#firelight festival | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

avatarkv · 9 months

Text

EVERY CORNER OF THIS HOUSE IS HAUNTED. (3)

Synopsis ! Jake had taken you as his own after Tsu'tey's passing, leaving no one to care for you. Things had been good before your relationship with him had blurred along growing of age. You and him fought all the time; argued each other's ear off and tonight was no different-- except words have been said, severing the already damaged bond. Content & warning Jake sully x Daughter!Reader, Sully kids x Sister!Reader Neytiri x Daughter!Reader.(wc: 5211)

“You will make a good olo’eyktan.”

Jake snorted, downing the last dregs of amber liquid from his worn wooden glass. He shook his head in amusement as he put it down on his lap– It must be the alcohol speaking, he thought to himself. Tsu’tey had been speaking vaguely; roughly in between asking where his loyalty lies and if he was willing to stay for the people. To say Jake was confused was an understandment, and he wasn’t a brick of a wall to not feel that something was wrong.

“Don’t you mean would?” He asked, refilling his cup. “I would make a good olo’eyktan. A possibility.”

Tsu'tey's merely shook his head as he finished his beverage, letting a few drops of liquid trickle down his chin. He didn’t bother to wipe it away, gaze far into the crowd of young warriors celebrating themselves. The festivity had gathered everyone and his eyes darted constantly to his lover– the one who rightfully had this heart.

And that was something Jake had noticed about Tsu’tey tonight, he realized. Tsu'tey was never truly looking at him. Although he had only spoken to him on this particular night, his eyes never once met Jake’s; it seemed as though he was constantly searching for something else– someone.

Could it be Neytiri? His heart seized as the thought crossed his mind. He was selfish. Eywa knows just how impure his soul is; how cruel he is to love a promised woman.

“What is that human word you use when you have not been truthful?”

One of the things he became aware of as he continued to learn life in Pandora was that the Na’vi didn't recognize or understand the concept of lying; there wasn't even a word in their language for it. It was a revelation for him, that such an integral part of his motherland - dishonesty and deception - was nonexistent here. He feared he would be the one to taint their morals, to be the example to its definition.

Jake was a liar.

“You mean lie?”

Tsu’tey nodded. “I fear I have done such a thing.”

Jake furrowed his eyebrows, narrowing his eyes in thought, but he couldn’t bring himself to pry– not when his eyes seemed distant once more. He thought he looked at Neytiri, but standing beyond her was the figure his eyes desperately sought. Tsi’ewa looked like a vision in the firelight, her every gracefully swaying movement becoming alive in the mesmerizing glow of the large bonfire.

And she was just there– how could she sit there and laugh and look so beautiful?

Jake puts an awkward hand to his shoulders, attempting to comfort him with a pat. “Eywa will forgive you– whatever you did.”

But Tsu’tey only shook his head again. His steady hand made quick work of refilling his cup to the brim once more, as if he was trying to drown out the rising truth that was spiraling from his stomach. He paused for a moment before lifting it up to meet his lips, “No. She would have to ask for my forgiveness instead.”

“We must tell the people now.”

They continued to walk aimlessly, steps wide and quick. The night had seemingly stretched on for hours since the gathering had ended, and they were growing ever more irritable– both bodies awash with alcohol and both minds clouded with judgment. “Your thoughts are muddled, Tsu’tey. You’ve had a bit too much to drink.” She said in a dismissive tone, making it clear that she didn't want to discuss the topic further. Tsi’ewa was nothing but distant— tonight where Tsu’tey felt most painfully vulnerable.

“I can think just fine, Tsi’ewa.” He carefully takes her arm, steering her to face him. “We have to tell the people now.”

“And risk your place in the clan?” She quickly swats his hand away, her face twisted with a troubled expression. “I will not let you ruin your name.”

They finally stand still, exhausted— bodies glistening in sweat. Tsi’ewa frantically looked around, perhaps for something to hurl or something to tightly squeeze'; anything to relieve the knot that churned deeply inside her stomach. Letting out another lengthy sigh, she finally looks at Tsu’tey. “I am but a songstress, Tsu’tey! Someone who people wouldn’t care enough to give two glances.”

“And why do they matter?” He replied in the same tone, just as defeated as she was.

“Because I am nothing. I am unheard, I am not seen– but you. You are to become leader. The people need you, Tsu’tey.” She steps in closer, just enough to feel his warm breath fanning over her face. Her finger digs into his chest as she speaks, pressing harder with each word that spills from her mouth. “You have to choose.”

“I do not have to. It is you who I want.” He answers, almost casually– like he had lost a screw or two to trade such a title for something so miniscule. Tsi'ewa releases a frustrated sigh, her posture wilting in defeat.

“You are being stubborn!”

“And you think too low of yourself!”

Silence envelopes their heaving bodies once more. He takes a deep breath before speaking, “I am unhappy with the union– it is against my will and most especially my heart. Do not make me choose the people.”

He finds promise in the crooks of her body, the warmth of her palms; a place of sanctity he wouldn’t mind kneeling to for hours. It was the kind of romance so tender, it would dissolve right on his tongue the moment he would consume it– he just knew he would love her for a very long time. Tsu’tey would let his title be damned if it meant having her for eternity.

“We will be miserable.” She whispers.

“Only if you push me away.” He answers.

Who knew Tsu’tey was quite the romantic? Well– people would’ve known if they had given him the chance to truly love. The day he died, Tsi’ewa knew her heart was buried along with his.

The flickering firelight created a somber ambience as Jake sat motionless, lost in thought. The dancing shadows casted by its light created an indescribable feeling of unease– an overwhelming weight of dread settling on his shoulders. His mind raced endlessly, thoughts clamouring in his head to be brought to the forefront.

The clan– the people. His family. Himself. Deafening, deafening sound.

Quartich was back and he had to think fast. Sure, they were far from where the old shack is, but it wouldn’t be long until they were eventually found. The thought strikes an indescribable fear, reeling him in and getting the best of him.

To say Jake was tired was an understatement.

Tired is a word used to describe how one feels after a busy day; one that promises a better tomorrow– a green light that lets you go ahead and continue once more. He fears this is more than just casual exhaustion, but something that threatens to bury him six feet under.

And then there was you; a particular voice desperate for a minute of his time. He hears your voice, even in mind. His stubborn eldest. You might as well be the reason for why his hair is turning white so early. He thought it was just a phase– he thought that every child would eventually grow out of their angsty-teenager stage. Heck, he went through one back on earth. Jake was once a little boy too, he’d know.

But as time stretched on, he realized that your actions had rooted from actual hurt and not just some juncture in life. When you said you hated him, you actually did. When you said he was being a shit father, he actually was. He made you feel that way.

Jake wonders when it happened– what had slipped through his fingers for everything to become so messy. He swears he hears you as much as you don’t think he isn’t listening.

You’d make a great olo’eykte. He knows it. Somewhere along that line frightens him– makes him terribly uneasy. He doesn’t mean to tell you otherwise, but in his eyes, you will always be his little girl; the same kid who cried to him once because everyone had been too mean. Jake would burn the whole world if he had to; shed blood if it meant your safety.

Being a clan leader meant exactly that. He knew you’d do everything to ensure everyone’s safety, even if it meant your life. Jake wasn’t ready for that– he wasn’t ready to hear that his little girl was capable enough to not need him.

He wished he’d rather made that clear instead of severing your already strained bond. The gulf between you two has grown too wide for him to bridge the gap, and it's slowly eating away at him.

There was just something so complicated between a father and a daughter’s relationship– a kind of complication that neither of you could tell what you really meant. He wishes he could understand you; take away the troubles that made you restless. Maybe then, your eyes wouldn’t feel so distant– maybe then, you wouldn’t look at him like he wasn’t your own dad.

He numbly reaches for the machine gun– its surface still emanating heat from its earlier use. He can feel its weight in his grasp, a firm reminder of the violence that had just transpired. He clenches it in his hands, his sweaty palms pressing against its hard surface in an almost comforting way.

“The children are fine and taken care of,” Neytiri gently announced as to not worry her already troubled mate. “Your mind is clouded, ma Jake, tell me about it. ”

“Just thinking,” Neytiri sat in front of him, allowing the silence to linger for a moment longer while she awaited his response. “That maybe Tsu’tey had been hinting at his relationship with Tsi’ewa for much longer than we thought.”

That wasn’t at all what her mate had expected him to say, thinking that he would likely talk about what had happened back at the old shack. The wrinkle between her eyes deepened as she questioned aloud, "Why is this being brought up now?"

Jake released a lengthy exhale as he released the empty shell from his gun, letting it amble towards the fire pit. “Maybe I could have done something to save him from dying a warrior’s death so soon.”

Neytiri straightened her leaning posture, clicking her tongue. “This isn’t about Tsu’tey, is it?” The way Jake's reaction was almost too subtle to notice only solidified her suspicions. His posture seemed to slightly change, his shoulders stiffening ever-so-slightly as if he was attempting to contain the emotions running just beneath the surface. “It’s about y/n.”

“Always about that daughter of ours.” He attempted to make light of the situation, stifling a chuckle. This demeanor was a thin veil for the obvious elephant in the room and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to make it known just yet. “Hard headed and snobby, just like Tsu’tey.”

“Has it ever occurred to you that maybe she got it from you instead?” Neytiri narrowed her eyes at him, mouth twisted in a slight scowl. When Jake only released a snort in reply, his gaze still fixated on the machine gun, she lightly swatted him on the nape of his neck with a hiss. “You are too hard on her– on everyone! Don’t you think that you’re being too harsh on them?”

Jake winces before replying, voice firm and just as loud. “I am only doing what I can to protect everyone.” He flails his arms around, trying to emphasize his words. “Everything that I do is for them. You think I enjoy being like this? Being the mean parent?”

“Then stop!”

Jake let his long fingers run through his hair, slightly tugging at the braids in exasperation. His eyes closed for a fleeting moment as he drew in a sharp breath, attempting to compose himself. “It’s not that easy, Neytiri. They had their knives right under our children’s necks– I’m only trying to keep this family alive and together.”

“By pushing everyone away? By telling your eldest that she isn’t enough? Listen to what you’re saying, Jake! You aren’t hearing yourself!” Neytiri presses a finger into his chest. “This isn’t about war– it wasn’t always about fighting. It’s about you and the children.”

Everyone falls silent, letting the weight of their words settle in the air. The only sound is that of the distant fire crackling, filling in the otherwise unbearable quiet. They took in each other’s heaving figures, eyes softening in mutual understanding.

