moves lower at your immobile lips, going serious.

“Hey,” a hand outstretched to your arm, hovering. “Really, is everything alright?”

“Gaz,” you pause, voice still level despite your heated pulse. It’s like a snake curls itself in your guts, roots growing in your veins. The courtyard seems to shiver all by itself, leaves curling into themselves from bushes and trees. Lysander’s feet shimmy, head moving about.

This knight had been kind to you as well as honest about his intentions. Chivalrous. Such qualities are hard to come by anymore.

“I don’t believe I want this.” It’s a breath more quiet than a lapping of waves. Gaz stills, fingers above your flesh twitching. “I can’t live in a cage. I refuse.”

Silver meets brown, holding it firmly.

“I will not be a prize to be chained to a birthing bed.”

The man’s face pulls at that, tightening.

You don’t know what to expect. It isn’t fear in you—no, nothing like this could make you afraid. Apprehensive? Perhaps. Age made you cautious. At any moment he might flip his tune; run off to tattle to a King he, seemingly, likes just as much as you. Which is to say, very little. But there’s still the possibility, the knowledge stacked over ages and ages of strategy and mind games.

A knight of a tension-ridden kingdom, swearing fealty to a King whom you’re betrothed to. You’d just expressed treason, in a way. It could put you to the sword; to the rope. To irons. Your mind runs through the millions of possibilities, not able to settle on a single one before—

A cape settles over your shoulders, startling you.

Hand snapping to grab the front, your head snaps up, eyes wider than you can remember them ever going.

Soft browns meet you, a thin smile. Fireflies buzz about, and a dove sits under your still finger, watching with beady orbs intently at the scene. A Medlar quivers.

A stag and a knight breathe the same air. A godly creation and a saint ensnared in a song far larger than they intend, as the world shifts past all around them. Silver starlight leaves long reflections breaking from the hanging glory of your gems, but the patches of light on Gaz’s face capture yours in that instant far more than they should have.

Impossibly so. Unnaturally so.

Does this mortal have magic of his own, perhaps? You have to ask yourself. There was no other possibility.

And when he speaks…it’s like whatever ice has been layered over your antediluvian heart breaks into fire. There wasn’t even a fight from him.

“Then tell me what you need.”

TAGS:

@sheviro-blog, @ivebeentrashsince2001, @mrshesh, @berryjuicyy, @romantic-homicide, @kmi-02, @neelehksttr, @littlemisstrouble, @copperchromewriting, @coelhho-brannco, @pumpkinwitchcrusade, @fictional-men-have-my-heart, @sleepyqueerenergy, @cumikering, @everything-was-dark, @marmie-noir, @anna-banana27, @iamcautiouslyoptimistic, @irenelunarsworld, @rvjaa, @sarcanti, @aeneanc, @not-so-closeted-lesbian, @mutuallimbenclosure, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @gildedpoenies, @glitterypirateduck, @writeforfandoms, @kohsk3nico, @peteymcskeet, @caramlizedtomatoes, @yoursweetobsession, @quesowakanda, @chthonian-spectre, @so-no-feint, @ray-rook, @extracrunchymilk, @doggydale, @frazie99, @develised, @1-800-no-users-left, @nuncubus, @aldis-nuts, @clear-your-mind-and-dream, @noonanaz, @cosmicpro, @stinkaton, @waves-against-a-cliff, @idocarealot

801 notes · View notes

noisyquokka · 6 months

Text

October Eyes

PAIRING - Minho x GN!Reader

SYNOPSIS - Every inch of him is beautiful and captivating to you, always and forever. But his eyes. Oh, his eyes...

WORDCOUNT - 1.4k

WARNINGS - Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, kinda lovey-dovey, teasing if you squint, two (2) idiots hopelessly in love with each other

A/N - My little addition for Lino Day! Enjoy, Darlings!

It's somewhere between mid morning and noon with the way the sun bleeds light into the living room. Not that you care, oh, no. Not when you have the perfect view at this moment in time.

Your head is resting against his thigh, his current read propped up on the other. Your body has settled into the cushions beneath you, your heels digging into the fibers. Brown eyes flit across the page they're on, blinking closed every few seconds as if to hide from your adoring gaze. It's cat-like in nature; a contented half-lidded slip that has your fingers twitching to run through the dark tresses that frame his face.

"You're staring again."

He hasn't looked your way, but he can feel your eyes on him. Your lips twitch in a half grin.

"Am I?"

Time almost comes to a standstill as you slowly drink him in. You know every detail of his face like the back of your hand; the way his brows sit above those amber eyes, arching higher when you make a snide remark or he's being cheeky. Feline eyes that carry an impossible intensity. How they shine like fool's gold when they settle on you.

Another blink. Slender fingers twitching between your own. Cat eyes shifting.

You look away, back to your own book propped up on your knees. There's always a sharpness to his gaze — so precise as to shatter you like glass. Brown eyes hold you in their focus and it takes every ounce of willpower to keep your eyes on the book in your lap, turning a page with your free hand.

Minho is a patient man, he could wait for your eyes to meet his again. He could wait for minutes, hours, weeks. Years. But he doesn't, not at this moment.

His novel closes, the pages whispering their inked words into the crown of your skull with the force. You blink but you don't look away from your book, turning the page as if you're properly comprehending anything your pupils sweep across. Fingers brush against the flesh of your jaw, tapping softly under your chin to get your attention. That move. That move always works on you, and it's no different now. Eyelids flutter open as you tilt your head back to meet maple and cinnamon.

Your mind is somewhere entirely different now, as if Minho is the Sun and you're the planets that revolve around him. You breathe inward, the soft noises of the outside world seeping in but becoming nothing more than background static as your attention is captured once again. His body wash floods your nostrils.

"What's got you so enamored with me, Baby?" The way he asks is cocky in that signature Lee Minho way, a dark brow shooting up in question.

"Many, many things." You hum, letting your book fall between your thigh and the sofa. His right hand finds your left, fingers lacing together, wrapping over the skin in a sure squeeze. Your thumb grazes his knuckles in response.

"Enlighten me, would you?" His voice is a smooth, velvety croon, traveling through your ears. Messing with your brainwaves in the best way. His mouth curves into a smirk as he speaks, those tiny divots creasing at the corners of his lips. It's such a simple thing, small and inconspicuous when he smiles. But you notice it. You adore it.

"It's those eyes of yours," you murmur, your tone delicate as you study the man that gazes upon you. "Your eyes are like a deep forest, a mystery that pulls and pulls. Intimidating as a mountain lion. But lucky for you, I don't back down from a little mystery. Once you get through the darkness, they're the river that carries and cradles the forest's autumn leaves. They're dappled sunlight through a jar of honey. Just as warm and sweet. And that mountain lion? Just a tortoiseshell cat searching for a warm lap to curl up in."

You're rambling like a poet, passionately and ever longing for your muse. Every inch of him is beautiful and captivating to you, always and forever. But his eyes.

Oh, his eyes.

Your heart flutters in your chest, your brows twitching as you study his face.

Minho shakes his head slightly, and you have to suppress a gasp as he lifts you onto his lap, your hands clinging to him instinctively. Your words make Minho's stomach flip, a deep shiver rising up from it as your fingers twine tighter with his. He gives you a look, as if he's trying desperately to figure you out despite years of being together.

"I'd sell my soul to understand what goes on in that mind of yours." He says, voice soft, whispery. A crisp Autumn breeze on the lake, inviting goosebumps over your skin. Yet you feel warm having him so close to you, his hands running the span of your back. Your lips twitch up, fingers coming up to trail his jaw.

"Why sell your soul when you can hear every little thought straight from the source?"

"What else do you love about me, then?" His head shifts, a little light spark in those bourbon eyes at your gaze.

And you would. God, you would spill your guts just to see him glow with affection. But it seems that your little poetry session has ended because the words fail to come to you. You know exactly how much of your own emotions are written all over your face in this moment, and you make no attempt to hide it from him. You allow yourself to stare with soft eyes, smiling like a lovesick fool. Minho's hand runs along your back, fingers dancing down your spine.

"You."

The word is said with the utmost certainty, your eyes drifting to Minho's lips. "Every part of you."

Your lack of words are made up for with touches, hands caressing your Lover's skin with attentive care as they brush past a sharp jaw and collarbones.

It's intimate. You're not pawing at each other in a sexual haze. This isn't about lust and desire. It's intimate in the way two souls weave into one another after lifetimes apart; deep and delicate and raw and heavy. Safe. Sacred.

Your heart thuds in your chest, your entire body feeling lighter with each brush of Minho's hand along your skin. Your fingers trail up the side of his face, the palm of your hand pressing against the skin as you gently caress his cheekbone with your thumb. You know that what you're doing would make most partners feel insecure, but Minho presses into those touches like a needy feline. Holds your gaze as if there's nothing else on the planet to distract him from you, unabashed by all the attention you're happily giving him. Your chest rises and falls with your breaths, his thumb drawing tiny patterns into the soft flesh of your hip.

"I feel it's only fair to ask what you love about me?" You say, lashes fluttering as you lean back in his hold, draping your neck over the armrest of the couch.

Minho smiles down at you, that half-grin he often sports in your company making its way onto his face. He shifts so he's leaning closer to you, his breath hot on your neck as he speaks just above a whisper.

"Everything. Your eyes… your laugh… that little grin you give me when I try to kiss you- there it is," He leans in to press his lips to yours, smiling into it when you laugh between kisses. He leans back just enough to lock eyes with you again, those browns all consuming. "...the way you look at me… like I've created the universe just for you. I love everything about you."

You're looking up at him with stars in your eyes, completely and utterly devoid of anything other than a soul shattering affection as Minho's words sink in. His freehand comes to rest on the back of your neck, pulling you up to press a kiss to your forehead. It's long and lingering as he breathes you in, your pulse steady under his fingertips. Your lashes flutter at the contact.

"Love you." You mumble, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

"I love you."

You lean back into Minho's embrace, basking in the heat of his body and the softness of his touch. His gentle smile is like a warm blanket, wrapping you in a familiarity that's as cozy as any real fleece. It's intimate, but not like before. There are no long gazes or deep sighs, just the quiet comfort of being near each other.

Minho's hand rests over your shoulders and you lean into the gentle affection, your forehead resting against his chest. His breathing slows as the two of you sink into each other's embrace, October eyes watching over you as you begin to doze off.

Psst!! If you made it this far, thank you for taking the time to read my work 💕 I appreciate you!

559 notes · View notes

drabblesandimagines · 9 days

Text

Nettle Soup

Halsin x female reader 5,776 words of fluffy nonsense

It had started as an innocent tickle at the very back of your throat, something you’d barely given more than a moment’s thought to - fair enough due to the fact you had a tadpole squirming around in your skull to contend with. A day or so later, it had graduated from a tickle to an annoying and stubborn irritation which very much demanded attention – wouldn’t shift despite how many times you’d tried.

It would clear, surely, you thought, especially since the curse had lifted from the land and you were on your way towards Baldur’s Gate at last.

Except it didn’t.

If anything, it got worse - like you’d swallowed handfuls of crushed glass, the way it stung with every swallow – accompanied by heavy limbs and growing fatigue, no matter how much sleep you managed. Perhaps that was hardly surprising after the number of fights you’d undertaken recently, not quite as young as you once were.

Although not comfortable with the hitchhiker in your skull, you were at least confident it wasn’t the first sign of ceremorphosis, though the concern that Lae’zel may try to slit your throat if you voiced any notion of feeling unwell remained, so you kept silent.

You powered on, as you always do.

Gale frowned when you didn’t finish your portion of stew that evening, all sat around the campfire. He prided himself on keeping the party well-fed and anything but clean bowls appeared to be a personal affront to his skill. It wasn’t that you felt nauseous, just a lack of appetite made the quarter you had managed sit too heavy in your stomach.

“Was it not to your liking?” The wizard hovers over your shoulder. “While I’ll admit it is a repeated recipe from a few days ago, you enjoyed it well enough then.”

“No, no, it’s wonderful, Gale.” You smile, trying to appease his anxieties by laying a hand on your stomach. “It’s just filling – I’m stuffed already.”

“I recall you had second helpings.”

Oh, he had you there. Think.

“We had just fought Ketheric Thorn too, quite difference from the day’s leisurely pace.”

“Hm.” His pout remains, and the uncomfortable feeling in your stomach has been joined by guilt.

“Hardly a repeated recipe, though. I’m sure I noted something different on the palate?”

That did the trick, a wistful smile now gracing his face. “Ah, yes, I did stumble upon some splendid wild garlic that I thought would enhance the flavour profile – how kind of you to notice.”

You nod along, politely, as Gale tells his tale – something about how it elevates the spices - not noticing the wood elf staring at you curiously from across the circle.

You’re thankful it’s not your turn to keep watch as the githyanki takes her place in the centre of the camp, sword laying ready in her lap. You don’t wish to dawdle around the campfire like you do most nights, worried she might sense something off about you and jump to conclusions, so you bid the remaining members of the party goodnight and walk at a brisk pace to the safety of your tent…

..only for an icy cold grip around your elbow to jerk you into their own, your back now pressed against a firm chest with a thud.

“Surprised, darling?” Astarion murmurs into your crown, his other arm wrapped around your waist. “I thought you better than that. Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

“Bed.” You reply as brightly as possible, overcompensating for how rotten you’re now feeling.

“Oh, but the evening is still so young! I have a fine idea that will while away the hours, if you would be so very kind.” He drops his grip on your elbow and ghosts his hand up your side, making you squirm.

“Not tonight, Astarion.” You shake your head. Maybe it had been a mistake to let him feed off you after that first night. “I’m tired.”

“I can wait until you’re asleep, my sweet.” His hand finally reaches the back of your neck, giving it a slight squeeze. “I’ll be sure not to disturb any of your pretty dreams.”

“No.” Your tone is firm, maybe a little too firm as the vampire stiffens against you and drops his hand, causing your stomach to squirm with guilt once again. “Another night, I’m all yours – I promise.”

Astarion spins you around and you nearly lose your footing – a fact not missed by the vampire as his face transforms from annoyance at your denial to mild concern.

“My, you are out of sorts.” He sighs, before he plasters on a smile that you know to be fake. “Very well, darling. Off to bed you pop.”

You nod a thanks and hurry out of his tent, casting your eyes to the ground in the hopes of keeping steadier footing, only to collide into something firm.

A large, solid chest, covered in familiar druidic garb.

“My sincere apologies,” two warm hands grasp your upper arms, steadying you once again. “I am afraid I did not see you there. Are you all right?”

Your scalp tingles from the gravelly tones of Halsin’s voice, a warmth flushing over your cheeks as you look up at the former archdruid, his brow furrowed in concern.

“I’m fine, Halsin. And I should be the one apologizing - I wasn’t looking where I was going. Are you okay?”

He chuckles at your concern. “Of course. Although you have remained polite by not yet mentioning my stature, I am sure you have noticed the comparison between us, little one.”

Although one to lose your temper with the use of such pet names in inns or in combat, there is something entirely different when Halsin says it. You know it is not meant to be patronizing, more a sign of his age, really – it’s wholeheartedly sincere, affectionate, perhaps even… loving? Well, you could still dream, couldn’t you? Even though he’d kindly turned you down at the celebration for the tieflings at camp all those weeks ago, you’d be a liar if you didn’t still kindle a flame of affection for the large elf. You smile, wryly. “I suppose I have.”

“Forgive me for prying, but is anything the matter? You seemed in quite the hurry after supper. I confess I’d hoped to catch you for a moment.”

Your throat stings again as you swallow. Halsin is a healer - he would be the one to mention it to…

But you don’t want to be a bother, especially so soon after Thaniel. What was a sore throat in comparison to being trapped within the Shadowrealm for near on a century? Pathetic, really.

You shrug it off, “A little tired, nothing an early night won’t sort. What did you wish to speak about?”

He smiles at your response, though you notice it doesn’t reach his eyes. You wish you weren’t so observant of him to be able to identify which are real and which are polite.

“Ah, no, nothing of urgency. Please, do not let me keep you from your well-deserved rest any longer.”

You eye your tent in the distance, but hesitate all the same. “Are you sure?”

“Quite.” He squeezes your upper arms, gently, before letting go. “I bid you sweet dreams and a peaceful sleep.”

You don’t even fall asleep deeply enough to dream – tossing and turning for hours, one moment feeling too hot and then another too cold, periodically drinking from your waterskin trying to ease the rawness of your throat.

You give up at dawn, quickly dressing in your armor. Instead of waiting for your companions to rise, you set your sight on climbing the hill not far off from camp - it should provide a good vista of the road ahead to Baldur’s Gate. It shouldn’t be a long walk either, you’ll be there and back before even Karlach has roused, usually the last to do so.

You had only made it a quarter of the way up the admittedly gentle incline when you start to feel unusually winded from the exercise – it feels as if you are not quite breathing deep enough, oxygen stagnating at the top of your lungs. Perhaps you’d laced your armour too tight that morning in your haste to get moving? The sun is still only a little over the horizon, given the earliness of the hour, but you feel so very warm, a sheen of sweat already on your brow.