“You’re scared you’re going to fail her like you think you did with Tsu’tey.” Neytiri whispers softly this time. Jake’s ears flatten in response– stiff shoulders slumping in defeat.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Neytiri.”

“Oh please– you are never this rough with Kiri and Tuk. Y/n is your daughter too, so why does she have to be on the receiving end of such hard affection?” She lets out an agitated scoff, “You do not hear her, ma Jake. When she shouts, she does not call for Toruk Makto– ma’ite does not challenge the olo’eyktan. She yearns for just you, her father.”

And that was Neytiri for you; ever the wiser one. She always knew what to say. Jake looks at him with such tenderness– an admiration that was strikingly reminiscent of the first time he ever saw her.

“You fathers always do not know what to feel– what to say. So you tend to be less understanding, because in that way, less words are spoken. Silence is better than talking it out, yes? Ma’sempul was the same. Only when he died did I realize– but will you take it to your grave before you let her know that she is loved?”

A daughter is only a daughter once, not until you make her forget.

“Make her understand. Your intentions are fair, but your ways are ill— they are ill, Jake.” Neytiri's words stung like a slap in the face, she might as well strike him straight to the chest. It rendered him speechless, yet he knew something shifted— and for the better. “She is your daughter. Not Tsu’tey’s.”

His daughter.

“Am I a bad father, Neytiri?” His voice had cracked and she swore she could hear the faint breaking of his already fragile heart. The realization slowly seeped into the wrinkles of his weary face, accentuating the creases from fatherhood itself. He failed everyone and he knew it. He always thought his actions were justified– but it was the consequences that struck him the most: He didn’t know Neteyam’s favorite color, but he knew how odd he held his bow.

He didn’t know his children.

“No, just misguided.” Slowly, Neytiri cautiously wraps her arms around his rigid form. She can feel the warmth of his skin against her face as she nestles her head into the crook of his neck. She swears he could hear the rapid beat of his heart and it pounds in sync with hers– they were both lost and terribly exhausted. “I know earth did not allow you to be soft, but you’re not alone anymore. Put your burdens at ease, ma Jake.”

Jake returns her embrace, squeezing her body softly. He allows himself to bask in the moment of stillness, taking in the sweet smell of her hair and skin. With a shaky exhale, he attempts to savor the fleeting peace before it's gone. When did everything become so difficult?

After a while, Neytiri finally stands, feeling the exhaustion of all she has endured today seeping into every fibre of her body. “The children are staying over at Mo’at’s for tonight.”

She stands there, lingering for a moment before finally turning to leave. “Just talk to her, Jake.”

And there he was, alone with nothing but the warm glow of the flickering fire to accompany him once again.

Fruits. You love fruits, he thinks.

Perhaps you didn’t get the memo that everyone was staying over at your grandma’s for the night; perhaps you were waiting for him to come home too. He carefully sliced the yovo fruits, placing them a bit too delicately on the bark bowl.

Jake was undeniably nervous. His own teenage daughter made him nervous.

As he slowly trudged towards the hut, his toe lurched into one of the wicker chairs– a loud string of curses exploded from his lips as he clamped his eyes shut in frustration. Through gritted teeth, he peered down to the seat. immediately noticing its snapped leg which seemed to mock him for his carelessness. He exhaled deeply. crouching down to take a closer look.

Funny enough, it was yours– your name glaring right back at him.

If there was something that he learned best back on earth, it was to be handy— good with his hands. (well, considering the lack of legs, he had to make use of thereof.) He thought he had cracked the code back then; giving everyone gifts and crafting whatever they pleased. Jake failed to realize that it was not more toys the children wanted– it was him. Just him.

"Listen, I'm sorry," Jake visibly winces at his poor attempt at an apology. He takes a pause, deciding on the right words to say before continuing, “Let’s talk about it, kid– promise not to raise my voice." He waits for her response but only silence greets him in return. He releases a deep sigh and mumbles under his breath, “-- or maybe not. This is fine." He carefully slides in the bowl of freshly cut fruits under the flap of the hut after taking a few moments to rest against its wooden walls. He looks around, his eyes wandering everywhere, “You listening?” He waits again, “Your father– he was a good man. A very good man, in fact."

“Neytiri was promised to him and he was to become the olo’eyktan. I was only an outsider; barged in and made a mess of an already good clan.” he reminisced, “He had every right to view me as a threat– heck, he could’ve even greeted my approach with a spear right to the chest the moment I arrived. He didn’t. No one did.”

“I’m thankful for that. Everything I have now is because of him.” He looks back at the entrance, hoping for even a flicker of light being lit by you– he thought maybe you were also leaning against the wall that separates you both. “I was wrong. Your father was far more than enough, and of all people, I should have known that better– should have known better than to talk shit about him to his very daughter.”

He exhales a deep, heavy sigh for what feels like the hundredth time, his frustration evident as he rubs the back of his neck anxiously. “Look, what I’m trying to say is. I miss you, sweetheart. I’m growing old– and while you aren’t getting any younger either, I want you to understand that when I shout, it means I want you to listen. When I push you to your limits, I only want you to do your best.”

He looked back at all the times where you and him argued– when he thought what he was doing was right. Jake wondered if he pushed you away everytime he raised his voice. He probably did.

“Well– raising my voice probably never worked because you always shouted back.” he says, shaking his head with a snort of laughter. No matter how loud either of them got, the other always managed to raise their voice even higher. “Time is fucking with me– you all are growing so fast. One second I’m snuggling with everyone in the same hammock and then all of a sudden I find myself making everyone a separate one because we’re all too big now.”

He grows quiet, a lump welling up in his throat that renders him speechless. “I’m not olo’eyktan– I’m no Toruk Makto. I’m just a father, baby. And I think that’s the most vulnerable I’ll ever be.”

“Never wanted any of you to fight. Never wanted to put everyone on the line for war–” Another breathy exhale, “I was scared. Fine, there it is, out in the open. My star failed me, sweet girl. I know how humans worked back there and they worked ruthlessly. We killed our own land– our own mothers.”

His stomach would lurch at the thought of it, an overwhelming pang of nausea stirring within him. Jake could barely survive back there– he truly was lucky to be chosen by Eywa. He could already be dead if not the past occurrences for all he knows.

“I wasn’t allowed to be gentle back then and I’m glad eywa is a lot more merciful here.” He looks up, staring at the starry sky. Earth had taken too much from him and ironically, it was also humans who kept ruining him here in Pandora too. Jake was always one step behind no matter how hard he tried. “But you got to give me a bit of recognition here, baby girl, I'm trying. I didn’t automatically become a father after having children. I think I’m forever learning. I still have a lot to go.”

“I did what I thought was right; I had to ensure that my family was safe, no matter the cost, and I didn’t even realize I put a damn war over everyone’s head. Sweetheart, I never wanted any of you to fight– I never wanted to put everyone on the line to battle. I would never wish for anyone to experience what I went through back on earth and funny enough, I brought it right to our doorstep.” And he felt his voice break as words tumbled out of his mouth in an incoherent pace, desperately trying to release all these emotions that had been clogging up his throat. He brought a hand roughly to his face in an effort to hold himself together, fingernails digging lightly into the delicate skin around his eyes. “I’m scared, babygirl.”

“Eywa was kind enough to give me children in the image of people I’ve already lost; Tsu’tey, Grace– hell, I even see Tommy on Lo’ak. That knucklehead is just too curious for his own good.” He didn’t know if it was a curse rather than a gift; every corner of his house was haunted and grief had made a home right on his very lungs.

He looks back at the flap of the hut and still no sign of you– even the bowl of fruits was left untouched. “Tough crowd.” He murmurs to himself before finally deciding to stand, his legs stiff from sitting still for too long. He awkwardly pats his thighs, shaking away the dust he collected. “Everyone is staying over at Mo’at’s. You can have the hut to yourself for the night.”

Space. Maybe you needed space. (And he was terribly wrong. Space was all that remained between you two.)

Jake starts to slowly walk away, yet somehow he feels like his troubles remain firmly on his shoulders. The guilt was there— all of it. He looks back one last time, praying. Eywa, give me one last chance. Let my daughter come running to me in an embrace and I’ll swallow my pride.

Nothing.

He felt his heart slowly breaking, the pieces of it slipping lower and lower down his stomach with every passing second. His mind was a mess; he could feel all his doubts and insecurities swirling about inside his body, each one vying for center stage. I am no better than my own father. I am no better than my own father. I am no better than my own father.

Unbeknownst to him, you were never in the hut to begin with. It was sick– such a cruel joke for the words you’ve been desperate to hear to be left unheard.

“Give me strength, dear mother. Tell me what I’m doing is just.”

You were kneeling on the damp, mossy ground close to the roots of the tree of souls, your hands tightly gripping onto your queue. The thick foliage that surrounded you was awash with the lavender hue that emitted from the vine-like leaves, lending you warmth from the chill eclipse. Woodsprites floated nearby, swaying close as if to welcome your presence.

Inching closer, you stretch out your arm before allowing the tendrils of your braid to coil around the hanging threads. Taking a deep breath, you let yourself feel– taking in the presence of Eywa.

Your mind was clouded. Once a dark space turned into something light– too light, it was almost blinding. Everything was blurry, almost like a dream, but you knew it wasn’t; knew well where you stood and why you were here to begin with.

Slowly, a vision emerges - a woman standing just a few paces from you. She feels something in the air and her ears perk up, as if she is trying to figure out the space she’s in too. Her head turns from each corner, cautiously checking the blurry surroundings. After a few moments of searching for something visible to the eye, she turns and finally spots you. A sudden shock passes through her body, evident by the way her eyes widen in surprise. She stands there for what seems like eternity, you can almost see the gears starting to move and click within her mind.

“Oh, my sweet child–”

She reaches out to envelop you in an embrace, but you take a step back in response. Her arms remain open– still hopeful that you’d run to her like how a child would to her mom, but you were just there, staring incredulously.

“I don’t know who you are.”

This couldn’t be Eywa. You would’ve known.

You two stood still, eyes drawing over each other’s lines and curves, trying to etch it in memory– then it dawned to you– could this be your mother?

“I knew Tsu’tey had the stronger genes, I just didn’t expect him to take up most of the space in your face.” She lets out a breathy chuckle, “Come close, child, let me see you.”

And you shouldn’t. You haven’t seen this woman all your life nor did the people provide enough stories about her. She was nothing but the person who had birthed and given you life– that should’ve been enough for you to run straight towards her, but you stood there, gulping down a familiar grief.

It’s weird for mothers and daughters to just coexist like she had not brought you upon the world at all. Sure, you have her eyes and you might grow to have her exact physique, but the word ma’ite sounded distant on her tongue– cold and unloving. Her arms weren’t inviting.

This wasn’t your mother. Mothers are kind and warm, like Neytiri.

Your legs moved forward in a hesitant pace, as if you were being pushed against your will. You stood closer, enough to let her cup your face. She lets out a choked sob– or was it laughter? You couldn’t follow. She lets her thumb mindlessly brush against your soft cheeks, eyes filled with so much love, you feared it would be too heavy. That love was reserved for you and only you– for all the ages you’d grow to be.

But all energy is borrowed. She has been carrying this longing tenderness for years in the afterlife.

You had Tsu’tey’s eyes, his lips. She’d argue that the nose is debatable, but surely if you rip open your heart, you’d find your mother’s own. Sweet, sweet child, forced to grow up too quickly. Tsi’ewa was sure you’d be the kindest soul.

You ponder deeply– what kind of life would your mother have had if you had never been born at all? Would she still be here, with all her vitality and vigor, relishing in the gift of her youthful years? Would she perform to the children, singing them lullabies they drift off into a peaceful sleep? The thought causes you profound anguish– your mother was just like you; full of life and once was a little girl too.

You wish you knew her enough to let the grief prolong.

“Time has been unkind to you,” She said softly, her fingers tenderly sweeping the loose strands of hair away from your face.

“You are not my mother.”

“I know.” She replies. Tsi’ewa doesn’t take it to heart how harsh your responses have been– you were just her little girl, lost and terribly misguided. “For all we know, I’ve only been one to you right now, so just this once– let my words bear meaning.”

You chose to wait; giving her the opportunity to slowly get acquainted with you, taking in every little detail of your face - from the stars of moles to the creases around your eyes. You were patient with her, allowing her to digest all that made you who you are – beyond just looks. She was just a mourning mother that grieved her little girl.

“You do not have to stay.” She whispers and her words hit a little too close to home, forcing you to squeeze your eyes shut and suppress a sob. “A boy would be Olo’eykte of the Omatikaya– but you, ma’ite, shall be mine.”

As the words slipped her mouth, you had finally granted her an embrace. You swear you had felt yourself turn smaller. Your head rests against her stomach, letting your ear listen for whatever you might hear. This is where you came from, you thought. Who knew a mother could bear a stranger? She clings to you with a desperate grip, preventing you from falling apart— as if it's her own way of trying to hold you together.

Just a bit more, Eywa. She begged. Give me a minute more to hold my girl.

I wish you’d give birth to me again, you cried, maybe then I’ll turn into something better.

You open your eyes, feeling beads of tears roll down your face. You mindlessly wipe them away, not truly grasping what had transpired or how the weight on your shoulders lightened. Woodsprites quickly flutter away once you regain consciousness. Your head shoots up, and a silent thank you escapes your lips as you bask in the warm glow of the light that touches your face.

Forgive me Eywa for leaving. Your ikran lets out a sharp shriek as you climb onto her back, taking steady steps up her body while gently caressing her back. The animal quiets down at your touch, eager to fly once more.

A heart is meant to be cupped by unscathed hands and if you cannot find palms big enough for yours, then you fear home is somewhere else.

finally posted a new chapter, how is everyone doing ! i honestly don't know what to feel about this part just yet, but i had to write through a writer's block so it might be ass. had to fight it or else i'd be stuck in a rut on god

very important ! i've decided not to take any more tags ;( i'm really sorry, but they take up most of my time and it bugs my posts because it only lets me tag to an extent? so if your name isn't mentioned, do know that i had to take out a few (or because your user didn't pop up when i tried) please turn on your notifications instead ;(

already proofread but please don't be hesitant to point out mistakes, i tend to be blind when it comes to editing teehee i listened to jacob and the stone by emile mosseri while writing this so you might want to do so too to set the mood !

love everyone so bad, thank you for being patient w me. smooch !

tags: @reyalvr @sparklyphantom @iwanttohitmyself @planetslove @teyamsjustsleeping @sully-stick-together @grandgreengrapes @erensbbg @queen-dk @loaklvr @theyoungeagle @ducks118 @teyyyteyyy @yeosxxx @simply-lovely78 @ellabellabus07 @thehoneymushroomhealer @saturdayrj @kingjulian0o9 @hippiezworldz @joemamalackin @random-3455 @zoetrope1997 @cl0esblogg @anxietydrogz @lokisfirstandlastwife @lunyyx @blkmystery @marsbars09 @gcldtom @luna-salem @wolflover384 @mushy-mushroom04 @whatthemonsterfuckisthis @eternalidentity @celi-xxmoon @dumb-fawkin-bitch @pinkeroppi @mellowdiy @jimfiqs @ell0ra-br3kk3r @ayra2452008 @vodoo-heart @rose-brulante @starxao @bluevenus19 @entertain-my-lvst @wwwellacom

2K notes · View notes

yesrandyandy42 · 2 years

Photo

A trip to Victoria Harbour for the Firelight Festival saw me snap a few pics. I hope you enjoy them 🔥 #victoria #victoriaharbour #fire #firelight #festive #winterfestival #coldnights #firedownbelow @firelightsfestival @cityofmelbourne @victoriaharbour @thedistrictdocklands @docklandsmelb (at Docklands, Victoria) https://www.instagram.com/p/CfeD6g3pdl-/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

#victoria #victoriaharbour #fire #firelight #festive #winterfestival #coldnights #firedownbelow

0 notes

cambion-companion · 1 year

Text

Part 2 now up!

Oooh, yes yes I know exactly what I want to write for these lovely Anon prompts! (edit: oh yeah, Aemond popped off in this one...I was expecting to be writing harsh words, and maybe threatening...but nah he uh kills them)

Aemond x wife!reader | crude language | protective Aemond | violence

Moonlight washed over your face, the cool night breeze rustling your skirts as you snuck outside the Keep walls. You knew he waited for you, just below the descending stone steps in front of you, awash in silver light.

You saw a figure in a cloak, hooded and tall, lithe of frame, waiting for you, his hand on the banister as he turned toward the sound of your hurrying feet. "Y/N." Your name on his tongue like honey as your husband extended his arm for you to take. "I was beginning to think you'd gotten lost leaving our rooms."

"Aemond." You chided. "That's only happened once, and I had Aegon as my escort, we were both thoroughly in our cups."

"Mmhmm." He guided you swiftly down the remaining stairs, out into the open streets of King's Landing, the Red Keep a looming fortress at your backs. "You were undetected?"

"I had to navigate around some guardsmen, but yes. No one knows we're sneaking off to the fire festival." You looked up at him from under your own hood. "Why are we sneaking, Aemond?"

"Anonymity is half the fun." He mused, squeezing your arm briefly. "I'd rather enjoy the festivities with my lady without peasantry taking notice of our presence."

Firelight up ahead caught your eye. As the two of you strode forward the quiet darkened streets gave way to raucous revelry. Small folk laughing and cheering as fire dancers whirled and spat flame. There was an open pavilion with a makeshift stage whereon actors flounced about in comedic costumes. Bussers carrying platters of drink and food navigated their way through the chattering crowd. The smell of baked goods and sweet delicacies teased your nostrils as you inhaled, sharing a smile with Aemond.

Aemond did not release his grip on you the whole time you indulged in as many festival activities as you could. At all times he had a hand gripping your cloak fabric or tangled his fingers with your own. More often than not, he would watch your face rather than the performances of the acrobats and fire eaters. You would be gazing at them open mouthed in wonder at their skill, then your eyes would flick to Aemond's face, and he would be studying your expression with a soft half-smile upon his curved lips, the firelight reflecting in his lilac eye.

As the night wore on, your feet began to ache despite the support of your leather boots. You were loath to leave, even as the crowd began thinning and the booths of food slowly turned in their wares.

A group of men, huddled together near a mossy stone wall, caught your attention as one of them said Aemond's name in a gruff voice. His fellows erupted into laughter at whatever he'd just said about your husband, and your fists curled into instinctive fists. Aemond's hand at your waist indicated he heard it too, and you glanced up to see he was staring at ground, his lips firmly pressed together as he concentrated on overhearing their conversation.

You both didn't have to strain your ears overmuch as the next words were clear to be heard, spoken in a deep drunken drawl. "He's lucky to have landed a lady like her."

His friends grunted in agreement.

Another man spoke up in a reedy voice. "Landed?" He scoffed. "Bedded is more like. What I wouldn't give to get a piece of her."

You noticed Aemond had stilled so completely, he had stopped breathing as his narrowed eye flitted to the huddle of men.

"Man like that Aemond Targaryen. Missing an eye and all that and still gets between the legs of something like her." A rail-thin man took a derisive swig from a bottle. "I would give her a good fucking and she'd be able to stomach my face."

"Get bent Tarful." His companion growled, pushing the thin man on the shoulder. "I'd love me the chance to put a bastard in her belly though."

"Aemond no!" You hissed, grabbing onto your husband's cloak but to no avail. The fabric was wrenched from your grip as Aemond strode forward, throwing back the hood of his cloak as he unsheathed his sword.

There were three of them, inebriated as they were, and only one of Aemond. You crouched to the ground, feeling around for a loose stone, anything that could be used as a weapon should the need arise.

The men didn't take note of Aemond's presence until he was almost upon them.

"What the shit?"

"Who the-"

"Oh, hells take me."

Horrified recognition slid across their faces as they took in the sight of Aemond's livid face. The prince stood rigid, a hand behind his taut back as he pressed the point of his sword into the eldest man's throat.

"You dare speak of my wife in such a manner." Aemond could barely speak for the overwhelming rage constricting his throat. "You dare have such vile thoughts about her."

His long silver hair shone under the moon, cascading down his back and over his shoulders, his violet eye aflame, clearly indicating who he was even to the drunken men before him.

The reedy man reached for a small dagger at his belt, drawing it and stepping toward the enraged prince.

"Foolish." Aemond seethed, barely glancing at him as his sword flashed in a blur of movement.

A spray of blood, the man crumpled. You gasped, looking away as you covered your mouth.

"Y/N. Leave." Aemond commanded, his tone still hard and imperious. "Head back to the Keep. I will catch up with you."

"Aemond..."

"Go!"

You scrambled upright, running across the deserted courtyard, only glancing back once to see the remaining two men cowering before the Targaryen prince, his long sword still extended, now dripping red.

Few others were still in the streets, and they paid you no mind as you hurried away, back up the hill to the Red Keep. Your stomach twisted with the memory of those men's violating words, and the sound of that body hitting the cobblestones with dull finality.