You raise a weary hand to wipe it away, but your vision swims in response and you stumble, all reflexes abandoning you and your face meets the dirt.

Halsin lets out a sigh as he rubs his back against the bark in his bear form, the ridges appeasing an itch that had been bothering him since he had wildshaped. It has been a while since he’d indulged the bear for purely pleasure and not combat – it hadn’t felt right to do so when traveling through the shadow cursed lands.

He’d woken early, as usual, and decided to take advantage of an hour or so to patrol the area before the plan would be to head towards Baldur’s Gate. Heading to the city wasn’t something he was looking forward to – to be cut off from the nature he so adored made he feel uneasy - but he’d made a vow that he intended to keep.

A familiar, invigorating smell crosses his snout, carried in the gentle breeze. He inhales it deeply, being drawn him from his thoughts.

White violet, jasmine, a touch of sandalwood…

You.

It is too strong a scent to have drifted in from camp, which must mean you’re close by. He drops down to all four paws and begins to follow the trail, curious as to what has brought you out so early and, perhaps selfishly, hoping to take advantage of your company.

He doesn’t have to travel far, though, lumbering a hundred or so metres out of the wood that lines the path. His stomach sinks when he sees you sprawled out on your front down the incline, unmoving, eyes open in a blank stare in his direction.

The next thing you were aware of was thundering paws on the earth, a flash of gold and then warm, heavy palms turning you over to face the dawn sky. A very concerned wood elf soon fills your vision, pressing a hand to your cheek as his eyes scan you over, frantically.

“What is it, my heart? Speak to me.” Heart…? The world goes black.

You wake up slowly. Your eyelids feel heavy, drifting in and out of consciousness until, finally, you manage to crack both eyes open to find yourself swaddled in unfamiliar furs and blinking up at an equally unfamiliar ceiling.

No, not ceiling, but the inside of a tent and one that is not your own. Various herbs and flowers are hung from the support pole across the top, seemingly set out to dry, dotted between other hand-made trinkets. There’s a scent of wood smoke, flowers, freshly cut grass, and something enticingly sweet...

You sit up in alarm, trying to work out where you are, panic rising in your already tight chest when your eyes meet those of the large wood elf’s, sat only a little way to the side of the bed roll.

“Ah-ah,” Halsin chides with a sympathetic smile, pushing you back down easily with one large palm upon your shoulder. “Please - you must rest.”

“This isn’t my tent.” Your voice is painfully hoarse, but you lay your head back on the pillow in defeat and watch as he tugs the furs back up to under your chin - the brief moment you had been upright a chill had prickled across your skin, almost down to your very bones.

“That is true.” The former archdruid nods, looking a little bashful. “We were camped at quite opposite ends this time round.” Your party did tend to spread the tents out across the ground you used, rather than all cluster together. “I thought it best to bring you here, where I have everything to hand to easily prepare, rather than go to and fro whilst I oversee your recovery.”

“Recov-” You don’t reach the end of the word as a horrendous, wracking cough emerges deep within your chest. You sit up again in panic, hoping it will cease. Halsin assists you with one hand on your arm and an arm around your waist, before he begins to rub large circles on your upper back.

“Easy, little one. Easy. I know it is uncomfortable, but it will pass.” He says, softly. It doesn’t feel like it will – the pain is sharp, a tightness in your chest, a burn in your lungs, heart pounding as you feel more and more breathless with every cough.

Tears burn at your eyes but, true to his word, slowly but surely, it begins to settle, allowing you to catch your breath at last and left feeling exhausted.

The hand leaves your arm then but one remains on your back, keeping you steady, before a waterskin is brought up to your lips. “Take small sips. If you drink too quickly, it might trigger another fit.”

You nod, reaching up a hand to hold over his as he tips the liquid into your mouth. It’s soothing on your raw throat, but only for a brief moment. When he deems you’ve had enough, he pulls the waterskin away, placing it back down to the side of the bedroll before pressing a hand to your forehead, a poorly concealed frown soon gracing his lips.

“You have a fairly high fever.”

“Can’t you…?” You reach out to mimic cure wounds – a spell you’ve seen him and Shadowheart cast many a time - but it seems even your depth perception has abandoned you as you brush up against the wood elf's firm chest, before snatching your hand back and circling your wrist in what you think looks a somewhat magical motion. Halsin lets out a chuckle that makes you feel flush – your temperature varying sporadically by the minute.

“Wounds and other injuries indeed, as can Shadowheart, but I am afraid for such illnesses as this the only treatment is rest for a few days, supplemented by herbal remedies to alleviate symptoms.”

“No,” you shake your head and immediately regret how it makes your vision and head swim. “We must press on - the Absolute are already in the city.”

He looks at you in alarm. “You cannot mean you wish to go and face them? You know I admire your unwavering resolve and strength to do what is right, but at the moment I fear a light breeze would be more than enough to knock you prone.”

“But-”

“No. I cannot allow it.” His tone is firm, a growl at the back of his throat – it reminds you of how he had spoken to Kagha once he’d returned to the grove. "You will rest. Lie down,” he doesn’t even need to push you back this time with a heavy hand, you’ve gone quite limp against the arm that had been supporting you, shrinking back at his tone of voice and nestle back down amongst the furs.

“Thank you.” Halsin replies, sincerely, the tension dropping both from his shoulders and voice. “I… I apologise for my manner of speaking, but I know of what I speak - you must rest in order to make a full recovery.”

“I’ll try – I promise.”

He looks down at you with a smile before brushing some loose hair from your face and then cupping your cheek with a large palm and calloused fingers. If you’d had more of your wits about you, if you could think clearly, you would’ve noticed the flash of gold in his palm as he cast sleep upon you.

You wake up to a hand pressing a damp cold compress against your forehead and your chest feeling tighter than before. You can’t help the wince as you open your eyes, the light smarting despite it being somewhat dim inside the tent. Halsin is sat cross-legged by your side, a frown in place.

“I am sorry to have woken you, but I am afraid your fever has developed.”

“Oh.”

“I have prepared something that will help. Allow me to sit you up.” Somehow, he manages to slip his arm beneath your head and around your shoulders, assisting you upright to lean back against a pile of firm pillows. Once he is satisfied you are settled, he produces a bowl from his side – a waft of steam emitting off the top.

“Here. It has cooled enough to drink.”

“What is it?” Your voice is still awfully hoarse, a raw sting as you talk.

“A staple in every healer’s repertoire - nettle soup. Adept at reducing fevers.”

You take the bowl carefully from his hand, though his follows closely as you guide it up to your mouth lest your grip fail.

You gulp down a mouthful, but it’s absolutely foul upon your tongue, burns your throat as you swallow it down. It feels as if you’ve taken a gulp out of a particularly filthy pond, one thick with algae.

You hold the bowl back out with a shake of your head, hoping he’ll take it. “That’s disgusting.”

Halsin smiles, knowingly – seemingly a complaint he is not all that unfamiliar with hearing. “Whilst I admit the taste is far from what one might call pleasant, it will do you a world of good to drink it.”

You shake your head again, trying to hand it back to him. “I can’t.”

A deep chuckle rumbles through his chest. “Dare I enquire your age again, little one? The children in the grove manage it just fine.”

“I’m not a child,” you pout – too feverish to realise the contradiction of your actions. “And they surely do not.”

“They do…”, he retorts, a wistful smile crosses his lips, “albeit with the promise of something sweet after they’ve rested. Would that suffice?”

“Something… sweet?” Your mind drifts off to somewhere it should not as your eyes drop down to focus on the druid’s mouth.

“Mm. They are quite partial to honeycakes, does that appeal?”

You shake your head, placing the bowl down on the floor between the two of you. Though a fan of sweets, the idea of eating anything at the moment doesn’t entice at all.

“No? Well, perhaps you have something else in mind. I’m sure Baldur’s Gate itself will have something to your tastes.”

“I want a kiss.” You mumble.

He must have misheard. “What was that?”

“A kiss - that’s the sweet thing I want.”

“Ah,” if it wasn’t for the dim light within the tent, you would’ve sworn the druid was blushing. “Now, that’ll be the fever speaking.”

“No.” You gaze up at him, wishing you had the strength to curl your fingers in his hair and pull him in for the kiss you crave. “It’s not. I’ve wanted one since that night at camp, the celebration with the tieflings. I swear I’ll drink all the nettle soup in Faerun for a kiss.” “Since…” He trails off. “No, I couldn’t, little one.” He shakes his head, truly looking apologetic. “I won’t. It wouldn’t be right.”

“Why?”

He cups your cheek in a large palm, a small smile on his lips. “I do not believe you are quite aware of what you are requesting, given your current ailment.”

You purse your lips in thought, trying to seek a compromise. “What about when I’m better, then?”

He removes his hand and nods. “When you are recovered and if you recall this conversation and still desire it, then… yes, you may claim your sweet.” He mumbles towards the end, not quite believing what he was apparently promising. “However, you will still need to drink the nettle soup now.”

“Deal.” You acquiesce, and Halsin picks up the bowl in offering.

It burns as it goes down – all four or five remaining mouthfuls - but you manage the whole bowl.

“Good girl,” the wood elf murmurs with a smile – it makes the discomfort feel worth it for a moment - as he inspects the empty bowl, swapping it out for the waterskin once again.

“Now, try and sleep some more. By the time you wake, it will have done its work and you’ll be feeling much better.”

You lie back down without protest, closing your eyes. The furs smell like Halsin and you soon drift off back to sleep, a feverish thought of being wrapped up in his arms and the kiss you hoped to claim come morning.

Day turns into night and then day once more, the hours passed with numerous bowls of nettle soup that still burn at your throat with every swallow, vegetable broth for more sustenance and countless naps to no improvement. Halsin has been trying to distract himself with whittling, but it is not proving successful – lopping off half of the duck’s beak when you stir momentarily. He’s checked your temperature with the back of his hand too many times to count. There’s a taunting rattle from your lungs between bouts of sharp coughing fits that doesn’t seem to be easing either. The nettle soup should’ve broken your fever at least – he hadn’t encountered one in all his years that it had failed to do so – but you seem to be growing worse by the hour.

He watches as you toss and turn, brushing your hair from your face. You’ve done so much for him – freed him from the goblins, ensured the safety of the Grove and its occupants, defended him whilst he recovered Thaniel, freed a realm from the shadowcurse of beyond a century and yet he cannot return a simple favour by ridding you of a fever?

“Is she sick?”

“Thaniel.” Halsin’s starts at the sudden appearance of the spirit. The boy is knelt besides him, staring down curiously at your slumbering form. “What are you doing here, my friend?”

“Your party hasn’t moved on - I wondered why. Is she sick?”

Thaniel remained as curious as ever, it seemed.

Halsin sighs. “Yes, I am afraid so. The fever and cough proves most stubborn – I fear I am depleting this area’s supply of nettles.”

“Nettles?”

“For the soup – it reduces the fever. Or it should.”

Thaniel frowns, leaning over you and taking a cautious sniff. “But she smells of spolar.”

“Spolar?” The word seems vaguely familiar, though it sparks a sinking, sickening feeling in his stomach.

“It will have been a long time since you’ve had to treat it.” The boy shrugs. “A large purple mushroom, remember? Its spores line the lungs – its growth accelerates if surrounded by nettles.”

“No…” It’s as if a hand is squeezing at his heart. “I don’t recall seeing any on our travels out. It would grow so quickly?”

“Nettles are sturdy enough even for the shadowcurse, so when it was lifted it had probably laid dormant beneath the soil until the time came. How long have you been treating her?”

“Nearly two moons – numerous bowls of nettle soup.” Halsin’s face has drained of all colour. “By Silvanus, I’ll have been nourishing the infection itself.”

“You did not mean to,” Thaniel replied, patting Halsin on his thigh. “Do not fret. Vapours from a wilted Sussur Bloom will clear the lungs when inhaled, suspending any further spread. Then she will just need rest.”

“A wilted…” He gets to his feet, his mind whirring with the next steps. “I must make haste back to the Underdark – I could be there and back by night fall with the aid of sigil circles.”

He hurries out of his tent, finding Gale sat outside of his, camped a stone’s throw away, and a large tome in his lap.

“Halsin,” Gale starts cautiously, setting down his book at the wood elf's urgency. “Is something the matter?”

“Everything.” The druid drops to his knees and empties out his pack – planning to stuff it full of as much Sussur Bloom as he can lay his hands upon. “I made her worse. She’s inhaled the spore of the spolar.”

“The spore of what? And how could you have made her worse?” Gale quirks an eyebrow, trying to keep up. He has never seen the wood elf so flustered. “I don’t understand.”

“Spolar… the spores line the airways. It feeds and thrives upon other vegetation – I’ve been giving her nettle soup. She told me it burnt and I insisted she eat more. And she did, because she trusted me.”

“Oh. Well, you didn’t know-”

“I should’ve known!” Halsin explodes in response, his voice echoing around their encampment. “I need to go to the Underdark, I-” He gets up to his feet and immediately stumbles, catching himself before he could fall. Gale is quick to stand in front of him, hands held up to try in a feeble attempt to stop the wood elf leaving.

“Halsin, when is the last time you rested?”

“It matters not-”

“It very much does.” Gale chides. “Look at you – you are in no fit state to look after yourself, let alone gallivant off to the Underdark.”

“What the hells is going on?” Astarion appears the other side of Gale, drawn out by Halsin’s outburst.

“I must set this right. I cannot allow her to suffer a moment longer due to my negligence-“

“Okay, I’m sensing there’s a lot more to your feelings here, but allow me to assure you that we all care about her. Allow us to assist you, to aid you in whatever you need in this moment.”

“Will someone please tell me what’s going on?” Astarion almost stomps his foot, never one to be ignored.

Halsin sighs, running a large palm down his face. Gale is right – he is exhausted, unable to enter a state of reverie in the past days in fear of you needing him.

“A Sussur Bloom. I need to retrieve one from the Underdark.”

Gale frowns. “But they don’t work outside the Underdark.“

“Wilted ones, they-"

“Wilted, you say?” Astarion looks at his fingernails for imaginary dirt. “I’ve got a handful in my pack still, I’m sure.”

Halsin sets off running in the direction of the vampire’s tent and his pack, Astarion hot on his heels.

“Now, wait a moment!”

Halsin won’t look at you.

You’d woken up, confusingly, back in your own tent two days later to Gale sat by your side and your fever broken. Your voice was still a little hoarse and walking around the camp left you all but winded, but that was meant to pass in another day or two, then the plan was to finally set off towards Baldur’s Gate.

You’d felt bad for holding the party up for so long, but everyone has been rather kind about the delay, doting on you a little more than you’d like.

All but Halsin, really, who stares over your head – not a hard feat given his height, true – but still, it smarts when you cannot catch his eye, especially when it was something you used to achieve so easily. He appears to leave the campsite before dawn and returns for supper, though he moves away from the campfire when you take your place, thanking Gale for the meal before hurrying off.

It’s driving you mad.

Tonight, though, you have a plan. You took supper back to your tent, feigning the need for an early night to your companions and lying in wait for Halsin to depart the camp once more.

You find the elf stood at the very edge of the lake, standing in the shallow waters as it laps to and fro, hands held behind his back.

You approach cautiously, conscious of disturbing a meditation or ritual the ex-archdruid might be partaking in, but it seems he is already acutely aware of your presence.

“There’s a chill in the air tonight.” His voice is firm – you can imagine him using the same tone when he was chairing heated discussions amongst the other druids back at the Emerald Grove. “You should go back to camp and keep warm by the fire at least if you find yourself restless.”

“Halsin,” you choose to ignore him as you wring your hands together and take another step closer. “Have I… offended you in some way?”

“Offended? Never.” Still, he keeps his head turned away from you.

“I apologise sincerely if I said something that upset you whilst I was sick. I’m afraid I don’t recall much of the time in your tent – it’s all a bit of a haze.”

“That’s understandable. You were…” His breath hitches, as if it’s painful to remember. “..quite unwell. But, no, you did not say anything malicious or cruel – it is not in your nature.”

“Then why won’t you look at me?”

His biceps tense as he brings his arms back in front of him, his shoulders heaving up with a breath before dropping back down as he swings round on his heels. He meets your eyes for a second or two before his gaze moves back above your head, as if something was extremely interesting in the distance.

“There.” A forced smile – it doesn’t reach the wood elf’s eyes by a mile. “Now, will you go back to the camp?”

“No.” You huff, taking a step closer.

“Please. Your lungs are not fully recovered yet and the chill tonight will do you no favours.”

“I’m not going back until you look me in the eyes and tell me what I’ve done to be treated this way.” You stand firm, stubborn.

He sighs, seemingly exasperated at the conversation. “You have not done anything, my h… friend.”

“I must have done something.”

“You are mistaken.”

“No, I’m not.” You retort back, placing your hands on your hips. “Ever since you healed me, you’ve been-”

“Healed you?” He scoffs, derisively, meeting your eyes at last with a furrowed brow. “Healed you? I did no such thing - I made you worse!”

You stare for a moment, bemused. “What? Worse how?”

“You said the nettle soup was burning your throat, you told me multiple times and I dismissed you saying it for not liking the taste, not of a symptom. Every time I had you drink it, I was giving the infection what it needed to thrive. I was killing you.”