Aemond was gentle and kind when he was with you. You almost forgot he had the blood of Old Valyria coursing hot through his veins. His fury scared you as much as it thrilled you. You had never before seen this side of your husband. Now you understood a little better why the Targaryens were so feared and respected, the words of their family running through your mind.

Fire and blood.

3K notes · View notes

riaki · 5 months

Text

an excuse to touch | suguru geto x reader

pt.2 of christmas event! cw: reader is kinda drunk, u and him have a bunkbed but he always sleeps w u on the lower bunk :3

not proofread

"su— guru!"

he knows that pitchy voice; a lilt to it that tells him you've been drinking. a slur that links your breathy words together like the taut strings of a spider's web that's so imperceptible that it would've been impossible to pick up, unless you were him. because suguru knows you better than anyone else.

you say his name weird, which means you've indulged on the bottle of liquor your next-door neighbor brought you that morning, wrapped in a pretty festive ribbon with a snowman drawn into the cork. "my son drew it," your neighbor had explained, and suguru wonders how good of a parent he is, to be letting his 6 year-old doodle on a bottle of wine.

he doesn't have time to concern himself with other people's lives, however. he has his hands full making sure you don't topple into the christmas tree you'd both worked your asses off to decorate last weekend when you stumble into the living room like you're walking on two left feet, threatening to trip over the cord connecting the soft yellow lights to the outlet in the wall. he distinctly remembers the argument you had last night— you thought rainbow lights would look nicer on the tree, but he liked just yellow. in the end, he'd gotten what he wanted— but there wasn't much to gain when you had stolen his sweater and refused to give it back as a vengeance. and now, he couldn't find it.

"right here," he calls, looking up at you from where he's seated on the couch in your living room. the little tv screen plastered to the wall has a fake fire playing over the screen; he knows you love the immersion, even if your apartment complex doesn't have a fireplace or a chimney.

you make your way over to his chair and promptly fall into his already-waiting arms. he pulls you flush to his chest, tucking your head beneath his chin and letting you snuggle up to him in his lap. his callused hand immediately snakes up your back to slip beneath your shirt, massaging your back. his embrace is warm; soft. and he smells good, like pine needles and something gently sweet, a little smoky.

soon, your hands find his hair, winding a trail up his neck to thread into the dark strands and pull out the tie. before you can move any further, though, a hand darts out to catch your wrist, and the other moves to tilt your chin up and force you to meet his stern gaze, warm like amber resin on the tree bark.

"[name], where's my sweater?" he asks, raising an accusatory eyebrow. just like that, you shrink away, and he smothers the snicker of amusement that threatens to spill out like hot cocoa with a hand over his lips.

you blink, and he watches your eyelashes flutter. they catch the fake firelight, glowing like billowing reeds under a bright sun in lakewater that reflects the summer sky. "i dunno." a blatant lie; obviously, you do know, because a bit of the red string has tangled in your hair. it was crocheted for him by a friend; you'd think a doctor would have good needle skills, but operating on a patient might be easier than operating on a DIY crocheting kit and a bundle of old string. nevertheless, he took the ugly christmas sweater and cherished it; the scent of cigarette smoke and faintly sterile tiles that clung to it.

but suguru was pretty sure that would soon be replaced by the scent of you, if you kept it much longer. not that he minded, of course.

"i, uh. dropped it. in the fire." you said bluntly, stubbornly weaving your hands into his hair and pulling out his hair tie insistently. a few strands caught; even as drunk as you were, you still took the time to smooth out the tangles so you didn't accidentally rip out a patch of his hair. crude as it was, suguru appreciates little things about you like that. not the fire part, though.

"you dropped it in the fire." he echoes, raising an eyebrow. it feels condescending in a very suguru (read: affectionate) way, so you look away, lower lip sticking out. he thinks that just makes you cuter, though; you look like something straight out of his dreams. he can barely bring himself to be irritated.

"um, yeah."

"so.. it burned up?"

"yes."

"you don't have it anymore."

"no, i don't."

"the fire isn't real," he reminds you quietly; softly if you strain your ears.

"but it's so warm over here. and nice, and cozy. what else could it be?" you protested, flailing your arms as if hitting him would force him to reconcile with your beliefs. suguru just opts to lean away from you, an amused and easy smile on his lips. like he's looking at you in adoration; like you're still the one who was molded from clay to fit in his arms even though you supposedly 'burned' his sweater up.

"not sure," he hums, watching as you stand up on two shaky legs like a newborn doe away from its mother's side; the soft glow from the light of the christmas tree gently illuminating your frame. he wishes he could tug you back by the wrist and kiss you breathless, run his hands over you ever lovingly. "you're just like my personal little space heater." he chuckles, soft smooth and melodic, and it snaps you from your tipsiness as you glance back over at him. “fools me into thinking the fire’s real.”

his hair is loose, tumbling over his shoulders and framing his face like a renaissance prince under the soft light; the brown of his eye shines a gentle caramel, soft and smooth as butter and syrup. there’s an easy smile that curves his lips up; he looks unfairly handsome. he thinks he can catch sight of his reflection in the void of your pupil; it looks like there's a birdnest on his head. he frowns, reaching a hand up to muss the tangled black strands. the windows in the living room are vignetted by a frosted glass, a cold world of white waiting outside. it's almost enough to make him shiver, but here, in the warmth of your presence, the snow melts away with the sunshine of your smile.

his fingers catch in his hair and he lets out a pained grunt. he's straightening his bangs when he looks up from his comfy seat on the couch; you're across the room, sitting on the soft wool carpet. there's a stain on the bundles of fluff, constantly hanging over the both of your heads to remind you of how you'd been enjoying a shared cup of hot cocoa with candy cane chunks when your nasty feline sauntered over and promptly jumped into your lap yet again, knocking over the mug and pouring its terribly sweet and sticky contents onto the wool. it had haunted suguru's domestic household nightmares for days after. your evil cat is curled up in your lap, fluffy mitten paws tucked beneath its head as it naps, and suguru doesn't like the flare of jealousy that springs up in his gut.

you catch the look of disdain on his face and shoot him a lazy smile, tilting your head. it's an invitation if he's ever seen one-- deserved, he thinks to himself. that should be him with his head in your lap, your hands in his hair, smoothing out each individual knot, gently massaging his scalp in the way you knew he loved.

...

he shakes his head and stands, brushing the lint (and cat fur— always a pest) off his sweats and saunters over to you; there's that familiar gait in his step from always walking hunched over during his earlier years of youth. sometimes, you'll build a little pillow fort on your bunk bed and settle in his arms between his legs and listen to him tell you stories from a time that seems so long ago but so fresh like new mint leaves in his memory. he'll play with your clothes, bury his nose in your hair and breathe in the scent of home and something like apples and cinnamon in your shampoo. those fun little story nights are always enjoyable, only because he has the best audience.

he squats down, balancing his elbows on his knees as he peers down at you. your cat in your lap lifts its head, looking like the very dictionary definition of judgmental as it squints at suguru. you just laugh, like silver bells clear in a snowstorm, parting the howling wind as if it's the red sea. paving a path straight through the center of his heart like some cursed cupid's arrow.

he doesn’t mind, though, when you scoot your cat off your lap and open your arms wordlessly. he scoots a little closer before settling into you, back flush against his chest as your arms lock around his waist. you rest your chin on his shoulder and he can’t help the rush of butterflies in his stomach; suguru’s never been the type for this sort of girlish, giddy love. but you always bring new things to the table, don’t you? he loves that about you.

suguru settles into your arms, tilting his head to intercept the kiss he knows you’re about to plant to his cheek to instead meet your lips with his, and he swallows and relishes the little surprised gasp that leaves you when he does. a moment later, he hears a pretty little giddy laugh, and he can’t fight the smile that spreads over his lips.

"you're so soft," he whispers, and it's much more exhausted than he thinks it has any right to be, on such a comforting night like this when your laugh smells of sweet liquor wrapped in chocolate and you serve as good of a sweater as any clearance sale item could.

and soon enough, your fingers slide into his hair, separating soft dark strands like you're organizing a collection of seashells. it takes him a while to notice, but he soon realizes you're braiding his hair. the wind howls outside and the fake fire doesn't provide any heat, but your gentle touch and warmth feel like a cozy throw blanket hanging around his shoulders. and he feels okay now; with the way you run your fingers through his hair, delicately gathering the strands from his hair and running a thumb down the length to smooth the knots, weaving them together like a natural crown of holly flowers.

you brush a stray strand from the nape of his neck, and he shivers when your fingertips brush against the tip of his ear. he can't help but smile when you notice the goosebumps on his bare arms and free one hand to reach for his, tangling your fingers together while you untangle the mats in his hair. it's far too cold for him to be wearing that simple, worn white cotton shirt, but he doesn't mind if you'll be the one to keep him warm through this cold season.

it's all fine and dandy until he speaks up again, when you're nearly falling asleep over his head and your arms drape over his chest, toying with the sapphire necklace around his neck. your little cute breaths tickle the top of his head; you've finished the braid. it's a little messy and stray hairs stick out here and there— but at least you didn't settle for pigtails.

when he speaks, it's not directed towards you, though— he's speaking to your cat, with a stern tone you only recognize as the one he uses with you whenever your clothes end up on his side of the drawer or when his jewelry (or hairties) go missing.

and when you open your eyes groggily after suguru shifts to sit up, feeling the dreary loom of a mini hangover after you fall asleep in his arms tonight— you're blessed with the sight of your beloved house pet— a shredded chunk of tacky fabric from suguru's sweater in its mouth, and the death glare that you can only imagine contorting your handsome boyfriend's face.

needless to say, your cat will be nowhere around the two of you when you decide to share a therapeutic cup of hot cocoa again this time.

my (riaki) stuff. don’t repost and/or plagiarize !

500 notes · View notes

callsigns-haze · 25 days

Text

Forbidden Whispers

Pairing: Azriel x Cassian!sister reader

Summary: In the midst of Solstice festivities, Y/N, a spirited Illyrian soldier and Cassian's younger sister, finds herself entangled in a clandestine affair with Azriel, the shadowy spymaster of the Night Court. As their passion ignites, they navigate the dangers of their forbidden love, all while concealing their affair from prying eyes.

Content Warning: This story contains explicit sexual content, including scenes of intimacy and mature themes.

A/n: Thank you so much for 300 followers!

The air crackled with anticipation as Y/N strode into the bustling hall, her heart pounding in rhythm with the drums that echoed through the Illyrian camp. Solstice had arrived, bringing with it a fervour that electrified the atmosphere, igniting a spark of excitement within her that she couldn't quite contain.

Dressed in her traditional Illyrian leathers, adorned with feathers and beads that shimmered in the flickering firelight, Y/N felt a surge of pride as she joined the throngs of her fellow warriors. It was a time of revelry, of celebration, but beneath the veneer of merriment lay an undercurrent of tension, a reminder of the looming threat that hung over Prythian.

As Y/N scanned the crowd, her gaze inevitably found its way to Azriel, the shadowy spymaster of the Night Court, who stood at the edge of the gathering like a spectre cloaked in darkness. Despite the distance between them, she felt the weight of his gaze upon her, a silent exchange that sent shivers down her spine.

She had always been drawn to Azriel, captivated by the enigmatic allure that surrounded him like a cloak of shadows. There was a darkness within him, a depth of mystery that beckoned to her in ways she couldn't quite understand. And as their eyes met across the crowded hall, she knew that tonight would be different, that the boundaries between them would blur in the flickering light of Solstice.

Summoning all her courage, Y/N made her way through the throng, weaving between dancers and revellers with a grace born of years spent honing her skills on the battlefield. With each step, the anticipation grew, a fire burning in her veins as she drew closer to Azriel's side.

And then, finally, she stood before him, her breath catching in her throat as she met his gaze, dark as midnight and just as mesmerizing. There was a tension between them, a palpable electricity that crackled in the air, igniting a spark of desire that threatened to consume them both.

"Y/N," Azriel murmured, his voice a low whisper that sent shivers racing down her spine. "What brings you to the shadows on this night of celebration?"

A smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she leaned in closer, her pulse quickening with each passing moment. "Perhaps I simply wanted to dance with the shadows themselves," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

And with that, she extended her hand, an invitation that hung between them like a promise waiting to be fulfilled. And as Azriel took her hand in his, the world around them faded into obscurity, leaving only the two of them standing amidst the swirling chaos of Solstice.

Together, they danced, their movements fluid and graceful, a testament to the unspoken connection that bound them together. And as the night wore on, the barriers between them began to crumble, leaving nothing but raw desire and longing in their wake.

For in the shadows of Solstice, Y/N and Azriel found solace in each other's arms, their forbidden love burning bright against the backdrop of a world on the brink of war. And as the first light of dawn broke across the horizon, they knew that their love would endure, a beacon of hope amidst the darkness that threatened to consume them all.

As the music swirled around them, a hypnotic rhythm that seemed to echo the pounding of their hearts, Azriel's breath brushed against Y/N's ear as he leaned in close, his voice a low, enticing murmur that sent a shiver down her spine.

"Would you like to get out of here?" he whispered, his words laced with a potent mixture of desire and temptation.

Y/N's pulse quickened at the suggestion, her mind awash with conflicting emotions. She knew the risks of entertaining such thoughts, especially considering her status as Cassian's little sister. But in that moment, as Azriel's dark eyes bore into hers with a hunger that mirrored her own, all she could think about was the undeniable pull between them, a magnetic force that drew them together like moths to a flame.

"Yes," she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper as she surrendered to the intoxicating allure of the spymaster standing before her.

With a silent understanding that transcended words, Azriel took her hand in his and led her away from the crowded hall, their footsteps falling in sync with the pulsing beat of their hearts. They moved through the camp like phantoms in the night, slipping between shadows and moonlight until they reached the relative seclusion of Y/N's quarters.

Once inside, the air crackled with tension, a palpable electricity that charged the space between them. Azriel's gaze bore into hers with an intensity that left her breathless, his desire laid bare for her to see.

"I know who you are," he murmured, his voice a husky whisper as he closed the distance between them, his hand coming to rest against her cheek with a feather-light touch. "And I know the risks of what we're doing. But I can't deny what I feel for you, Y/N. I've tried, but I can't fight it any longer."

Y/N's heart thundered in her chest at his words, her resolve crumbling beneath the weight of her own desire. She reached out, her fingers tangling in the dark strands of his hair as she pulled him closer, sealing their fate with a desperate kiss that ignited a firestorm of passion between them.

In that moment, as their bodies entwined in a dance as old as time itself, Y/N knew that she was risking everything for a love that defied the boundaries of their world. But as Azriel's lips trailed along her skin, leaving a blazing trail of heat in their wake, she also knew that some risks were worth taking, even if they led to the brink of destruction.

As their lips met in a fervent embrace, the world around them seemed to fade into oblivion, leaving only the heat of their desire and the intoxicating taste of each other's lips. Azriel's hands trailed along Y/N's curves, a feather-light touch that sent shivers racing down her spine, while her own fingers danced across the hard planes of his chest, tracing the contours of muscle beneath the fabric of his shirt.

With each passing moment, the kiss deepened, their breath mingling in a heady rush of passion and need. There was an urgency between them, a hunger that could not be denied as they sought solace in each other's arms, their bodies moving in perfect harmony as if guided by some unseen force.

As their hands roamed freely, clothes became nothing but obstacles to be discarded in their pursuit of each other. With practiced ease, they shed their garments, each movement fluid and seamless as if they had done this a thousand times before. And all the while, their lips remained locked in a desperate embrace, unwilling to break the connection even for a moment.

With each layer of clothing stripped away, the heat between them intensified, a blazing inferno that threatened to consume them whole. And as their naked bodies pressed together in a primal dance of desire, they knew that there was no turning back, no escaping the fierce passion that burned between them.

In that moment, as they surrendered to the overwhelming tide of sensation, Y/N and Azriel became lost in each other, their souls entwined in a timeless embrace that transcended the boundaries of their world. And as they fell into the depths of passion, they knew that this was only the beginning of a love that would defy the very stars themselves.

With Y/N wrapped securely in his arms, Azriel carried her to the bed with a strength born of both desire and reverence. Gently laying her down amidst a sea of silken sheets, he lowered himself to her, his eyes burning with an intensity that mirrored the flames of their passion.

As he trailed kisses along the curve of her neck, Y/N arched into his touch, a soft sigh escaping her lips as his lips brushed against her skin like a whisper of silk. With each feather-light caress, he worshipped her with a reverence that spoke of his adoration, his lips leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

But it was when his lips found purchase on her breast that a low moan tore from Y/N's throat, her fingers tangling in the dark locks of his hair as she surrendered to the exquisite pleasure coursing through her veins. With each flick of his tongue and tug of his teeth, he sent waves of sensation crashing over her, igniting a firestorm of need deep within her core.

"Azriel," she gasped, her voice a breathless plea as he teased her sensitive flesh with a delicate touch. "Oh, gods, don't stop."

His praises spurred her on, her cries of pleasure growing louder with each passing moment as he coaxed her body to new heights of ecstasy. And as their passion reached its peak, they became lost in each other, two souls bound together in a timeless dance of desire and devotion.

In that moment, as they surrendered to the overwhelming tide of sensation, Y/N and Azriel knew that they had found something truly special in each other, a love that would endure the trials of time and fate. And as they melted into each other's arms, they whispered promises of forever, knowing that together, they could conquer even the darkest of shadows.

With a hunger burning in her eyes, Y/N locked gazes with Azriel, her voice a desperate plea as she uttered those three simple words that spoke volumes of her need.

"I need you now."

The intensity in her voice matched the fire that blazed within Azriel's dark eyes, his desire mirroring her own as he gazed down at her with an unwavering gaze. Without a word, he understood her plea, her longing for a connection that transcended the physical.

With a tenderness born of both love and reverence, Azriel positioned himself above her, his powerful frame poised to fulfil her every desire. And as he entered her, inch by inch, a low moan tore from Y/N's throat, her nails digging into his shoulders as she surrendered to the exquisite pleasure that washed over her.

Azriel was everything she had ever dreamed of and more, his size and wingspan a testament to his strength and power. But it was his tenderness, his gentleness, that truly stole her breath away as he moved within her, each thrust a symphony of sensation that left her gasping for more.

As Azriel quickened his pace, driving deeper into the depths of her desire, Y/N's moans grew louder, echoing off the walls of their chamber with a fervour that bordered on ecstasy. With each thrust, she felt herself teetering on the edge of oblivion, her body trembling with a pleasure so intense it threatened to consume her whole.

Her cries of ecstasy filled the room, a symphony of passion that mingled with the sound of their ragged breaths and the rhythmic slap of their bodies colliding. And as she tugged at Azriel's hair with a desperate need, her nails digging into his skin in a delicious mix of pain and pleasure, he praised her with words that only fuelled the fire burning within her.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured, his voice a husky whisper as he buried his face in the crook of her neck, his breath hot against her skin. "So perfect, so... exquisite."

His praises only served to drive her wilder, her cries growing louder with each passing moment as she surrendered to the overwhelming tide of sensation that threatened to consume her whole. And as Azriel urged her on with words of encouragement and adoration, she knew that she was lost, lost in a sea of pleasure and passion that knew no bounds.

Together, they soared on the wings of their love, their bodies moving in perfect harmony as they chased the fleeting moments of ecstasy that danced just beyond their grasp. And as they tumbled over the edge together, their cries of release mingling in the air like a sweet symphony of desire, they knew that this was only the beginning of a love that would burn bright for all eternity.

As Azriel delved deeper into the depths of her desire, Y/N found herself overcome with a wave of raw emotion that threatened to consume her whole. Tears spilled from her eyes, cascading down her cheeks in a torrent of sensation as pleasure mingled with pain in a bittersweet symphony that left her breathless.

Screaming his name, she begged for more, her voice raw with need as she surrendered to the overwhelming tide of sensation that threatened to pull her under. Each thrust sent shockwaves of pleasure coursing through her veins, igniting a firestorm of desire that burned hotter with each passing moment.

"Azriel!" she cried, her voice echoing off the walls of their chamber with a desperation that bordered on madness. "Oh gods, Azriel, don't stop!"

Her cries filled the room, a symphony of ecstasy that mingled with the sound of their ragged breaths and the rhythmic slap of their bodies colliding. And as Azriel urged her on with words of encouragement and adoration, she felt herself teetering on the edge of oblivion, her senses consumed by the overwhelming tide of sensation that threatened to consume her whole.

With one final, desperate cry, she tumbled over the edge, her body convulsing with the force of her release as pleasure washed over her in a tidal wave of ecstasy. And as she clung to Azriel with a fierce desperation, she knew that this was only the beginning of a love that would burn bright for all eternity, a love that transcended the boundaries of their world and soared on the wings of their passion.