“No.” You shake your head. “I don’t remember that.” And you don’t, everything’s hazy – vague memories of cooling compresses on your head, a supportive arm around your waist as you drank from a waterskin. “Why would I keep drinking it if it hurt?”

“Because,” he takes a shuddering breath, “we made a deal.”

“A deal about what?”

“I beg of you not to make me relive my shame.” Halsin sounds defeated, but you continue to push.

“A deal about what?”

“I… I told you of how the children in the Grove took their medicine under the promise they would receive something sweet when they were better. Honeycakes, candied fruits, the like. You…” His voice grows tight. “You asked for something else sweet.”

You feel your face flush, a hazy, whisp of a memory now becoming crystal clear. “A kiss.”

The wood elf’s shoulders shudder. “I took advantage of your trust in me.”

“Advantage?”

“Of your feverish state.”

“I’m the one who suggested the kiss.”

“And I’m the one who agreed due to my own selfish desires, ignoring what my patient was trying to tell me.”

“No, you thought you were doing the right thing. We all make mistakes, or misinterpret. I’m fine.” You wrap your hand around his forearm as best as you can, trying to tug him forward. “Besides the whole tadpole in my head, of course…”

He smiles, wryly, at your poor joke, though you see tears burn at his eyes. “I just… I cannot stand the thought that I have caused you harm, little one – intentional or otherwise.”

“You haven’t, Halsin.” You place your other hand tentatively on his chest and look up, feeling his heart beat beneath your fingertips. “I am well and, if you were still willing, I’m ready for my sweet.”

He shakes his head. “As much as my heart desires it – and it does - I do not deserve it.”

“Am I not allowed to be the judge of that? And I say a deal is a deal.”

“You… truly wish for it still?”

You stand up on your very tip toes and press a kiss to the underside of his jaw, as far as you can reach. “More than ever.”

A firm arm wraps delicately around your waist – cautious of squeezing you too firmly – and heaves you up easily against his firm chest, his other hand cupping your cheek as he captures your lips in a kiss. It is soft and delicate, as if he’s worried you’ll break, but when you lift your hand to tangle in his locks and tug to bring him closer and deepening the kiss, there is no mistaking the growl that emits from his throat when your tongues intertwine.

As soon as you drop your hand from his hair, he retreats too, dropping you back down carefully to the ground, eyes scanning you in concern.

“You’re breathless, my heart.” You feel your cheeks prickle with heat at the term of endearment. “And flush too. Please, I insist you go back and keep warm-"

You cut him off, pressing your fingers against his lips, exhaling breathily. “Two things. One, I’m breathless because of your kiss. Two, I’m flush because of your words - what sort of reaction am I meant to have to you calling me that?”

He lifts his own hand then to hold yours in place so he can kiss the fingertips pressed against his lips, before tugging your hand back down and interlacing your fingers.

“My heart, my love, my sun, my moon, my stars - so many things I wish to call you whilst I lavish you with affection from dusk till dawn, and dawn till dusk… if you’d allow me, that is.”

“Allow?” You smile, “I encourage – heartily.”

It happens too fast to comprehend, a gentle twist of your arm to twirl you in front of him before one arm wraps around the back of your knees and you are swept off your feet, the wood elf commencing large strides back towards the camp.

“Then I insist we return to your tent where you will have as many sweets as you desire.”

“Oh, my tent now, is it?” You tease. “I thought I had to go and stay warm by the fire.”

“Yes, but, lucky for you,” he smirks, “I am known to run quite hot.”

Comments, likes and reblogs make my whole day x

Masterlist . Requests welcome . Ko-fi

#ghostdogwrites #halsin x you #halsin x reader #halsin x tav #halsin fluff

321 notes · View notes

inkykeiji · 9 months

Text

character: jouno saigiku x fem!reader genre: smut warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, daddy kink, face fucking, boot humping, a lil degradation mixed with a hint of praise, dacryphilia, size kink/size difference, lots of cum words: 3.7k

He knows you’re up, the moment he steps through the flat’s threshold.

He can hear your gentle breathing, can hear the soft rustle of lace and satin against your skin as your chest rises and falls, can hear your sock-clad toes, overlapped and wiggling, weight shifting slightly from one foot, then the other, as you wait in anticipation.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in bed?” he asks aloud, not bothering to turn toward your hiding spot, attention focused on his hands as he slowly pulls a white glove from his fingers, one by one. “What are you doing up?”

“Missed you,” you mumble out through a pout, cheek pressed into the doorframe, face half hidden.

“Yeah?” he’s asking as he tosses the first glove onto the counter and begins work on the second, his features contrasted by shadows, but you can still see the smirk on his face. “Why don’t you come give me a hug, then?”

A sweet little squeal of affirmation sounds in your throat and then you’re off, bare feet pitter-pattering against the polished hardwood, body barreling into his chest only a second or two later, hard enough to knock a gentle chuckle from his lips, his arms catching you easily.

A deep sigh deflates his chest, his body melding into yours. His head droops, lips pressing a kiss to the crown of your head before he rests his forehead against your skull. A thick thigh slots itself between your own, your limbs twining together; a tangle, a knot of a single entity.

With a slow, steady, purposeful inhale, his ribs stretch against yours as he fills his lungs with your scent, breathes you in and gulps you down and holds you close to his heart, steeping his tissues in your essence, infusing his blood with you.

A beat or two passes, the two of you motionless but melting into one another, before he finally plants another kiss in your hair, arms tightening infinitesimally, squeezing you to his form.

“Hate that you work such long hours. Love this uniform on you, though,” you murmur into his chest, nuzzling your cheek against the starched fabric of his jacket.

A gentle laugh rumbles behind his sternum.

“Is that so?”

“Uh-huh.”

“How much do you love it on me?”

“I think you know,” you say shyly, peeking up from his chest.

He does know—he can smell it on you, can smell the arousal rapidly seeping into the silk of your panties, can feel the warmth on his thigh through the thin material, a swiftly expanding patch of slick.

But he wants to hear you say it.

“How much?” he repeats, slow, stern, an order.

A stringy whine sounds in your throat and your bottom lip juts out further, chin puckering, but you obey anyway, heat staining your cheeks.

“So much. So much it makes me wet,” you whimper, eyes squeezing shut, scorching prickles of humiliation rippling beneath your skin. “So much it makes my clit throb and pussy flutter,” you grind against his thigh in emphasis, legs tightening around it. “Feel it?”

A hum of recognition vibrates on his tongue, head nodding. His cock twitches against your hip—just once, nothing more than a greeting—and you giggle, humping his leg with a little more vigour.

“Sit down, Daddy,” you say softly, delicate fingers unfastening his cape and pushing it from his shoulders. “Let me fix you a drink.”

“It’s late,” he says, but he goes willingly, collapsing in his favourite armchair. “You should be in bed.”

“And you work so hard,” you respond lightly, prancing over to the gold bar cart, filled with sparkling decanters and amber liquor. “Let me do this for you. Then bed, pinky promise.”

With a small resigned smile, he nods, accepting a crystal glass of scotch from you a moment later. Ice clinks against the sides as he brings it to his lips, taking a slow sip, another sigh seeping from his chest, the burn of alcohol eating away at more tension, liquifying his tired muscles.

You assume your designated position then, on the floor at his feet, between his spread knees, cheek laid against his thigh. A large hand cups your head, thumb stroking your hair in slow, rhythmic motions.

This has become somewhat of a habit as of late. The Armed Detective Agency case has been devouring all of Jouno’s time, and it has left him with mere crumbs to give to you.

He’s just about polished off his drink when your hands begin to wander, palms smooth as they run up his strong thighs, dainty fingers digging into lean muscle as they go, his legs instinctively spreading wider.

Your head shifts, eyes gazing up at him adoringly—he may not be able to see you, but he can feel you, your body welded to his shin as your hands work, your face nosing along his thigh, cuddling into him, desperate to be as close as physically possible.

He swears he can feel your stare, too, potent and powerful and oozing thick love as it slathers across his skin, dousing him in indescribable warmth. It saturates the air around you both, enveloping your tangled bodies in its dense embrace, permeating his flesh straight to his very soul, where it poisons him so sweetly.

It’ll always amaze him, how someone can look at him with such reverence, such admiration, like he’s a fucking god, so strongly that he can sense it—feel it on his body, taste it on his tongue. It’s fucking intoxicating, his cock twitching again in his trousers, a rush of hot blood fizzing through his veins.

Your fingers knead aching muscles steadily, expertly, climbing a little higher with each cycle through the routine, closer and closer to the apex of his thighs but never quite reaching it.

It’s utterly teasing, rigid flesh mollifying beneath your amorous motions as the pressures of the day leak from his pores, massaged from his body by your gracious hands, wrung from his soul bit by bit.

It’s utterly teasing, but it’s so good, a craving for more clawing at the pit of his stomach, igniting a mild itch in his veins.

Something sounds in his throat, the ghost of a whimper—something he’s hopeless at smothering, an instinctual, uncontrollable reaction to you—and he feels your body respond, a minuscule jerk of your muscles in response, a curious little gesture imbued with a question.

Gasping gently, your gaze slides down, watching with a sort of morbid fascination as his cock fills with life, as it strains, more and more, heavier and heavier, against his maroon trousers, yearning for your tongue, your touch. Grinding your fingers into tense tissue near his hips, you giggle a little at the way it jerks gently, begging you for attention. Another noise plays on the back of his tongue; a caution this time, not to play around too much.

Finally, you lean forward, hands clamped around his thighs, and nuzzle into his swelling cock, rubbing your face against it like a cat with a small hum of contentment.

A fond little melody falls from his lips, nothing more than a wisp of breath—so starkly different from his usual sharp snickers, most often kept sealed behind smirking lips and reserved for those who deserve it—something private, something just for him to savour and enjoy, his palm moving to caress your head again, urging you further into his groin.

“Really do love this uniform so much,” you mumble out dreamily, muffled by the material.

“Show me,” he breathes, just barely shifting beneath your touch. “Show Daddy.”

Fondling halted, you pull back slightly, staring down the bridge of your nose at his cock, almost as if you’re taking a moment to admire it before scattering a few well-placed kisses along the silhouette—underside, shaft, tip. It jumps beneath your lips in response, and you giggle again, snuggling back into it lovingly.

Tongue unfurling from your mouth, you trace the bulge slow and sloppy, dragging your the slick muscle along the outline of his massive cock and leaving a damp, gleaming trail across his lap. His hips twitch ever-so-slightly, a motion you wouldn’t have noticed had you not had your entire face pressed into his crotch, and you relent, tongue grinding over the head in hard, steady strokes—back and forth, back and forth—before your mouth closes around it as best it can, suckling at the tip.

And you swear you can taste his pre-cum, dribbling from his slit and oozing through the thick material of his work pants, bitter and strong like his favourite blend of coffee. A moan slips from your lips, the sound hot and wavering against him, your lapping turned desperately vigorous, starved for another drop of him.

You’re making a real mess now, he’s sure of it, threads of spit knitting your lips to his trousers, chin syrupy with your own drool, smudged across your mouth and jaw, a direct result of your burrowing.

He’s getting restless now, you can tell, can feel it in the way his thighs clench, can hear it in the gentle, barely-there hitch of his breath with each firm glide of your tongue over his cockhead. And eventually, finally, he snaps, just like he always does, just like every other night before.

“It’s not nice to get Daddy’s cock hard and then not do anything about it, baby,” he warns, amicable tone sewn together with an implicit threat. “Don’t be a little tease, now. Finish what you’ve started.”

The authority in his voice—not a statement, not a suggestion, but a demand, a direct order—sends spears of heady adrenaline shooting through your chest, body jolting, and you nod, fingers obeying immediately, instinctively.

The heavy brass buckle of his belt jingles as you hastily unfasten it, leaving it hung undone as you shove his jacket up and pop the button of his trousers, mewling a little at the way the smooth planes of his stomach flex, tightening in anticipation.

Hooking your fingers in his waistband, you tug his pants to his ankles, Jouno lifting his hips and aiding your efforts, cock greeting you eagerly a moment later, slit drooling pearly sap.

“Oh, gosh, Daddy,” you whimper, sounding almost on the verge of tears—you’re not, of course, he would know if you were—voice infused with sheer awe. “It’s—It’s so pretty.”

He’s sure it is, with its pretty pink tip, flushed a shade of rose, and its perfectly symmetrical shaft, straighter than Cupid’s arrow, and its delicate veins, ivied around his girth and softer than velvet.

Logically, you should already know this; you’ve certainly seen it enough times. But every time you pull it from his pants is like the first time all over again, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t love your fawning, even if it is characteristic.

“I bet it looks even prettier in your mouth,” he says, and there’s a trace of melancholy in his tone, as if he genuinely regrets being unable to see it.

You take that as your cue to get to work, wrapping a palm around the base of his cock and taking him between your lips, tongue curling almost protectively around the shaft as you suck him in.

“That’s it,” he encourages, a palm cupped beneath your chin, thumb tracing the line of your jaw. “Take the whole thing down your throat, as much as you can.”

And, really, you do try your very hardest, your very bestest, to take as much of him as possible, throat gorging on his cock.

But it still isn’t nearly enough.

Because you’re already coughing just before you reach the halfway point, spasming around his tip as your body tries to reject him.

And, oh, that just won’t do.

“Aw, is that all you can fit in your little mouth?” he clicks his tongue, as if he’s disappointed, though there’s a sharp smirk on his lips. “How pitiful. That’s alright, Daddy’s here to help you.”

A large palm finds its rightful place on the crown of your head, fingers splayed across your hair and digging into your scalp as he presses down, slowly, his breath stammering with each constriction of your throat.

This is how it always starts.

Leisurely but firm, you’re forced to take his cock inch by inch until the whole thing’s shoved down your throat, your nose pressed flush to his pubic bone—pause, hold, choke, release, repeat—enabling him to feel every single gag and gurgle his actions elicit, taking his time to savour them, to breathe in your pain and torment and let it marinate in his bones.

Because it’s all so heavenly, isn’t it? To feel every pulse, every choke, every squeeze of distress and know that, despite it all—despite the drops of crystal streaking your cheeks (he can smell them) and the viscous snot pouring from your nose (he can feel them, dripping on his cock) and the foaming little bubbles of spit collecting in the divots of your puckered lips (he can hear them)—you’re still taking him, you’re still doing the very best you can for your Daddy, to please your Daddy.

And that dedication, that utter devotion—that’s better than anything else in the world, that’s the best.

He continues like this, agonizingly unhurried, until your throat is grated raw by the sobs, and your jaw is aching, little muscles stiff and locked, and he can no longer tell which convulsions are from his cock and which are simply a result of your crying.

Christ, it’s so easy to make you cry, sweet little sniffles and shredded little snivels that dribble past the seams of your lips—pretty little mouth jammed full of him—and it’s such a beautiful sound, precious noises reduced to nothing more than a gentle stuttering in your throat as they’re pushed back into your chest by the steady driving of his cock.

Finally the pressure on the back of your head lets up, but you don’t dare raise a mere centimeter, whole body quivering as you struggle to stay right where he left you, mouth stretched wide at the base of his cock.

He ceases all action for a moment or two, forces you to hold the position, revels in the sweet sounds of anguish trembling around his cockhead, before his palms grasp your cheeks, fingers so long they nearly overlap at the back of your skull, holding your head steady.

And then, he truly begins, abrupt and without any warning, hips pumping hard and fast, fucking your mouth with a sort of ruthless vigour, a relentless voracity, the thick soles of his boots squealing against the hardwood as he uses his planted feet as leverage.

Your grip on his legs tightens with each piston, nails biting into the flexing muscles of his thighs, and he laughs breathlessly; how absolutely adorable.

And oh, it’s so messy, he can feel your stringy saliva drooling from the corners of your mouth to drizzle off your chin in fat, sticky cords, swaying and stretching with each ram of his cock. They splatter almost artfully across his bare thighs, cooling upon impact, inspiring a crop of chills to pebble across his skin.

He can feel your warm tears, too, dripping off your jaw to collect on his flesh in little puddles, can smell their potent salt—bitter and tangy and making his mouth water—as they leave crusted trails on your cheeks. Thick hunger collects in the creases beneath his tongue, a longing to lick them clean from your face, to sop his tongue full of your devout servitude and stain his tastebuds with your tartness, to swallow down any and every bit of you, let you take root in the pit of his stomach and bloom there, grow there, fester there, for eternity.

Everything must hurt, he thinks, all your muscles coiled tense and taut, but you pry your jaw open wider for him, just like the good girl you are, desperate to take as much of him as possible, devoted to your cause.

Because no matter how much it hurts, you’re enjoying this just as much as he is.

A moan catches in his throat as the dense scent of your arousal hits him, and God, it’s so strong, you must’ve soaked right through your panties by now, must be gushing slick all over your inner thighs, coating them in your essence.

He wishes he could taste that, too; mop it up with his tongue and saturate every inch of his mouth with you.