As their bodies trembled with the aftershocks of their passionate encounter, Y/N and Azriel collapsed beside each other, their chests rising and falling in sync with the rhythm of their ragged breaths. In the hazy aftermath of their lovemaking, they lay entwined in a tangle of limbs, their fingers tracing lazy patterns across each other's skin as they tried to make sense of the whirlwind of emotions that threatened to overwhelm them.

For Y/N, the reality of what they had just done hit her like a ton of bricks, sending shockwaves of realization coursing through her veins. She was Cassian's little sister, a warrior in her own right, and yet here she lay, tangled in the arms of the shadowy spymaster of the Night Court. It was a forbidden love, a secret liaison that could spell disaster for them both if it were ever discovered.

And yet, as she stole a glance at Azriel, his dark eyes heavy-lidded with desire, she couldn't deny the fierce longing that burned within her, a longing that whispered of a love that defied the boundaries of their world. With each passing moment, she felt herself falling deeper and deeper into the abyss of her desire, unable to resist the pull of his magnetic presence.

Beside her, Azriel panted heavily, his chest heaving with exertion as he struggled to catch his breath. His dark eyes bore into hers with a hunger that mirrored her own, a silent acknowledgment of the passion that still raged between them.

In that moment, as they lay together in the quiet stillness of the night, they both understood the gravity of what they had just done, the risks they had taken and the consequences they would face if their secret were ever revealed.

As the weight of their forbidden passion hung heavy in the air, and before Azriel could utter a single word, the tranquility of the moment shattered with a thunderous pounding at the door. Y/N's heart lurched in her chest, a cold dread creeping over her as the voice on the other side grew louder and angrier.

"YN!"

She heard, his voice like a thunderclap, reverberating through the room with a ferocity that made her blood run cold.

Azriel's expression hardened, a flicker of concern passing through his dark eyes as he moved to stand, his movements swift and purposeful. With a sense of urgency, he gathered their scattered clothing, tossing them haphazardly to Y/N as he moved to answer the door.

"Cassian!" Y/N exclaimed, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and desperation. "Please, just listen—"

But before she could finish her plea, Cassian's voice thundered through the door once again, cutting her off with a ferocity that left her reeling.

"You have five seconds to explain yourself before I break down this door!" he roared, his words echoing off the walls of their chamber with a force that left no room for argument.

And as the tension between them reached a boiling point, Y/N knew that their lives would never be the same again.

Tagging some:

@callsign-magnolia

@kmc1989

@hardballoonlove

@senawashere

@hookslove1592

@marvel-molly

@lucky7rosie

#acotar #fanfic #acotar imagine #sarah j maas #a court of thorns and roses #azriel x reader #azriel imagine #azriel #azriel smut #azriel shadowsinger

252 notes · View notes

bettyfrommars · 7 months

Text

headlessHorseman!eddie x Reader

Welcome back to The Nightmare Factory

masterlist

18+ONLY

I had a request from @thiswaytoinfinity for a Headless Horseman version of Eddie, and this is what happened. Reader is AFAB and this chapter includes a surprise guest. Much love. wc: 3.3k

This is part of a collection of blurbs and short fics about Eddie only being able to communicate with you through your nightmares. It can be enjoyed as a standalone, but there is a story being woven through each chapter. Chapters with smut will be marked nsfw, but most of these are just pure silliness and yearning.

"None shall escape the horseman's sight! On your guard, the time is nigh! The Headless Horseman darkens the sky! No matter the realm, it's all the same; I will sear you all with burning flame!"

---------

You’d been marked by the Headless Horseman.

That much was obvious by the carved jack-o-lantern with a lit candle inside that appeared on your doorstep on that morning, the first of October.

A group of kids from town snickered and pointed at you, knowing that your demise was near, but you held your head high.

You didn’t believe in the Headless Horseman.

It was a fairytale woven by firelight to frighten gullible fools and babies—and you were neither.

You were a teacher now, and a good one at that. Your students did not hate you like they had the schoolmaster before. They didn’t hate you to your face, anyway.

You attended the fall festival behind the church that Saturday night, and Jesiah Smith would not leave you alone. He kept refilling your apple cider, which was nice, but you had no interest in him outside of friendship, and he didn’t seem able to take the hint.

The guy was standing way too close to you, Eddie observed from the shadows.

Eddie was patiently awaiting his scene in the dream as if he were an actor waiting for curtain call, but now the extras in your nightmare were getting on his nerves. It was impossible for Eddie to get to be in all of your nightmares, but he took the opportunities when they came.

Thank god he could tell you were already getting bored with the people around you; even in dreams you preferred to avoid mundane chitchat. He slipped back through the dark thicket of forest and mounted the black steed with ease—almost as if he’d paid attention in class this time. The horse with a long silky mane and red eyes exhaled hot air from its nostrils, and in the cold darkness, it looked like it was breathing smoke.

The wind picked up, scattering dead leaves, and you rubbed your arms to warm them up. Above, the moon was so round and big, and it glowed a pale yellow—in the distance, a wolf howled. You swore you heard noises from the forest over the sound of the fiddle that people were dancing to. Horse hooves trotting, a crow cawing, and the low moan of the wind through tight fissures in the trees, singing like a warning.

Jesiah offered you his jacket, but you told him it was time to grab your shawl and go.

He said he could walk you home, but you said no thank you.

He took hold of your arm to pull you back, to keep you from moving away, and a horse neighed loudly from somewhere deep in the woods, making everyone’s heads whip around to look in that direction.

“I’m fine,” you assured, snaking your arm away. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Jesiah.”

There was a blip in time then, and suddenly you were in the middle of the forest, and all of the villagers from the festival were gone.

You were all alone.

The air felt cold and damp all at once. Above you, the tops of the trees made a canopy way over your head like intertwined fingers that carved out a perfect slot for the mood between their knuckles.

You shivered again, but not from the cold this time.

You had no idea which direction to walk in order to get home.

An owl flew off of a branch near you and screeched as its big wings caught the air.

You turned on your heel, noticing a thin path that led into a denser part of the forest. “That must be it,” you whispered to yourself, taking a few cautious steps in that direction.

Your legs felt like you were walking in quicksand; you kept moving, but were still in the same spot.

There was a long silence filled with nothing but the chitter of crickets, the type of silence that pounded in your ears, and then you heard a branch snap nearby. You tried to jump from the spot you were in, but your legs felt like jello.

It was then that you felt the hot, wet snorts of breath on the back of your neck.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw the huge body of a horse with a man sitting atop it.

You went to step and tripped, falling to the ground as you actively scurried back and a scream caught in your throat, choking you, making you gasp for air.

The man was dressed all in black with pale skin and long, curly dark hair. A long coat, and riding boots that came almost to his knees. The black horse he rode was one of the biggest you’d ever seen—-and there appeared to be actual fire flickering in its eyes.

You noticed a thick, jagged line like a railroad track around the man’s neck.

“Are…are you the Headless Horseman?” You stammered, feeling like your voice was coming from somewhere outside of your body.

He cocked the head in question, his voice was deep. “Do I look headless to you?”

“No,” you managed to whisper, licking your dry lips.

Eddie’s heart was racing.

He felt like in every dream, the two of you had to start all over, but this time—-your eyes were soft as you gazed up at him. Almost as if you found him…familiar.

You watched from a tuft of dead leaves on the ground with your knees pulled to your chest as Eddie dismounted.

He dropped the reins and took a few steps toward you. “Listen,” the man cleared his throat. “I’m supposed to chase you out to the meadow and scare you, but I don’t really want to.”

“Why don’t you want to?” You stared at him blankly.

Eddie kicked something invisible with his boot, rolling his tongue between his lips. After a beat, he squinted and dipped his head, crossing his arms over his chest. “You don’t remember me?”

This was starting to feel surreal. Did you live in the town nearby, or was this a dream? This couldn’t be a dream—-he was standing right in front of you. You could feel the air moving in your chest.

You furrowed your brow and tried to think, but then shook your head, disappointed that you could not place him.

With dramatic flourish, the man threw his hands to his chest as if he’d been shot and fell to the ground, catching himself in a push-up position before rolling onto his back in front of you and flopping there. Orange leaves fluttered against him like lifeless butterflies.

You snorted a confused laugh and looked on, amused, searching his dark eyes as he got on his side and propped his head up on his hand.

“Wait,” you bit your lip. The memory of him was like a pinprick of light at the end of a long tunnel, but you reached out through your brain as hard as you could for it while Eddie held his breath.

You lowered your gaze to the ground for a second and then returned your attention to him, about to let something out of your mouth that didn’t make any sense. “Something to do with a ferris wheel?”

Eddie sat up and clapped, giving a fist pump of excitement. “Yes! Ferris wheel!” He got to his knees and craned his neck to get his head closer to you.

He was so close to you now, it wouldn’t take much effort to lean forward and kiss him; you had this deep swell of confidence that the two of you had kissed before.

His rich chocolate eyes were in quite a bit of contrast to his chalk white skin, and his plump lips were pale too; a tiny blush of pink against flesh that refused to warm. His dark hair was almost black and it matched the thick stitches that clamped down over the gash that seemed to go all around his neck.

Eddie released a heavy breath and took your hand.

“I want to tell you everything,” he said.

You squeezed his hand back, silently asking him to continue.

There, on a blanket of leaves, under the unblinking, watchful eye of the moon, Eddie told you that he was from another dimension, a place where they created nightmares for dreams. After a moment of hesitation, while he broke a dry leaf apart with his fingers, he raised his gaze to yours tentatively and admitted that he’d developed a crush on you the first night he saw you.

Nothing about this seemed strange to you, in fact, he might as well have been telling you that he worked for Foot Locker at the mall and was asking you out for a soda. All perfectly normal stuff.

A gust of wind brushed back his hair, and a murder of crows took flight.

“It wasn’t just the way you looked; you know. Even though you are beautiful, don’t get me wrong. Very, very beautiful, but it was…” he drifted off, a smile breaking his laugh. “...the little people you made out of potatoes that sat on your desk, and the heavily worn paperbacks by your bed, and the way you slept with every body part under the covers except for your feet.”

You dipped your head shyly, self-conscious that he’d seen you in such a vulnerable state—but you were not at all horrified like you would be if a guy in your world told you he’d been standing over your bed while you slept. Your reaction was that of someone who was familiar with Eddie and not at all bothered by the information he was admitting.

Things feel so different in dreams.

He hesitated, trying to get a read on your expression. “Is this too much? Am I saying too much?”

“I..” your thought trailed off as you looked around at the dark shadows that loomed in the clearing. “Is this a dream? Am I dreaming right now?”