“You’re so wet from this, huh?” he says, question fading into a feathery breath, the only indication this is affecting him at all. “Naughty girl. Are you leaking all over our nice hardwood floor? Should Daddy make you lick it up afterward, punishment for making such a mess?”

You choke around his cock in response, and he groans, hips stuttering slightly before regaining momentum. The rubber toe of his boot nudges your thighs and they part instantly for him, allowing him space to wedge beneath your cunt.

“My poor baby,” he spits through a mocking pout. “You must be so horny from sucking Daddy’s cock. Here,” his toe pushes up, grinding into your hole and evoking a soft yelp, “why don’t you hump Daddy’s boot while he occupies your mouth.”

You comply immediately, hips snapping into action, rutting against his foot with a sort of greedy eagerness, ravenous for any little part of him he’ll give to you.

He can’t feel how sopping wet you are through the thick rubber of his boot, which is truly such a shame, but he can hear the embarrassing squelching of your drenched cunt as you rub it into his toe.

It’s probably leaving such a pretty sheen of your slick across the top, a thick layer that glitters as prettily as the tears on your face must.

“There you go,” he says, sugary sweet condescension dripping from his words. “Does that feel better, baby?”

All you can do is whimper in agreement, the gentle sound sending vibrations down his shaft, and his hips jerk, belt buckle clinking together as his thrusts turn vicious, such a delicate melody contradicted by the growls and snarls he keeps swallowing back.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he nearly gasps out, edges of his letters turned ragged. “Such a good little toy for me, aren’t you?”

He hears your heart jump in your chest, fluttering at his praise, a torrent of warmth rushing through his veins in response, leaving his blood tingling.

“You love it when Daddy uses you, don’t you, precious?”

You respond with another sloppy moan, tongue quivering around his cock, and a whine breaks in his throat, sharp and jagged.

It’s building in his gut, a heady rapture, stomach beginning to contract as the muscles draw up into firm knots, scrunched by cresting pleasure. Shards of hedonism escape his nose in uneven little huffs, matching the relentless pace of his hips.

It all harmonizes so perfectly, the sounds shattering on his tongue and the stifled sobs shoved back down your throat and the squeak, squeal, squelch of your cunt on his boot, of his soles on the hardwood floor, of his cock fucking your mouth.

His actions have turned clumsy now, a stark contrast from his usual prim perfection, palms slippery with sweat on your jaw, grip tightening as his fingers readjust, digging bruises in the shape of his prints into your scalp.

He’s sure they’ll be swollen tomorrow. He can’t wait to feel them.

Three more thrusts and then he’s forcing copious amounts of hot, thick cum down your throat, holding your head in place as his cock throbs on your tongue, each pulse spilling another rope of cream into your mouth.

And, oh, it’s so much, too much, cum collecting in the divots of your cheeks and the creases beneath your tongue, but you don’t waste a fucking drop, swallowing obediently around him with every surge, making room for the next load.

And then you don’t fucking stop, zealous in your quest to milk him for everything he’s got to give you, desperate to fill your tummy with as much of him as you possibly can, enough to sustain you until you get to see him next, at this time tomorrow night.

You suck him fucking dry, suck every ounce of cum from his balls, suck until a bristled shudder runs through his form and a hiss is spit through his teeth, the white-hot overstimulation now too much for him to bear, fingers tangling in your hair and pulling you up.

You collapse on his thighs the moment he releases your head, weeping into his soiled skin—a mess of salt and drool and snot and cum—your ribs hiccuping with frayed breaths and harsh sobs, nails scraping weakly against his flesh in a pitiful attempt to tug yourself closer.

A coo slips from his lips, the sound both compassionate and condescending, as if he finds your tattered soul so cute; slashed yourself to pieces for him, always for him.

“Come here, darling,” his hands slip beneath your languid arms and hoist you up, dragging you into his lap and cradling you to his chest, collecting the remaining ribbons of you in his arms, strong and protective.

“Da-Daddy!” you’re wailing into his neck, fingers curling in the collar of his stiff jacket, spit and tears staining the pristine material a chalky white. “Daddy, Daddy.”

Clinging to him, you bury your face in his shoulder, another rough sob hacking through your form, and he hugs you tighter, gentle hushes falling from his lips as they scatter kisses across the top of your head.

“I know, I know, I’m here,” he murmurs into your hair, thumbs rubbing soothing circles into your skin. “You did good, sweetheart. You did so good for me. You always do.”

Tender fingers press into your sore muscles as he rocks your bodies; a slow rhythmic swaying, back and forth, back and forth, while sweet nothings pour from his mouth, voice hot against your skin. The words are even warmer, snuggling into your flesh between soft kisses, the little hitches in your breath—residual sobs that have your chest stuttering and your nose sniffling—ironing themselves out with each brush of his lips.

And although he loves returning home to you no matter what the circumstance, this is, and always will be, his favourite way to be greeted after a long, gruelling day.

Maybe he’ll sit here, just like this, for a little while longer.

#jouno x reader #jouno smut #jouno x you #saigiku jouno x reader #saigiku jouno smut #jouno saigiku smut #jouno saigiku x reader #jouno saigiku x you #i can't get him out of my minddd i swear to god it's a sickness

399 notes · View notes

chaosfae-writes · 4 months

Text

𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞

premise: a crowded marriage of three, a suffocating marital bed, and one must go — and it’s the meddling husband.

pairings: Alicent Hightower x Targaryen!woc!reader, Targaryen!woc!reader x Vaemond Velaryon (arranged)

ao3 // 15k words

warnings: birth/labor, wlw romance, infidelity, jealously, arranged marriage, misogynistic Westerosi views.

a/n: for my Alicent, my little meow meow. Alicent really said, “look at me, look at me, I’m the husband now.” prepare yourselves, it’s long, please take your time.

do not repost my works.

The birthing bed is a woman’s battlefield.

Choppy breaths of agony, quivering and irate as a wounded animal. Squelching wet noises mildly echo, the scent of copper is nauseating —- the terrain of your neck is damp with sweat. Nostrils flaring, baring teeth as a snarling dragoness.

White hot fire licks along your uterine walls, sore pelvis aches as if it’s cracking, bloodied thighs shaking, chest heaving, throat parched and dry as unforgiving Dornish sand, and the Queen’s tender fingers interwoven with yours.

Alicent’s knuckles baring white, milky fingers clutching tamarind tart fingers as in one fist. She’s perched on her knees behind you, as your spine laid against her bodice hanging off a chair; not caring that blood has now stained her dress — embroidered emerald fabric now adorned with murky brown stains.

It’s been a few hours into the long night, guttural groans rip through your throat, stings as if shards of glass live there —- by now the entire realm of King’s Landing has heard your wails. Trembling teeth, mouth wet with tears and sweat.

Your dizzied skull falls defeatedly upon the crock of Alicent’s neck; sweetly she lays her cheek on your temple. Alicent is a mess, heaving and panting from the stress.

She’s on her knees ungracefully, her thick midnight auburn hair in messy tresses, no longer does she don the regal guise of a queen, but as a soldier in war.

Murmuring under her breath, pleading to the Gods for you and the child to survive the labor -— the ichor that slowly trickles and seeps from the cave of your womb terrifies her as it pools and stains down your thighs.

Prayers recited as hymns, as chants, pleas to the Gods for your life. You have been a life-line to Alicent, been her anchor at each of her births —- throughout her entire life. And she too, will be by your side.

As your hands shook in pain, entering into the new world of motherhood, Alicent witnesses it as not your step-mother, but as your entrusted companion—- as lovers, with ease, she assimilate to the role of husband, as if it’s her babe too who is struggling to breathe life into the new world.

“Push, princess! Its crown is near!”

Throat nearly torn, you muster the strength to push, a high-pitched scream pierces through; a wounded animal using all her strength to bring her unborn cub to the world. A babe’s cry comes as a crackle of thunder, an unforgiving war cry — the fight is won! What a shrill, fiery dragon unfurling its wings.

Relieved gasps, your abdomen a tad bit lighter, but still a little swollen flesh. The umbilical cord still connected, the connection still strong.

“A daughter, princess!”

Exhausted cheers as the baby is swathed in a blanket, sore fingers out-stretch for her. You sob in relief, face wrinkling with a wavering smile, as Alicent kisses your cheek, inches away to your lips. The maidens say nothing over the gesture, too overjoyed — it’s all too familiar. It has been for years.

Clumps of blood clots rest upon Valyrian pale tufts of hair, you cradle the delicate neck of your snuffling babe, your baby’s little chubby fingers curl mindlessly in the air. The babe’s spine lay on the flesh of your thighs, sinking into yourself on the bed.

Doe violet eyes blink, and stare at you, curious and innocent. Alicent is truly over-joyed, her sore shaky fingers reaching for the newborn’s cheek. “Hello there, we’ve been expecting you.” Gently your thumb caress your daughter’s cheek. Alicent’s stroke the ends of your daughter’s hair —- pale as fresh snow.

“What name shall you bestow her, Princess?”

A beat of silence, you smile as a name rings in your mind. “Alysanne, beautiful Alysanne. Named after our late good queen.” A joyous moment, all basking at new life— maidens, the mother, the mother queen all awe at little Alysanne, her arms wiggling in mid-air.

All glee at new life.

All but a missing husband.

The journey from Driftmark to King’s Landing was a blur. It took two days by ship for the return. His trip back home was cut short by the caw of a raven.

‘Ser Vaemond, come with haste to King’s Landing, as the princess is in labor.’

Vaemond tiressly demands for the chariot rider to speed up his horses on the kingsroad, all under the blanket of the night sky —- with the letter still in his grasp, wrinkled.

Anxiously clicking his heels against the wood, scoffing furiously at himself for ever leaving. Bouncing in his seat, his back hunched.

His fingernails digging into the velvet stitching of his cushion, his teeth seeping out, as if he hisses in anxiety.

The Red Keep towering into the night-sky, stars twinkle and shine; the driver couldn’t utter a word, clumsily Vaemond shifts to the door.

His feet bolts out the luxurious carriage, dashing up the castle’s stairways, knees bowing inward, nearly slipping onto his face. The palace slumbers with only few sworn shields roaming on duty, and the many more counting roaming in the streets down below in Flea Bottom.

All move in the presence of Vaemond, clearing the path for him. His feet twisting, and twirling upward the grand stairway, his sweaty palms gripping the railing.

His wife’s chambers are not too far, inching closer and closer by footfall. His heart beats as a wild war drum against his chest, so many thoughts swim in his mind—— what does his child look like? Is it a daughter or a son?

Hurried steps softly echo, closer and closer now to the chambers. The hallway seems as a stretched maze, mocking him as if he could never reach his end.

With a flick of his wrist, the golden knobs are tugged, and yet it’s silent.

The shared quarters glow in dark ambience. The scent of incense is faint. Vaemond straightens his wrinkled cloth, and takes a step closer.

The silence breaks.

A bitter scoff, more as a bite, “By the Gods, he has arrived. What husband doesn’t even accompany the birth of his first born?” Alicent sits across from the bed, posture now rigid.

Her fingers curl near her chin, as in deep thought. The low crackles of flames illuminate her face, wickedly cold as stone. The marigold hue casts upon Alicent’s face —- ever so strikingly benevolent.

Vaemond’s nose flares, cheeks puffing up, walking on edge, inches more closer to Alicent now, his tongue ready to lash out.

“I’m quite baffled, your Grace — from how high you reign on that horse of yours, it’s a miracle from the Gods that you haven’t fallen yet.”

“She was nearly at the Stranger’s door.” Alicent nearly shouts in a hush — bolting from her chair with a dull screech, and the clicks of her heels -— maintaining her volume to make sure she doesn’t awaken you; peeking over her shoulder.

Not even a stir from Alysanne and yourself, a soft smile adorns Alicent’s face. But as quickly as it came, it quickly went, muffled footsteps grating Alicent’s senses, coming closer behind her.

“I arrived as soon as I —-” His hurried footsteps halted clumsily, the crackle of the flames echoing piercing the silence.

There he sees it.

The splotches of blood that splatters across the green flourish, Alicent’s mouth is pursed, her eyes calculating and cold. Staring him down with such distaste, her lips twist as if to spit poison, with a hint of a curled smirk.

And he sees it all, he sees her spite.

Alicent never changed into clean nightwear, but remained in the soiled dress, wearing the stains of your blood that slipped from your warm womb —- proudly so. Just moments after your birth, you nearly slipped away to the Stranger, too much ichor spilled.

Despite edging on death, you drowsily clung Alysanne against your damp breast —- if you were to draw your last breath, at least, your little girl was the last touch you felt before departing from this realm.

The sight of your body succumbing to unconsciousness nearly sent Alicent’s soul to the heavens, she felt as if she could crawl out of her skin; your bodice crumbling back into her chest.

The handmaidens quickly grabbed your crying little girl, one of them dashing to fetch the maesters —— all the while amidst the chaos, Alicent’s cradles you, her hand stroking your jaw, pleading for you to awaken. Nearly shrilling on the top of her lungs.

For the last two days, Alicent had been by your bedside, hawking over the maesters —- no woman can trust the maesters, the very ones who cut through the belly of the late queen.

Maesters only follow the word of their king—- but for you, Alicent ensured all the hand-maidens and maesters listened to her strict commands as knights on a battlefield.

She snarked, and nipped, scaring all of them away and even your devoted maidens who were reluctant to leave you —- to the point of herself solely attending to you as your care-giver, as Ser Criston Cole guards the chamber doors outside dutifully.

For sparse moments Criston would leave his post, and see Alysanne. The moment his rich brown eyes fell upon the sight of Alysanne in your arms, he swore to the Gods that he will protect her till his last breath.

Alicent served you the milk of the poppy by hand. Cradling Alysanne when you were in deep slumber, and when you would awaken, in and out of consciousness, Alicent would softly help bare your breast for Alysanne to feed.

Alicent would gently cuddle your baby in your exhausted arms, guiding little Alysanne’s plump cheek against yours, both heads on the pillow.

Alicent wants him to bear witness -— for him to see that even as your husband, that mere title means nothing, it never held true value, nor never will.

How boldly she is—- impudent even. Raised to be modest, to uphold duty, it’s never been in Alicent’s nature to be cruel, but something has changed in her over the years.

Perhaps it’s the manipulative lessons from her father, the loneliness that iced her heart to become this unhinged cornered animal.

That’s who Alicent is now — cold and hardened as an uncut emerald gem.

Another knot formed these past fortnights, tighter in the tether of your two souls, it’s her who gets to see the scars, to bear your blood.

A badge of honor.

No marital vow can diminish this bond.

“Your Grace, it’s quite late. I must retire for the night, to tend to my wife.” The formalities bundle in Vaemond’s mouth as pit seeds, biting his tongue from lashing out.

He sees it, the condescension that vibrates off of Alicent, pursuing her lips in deep thought. Alicent hums with a tone, sneering at him with just her eyes, but as a drop of a coin, her mood shifts in such trained manners.

“Of course, Ser Vaemond.” She turns her back to him, walking to your sleeping body, bending over to gently kiss your forehead, and little Alysanne’s forehead.

“Oh— please do make sure to provide her with the milk of poppy in the morrow.” Alicent doesn’t look him in the eye, as if doing so is tedious, that he is beneath her.

“She still aches. Here,” Alicent points strictly at a bowl that rests nearby on a table, “rag soaking in warm water, she runs a little chill. As well, do make sure not to ale her as she feeds Alysanne by her breast.”

‘Alysanne? By the Gods, he has been blessed with a girl! The babe has been named?’

Vaemond swallows his confusion and surprise, awaiting for Alicent to leave his chambers—- although, if he could, he would throw her out the door himself. She tells him what to do, as if instructing a child, that he couldn’t merely comprehend basic tasks to take care of his wife.

From the corner of her eye, Alicent senses Vaemond’s shame. Shame for missing the birth of his child, his first daughter —- more so, rage, and she feeds off of it like a starved animal.

“Goodnight.” Alicent’s hand gestures to Vaemond dimessively over the shoulder, quietly shutting the door shut. Vaemond stands rooted in the middle of his chambers, his fists coiling by his sides—- he mutters under his breath, cunt.

Alone now, Vaemond steps close to the bed. Both Alysanne and yourself undisturbed, deep in slumber. The babe tucked in your arms, cozy under the thick blanket.

Vaemond’s hand shakes over your cheek, stroking a damp strand of your hair. Breathing frustration through his nose, his knuckles graze the cheek of his newborn child.

His anger simmers, he missed it—- the birth of his first daughter.

“Prince Lucerys has been officially declared the heir to Driftmark— how absurd.”

House Velaryon has been blessed by the Realm’s Delight fertility once more, a new babe, a new heir. The silver beauty birthed yet another boy with rich brown hair, and dark brown eyes. A gleeful time for House Targaryen … and a grievance upon the queen. A son, healthy — and strong.

It has been three days now since the birth of Alysanne Velaryon, not yet presented to the realm; your inistience of wanting Rhaenyra and Daemon’s presence in the royal court.

Despite your uncle living in far Pentos, and your sister residing on the island of Dragonstone with Laenor, and her children —- just for a bit, due to tensions arising once again between the queen and the heir.