Eddie brought his knee up and circled his elbow around it. He had picked the leaf in his hand clean, down to the vein, and turned the delicate piece over in his fingers. “This is all we have, for now,” he said softly.

In the distance, a dark rumble of laughter—a menacing cackle—broke the cricket song of nature’s silence and all the birds scattered.

You turned to Eddie with wide eyes. “W-what was that?”

“Crap,” Eddie lowered his lids for a long breath. “I can’t believe it’s time already.”

“Time? Time for what?” You mimicked his movements as he stood and dusted himself off.

The evil laughter continued to bellow as horse hooves pounded in the distance. Through a break in the trees, you could see something or someone thundering along on horseback.

“Quick, take my hand!” Eddie shouted to get your attention. He was already up high on the horse, but the ice grip of fear made you freeze. You caught his hand and stepped into the stirrup, swinging your leg over the saddle behind him at his instruction.

“Wrap your arms around me and hold on tight,” he shouted over his shoulder as the horse took a few steps, bobbing its head, eager to get a move on.

You did as you were told, pinning your cheek to the tight back muscles that were flexing under his coat.

Delilah, the horse, was fast and strong and she took off like a shot at Eddie’s command. “Just don’t look back!” Eddie told you as the wind blew his hair back into your face; it smelled like honeysuckle and campfire.

Eddie crouched down a bit as he spurred her on, and you kept your body glued to his, your tailbone hitting the back of the saddle.

Faster…faster….

Delilah bounded into the air to avoid a huge tree that had fallen, and you squeezed your eyes shut for what felt like forever until her hooves met the ground again and you were bouncing behind Eddie to the beat of her strides.

That was when you made the mistake of looking behind you.

Not too far back and gaining at paranormal speed, was an actual headless man atop a mean-looking horse that was even bigger than Delilah. He wore a long, dark cape that flew out behind him, and he was barreling down on the three of you with a knife in his hand; the blade was long and curved and the steel glinted in the moonlight.

You gulped, knowing instinctively that it was your head he wanted.

“He’s gaining on us!” You screamed into the wind.

“I told you not to look back!” Eddie responded just as Deliah caught air over a fence and landed in a wide open meadow.

“Who is it? What do they want?”

“It’s another headless horseman,” Eddie said through gritted teeth, squinting into the velocity of the escape. "And he wants you."

“There’s more than one??” you took the chance to peek over your shoulder again, only to see that the headless man in question was gaining on you. “Why do you have a head and he doesn’t?” you yelled as Eddie kicked his heels and urged Delilah on.

“I sewed my head back on just for you, baby.”

Eddie coaxed Delilah in a sharp right, bolting across the other side of the field. Straight ahead in the distance was an old, covered bridge, and Eddie was telling Delilah to beeline right for it.

“Once we get you across that bridge, he can’t touch you,” Eddie said.

“But what about you?” Your voice cracked as the words left your mouth.

“Don’t worry about me, I’ll find you again.”

The other Headless Horseman was right behind you now. He cackled loud and brandished the knife high in the air to let you see that he was serious, and it glinted in the moonlight.

You never doubted for a second that he would use it.

“How is he laughing without a head?” You chanced to ask.

“Oh, he has a head,” Eddie shouted. “It’s just not on him right now.”

Perfect sense, all of it.

You were so close to the bridge…so close

But then the other horseman was coming up beside you—

He sliced his blade through the air, missing you both by a hair.

Eddie threw him a dirty look. “What the hell, man?”

More evil laughter.

The blade came down again, this time, it would’ve clipped your arm if Eddie hadn’t made Delilah swerve in the other direction.

Now, you were headed away from the bridge.

“New plan!” Eddie yelled.

“Yeah what’s that?” The last word that came out of your mouth was a scream as you saw that the other Headless Horseman was suddenly blocking your path, swinging his arm back, ready to chop Eddie’s head off.

Eddie cursed and Delilah reared up on her back legs as if to protect the both of you with her hooves.

You let out a high pitched wail that pierced the night as you and Eddie toppled from the horse.

You landed in your bed.

Eddie landed in the alfalfa meadow.

Your mouth was dry when your eyes flew open to reveal the calm, familiar bedroom setting, while your hands made tight fists in the sheets.

It had only been a dream…but how could you still smell the campfire wood of his hair?

You’d never bolted from bed as fast as you did in that moment, scrambling for your pen and journal on the nightstand as you propped yourself up against the headboard. The tip of your tongue darted over your top lip as you concentrated, writing down everything you could remember from the dream…things he said…the way it felt…

That morning, you drew your very first sketch of him, too. It was rough, but you got the shape of his mouth correct and his hair, you even put in the details of the thick stitching around his neck that held his head on.

A couple nights went by before you saw him again, and when you did, it would be groundbreaking, because you would remember him for the first time.

Back in the dream, Delilah resumed a small trot before pausing to snack on some of the grasses. There was no more tension in the air, no more work to be done, now she could take a break.

On the ground, Eddie rolled onto his back with his arms out and groaned. The clouds gathered in the shape of a hand and cupped the moon in the dark blue sky.

The other headless horseman was snickering as he dismounted and sheathed his weapon at his side, slapping his leg with the flat of his hand for emphasis on how hilarious it had been.

“Smooth moves, Munson,” Headless Horseman Steve chuckled, his shoulders bouncing. “I only meant to scare you back in the forest, not start a hot pursuit.”

Still on his back, unwilling to move, Eddie grumbled, “I should’ve never vouched for you when you came looking for a job, Harrington.”

When Steve finally found the willpower to swallow his amusement, Eddie sat up, patting his arms to release puffs of dirt from the fall. “What the hell is wrong with you? Did you space out during safety training or what?”

Headless Steve stepped over to offer Eddie his gloved hand to help him up, but Eddie knocked his arm away and stood on his own.

“Why are you so salty?” Steve's head had been tucked under his cape this whole time, but he procured it now, cradling it in the crook of his arm. “You used to get a kick out of fucking with them.”

“Yeah, well, not anymore,” Eddie mumbled as he picked a piece of grass out of his hair. He turned his back on Steve and strode over to Delilah.

“You want to go back to the factory together?” Steve called out to him. “Maybe get a drink after?”

Eddie just shook his head before he got up into the saddle and kicked his leg over. “I’ll catch you later, Harrington. I need a minute,” and then he clicked his tongue and Delilah moved toward the bridge, to the portal that would take him back to the dream simulator.

“Sure, man, okay,” Steve said weakly, his mouth moving on the head he had under his arm. “Good talk.”

Eddie released a heavy sigh as he bobbed up and down to the sway of Delilah’s stride. He felt like he really got through to you this time, and he wasn’t about to give up. Even if he had used up all of his chances to appear as himself to you, he’d find a way.

A big Sasquatch named Saul had ventured out of the woods to see what was going on, and now he stood next to Steve, watching Eddie go.

“What’s the matter with him?” Saul asked, his enormous body towering above his coworker. He was covered head to toe with brownish-red hair or fur, so much so that the only way you knew he had eyes was due to the fact that the hair on his face moved when he blinked.

“Beats me,” Steve scoffed. He was a little hurt that Eddie hadn’t responded the way he’d expected. It’s almost as if he…cared about the person who was having the dream? But that was silly. Nightmare workers weren’t allowed to have any connection with their clients.

Steve collected his horse’s reins in his free hand. “You feel like a beer?” He asked Saul.

“I am thirsty,” Saul responded, twisting to crack his back. “Just need to let a few more people get a glimpse at me through the trees, and then I can’t meet you back at the lockers.”

-----

Thank you for reading 🧡

#eddie munson #the nightmare factory #nightmare!eddie #eddie munson fic #eddie munson series #spooky season fic #headlessHorseman!eddie #headless horseman

261 notes · View notes

girl-next-door-writes · 5 months

Text

Something

Characters: George Weasley x reader

Summary: When George bumps into a familiar face he begins to realise what he truly wants for Christmas.

Word Count: 1167 words

Prompt: Best Friends To Lovers. Tugging You Closer By Your Waist. Coffee Shop. “You know you’re stuck with me right?”

A/N: This is the second of my Build-A-Festive-Fics so thank you to the amazing @achromaticerebus who put these prompts together for my favourite Weasley.

***********************************************************************

It was mid-December and George Weasley strolled through the enchanting scene of Diagon Alley, a swirling snowfall turning the bustling wizarding street into a winter wonderland. The shop windows were adorned with glistening decorations, casting a warm glow on the cobblestone streets. Everywhere he looked, green wreaths and twinkling lights illuminated the magical atmosphere, creating a festive charm that hung in the air. His breath visible in the crisp winter air, he couldn't shake the subtle ache in his chest. The laughter of couples echoed around him, their shared moments of joy accentuating his sense of loneliness. His eyes drifted toward a couple in front of him, heads close together, exchanging whispered secrets beneath the glow of a magical lamppost.

Trying to shake off the melancholy, George decided to visit his favourite coffee shop, "Brews and Brews." The aroma of freshly ground coffee beans and the warm glow of the fireplace greeted him as he stepped inside. The place was filled with laughter and chatter, providing a comforting backdrop to the holiday season.

As George waited for his order, his attention was momentarily diverted when he noticed someone familiar across the room, and a soft, nostalgic smile tugged at the corners of his lips. There you were, seated alone at a cozy corner table, bathed in the flickering glow of the firelight. You seemed completely engrossed in a book, a world of words and magic unfolding before you. George couldn't help but take a moment to watch you, the fondness evident in his eyes. The two of you had been firm friends since your school days, and this wasn't the first time he had found himself captivated by your presence.

Memories of shared laughter, late-night conversations in the common room, and countless adventures together flooded George's mind. But somewhere in amongst all the shenanigans, there had been a subtle shift that had taken place over the years; a shift that George had only recently begun to acknowledge. As he observed you, a warmth spread through his chest, and his heart skipped a beat. Picking up his coffee, he made his way over to you.

"Hey, stranger," George greeted with a playful grin, smoothly sliding into the seat opposite you. The rich timbre of his voice pulled your attention away from the book, and as your eyes met his, a genuine smile illuminated your face, recognizing the familiar presence.

"George! What brings you in here? I’d have thought you’d be working every hour you could up to Christmas," you remarked, curiosity lacing your words as you closed the book and set it aside.

George leaned back, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Well, you see, even pranksters need a break now and then and I thought I'd take advantage of the festive charm. What about you? Any exciting plans for the holidays?"

As the conversation flowed, the warmth of the fireplace mirrored the growing warmth between you and George. The laughter and shared memories from your school days echoed in the air, creating a comforting backdrop to the catch-up session.