Before Rhaenyra’s departure, she had just been in labor, delivering her second child. You were hoping that sending ravens detailing the new birth of your firstborn would help bring your favored loved ones back home, and bask in unison over new life.

Cooked platters sliced pheasant, steamed vegetables, bread, and gallots of wine. But even the sweet tang of wine cannot tame the sour disgust that weighs on Alicent’s tongue. A hovering presence looms across the table, ever so snide, ever so thinking. A selfish void that will devour any in its path.

Across from Alicent is her father.

At times, Alicent would have her private dinners with Otto, when even his affections are twisted, and against Alicent’s well-being, she still seeks his love, and advice. Despite the filth he has taught her, what child doesn’t crave their father’s love?

“The disrespect that Rhaenyra harbors for her own kin, parades her bastard son as a true born.” Alicent scoffs, leans back in her chair, her cuppee resting in her palm, her nose scrunches in distaste.

“Corlys has his daughter wedded to Daemon, and his son —” Alicent titters a bitter chuckle, “A pillow-biter claiming bastards as his own. Corlys’ claim no longer upholds.”

Alicent doesn’t stop her bitter poison, and her father relishes in it, seated across his daughter with a small proud smirk. Her fueling rage will guide her to uspur Rhaenyra, for her son to ascend the throne. How proud he is, as his daughter falls deeper into her spite.

“Alysanne is true blood, she deserves her inheritance in Driftmark.” Alicent impatiently takes a gulp from her wine, the sweet tang trickles down her throat, but it doesn’t quell the brewing venom.

“Rhaenyra claims to care for her younger sister, the gall of it all.” Alicent doesn’t stop, she can’t, she has to release this anger, even in her quiet solitude with a man whose tenderness only reaches so far.

Blinding affection has Alicent turning her perspectives away from her obvious hypocrisies, but no taught honor or ideals in her mind can truly touch you.

Otto Hightower sees women in power as a preposterous notion, a sin against the order — women cannot provide value to the natural law; only if aided by a man.

Otto prides himself on the molding he persisted upon his daughter over the years, a Hightower as Queen of all seven kingdoms —- the last Hightower to rule, fell to her demise to Maegor the Cruel. And he vows to never let that fate fall upon his only daughter.

Indeed, Otto has his strict opinions but —- even he has his exception; under his benefit. He has admire your tenacity since you were a little child, bright-eyed and naive once.

Yet intelligent, claiming that you wanted to do good for the people as princess, despite your inheritance being knocked down behind your siblings.

He can see you are a woman grown, determined and ambitious, making plans as the new lady of Driftmark to contribute for the land to prosper; just perfect for his molding.

Otto can perhaps reach his hand into the political dynamics of Driftmark through you, carefully craft your black and red dragon scales to a lovely shade of emerald.

“Vaemond is a proud man, too proud —- but, a better fitted heir for Driftmark. Corlys is weak, he cares more about names than honoring heritance.” Otto cuts into his meal, the warm pork melting in the cave of his mouth.

“If Vaemond were to become the new Lord of the Tides,” Otto clicks his tongue, “Alysanne will be named his heir.” His tone lingers, a hint is thrown in the air; calculating his thoughts.

Alicent hums in agreement, her mind twisting in her murky thoughts. Nodding along, hell-bent, her motives aren't as ambitious as her father. Her belief is solely molded by you, but that this is what’s best for you, for Alysanne.

‘Alysanne must become the new heir of Driftmark. Tis only fair.’

The silent tension breaks.

“She will soon expect her sister to return.” Alicent mutters in her wine, her fingers unlock, as she gazes down at her porcelain plate, her finger tapping against the silver engraving.

“And her uncle.” Otto speaks in a hush.

It’s no hidden secret, the rogue second son harbors deep affection for his younger niece. Most of your childhood was spent on dragon back with your uncle, and older sister—- your uncle is a rather protective creature.

When Daemon departed on dragon’s back to the far Pentos with Lady Laena, he hugged you tightly the day he left. You sobbed for long days, alone in your chambers, aware that you won’t see your favored uncle and cousin for a time.

But exile is no more than a word to Daemon.

Often leaving Pentos with his wife, and children, gallancing around the court with Rhaenyra and her children, as Viserys allows it.

And that worries Otto.

To have your alliance, he must first go through the turmoil with Daemon, and Rhaenyra. To convince you to forfeit your loyalty, in favor of your youngest siblings.

The seven hells can freeze over in frost-bite, and you still won't turn your back against the menace of a prince. Prince Daemon will rip through the realm with the flames of Caraxes before he lets his niece support the Hightowers.

“Marriage.” Otto perks up, his finger tapping against the table. His tone is ominous, and yet it leaves a heavy weight in the air. “You have given birth to Aemond moons ago,” Otto’s eyebrow raises, goading his daughter’s reaction, with a knowing nod, “—- and one day, he will be in need of a bride.”

Alicent’s eyes are moon-wide, but with a silver of agreement, she’s tittering on the idea. “Aemond will learn under our wing, be wed to Alysanne —- perhaps, the fresh air of the sea is healthy for a boy.” Alicent’s lips curl into a devious smirk.

Hightower blood on the Iron Throne, on the seat of Driftmark——how marvelous.

“Indeed.” Otto’s pride gleams into a wolfish grin.

Devotion.

All Alicent has ever been in her life is devoted. A devoted daughter, a devoted wife, a devoted mother, and a devoted queen. But alas, in all of King’s Landing, no one truly took Alicent’s side, despite her efforts to maintain peace. To engrave her voice within the council.

At first, before she grew as a child bride, and a babe herself who bore children; she thought perhaps her father was her aide, since Rhaenyra shunned her the moment King Viserys announced the engagement — but he is not, he never was.

But despite the sorrow her father gifted her in this life, she still harbors love for him.

But no, never her father.

Is there still peace from Rhaenyra? No — Rhaenyra doesn’t see Alicent, and Alicent doesn’t see her, it’s as if they speak different languages.

Perhaps the king?

No, never her husband, who never showed affection for his younger children — in his heart, he has only one child.

No, never the king.

The court shall see to her efforts?

No, the lords would rather entertain themselves with the king’s sickly rambles and her father’s greediness than to solely hear a woman’s thoughts and ideas.

Only through her father as her mouth-piece, would the court take her efforts into consideration. At birth, Alicent was a woman marked for sorrow. A loneliness so deep, simple kindness would send a jolt.

A young Alicent would pray and pray to the Gods for a love she can hold onto every night — just herself. Selfishly would cling to her heart, stuff and sew it herself.

For a while, Rhaenyra band-aided the wound, but it wasn’t enough. Rhaenyra was once a true friend, and Alicent would sometimes catch herself missing those lost years in the quiet of her solitude.

Especially when she holds the ripped piece of paper from the historical text of the late Queen Nymeria.

But it wasn’t Rhaenyra, it was never her.

It was you.

Tamarind tart skin that shines under the sun, silver pale hair that curls at the shoulders, violet eyes and plump cheeks. Velaryon and Targaryen descent, inheriting your late mother’s complexion, and the aquiline nose you share with your older sister.

So pretty, with your braids interwoven with your waves of silver. Wispy lavender, and red dresses, and gem rings that adorn your fingers. Such a peculiar creature, so dainty, yet fierce—- digging your heels as a young girl in the training grounds.

Alicent used to watch your private lessons in the training grounds with your uncle, and or with Ser Harwin from time to time. Or rest under the trees’ shade, as you practiced your archery in the gardens, much to your septa’s dismay.

A deep friendship blossomed, years spent reading under the hovering weirwood, late conversations as young girls, attending tourneys, and even inviting Alicent to your chambers, to sleep in one’s embrace.

A beautiful bond—- soon challenged by a beast.

Your mother had passed, taken by the Stranger, just as the late Queen Aemma had many moons ago; died in labor, trying to birth a son into the realm.

A piece of yourself died with her, a void that could never be filled. Late fortnights, wailing at the sept, head bowed, pleading to the Mother for mercy, whispered prayers for her to carry your mother safely to the heavens.

Consoled by Rhaenyra, and Alicent, as you all kneeled at the fire pit. Your forehead connected to your arms, wailing, as Alicent’s and Rhaenyra’s heads rested on your shoulders. Your sobs echoing against the sept’s walls.

The faint memory of copper still lingered in your nostrils, to see your mother’s lifeless body coated in her own ichor—- dry-heaved and wailed over her.

It took all the maidens and maesters to pry you off of her.

It was the king’s duty to wed, and bring heirs, you knew he had to marry again. Word spread among the court, advising with much encouragement for Viserys to remarry—- not all were enthralled at the prospect of a girl crowned heir for all the realm.

And the beast conquered as he pleased, just as his ancestors.

The day came, months after your mother departed from this realm. And you can recall the day vividly, the pang to your heart still fresh.

The day Viserys announced that he will take Alicent as his new bride, she can still remember your solemn face, quickly blinking away tears, smiling through the restraining pain —- how you dashed as fast as light after Rhaenyra who couldn’t bear to stomach the anger within herself.

Alicent can still feel the empty ache, witnessing you flee away in what she mistook as disgust, rage, and heartbreak. Pacing through the keep, trying to follow your trail, as a puppy galloping after a scent. Trembling fingers cling to the engraved walls, balancing herself.

Faded voices loomed from the heart of the gardens. Under the Weirwood tree, two pale silver heads now barking at one another, crying. Pacing after one another, hands flying in the air—- trying to understand this grievance.

Rhaenyra sobbing, angry tears stained her flushed pale cheeks, as you tried to soothe her down. Alicent hid behind a pillar, picking at her cuticles.

It felt the garden soil unearthed itself, caving inside —- ready to swallow you. Collapsed onto your knees, your mind buzzing. Sniffling, as your fingernails fully scratched at your skin.

Timid footfalls echoed nearby, slowly your eyes peeked through your wet lashes. Before you, Alicent walked to you, her auburn hair haloed by the sunlight.

Kneeling before you, her lip quivered, her hands fearfully hovered over yours. Afraid that you might reject her, but you took hers into your hands wholeheartedly.

“I don’t desire him. My intentions were not for pleasure.” Alicent spoke in whispers, heavy with sorrow. “My father sent me to his chambers, I —” Alicent’s breathed quickened, as if her cavity was tightening.

“I simply gave comfort for his loss.”

You believed her immediately, for months, Alicent had been aiding you through your grief over your late mother. All Alicent ever does is tends to anyone in need.

You embraced her in your arms, shushing her, apologies slipping from her. Shaded by the Weirwood tree, consoling each other.

Duty had to be upheld, autonomy isn’t a woman’s right. Resentment coiled itself as eels—- loathing the very man who is your father.

Father Time felt rushed yet the atmosphere felt slowed—- the preparations to integrate House Hightower into the royal reign was tedious and buzzing, causing you to spiral.

Days and nights spent weeping in your bed, hugging Alicent tight. Time blurred. Ceasing down to the atoms, time was not your companion. You didn’t have the space to breathe —- one blink, and the day of the wedding ceremony came bursting violently.

Dressed Alicent in her ivory wedding gown, accompanied by Rhaenyra—- but you possessively took over, fixating on her hair pieces, and tying the spinal laces.

An ivory dress, with gold threading of dragons against her chest, her brown hair pinned in curls, with a creamy red jeweled crown. Cleaned her bloodied fingers with a warm rag.

As you leaned against Alicent’s spine, brown fingers clinging to her shoulders, your cheek resting against the crock of her neck. Her face glowing with a dew from fresh dried tears.

You whispered in the shell of her ear, “In another life, blessed by the Gods, I shall take you, Lady Hightower as thy wife. Under the Weirwood tree, wed you in Valyrian tradition.” A tear escaped your eye, staining her skin.

Alicent sniffled, droplets falling down her milky cheeks, onto her lips.

“We shall wear marital crowns as our ancestral women before us.” You sniffled through a weak smile, under your puffy eyes. “I shall wear green, to honor your house.” You whispered.

“And I shall wear shades of red and black.” Alicent whispered back, nearly sputtering through her tears. Her chin wobbled.

A marital ceremony, a splendor to the realm, but a horror. A malevolent man, tightly his hand gripped your love, Otto Hightower walked his child to her death, with a proud smile.

Rhaenyra wore lavish black with intricate threads of crimson red, hair pinned into a jeweled headpiece—- truly a delight. A reminder of her inheritance, no matter of your father’s new marriage. In her own terms, it was her way of grieving.

But not a grief that rivals yours.

The High Sept blessed the union, with a shaky gesture of his ailing hand, reciting the scriptures of the Faith, as Alicent stood in a pure innocence—- sold for the price of power.

Recoiled underneath your skin, at the sight of Viserys’ hands engulfed over Alicent’s. Leaned inwards for a kiss, his chapped lips nearing those familiar pink lips you have tasted—- sweet, and tender.

Alicent’s brown eyes filtered slightly, twitching with disgust.

Screaming internally, as the claws of the Seven hell’s demons scratching raw at your throat, fists tightened shielded by your fabrics.

That’s not how she likes to be kissed! Don’t hold her, not as that! Be gentle with her! STOP DEFILING HER!

A kiss to seal this matrimony hailed from the seven hells.

Rhaenyra and yourself bowed dutifully, stiffly and rigid; before your father— the king, and his new wife, the new Queen of Westeros—- your new step-mother, your love.

Slurred and drowned in wine, engorged in feast to only vomit over a balcony —- throughout the night, Alicent’s eyes broke at the sight of your head bobbing tipsily, eyes closing one slowly after the other.

Dizzyingly watched the acidic chewed food stained in burgundy spirits fall along the palace wall.

A dainty hand stroked your back, pulled you into a warm embrace. Rhaenyra tended to you, caressing the slope of your spine, as you wailed over the balcony.

You couldn’t bear to prolong your presence during the wedding feast, Rhaenyra guided you to your chambers that night. Helped clean you, and shed you of your gown into your sleeping wear.

The cushioning of your bed sunk you into a hard sleep, as your sister tucked you under massive blankets.

Awoken that fortnight, by a slight shake of the shoulder, a heavy grogginess pulling you down as rocks in one’s pockets.

Blurry vision cleared, strained a bit in the dark, to see a sniffling figure by your bed’s edge. Those big brown eyes—— gleaming wet. A gasp left you, without a second, you enveloped her into your arms, as Alicent bursted into wails. Her cries pierced your heart.

Your hands stroked her back, guiding her into your blankets, as your fingers caressed her, you felt sticky wetness, causing Alicent to whine.

Your hand shook, in the gleam of the moonlight, crimson stained your fingertips. Tears showered your face, mouth shivering, as Alicent cried, muffled words into the crook of your shoulder, “It hurts.”

Your mouth agaped in silent agony, both arms encased Alicent, cooed her. Rocked Alicent to sleep that night till her weeping quite down to silence —- you vowed in the dead of night, that you will do your duty, you will honor Alicent; do right by her.

Stood by her, and kept her company —- and plotted. Your father will not have the oath of being Alicent’s husband, it felt wrong.

Built the courage to go against taught beliefs, over moons—- until one day, you lured Alicent to the gardens, with a soft note left in her chambers.

‘Meet me by the noon hour, in the gardens.’

Waddled down to the gardens, carrying her first born, Alicent found you pacing, burning a hole in the grass. A soft mutter, my dearest. Alicent’s fingers stroked the jut of your elbow, she didn’t enjoy seeing you overwhelmed with stress.

With a deep inhale, and wild wide eyes, only a few words could be muttered.

“Let us be wedded.”

A disbelieving chuckle escaped Alicent, but by the glimmer of your eyes, it was nothing short of a joke. Alicent’s face drained, with a teary wavering smile.

Slow nodded, and a hasty smile, Alicent accepted the proposal.

A warm day it was, the sun beamed upon King’s Landing—- a little white lie to escape the palace, to seek refuge.

Accompanied by a sole witness, your beloved Grey Ghost—- as he flew majestically upon the sky; as Alicent and yourself rode on one of those long boat to Dragonstone.

Silver steel, ichor staining bottom lips, and the slope of your foreheads connecting. A caress of Alicent’s swollen bump.

United in blood, as one.

Devoted —- all your life, you have only been to Alicent. Loyally by her side, despite the growing pains between Alicent and your sister; trying to be the voice of reason.

Alicent’s grief suffocated her, a girl enduring a woman’s sorrow. Being Alicent’s shadow in each of her births, defending her against all odds.

Cherish and care for her children —- your siblings —- as your own. Cared for your brothers and sister more than your father ever did.

A child bride who everyone said should be grateful to be queen of all seven realms—- not given grace to be seen as a girl, not even a woman, but a mere object.

Only one did. You are her companion, the only one who desires her body wholesomely, who yearns for her mind. You plague her thoughts all through the hours, at night, and in her sleep.

Itching possessiveness tingles at Alicent’s fingers, flooding her veins. How she yearns to box you in a jar, and gaze upon you, a beautiful treasure that no one can have.

Unimaginable acts she will do—- just to keep you.

Dearest sister,

New life has been welcomed to the realm, a babe with ripe cheeks, and a soul kicking as a goat. Beautiful bronze skin, and pale Valyrian hair.

A girl, by the Gods, she is magnificent!

I yearn for you and uncle to be home — I dearly miss all the children, how they would love the babe. Her name is Alysanne, named by our great-grandmother, the good mother.

Please return home. I pray to the Gods that the animosity will soon be seen to end. We are family, by blood and marriage.

Love you dearly, sweet sister.

May the Gods be with you, and the children.

A letter freshly written, ready to be sent to Dragonstone by raven. Given to Alicent by you, praying deep down that one day the broken bond between Alicent and your sister would be mended.

Tirelessly over the years, attempts to cease Alicent’s emotional humiliation upon your sister, weaponizing the crude word ‘bastard’ against your nephews.

Continuously in-between Alicent and your sister, being forced to choose who’s side to be in. Nearly straining your relationship with Alicent at one point of time.

Alicent’s lips purse into a scowl, crudely folding the letter once more, instead of packaging the letter for the awaiting raven, Alicent simply stashes it within her library.

Rhaenyra doesn’t get to savor the joy of your motherly glow, she doesn’t deserve to see Alysanne. To pretend to be the doting aunt. Not after snatching away Alysanne and your future, the blatant disregard of loyalty, usurping Driftmark.

Alicent will not see to such treason.

Sunlight twinkles, and illuminates the king’s chambers. A warm day, the sun swelling with joy.

Sweet hands pat Viserys’ chest, arising him from his slumber. He awakes with a small cough. His eyes blink open, to see his wife kneeling before him.

Viserys sighs with a small smile, with a whisper of Alicent’s name.

“Viserys,” Alicent’s kindly whispers your name to gain his attention. Tenderly her hands reach for the joints of his elbows, guiding him to sit up right from his rest. “She and the baby have recovered.”

A soft cough followed by a relieved chuckle emits from Viserys, now with the will to move on his accord despite his ailing pain.

For a while now, the sickness has bestowed more ache on the king. The milk of the poppy and the maesters hovering over his well-being has become more of the normal routine.

Alicent points to the wooden chamber doors, there you stand with little Alysanne clutched in your arms. Viserys’ lips stretch into a wide smile.

You are a vision of your late mother. With your hair brushed back into a braided crown, as waves cascade down your spine, with various woven braids decorated with little gold ringlets, with a gold chain across your forehead.

A pant of guilt and endearment blooms in his chest.

“My sweet girl.” He outstretches his arm, beckoning for you to come sit beside him.

An odd jolt of happiness is in your step, taking a spot next to your father, Alicent assists you to make sure Alysanne doesn’t fall from Viserys’ weak grip.

For once, in such a long time, you felt seen by Viserys. For once, you are not the spare.

“Father, her name is Alysanne.” You softly cradle the sleepy babe in your father’s arm, a toothy smile stretches his face, his cheeks plump with joy.

“By the Gods, she is beautiful.” He strokes her little cheek with his thumb, her little chubby fingers grab his index finger. Viserys glees with a laugh, “We must fetch a dragon’s egg for her cradle.”

A joyous occasion, as Alysanne is held by her grand sire. Viserys coos at her little sleepy mumbles. A lovely family unit, a mother, a grandfather, a step-mother and a step-grandmother —-- a lover.

All but a husband.

Awoke the morrow with a sleeping wife, and child—- went on his morning walk for his own time.

Returned to an empty chamber.

Vaemond walks with a stride, such speed to his step along the pathway to the king’s chambers. As he nears the doubled wooden doors, a hand halts him at his chest that is followed by the clink of armor.

With a heavy breath of annoyance, Vaemond doesn’t have to turn his face to see who has the nerve to stop a father from his child’s presence. The sworn shield, the queen’s loyal dog.

“Ser Criston, my wife is in the chambers with my child. You dare stop me?”

“The queen has instructed that no one enters.” Smugly Criston stands digiantly with a snide smirk, the implication is snarky, and bold — ‘and that means you’.

‘Pitiful and pathetic.’ Vaemond mulls, his lip twitching.

“I do wonder…” Vaemond tilts his head mockingly, back-peddling his steps, calculating his next move. Criston arches his brow.

“I’ve always forethought the queen leashed your head as her pet, but now I truly see, I mistook the wrong one.” Vaemond’s eyes trail for a second —- Criston’s face scrunches in offense.

A chorus of spewed shouting and pushing ensues. Shoving each other, declaring for the other to throw the first blow.

Even before the marriage, when it was simply courting—- the decision of marriage being made by Viserys upon your behalf, Alicent was always near in the shadows.

Putting her thoughts on how the ceremony should commence, only letting you decide what you want—- even going so far as to suggest to Viserys to end the bethroyal that ‘there are more suited men for her hand. Ser Vaemond is only a second son, what is there that he can offer her?’

The courting phase was always interrupted with Alicent stringing along. Vaemond would try to isolate you, converse with you, sweet-talk you —- but never once asked you of your interests, only boosted himself, and what he can provide.

And to Vaemond’s displeasure, Alicent would whisk you away at any given moment, hushed whispers among each other, and girlish laughter; with a sly eye over her shoulder at him.

Vaemond admits he didn’t fall in love for the sake of romance as those fairytales that young maidens read. He was the peruser, convincing Viserys for your hand, that ‘pure valyrian blood must be in union.’ You are his cousin. A cousin he barely saw over the years, but enough encounters to be familiar with one another.

It offended Vaemond greatly when Alicent rebuffed him, stating it was unfair to you to not have the choice to choose your betrothed, like Rhaenyra once had. Alicent was furious, her face scrunched in fury.

“It seems that our grace has forgotten that Princess Rhaenyra was bestowed the choice —- do you recall how she squandered it?”

Alicent’s lips pinched shut, turning to Viserys, hoping he would consider her decision. But Viserys’ allowed this, claiming that it is best that his second born be close by, not married off to another foreign house —- in a far away land.

Alicent has been a thorn in Vaemond’s rib, she made it her life’s purpose to torment him. Never could he be alone with you during the time that bridged between the proposal and wedding ceremony.

Vaemond was surprised Alicent didn’t sneak in their marital bed the fortnight of the ceremony. But she took full control anyways —- and Viserys let it happen every time.

Now, he sees another ploy of Alicent’s. To isolate him as a husband, and now as a father. He cannot even present his own child to the king as a man, the pride and honor of such an act stolen. Alicent has pilfered this opportunity right from under his feet.

To add salt to the wound, her sworn hound is restricting him from entrance.

“Vaemond?” Your muffled voice beckons for him through the door, he tries to inch closer but Criston doesn’t relent his intrusive hold, earning a growl from Vaemond.

“Vaemond, that you?” Footsteps closer behind the chamber doors, the latch clicks, with just a sliver of a crack the door opens.

“Vaemond, why all the shouting?”

“Ser Criston refuses to let a father enter.” Vaemond interrupts, pacing from heel to heel, agitated to the brim. Chest puffing, trying to intimate Criston.

You breathe a sigh of frustration, furrowing brows in disheartened dismay —- your gentle arm curls around the edge of the doorway, delicate fingers with the gentlest touch on Criston’s armored shoulder.

“Ser Criston, please let him enter.” The knight’s hardened features soften at your request, no longer bristling with entitlement, bowing his head, and finally steps aside, with a sweet-honeyed, ‘As you wish, princess’.

You sweetly thank him, and extend your hand to grab Vaemond, pulling him inside to partake in the joyous celebration. As Vaemond walked through the chamber doors, an exchange of distaste was thrown through dagger glares.

Alicent’s eyes sharply pierced his heart, if looks can kill, Vaemond would drop dead on the spot —- preferably with his heart cut out.

Alicent sits perched with Alysanne in her arms, swathed in an emerald blanket, as you provide your father his milk of the poppy; his joints were aching, and needed to rest back on his chair.

Alicent’s fingers caress his child’s little toes, purposefully her knuckles graze the stitched fabric—- peeking up at Vaemond subtly through her lashes.

Green cloth?

On his child?

On pure Valyrian blood?

Vaemond nearly wretches in his mouth. He notices your dress is a light shade of evergreen. A dragon brooch on each shoulder that ensembles a gold chain across your chest.

Green? Have you gone mad, woman?

Orchestrated performance, the movement, the positions —- you tending to your father, as the dutiful daughter, the wife and now newly mother. Viserys, the illustrious king, the father, the grandfather, weak but strong, overlooking the new life of his bloodline—- and her.

Alicent held little Alysanne, observing it all with a proud smile.

As if Alicent is the husband.

And Vaemond is merely a stranger trespassing.

Alicent’s eyes, methodical and smug. Vaemond sees it, he sees it all. He’s dying inside to snatch his child away from Alicent, but who knows—- Alicent would probably fall prey to the act of victim, cry to her husband that she has been wrongfully accused —- of what exactly?

Vaemond doesn’t have any evidence to his brewing resentment.

What can he say? The Queen has been trying to meddle in his marriage for the last two years? That she won’t let him near his own babe? That she has to be everywhere with his own wife?

Every soul in court will say how crude he’s being, that it’s all nonsense, merely preposterous.

‘The Queen is a good woman.’ The court will proclaim, ‘That she’s only performing her duty as the princess’ mother.’

‘She is no mother to you.’ Vaemond thinks. ‘Not even you can see through Alicent’s games.’

“Ser Vaemond, bless be. Sired me a beautiful granddaughter.” Visery sits as a jolly aging man, hair thinning to the point of some of his dome visible, and even a little pot belly protruding through his embroidered fabric.

Vaemond smiles, “Thank you, Viserys.”

“Truly, she’s beautiful.” A voice stabs Vaemond, swallowing down his loathing with a strained tight-lip smile.

Alicent is gazing down at Alysanne, rocking her against her breast, “She has her mother’s beauty.” Her tone is innocent, a demure smile to Viserys, and he falls for it, nodding along.

‘Fool. She plays you for a fool, Viserys.’

Vaemond walks to you, with the same forced thinned smile. His fingers reach for your long thick hair, caressing the curls, kissing your cheek.

No doubt in his mind, he can sense Alicent’s irate, and for a moment, it delights him.

‘Alas, the charade has ceased.’

Vaemond feels lighter, finally getting solace between himself and you. Time to part from Viserys and Alicent, Vaemond desires to eat a morning meal with you. To break fast together with Alysanne in her cradle, gurgling happily.

Recovery from birth has left you famished, craving for a hearty meal.

Departing from Alicent gave a shiver up your skin, it felt wrong to be away, she has been so attentive during the labor, and the after birth. Always holding Alysanne, as if she was Alicent’s blood.

Alicent hesitantly restrained herself, as Vaemond took control like the reins of a horse. Alicent wanted him to leave, to befall in the pits of the seven hells, so she can have Alysanne and you to her own.

But, an outburst couldn’t be made.

Ser Criston swiftly dashed to your aid, his arm jutted out for you to hold on to—- conveniently occupying the space that was meant for your husband. But at least, Vaemond was able to hold his child in his arms back in Viserys' chambers.

Trailing behind Vaemond and yourself is your handmaiden, Elinda Massey—- who is also your sister’s handmaiden. You summoned her to help you, still a bit achy at your step.

A mousey, loyal, and gentle woman. In her arms is Alysanne, letting your daughter’s small chubby hand grab at her slender creamy fingers.

Vaemond walks behind you as if a lonesome man, a mere man trailing behind a princess, and her sworn shield, watching you and Criston laugh and converse—- excluding him is your second nature.

The dining chambers are filled with platters of food—- the extended polished wood covered with meats, eggs and fruits.

See Criston bows, taking his post at the door, his darkened gaze shadowed by a brow.

“At last, we are alone.” Vaemond’s hand holds yours, his thumb stroking your fingers. Crawling with disgust within yourself, forcing a genuine smile to appease him.

��I have missed you.” Vaemond leans in, speaking against your cheek, his warm breath nearly making your skin recoil in a shrivel.

“And I, you.” You spoke in a formal, practiced infliction.

Vaemond’s lips connect to the skin of your cheek, daringly near the corner of your mouth. In times to display marital affection, to keep from shriveling away, you close your eyes, and a vision of Alicent soothes your mind.

Whenever you were to ‘perform’ your bedding duty as his wife, you lay limply on your back as a spread eagle, and imagine Alicent ravaging your body—- as she has done many times. Years now of this affair, suppressed away in the dead of night, hidden behind closed chambers with only whispers.

Edina cradles Alysanne close to her chest, prepping your little dragon for her slumber.

Vaemond pulls a chair for you, “This food looks divine.” He says, his hands caressing down your shoulders. An innocent smile forms on Edina’s face. “Queen Alicent has ordered the feast.” Her tone was gentle.

Vaemond chews the soft wall of his cheek, but wrinkles his mouth to a feigned smile. Nodding with a sardonic scrunch of his nose.

Edina breathes a smile, her eyes in your direction, “The Queen has also extended an invitation, the children desire to see little Alysanne.” She speaks, with adoration in her eyes on Alysanne.

Before you can speak, Vaemond interrupts. “Ah, yes, the king’s children shall see their niece,” He boasts. “We’ll present Alysanne after our fast.” Vaemond turns swiftly in his seat, almost lifting his fork, but your hand-maiden stammers.

“The Queen has not requested your presence, Ser Vaemond.” Edina’s voice lowers to an anxious stammer.

Vaemond’s mouth wrinkles, limbs frozen stiff. He slowly turns with a sharp shark eye. “I am their brother by law.” He says matter-of-factly. His eyes narrow a little, small and spiteful.

“Yes, of course, Ser Vaemond—-” she’s flushed with embarrassment, you nod your head that it’s okay, she hasn’t spoken out of turn. “But, Queen Alicent has only requested our Princess, and Lady Alysanne.”

Vaemond brews in silence, his eyes pierce and burn into the void. His breathing became heavier. Anxiously with a brave face, you instruct Edina to take Alysanne to your quarters, and give her your thanks for the delivery of the news.

Edina whisk away with Alysanne, patting her little bottom, exiting the shared room, leaving behind Vaemond, yourself and the cooked food that now grows cold.

A pregnant pause earns a tired eye roll from you, you can feel the vibrating stewing.

“When will this madness end?” Vaemond speaks, staring into his porcelain plate. You turn your eyes to him, your mouth hitches up for a moment in confusion, “What do you mean, Vaemond?”

His eyes look upon you desperately, “Alicent…” He says, shaking his head in disbelief, “She always meddles. She is a thorn upon me.”

Vaemond’s fingers grip the cloth of his stitched clothing, his fist poking at his chest. You roll your eyes in annoyance, a placid sigh, just hoping he can drop this.

“Do not speak of her in such a manner.” You spread through gritted teeth. “Alicent does not bear any ill will.” Your resonance is firm, no budging can waver it.

Your fingers curl in a gesture for him to stop. Jaw clenching, opening your napkin, just wanting to eat, and move away from this useless conversation.

“She prides herself as if she carries the cock!”

“Vaemond!”

“It is true!” He points at you with such fury, his eyes blood-shot red, “I cannot even hold my own blood without Alicent hovering!” Vaemond nips, his hands shaking, thrashing in the air.

You shush him again, his rising voice grating your ears. “Alicent is good, and kind. I do wish you could be respectful—-” Vaemond’s scoff interrupts you. Your face contorts with offense.

Vaemond’s face softens, furrowing in desperation.

“If you carry any love for me, you will distance us from Alicent.” Vaemond pleads, his hands clasping over yours, his voice irks you, it’s so pathetic.

“Tell her to go, flee from our presence.” Closing your eyes, your face resolving to an exhausted state, you shook your head in defiance, not even daring to look into his gaze, restraining to wretch your hands away.

“I will not.” Your voice is low, and firm, with your dead shark eyes. It’s been like this for the last two years, Vaemond complaining about Alicent, and as usual, your response defies his wishes.

“I understand Alicent was your childhood companion, but—-” Vaemond tries to ease the burdensome tension.

“Is. She is, Vaemond.”

He hums with annoyance, head nearly falling in exasperation, “Do you love me?” Vaemond asks in disbelief, questioning your faithfulness.

He leans back, offended and forlorn that he must ask such a question. You shake your head, with a sympathetic strained smile, “I care for you.” Patting his hand, a gesture often used to calm whining children.

“My wife does not harbor love for her husband?” He speaks through his teeth, wrenching his hand away from your touch.

A scoff escapes your lips, inhaling deeply, with a harsh swallow. Why must he make matters so difficult?

“This is an arranged marriage, marital vows spoken for the sake of allyship between our two houses. I care for you, Ser Vaemond, but I do not love you.”

“You love another?”

”No.” You spoke too quickly.

A pregnant pause.

Vaemond’s anger dissolves, fading to a blank stare, his breathing becomes shallow. His burning stare earns an uncomfortable shiver, uneasy in your own seat.

Jagged puzzle pieces twisting, slowly forming together —- all the times of Alicent’s shadow lingering. Whenever he dares utter a mention of Alicent, all you do is brush him off, as if he was the mere nuisance.

“You do.” He speaks in a hush, bolting to his feet, he huffs under his breath, such a petulant child. Stepping back a few steps, sneering.

As if the pieces finally shape and move, the thought pushes through the crevices of his mind. A deadpan chuckle scuffs from his mouth, his eyes just staring into you.

“The Gods made man and woman….” Vaemond trails off, unflinching, boring into you. No, no, no… your throat clenches in a swallow. Your brows compress into what seems as hurt and confusion, but truly it is fear.

“A man and woman shall share thou bed, and—” Vaemond’s eyes widens, motioning you to finish the well-practiced verse.

“And?” He prodes, he tilts his head, clicks his tongue. Your face morphs to silent anger, staring up at him with lavender daggers, breathing harder now.

“You are well taught of this verse. Have you forgotten your teachings?” Vaemond mocks you. Your glare at him through your lashes, your nose flaring into a snarl, muttering a spiteful whisper.

“One shall not lie with the same sex.”

Vaemond nods mockingly, his eyes never leaving yours. Muttering under his breath, “ Yes, yes. ”

Violet optics stare with fury.

A screech of a chair follows.

Vaemond begins chanting, spewing zealot verses, as a delirious septon. Pacing back and forth, hands twirling into the air.

“A sin against the Gods!”

A crack of a slap echos, so hard his face is swacked to his side, his mouth pouted. The sting of your rings vibrates against his cheek. Vaemond stares at you in disbelief, but your spine straightens, what once was gentility in your eyes, is now just disgust.

“I am your wife.” Your throat tightens, unable to swallow down the tears. No tears wasted on your husband —- no, never. Tears for that the truth could bleed out, such a scandal it could be!

The Princess and the Queen in a twisted love affair—- the shame it would bring to the names Targaryen, and Hightower.

“And you will respect me as such.” You spoke with an edge, with a firm finality. You whisk away from him, Vaemond believing that this was the end to the conversation.

The rough edge of the wooden table digs into the heels of your hands roughly. Tinkering your body back and forth by the grip, yearning to scream. Throat burning raw, splintering.

But the longing inside of you is violent, changeling. To vomit the ache that has been brewing —- Vaemond’s foot has been tinkling the pot, and now it has spilled.

You just want him to understand —- that a young girl to be married to her cousin, a cousin she has no grown affection for, to be ripped from her autonomy, to have hidden her true love secretly—- that this isn’t what a girl should be subjected to.

Your fists bang against the dining table, stinging the wound tight flesh. Twirling so fast, it startles Vaemond in a flinch.

“I have only been dutiful, sacrificed my body… for you. ” Your voice in a hoarse whisper. Peering at him over your shoulder, nearing a sob. Dutiful not in the traditional sense, but you have defended him, even when you couldn’t stand the man.

“I am a second born, but I am a princess, no less. My title is your prize.” Heavily restraining your breathing, the sorrow transforming into anger.

“I am merely a token for your status. A pawn for the purity of your bloodline.” Speaking through tears, frustration from your wounded core spewing. “Yet, I have not begrudged you, nor humiliated you.”

Vaemond flinches back, his pride stomped on under your pretty foot. Grinding the heel into the splatter.

“I have done what was expected of me!” You shrill, your breathing becoming haggard, “And here you stand, demanding me to throw away the only companion I have!”

“You have me, darling.” Vaemond’s faux sweet tone does nothing but disgust you.

“You’re more like my father than I thought.” Your nose recoils in shame. That left a sour twang on your tongue. “I had no say in this— this —” you’re stammering, dry-heaving as tears collide down your cheeks, but the fury is boiling over.

Murmuring under your breath, ‘I didn’t want this. I didn’t desire you.’ Vaemond huffs a breath, stepping closer, his presence suffocating.

Vaemond goads you, ‘say it, say it!’ Nearly hovering over you, his nose inches away from yours, but the blood of the dragon that soars through you snips back against the weak feeble sea snake.

“—- THIS MISERABLE CHARADE OF A MARRIAGE!”

Both of your voices shrill higher, mangling over each other in volume, alarmingly. Vaemond screams that he is your husband, to obey his word as law, but you follow no man. Vaemond corners you into the wooden table, trying to scare you, but you bark right back at him.

The roaring echos so badly, it may have reached all through King’s Landing.

Criston barges inside the chambers, the carved doors nearly thrashing against the wall pavement. Bolting towards Vaemond, thrashing him by the jut of his arm, standing in-front of you as a shield.

Vaemond shrills, “How dare you lay your hands on me?!” Criston seethes his sword, the sharp steel’s reflection blinking at Vaemond, catching his eyes within the reflection.

“I will not permit insults upon her grace.” Criston’s teeth are grinding, he hissed through his clenching ivories.

“No offense has been made, Criston.”

Criston’s face peeks over his steel shoulder, you assure him with a smile. “I am quite alright, thank you.” The warmth in your eyes melt to cold ire regarding Vaemond.

“My husband lost himself briefly, I assure he will refrain himself from a spectacle.” Cold, dead violet eyes blink at him, Vaemond hums with disbelief.

Criston lowers his sword, swiftly into its leather sheath. His rich brown eyes never leave Vaemond, as he walks back to his post.

The doors shut.

The silence hangs tightly.

“Vaemond, I don’t desire an argum—” You sigh, turning around on your heels, but your words die in a gasp, his hand grabs your jugular, a weak attempt of intimidation by a small man.

Vaemond’s fingers clutches the terrain of your throat, pulling you into him by his grip. A startle overwhelms you. Your fingers hovering over his wrist, gripping onto him. Offense melts into mockery.

A small laugh leaves you, tittering at Vaemond. Snide eyes blankly stare at him, daring for him to continue. Embarrassment floods him, releasing your throat.

“Such affections will not be tolerated.” Vaemond hisses, his face morphing between stoic and hostile. His ego is bruised and bitten off at the edges.

“Will it? ” A soft insulting chuckle emits from your lips, your face cold yet devilish. “Who will believe such tales?” You breathe another chuckle, more harsher now, your lavender eyes leering at him.

“My father will never believe such fabrications . His dear wife, and his daughter—”

“Soiling each other. ” Vaemond’s voice grats, and gruff, his voice looms low. You shake your head in disbelief, your pale curls bouncing against your cheekbones.

A sick, derisive smile, “You will become ill with your unfounded paranoia.” Coyly your hand plays with his cloth that rests at his shoulders.

“Why do you insist on such vile lies?” You ask him, your hand rests upon his shoulder. Caressing his shoulder through his luxurious vest.

“By the Gods, Vaemond—- why can’t you see that Alicent means no harm?”

The shells of Vaemond’s ears burn, his voice cracks into a groan, he refuses to submit to your ‘seduction of sweetness’ . Twirling his body in a circular pacing —- as if he was possessed by unholy madness. Your feet peddle backwards, rather smug at his insolence.

Vaemond turns his body, composing himself.

“We will leave for Driftmark.” Vaemond’s index finger menacingly pointed at you. “By the morrow.”

His hand strikes the air with every word he utters, “That is my word. ” And another, “ That is my law. ” Vaemond spins in haste, his heels clicking against the marbling with vigor.

You watch him depart and disappear, your head held high indignantly, but as he disappears through the chamber doors, you nearly collapse to your knees.

Your fingers fidgety and twirling the gold bands of your jeweled rings, clutching your belly —- your torso nearly hunching over from the rush of anger, and fright. Your belly is trembling.

The familiar emerald gem resting on your marital finger, fiddling your fingers against each other. You kiss it to ground yourself.

Criston waltz back inside your chambers with an irate gait.

“Princess, are you alright?”

You nod hastily, clearing your throat, already hoarse from the screaming. “Yes, I am quite fine.” You hesitantly move back and forth, feet bobbing from toe to heel, not sure if you want to sit for a moment or run to get Alysanne.

Criston steadies you, before you fumble to pieces from the overwhelming stress. He guides you by the joints of your elbows, seating you down on the velvet dining chair.

Criston’s admiration bleeds profusely. A rarity these days to acquire a male companion, who doesn’t yearn for your womanhood, but seeks out your mind—- and approval.

Criston mounts Alicent and yourself on a pedestal akin to those carved idols in the sept. A peculiar affection, Criston seeks to mold himself to be worthy in your eyes. As a pleading mortal prays to the Mother.

Beyond his rich brown eyes, he sees a being holy. A girl, who accompanied Alicent, saved him from the edge of his own sword, from the filth of his sins.

Your sworn shield since you were a young girl. A bond built on the fragments of trust, and pain.

“Does he often yell at you?” Criston asks. His eyes shadowed under his dark brow. Big brown oculus glistening with newfound frustration.

Your mouth gaps open, trying to find the words, but Criston is bristling as the hairs of a cat’s spine. “He dares abuse you?”

An airy inhale catches your throat, as tears sheen your eyes. “Abuse, that word weighs too heavy—- he’s an entitled man, who believes a woman should kneel in obedience.” Shaking your head, with a forlorn smile.

“In all the Targaryen bloodline, has there ever been a mousy woman?” You giggle, shoulders shaking. “He prides himself as a conqueror.” A boisterous laugh escapes Criston.

“A conqueror? Barely a knight.” Criston speaks cruelly, a mean smirk curling at his lip. “In the battle field, his armor is polished.”

A moment as this, a wife should display shame to discuss her husband with disdain, but Vaemond is not a man. Your hand was forced to wed a spoiled brat—- your father has no qualms on arranged marriages.

The Red Keep has many secrets. A plethora of hidden away chambers —- fit for two people. Alicent’s chambers were your favored choice of solace.

Alicent entrusted you with her secrets, and her fears, as you have done as well.

Her fingertips graze against your skin, tracing softly against the curve of your wrist, to the underside of your palm. Stroking the healed scar, the very one Alicent gave you many moons ago.

Just two bodies lying together, in bliss. The warmth of the fire pit and body heat encases you both. Flesh dew and scented from a shared bath of oils and soaps.

It wasn’t always so pleasant through the early years of shared girlhood. The guilt, the shame of harboring such affection for a woman. There isn’t a word in the western tongue for this affection.

There were days as young girls, Alicent would lock herself away, reading over verses, deep in prayer. As you spent hours with septas reciting prayers in unison, under the cloth of your dress, pinching and scratching the flesh of your thighs till splotches of deep purple formed.

Alicent mutilating her fingernails, gnawing or pinching away the redden cuticles.

Many suns and moons passed in the early days, but the love kept growing. The perpetual denial, the discreet glances, the graze of fingers tantalizingly touching—-ever so close, ever so far. How lost you become in Alicent’s moon-brown eyes.

The guilt was far too great, keeping distance between each other, but the ties thread only stretched painfully. A desperate longing, a raw human feeling.

Harbored tenderness finally exploded, blinding tears, and dashing feet carried you through the corridors of the sept, one day. There, as a holy vision, Alicent knelt in prayer, crying silently.

Clicks of hast feet alerted her, turning her watery gaze over her shoulder, as her fingers rested interlocked. A lost little babe under the towering marbling of The Mother.

This separation was a death sentence, vile and cruel. No longer, could you stay away, you needed her touch. And she did too for yours.

Without a word, you collapse to your feet before her, as you would in worship. Kneeling against her green silks, sniffling as your head falls against her thighs, her gnawed fingers wove themselves within your pale tresses.

‘Why did the Gods sew my heart to you?’

Alicent’s lips peppered kisses on your scalp, sniffling as her hands clung onto your back, cradling you. Rocking you back and forth, a rhythmic cradling, as a mother would.

If you were born a son, perhaps life wouldn’t be so cruel, so unfair.

Haunted by then the guilt of loving one another when your father took Alicent as his new bride. By the eyes of law, Alicent is your step-mother, but she never was, nor ever will.

The rings you both bear, is a reminder that your union isn’t recognized by the law of man, but the law of the Gods. Biting down on your bottom lip, sucking it into your mouth as a child, you couldn’t bear to stomach today’s charade.

“He suspects.”

Alicent’s head rises from your shoulder, confusion and fear creeping into her brown eyes. Her brows pinch, her fingers stroking the silk of your nightgown.

“Your father?” She asks in a whisper, so hushed as if scared anyone could hear beyond the walls.

“Vaemond.”

“How?” Alicent shakes her head, her beautiful face morphed with concern.

“As we were breaking our fast, he threw a fit, that your invitation didn’t extend to him.” You wearily laugh, “He went mad, raving on about how you seek to keep me from him.” Alicent sits up, her hand sinking into the mattress, darkness enveloping her eyes.

“Did he strike you?”

“No, thank the Gods. Criston came to my aid,” You wipe the tears that spill over your eyes by the back of your hand, “If he were to strike me, I would’ve gutted Vaemond as a fish.”

Alicent became quiet. “It worries me, so.” She says. Her thumb flicks against a cuticle. Quickly, you cease the harm, engulfing her hand in yours.

“My love, please.” You whisper, tapping her fingers gently. A sweet whisper stops Alicent’s assault.

“He will not have us seperated.” Alicent swallows, her face shrivels, the mere images of you being whisked away —- as she would be left behind to drown in this loneliness.

Shaking her head, speaking through wet inhales, “The Gods answered my prayers as a child,” Alicent’s head fell in a bow, her forehead connected to your knuckles, “I will see to it that you shall stay.” Alicent spoke through her tears, muttering now as a prayer, you must stay.

Rocking back and forth, hunched over as she would be in deep prayer—- stripped raw for you to see.

Alicent holds your inner wrist, kissing it against her lips. Her eyes were dilated, stammering under her breath. Your arms encase Alicent in a tight, warm hug. Cradling her as a babe.

“Oh, my love,” You croak, voice hoarse, laying your head on her spine. “The Gods have blessed us to still have one another, I have no doubt that I shall stay.”

“You have blessed me with a daughter.” Alicent says in a hush. “In another life, she is ours.” Her eyes gaze upon you.

Cupping Alicent’s cheeks into your palms, leaning for a kiss. Kissing her eyes, the bridge of her nose, between her eyes getting a titter from her.

Alicent strokes her nose against yours, her lips capturing yours. Lips melting, wet tongues fondle —- Alicent suckles your tongue, her milky fingers untying the cotton, slithering fingers underneath the flaps, cupping your swollen breasts.

One of Alicent’s hand trickles mischievously down your belly, caressing your sore mound, through the white night wear. A gasp slips from your lips. Her teeth nip at your cheek, open wet kisses trail across your skin down the slope of your throat.

Flesh singing alive, and Alicent whispers to be gentle, a little fondling, but no penetration. Unlike Vaemond, who sought for your body just merely days from birth.

Intertwining bodies cast shadows by the dim candle light, and girlish giggles echo against the chamber walls.

The hour is late.

Alicent and yourself departed for the night, begrudgingly to upkeep the reputation of dutiful wives.

In comfortable silence, Edina helps your achy bodice, in your night routine. Brushing your hair, and assisting you with Alysanne. You bathed her, and clothed her. As you held her against her chest, Edina brushed your hair.

It’s restful, and Vaemond isn’t near to ruin such bliss. You weren’t sure where he had run off to, but you didn’t muster the strength to care.

A quiet knock on your chambers alerted you, and for a moment, a growl nearly slipped. “Edina, can you please see who that is?” You ask sweetly. She mutters, Yes, princess.

Edina opens the door gently, with only a silver opening. As you rock your daughter against your breast, Edina breathes in a relief, turning back to you. You stare at her through the reflection of your mirror.

“It is Ser Criston, Princess.”

You sigh with a smile, grateful it isn’t your husband. You shuffle carefully in your stool, “Please, let him in.” Patting Alysanne’s little bum.

Edina moves the door wider, and Criston bows his head respectfully. “Hello Criston.” You greet him with a hum, “Is everything well?”

“A meeting has been called, Princess.” He says, almost with a tone of urgency. Your brows pinch in confusion, “The hour is late, why has the council been summoned?” Titling your head, eyes tired.

“I saw Alicent, and Otto accompany your father in the council chambers—-” Criston exhales with frustration, “— along with Vaemond.” His jaw clenches.

Stoned fury cements itself on your face, swallowing down, breathing becoming more heavier.

“Edina, please take Alysanne. I must tend to my imbecile of an husband.” The courtesy of graciousness, and taught manners are long gone, seeping out of you with the urge to bark.

Edina shuffles with quickness at her step, her hands out-stretched for Alysanne. Carefully Edina took your little bundle in her arms, you kissing her little furry head, as Criston helped you get to your feet.

“Criston, please take me to see Vaemond.” Your hand cupping Criston’s extended forearm, guiding you, his other hand on-top of your fingers.

A malicious smirk curls at the corner of his mouth, as you mutter obscenities under your breath along the path of the keep.

A meeting has been summoned.

An invitation only for Viserys to join Vaemond in the council room, but Alicent and Otto have come forth as Viserys’ shadows.

“I see your grace, and the Hand has come.” Vaemond says, rather annoyed. Alicent’s gaze subtly searches the room, but you are nowhere in sight.

“Whichever you must say,” Viserys says with a smile, “can be spoken among my wife, and my hand.” Viserys limply walks to the council table.

“Of course.” Vaemond strains with a formal smile. He clears his throat, his hands behind his back. “It’s time for my wife to reside in Driftmark.”

Silence commences. Alicent’s eyes widen.

“My daughter has just been born, and I would like my blood to enjoy her home.” Vaemond continues. A sullen look drags on Viserys. “So soon, my granddaughter has just been born.”

“Of course, not yet. Out of respect, we will stay for a little longer, but once we are ready—” Vaemond’s words are snuffed out, by Alicent’s scoff.

“No— - she cannot leave. King’s Landing is her home.” Alicent speaks anxiously, turning to Viserys. Vaemond scoffs under his breath. Alicent’s head twists in his direction with such haste, any faster her head would have spun and fallen off her shoulders.

“Two years we have stayed, not once has my wife visited Driftmark.” Vaemond puffs his chest, “She has not seen the seas of my home!”

Alicent chortles, a wet growl. “Viserys, please see to this.” She turns back to Viserys, “The children will miss her, you won’t see Alysanne for a time.” Alicent’s slender fingers grasp Viserys’ clothes forearm with a tightness. An exhausted sigh escapes him.

“Or you will miss her.” Vaemond spits.

“She is my friend, of course I would.” Alicent hisses through her teeth. Vaemond’s feet walk one by one, with sardonic thumps; leaning into Alicent’s space.

Alicent’s eyes squinted, “And where is she? It would be preferred to have her presence.” It didn’t feel right to not have you in this meeting, yet Vaemond is here overseeing a decision on your behalf.

“It is her right to choose where her home is! This should be her decision!” A vein slightly protrudes at Alicent’s neck, her throat straining.

“Your peculiar need for my wife is —- disturbing.” He says spitefully.

“Enough of this!” Viserys shouts, shutting both Alicent, and Vaemond to silence. “Two moons of this insufferable fighting—” He wheezes, “from the both of you!” He clicks his cane against the marbling, declaring his authority.

Vaemond towers over Alicent, nearly cornering her, but she doesn’t back down. Holding her head up high, staring back at him with such hate. A vision of silver, and a shuffle of metal enter the room.

Criston wedges himself between the two, his feet in stance for a brawl, but Vaemond only chuckles at the notion.

“Alas, the sworn mutt has come to protect his consort.”

“Must we have another go?” Criston asks, his dark brows shadowing his eyes. Venomous snake eyes, as his hands itch to slice Vaemond into an carasses.

”Would you liken I tell the king how you disrespected the princess?” Criston’s throat is hoarse, vein bulging. The seething rage within him is reaching a high.

Vaemond sucks his teeth at the notion. “My wife and I merely had a disagreement.” Alicent leans into Criston’s side, her lowered eyes twitching in a hooded glare.

Viserys shouts your name, his voice echoes within the room, beckoning you to him by his shaky hand. He caught you peeking from the chamber doors, watching the speckable.

Alicent’s eyes flooded with relief at the sight of you. You waltz inside with a determined gait, but as Vaemond opens his arms for an embrace, you swiftly pardon him with a worried smile, for Alicent and your father.

Vaemond’s feet bobbles, rooted into the marbling, still staring at the direction you walked through. Criston laughs to himself, at the pitiful sight.

Alicent holds you by the shoulders, shielding you away from your pestering husband.

“My sweet girl,” Viserys says, “Vaemond is declaring for you to leave.” He’s wounded. Viserys truthfully doesn’t want to see you depart, but you are a wedded woman now.

By law, a wife must accompany her husband, and it is two years late for your leave for Driftmark, such as Rhaenys had when she became lady of the sea.

“Yes, my love!” Vaemond says with a sardonic boast. “Our daughter has been born. It is our time to depart for home.” He steps closer, preparing to pry you away.

“The decision shall be done, only by my daughter’s permission.” Viserys casts a gaze at you, with such a kind smile, entrusting you to choose the ‘best decision’, to tame this spectating chaos.

Vaemond is repulsed at the notion of Viserys allowing you to make a decision on such matters.

You nearly stutter as a jester before everyone, terrified. Out of nature, your fingertips fidget with your ring. Not the ring bestowed to you by Vaemond, but the very ring shared between Alicent and yourself.

Blinking tears back, all eyes fall upon you. Alicent’s distressed wet eyes stare into yours, silently pleading with you.

You do not wish to prevent your daughter the opportunity to enjoy Driftmark, it is her home just as King’s Landing, but your heart is torn —- to be separated from Alicent is a murder.

Your soul won’t bear it, it would be felt as death. Worse than the pain during the wedding between Alicent and your father, the grief caused you to nearly fall ill. To separate the children—- hopes of being a family again shattering before you.

Hesitantly, your mouth quiver, but your mind was set. Driftmark is simply just a dragon’s ride away.

“I wish to stay here,” you proclaimed, standing with a firm posture. Vaemond’s eyes wide and enraged, gawking at you.

“Alysanne has just been born. There is no need for hast, I shall stay here in King’s Landing.”

A weak smile stretches just a little on Alicent’s face. All the fury seeps away from her face. Vaemond sputters in disgust, and rage. Nearly foaming at the mouth as a rabid dog.

“Then so be it.” Viserys proclaims, walking towards you with his cane, the ache of his body weighs on him, causing a limp, and a cough.

With no hesitation, you dash to his side, as does Alicent. You whisper to your father with a kiss to his cheek, a firm yet gentle ‘thank you, father’.

The pin drops. The hinges snap.

The Sea Snake breaks through the bubbling sea foam. A man cannot take anymore of this.

“ Viserys,” Vaemond pleas, shoulders shaking, fingers curling, “she plays you for a fool. Don’t you see that Alicent has bewitched your daughter—”

“Enough!” Viserys stomps the end of his cane, the clank startling you, as a frightened little girl, you cling onto your father’s forearm. His aging face distorts, his eyes leering into Vaemond.

“I respect you, Ser Vaemond, but you shall hold your tongue.” Viserys waddles closer, “Alicent is your queen, and respect is in order.”

Otto leans by the pillars, arms crossed against his chest. A spectator enjoying a theater play.

“Alicent is my daughter’s childhood companion, and I will not see them separated.” Viserys declares, stomping his cane onto the ground, echoing against the keep, its thud emphasizing his decision.

His word is law.

“I love your daughter, Viserys—”

“Then act as such!”

Vaemond sighs loudly, nearly stomping his feet in defeat.

“Vaemond, for the nearly twelve moons, you have made me mad with your judgment.” Viserys huffs. Shaking his head at Vaemond’s childish attitude. “Ridiculous bickering with my wife.”

Viserys softly tilts his head, “No more of this.” He whispers to Alicent. She swallows down, holding onto Viserys’ arm, mouth wrinkling into a frown, as if reprimanded as a child.

“Alicent ploys against me—-” Vaemond’s words die into a groan as a fist punch at his chest. A series of grunts and thrashing. You bellow for them to stop this thrashing.

Vaemond and Ser Criston tussle on top of each other, Viserys declaring for both of them to cease. Your pleas fall onto deaf ears. Your feet carry you near them, trying to tug Vaemond off of Criston, fruitlessly.

A clash of limbs, a tug of war. With one miscalculation of his elbow, a crunch and airy gasp of pain breaks. A collision against the floor, you softly whine in pain.

Shouts of your name, and feet running.

Nose welting as a smashed berry, seeping into the cave of your mouth, copper embedding on your palate. Your vision is blurry, colors of fabric and candle flames are translucent murky strings before your eyes.

Sensations of hands picking up your limp body in marital fashion, your mind too deep in a daze to connect with reality. Not sure who has you, muffled shouting becomes clearer.

Your lavender eyes are blank, and unblinking, as your vision begins to unclog the fog—— auburn hair stands before you, and trembling fingers caress your swollen lip.

Out of habit, your tongue glides over the top cage of your teeth, stinging the swelling flesh of gums, but you don’t stop the brushing of ivories.

“Fetch the maesters!”

You inhale a small gust of breath, a deep one that fills your lungs to an odd relief; as if you haven’t breathed in ages. Such vacancy etched in your pupils, gazing through your lashes to witness a faded vision of Vaemond staring in surprise.

He tries to come near you, but your father barks in his face. You don’t seek his affections, he has committed enough damage for a fortnight.

Sweet palms encase your cheeks, dabbing the spilling blood that coats the bridge of your nose, its sticky. Scared breaths escape Alicent, hyperventilating, as your eyes become loopy, one closes slowly after the other. The maesters all encircle you, muttering that your nose may be broken.

A wounded dragon rests upon the shores of Oldtown, crying for help. A roaming sea snake is lurking, snipping. The tower shines green. Alicent’s eyes catch Criston’s spare dagger —- the banners have been called.

Alicent charges at him, hatred and spite feeding off of each fiber of her being, taking the dagger that was seethed in Criston’s satchel, woven in her grip.

Dashing feet clamor against the flooring —- an ungodly manic shout roars from Alicent, frightening all men. Viserys haggers a few steps back, calling out to Alicent.

“Have you gone mad?!” Alicent’s voice is hoarse, snarling at him as a devilish beast. Her arm raises up, ready to strike through his flesh.

Quickly, Vaemond’s arms fling high, freeing himself, catching Alicent’s wrist in his. Alicent can’t even hear pleas from her husband, nor her father —- the stain of red has engulfed her vision. All shouts for her died in the distance, as blood rushed to her ears.

Murderous thoughts plague her mind as grave rot, to gash Vaemond’s skull open, feed his torn limbs to your dragon, imprison him as a suffering lame —- his delayed death will only sedate her fury.

Harming the only soul she can confide in, the only being who understands her fears, who shares her guilt for possessing love for another woman, but oh —- such a sin is delightful.

You’re the only one who can hear her voice in this wretched hell procreated by the Gods —- you can still hear her heart-beat in a crowded room.

You see her, as she sees you.

Not as your step-mother, more than a childhood companion, but as your lover, another-half of your soul. Stolen moments when the realm is asleep, both crying, laughing as if the world outside doesn’t exist—- ushering fantasies of traveling on dragon’s back to East, exploring the colorful lives of the Free Cities, as young girls again.

Praying on your knees, caressing each other.

Love, this is her love, to be seen in a room of shattered shards of glass that reflect the children you both once were. You won’t leave her alone, to slip away from each other. To be inside each other’s skin, to be inside each other.

Two women tangled in the realms’ webs. Forced to marry men who make their skin crawl. A matrimony in misery together.

“Alicent, put away the dagger!”

“What have you done for her?” Alicent’s whispers, with malice. Her eyes wet with an unshed sheen. Her voice is so low, just enough for Vaemond to hear, as a chorus of shouts fade in the distance.

“Besides take her body as ownership?” Alicent’s voice cracks into a broken wail, “Wedded her to claim her nobility as yours.” Her nose scrunches as a hound, “She is not a pawn in your games.” She hisses through her canines.

“Own her? I, a man, cannot even enjoy his marriage without interference. Meddling in affairs you have no qualms with.” Vaemond’s thrashing causes a slip of fingers.

His veiny hand tussles with Alicent’s arm, a futile attempt tugging by the jut of her elbow, to try to take her to safety, but she doesn’t relent. She thrashes her arm away, with a grunt.

The dagger’s sharp curved tip inches hairs away from Vaemond’s exposed glossy ocular.

“It is my right to be concerned.” Alicent’s teeth bore into a scowl. She’s unrecognizable, edging on her last thread of sanity. “Who will care for her?” Her voice carries the weight of concern, affection, a crack of desperation.

Disoriented voices fade in and out from the distance, a stand-off brewed from loathing, and jealousy. As many try to break apart Alicent and Vaemond—- others flock to your limp body, and the sprinting maesters.

Vaemond leers through his lashes, turning his attention away. Your ichor staining Alicent’s fingernails, and wrists in splatters. Vaemond’s venomous spite inflates akin to spikes, his eyes daringly bore into Alicent’s, sneers low under his breath, ‘suffocating’.

A disgruntled growl slips from Alicent’s lips. “ I am her companion. Her only friend. ” Alicent inches closer, nearly barking in his face. Such a declaration in her bellowing voice, her brows pinching in sorrow.

A moment stills.

He smirks, nose flaring.

“The very friend who bedded her grieving father.”

An ungodly screech rips from Alicent, raw and animalistic. Strength and sheer adrenaline. A scream that echoes the thousand unheard cries of her depraved girlhood. A release of her festering sorrow all in one strike.

By the Gods, what a fleeting delight.

With a swift glide of her wrist, the dagger just inches from the bridge of his nose, but the sharp tip rips a slice on his cheek.

Clamor of voices die in the silence.

Alicent slowly backed away, with such wild rage glistening in her eyes, her fingers trembling loose from her grip. The dagger clanks at her feet, her breaths are haggard.

Vaemond’s fingertips dab against the bleeding slash. Stricken with astonishment at the drips of ichor —- and great offense, Alicent has gathered the nerve to commit such a heinous act.

A suffocating figure comes near as a shadow.

Otto comes to his daughter’s side, his shoulder patting her shoulder to quell the tension that tightens her muscles. His vacant palm grips her wrist, softly squeezing, comfort? A warning.

Towering behind her, with such an ominous categorical glare, Otto breathes through his nose, a frustrated sigh. If no one will take the reins of this masquerade, he will. He always prided himself to be the solver of any problems.

Calculating his next move, to not only pacify Vaemond down, but to not frazzle the feathers of his child.

“Let us handle this bickering with grace.” Otto’s head tilts down, gaze downcasted at his daughter's dome, caressing her thick waves—- whose face was still twitching with lingering tears, exhaustion draining from her.

“We will all discuss our —-” Otto pauses for a second, turning his sight to Vaemond, feigning an inch of sympathy, “troubles in the morrow.” As a master manipulating the strings of its puppet, dancing to his rhythm.

Dull pain weighs on the bridge of your nasal, the milk of the poppy soothing most of the inflamed ache. The maesters claim it’s the luck of the Gods that your nose wasn’t shattered, with being the brunt of brute strength.

Resting in your chambers, deep in the massive blankets, boneless bodice sinking into the mattress, but your hooded eyes never leave Alysanne’s cradle.

Even in a moment of enduring the strain of this wound, the motherly instinct within you is overtaken. Awaiting any gurgle, or cry, any excuse to hold her in your embrace.

An uncomfortable whine vibrates low in your throat, nearing a snort, by the joints of your elbows into the mattress, you lift your heavy body up. Groggy muscles tighten and burn as you dig within yourself any inch of remaining strength.

Slow steps inch closer —- one and two, one and two—- your fingers grip the cradle. Carefully, your open palms dive into the blankets, grasping Alysanne’s little neck, and back; by the bent of your knees, you hoist her up.

Small gurgles emit from her heart-shaped mouth, you coo her, connecting her small body against your chest. Rocking her back to slumber, you shuffle back to your bed, hawking your balance, so that your feet don’t catch the loose end of your silk night-gown.

You gaze at her, what a beauty she is.

Despite loathing her father, the miserable masquerade he performed not only before your father, but to the sworn shield, the king’s hand to bear witness —- and above all else, in-front of your dear Alicent.

Vaemond’s outburst of demands, proclaiming you to be taken by his force, to reside the end of your days in Driftmark.

Aware of how tedious Otto is upon his reputation that extends upon his daughter, he will chastise any witnesses to keep tight lips. No whispers of this dreadful night. For once, you hope Otto weaves his fingers —- there is no need for anyone to speak such haughty gossip about Alicent.

‘My love has suffered for too long.’ You mull quietly. Softly grazing Alysanne’s button nose. Alicent doesn’t deserve to be the subject of the talebearers—- to be humiliated as such.

Alysanne mewls in her sleep, but your essence lulls her, caressing her cheek with your nose. Tracing the bridge of her nose with the grace of your finger, admiring her innocence.

“I will not let him have you,” You whisper in a hush, “And I will not have him take me away.”

“A mere scratch.”

The head maester dabbed Vaemond’s cheek, as the white cloth soaks in splotches of his blood.

“If it was closer, it would have been a gash, and the loss of an eye.”

Vaemond sits with his fingers digging into his clothed knees, as an insolent child. Vaemond is marinating in his seat, brooding in his pathetic defeat.

His fingers clenching onto the arm-rests, the intricate gold dragon engraving digging into the flesh of his fingers.

A handful of maesters flocked to Vaemond’s aid with haste, as Alicent was whisked away without a word from her father.

Humiliated, that his own wife would not defend his honor, that he was cut down by a woman’s hand, that the king himself would not see the impending shambles of his house.

A shush falls upon the maesters, quietly bowing.

Vaemond’s eyes gaze up to see Alicent at the doors. Mute, and regal, despite losing herself in her anger. The maesters all bow, one after another, taking their leave — all scurry out of the door, as rats.

Alicent walks inside, stoned silent, her palms clasped on top of each other against her belly, her lips pursed — restraining herself, her eyes still red at the rim from dried tears.

No less, her father sent her to mend the peace. Alicent stares Vaemond down, even through her display of vulnerability, she sees him as nothing. As if he is the dirt beneath her feet.

Vaemond stiffened his spine, his chest puffed out to ready brace himself against her wrath. But Alicent doesn’t move… her feet stay rooted. Her eyes are distant, as if reflecting quietly.

She hums.

“His grief doesn't bear a flame to mine.”

#chaosfae writes #alicent hightower x reader #queen alicent #Alicent Hightower fanfic

182 notes · View notes