"He didn’t! I always thought it was Lee!" Your laughter resonated through the cozy café, and George couldn't help but feel his heart swell with joy.

"I swear it was Fred! Honest! And that’s why Samson had to wear a hat for a month," George insisted, a playful glint in his eyes as he recounted the mischief from their Hogwarts days.

Your sceptical look only fuelled the mirth in George's expression. "And you had absolutely nothing to do with that?" you questioned; your tone laced with a hint of disbelief. The mischievous twins' reputation for pranks was legendary, after all, where you would find one of them it was fairly certain the other would be.

George responded with a nonchalant shrug, his expression confessing more than his words. It was clear that he was just as involved with the prank as his twin had been. The memories of their shared antics seemed to weave a thread between you, a thread that connected past mischief to the present moment.

Time passed in a blur, and before you knew it, the two of you were bundled up against the cold, strolling through a snow-covered Diagon Alley, and every step seemed to conjure up memories of laughter and shared stories. Beneath the gentle glow of the streetlamps, the soft light intermingled with the delicate snowfall, casting a romantic ambiance over the cobbled path. The crunching sound of snow underfoot accompanied your laughter as you exchanged tales of past adventures. The air was filled with a sense of enchantment, the flickering lights and the serene snowfall conspiring to create a moment suspended in time.

"I've missed this, you know," George admitted softly as the conversation lulled, his breath creating little puffs of steam in the crisp winter air.

"Me too. It's been too long since we've just hung out."

A comfortable silence settled between you, broken only by the soft crunch of snow beneath your feet. George felt the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air, and a nervous energy danced in his eyes as he searched for the right way to express what had been quietly brewing within him.

“I didn’t mean that I just missed hanging out. I missed you. I missed us.”

Your gaze met his, and the sincerity in his words lingered in the frosty air. George took a deep breath, hoping to summon the courage to delve into uncharted territory.

“You know you’re stuck with me, right?” you teased, a playful smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

George chuckled, a mixture of relief and affection evident in his expression. "Well, perhaps I want to be stuck with you."

The moment hung in the air, suspended between the snowflakes and the twinkling lights of Diagon Alley. The realisation of unspoken feelings coloured the atmosphere, as the two of you stood looking into each other’s eyes.

Suddenly, George reached out, gently tugging you closer by your waist. The gesture felt so natural, as if he had done it a million times before, and your hands came to rest against his chest. It was right then that George knew he couldn’t let this moment pass.

"You know," George began, his voice low and sincere, "if I’m stuck with you, that also means you're stuck with me, right?"

You met his gaze, a soft smile playing on your lips. "Good thing I wouldn't want it any other way."

And just like that, beneath the twinkling lights and the falling snow, George realised that the best Christmas gift he could have received was standing right in front of him. The transition from best friends to something more felt like the most natural progression, a love that had been quietly brewing for years, he just hadn’t realised it until now. Cupping your cheeks, he took a chance, leaning down and capturing your chilly lips in a soft but searing kiss. Perhaps this Christmas he wouldn’t feel so lonely after all.

#George Weasley #George Weasley x reader #gndw fic #build a festive fic

161 notes · View notes

kaeyx · 1 month

Text

Vis habere hunc cabalarium in sponsum - Nakahara Chuuya

Pairing: knight!Chuuya X afab!gn!reader [2.5k]

Warnings: smut, period typical mentions of god/christianity/marriage, loss of virginity, technically infidelity, p in v sex, Chuuya is whipped, not proofread!!

Additional notes: this is the white day special! Thank you to my pookie @neviex for giving me the brainrot <3

"Tomorrow. You will go to the church. And you will be wed."

"And you'll go with me?" You say it like a question, though you already know the answer.

"Of course."

"And afterwards?" You also know the answer, you've asked at least a dozen times this week alone. It helps to hear him say it.

"I'm not going anywhere." He confirms.

"All throughout the festivities."

Chuuya just looks at you, his face somber. You sit on your bed with a sigh, and he shuts the heavy door to your room behind himself. A fire burns merrily in the hearth, but the air is cold. Neither of you speak. You begin to take off your boots just to have something to do, and Chuuya turns to the fire, kneeling by it. His chainmail and the edges of his tunic gleam in the light, but you can't see his face.

After shirking your belt and tunic you fall back onto your sheets with a sigh, clad in just your shirt and drawers. Being half naked in front of Chuuya is ill advised, especially on the eve of your wedding, but it's not like you care. He's been with you far longer than your future spouse will ever be. It doesn't feel unnatural at all.

Your thoughts swirl, somber. In the morning you'll leave this place and never come back, auctioned off like a pawn in exchange for an alliance. It's how things work and you've numbly accepted it, but somehow your heart still aches. The next fief over seems a world away, and you know you won't be able to visit home whenever you feel like it.

"I can't stand to see you like that," Chuuya says, startling you. In the firelight, his hair glows like a halo.

You sit up, looking at him properly. He's still facing away from you. Somehow, Chuuya has always been able to read your thoughts. "Miserable?"

"Married." Chuuya's eyes meet yours.

He finally gets up, and you see he's got something in his hands. A messy lump of small, riveted iron. Wordlessly he crosses the room and kneels at your feet, taking your left hand off the bed. Your mouth goes dry and your legs part automatically, letting him settle between them. You're very suddenly aware of your heart, beating frantically in your chest, hard enough to make you dizzy.

Chuuya's eyes find yours, uncharacteristically wide.

"Please," he says. There's something vulnerable in his voice. You nod.

He fiddles with the metal then slides it onto your finger, and you let him. It's a ring, made of chainmail. Your eyes flick between him and your hand, and he wordlessly shows you the hem of his mail, the small chunk missing there. Just enough for you to notice, if you know what you're looking for. Your heart aches as you look into his eyes, scared and hopeful and determined all at once.

Something rises in your chest, burning your throat. You sniff and rub your eyes, ripping your hand out of his grasp only to pull him into a hug. Hot tears slide down your cheeks and you muffle a choked sob into the cold metal of his shoulder. Chuuya's arms, just as strong and steady as you've always imagined, hold you tightly to his chest and he buries his nose in your hair. He manoeuvres you carefully but effortlessly onto your bed, going with you when it becomes apparent that you refuse to let go. Like this you're properly tangled up, practically sitting in his lap with the sharp, almost spicy smell of sweat and cloth all around you. Your chest feels lighter than it has in weeks, and the ring is warm around your finger.

You waste no time sneaking a hand down to the hem of his tunic, slipping it under the mail and cotton as you kiss the corner of his mouth.

"Wh- hey, what-" Chuuya splutters, his hands lifting from your body in uncertainty.

"Consummate it," you reply firmly, pressing yourself closer to him and pulling his mouth back onto yours.

His demeanour shifts and he's on you in an instant, just like you knew he would be. Letting out a muffled moan against your mouth while he pushes you down, one hand gripping your waist while the other rests next to your head. His legs are between yours, keeping them spread, making you feel deliciously exposed. You feel naked already, laid bare for him, and it feels /right/. Just like how you'd imagined your wedding night to be, when you were still a child who listened to fairy tales.

Chuuya's hands burn, sliding up your hips and under your shirt. He pauses as the fabric reaches the top of your thighs, looking at you uncertainly.

“Yes,” you say immediately, a comforting warmth blooming in your stomach.

He uncovers your skin bit by bit, transfixed, unable to keep his eyes off you as he slowly strips you of your last layer. You raise your hands to your chest, nervous, but he gently takes them and puts them back by your head. He looks mesmerized, his mouth parted as he looks you up and down. A soft “/wow/” escapes from his lips and you can't help but laugh.

“I don't want to be the only one bare,” you remind him, tugging on his sleeve.

Chuuya visibly shakes himself and scrambles off the bed, bending forward to help his mail slide over his head and fall to the ground with a heavy, metallic thunk. He unceremoniously shirks his tunic and hose, suddenly revealing a great expanse of skin to you. It's all wiry muscle and freckles, pale and covered in scars from various skirmishes. You can't help but stare, taking in the graceful curve of his collarbones and hips, the seamless way each muscle leads into the next as he steps towards you. Your hands twitch, eager to reach out to him, to touch him.

Chuuya takes your hand, kissing your ring before turning it around and kissing your palm too. His lips move slowly, as if he wants to savour your skin, down the inside of your wrist and all the way to the crook of your elbow while he crawls onto the bed again. In a daze, you run your free hand over his back and side, feeling how his hip fits perfectly against your palm, like you were made to hold each other.

Curling your free hand in towards his hair you pull Chuuya away from your arm, skin still tingling wherever his lips touched it. You stare into his storm grey eyes and he looks back with just as much intensity. No words come out, but he lowers himself down until his forehead is resting against yours, his breaths mingling with yours.

“You know what this means, right?” Chuuya asks, and you look at him again.

“I'm marrying you.”

He nods. “In God's eyes, we're wed. You can go put on a show tomorrow and be handed off to whoever you like, but it doesn't matter.”

You stroke his cheek. “Mine,” you say simply. “My husband.”

He gasps at that, his pupils going wide and dark, clearly not anticipating the effect your words would have on him. Chuuya grabs your chin, kissing you messily and desperately, groaning into your mouth.

“Fucking hell.” His voice trembles. “I want you so much, right now.”

You whine at that, shivering as he trails kisses to your neck and chest. “Please, Chuuya?”

“Anything, anything you want.”

“Do it.” You hesitate a second, nervous and excited all at once. “Take me.”

He tugs on the last piece of fabric covering you, sliding the hose off your legs finally letting him see you. They fall onto a heap next to his own clothes, while Chuuya's hands trace your bare thighs. There's wonder in his eyes, longing. You reach out for him, pulling him back up to lie on top of you, feeling the hardness of his chest and the graceful lines of his spine and neck.

That's when you finally let yourself focus on it, and look down. His cock, resting thick and heavy on your stomach, the tip weeping little milky drops of precum that glisten in the firelight. Chuuya sees you staring and kisses your forehead, slowly taking his length in his hand and smearing the mess onto your stomach.

“Don't be scared,” he reassures.

“You're shaking too,” you point out, stroking his back.

“I….” Chuuya swallows, looking back into your eyes. “I can't believe this is real. That you're real.”

“I never thought I could be so happy about getting married. I'm just…. nervous.”

You part your legs a little more as he rubs the tip over your folds, gasping when he feels how wet you are.

“It's okay, I won't hurt you. Can I?” Chuuya pauses, poised over you, glowing like an angel on fire in the light of the merry embers.

“Always,” you nod.

He holds your hand, intertwining your fingers and leaning down towards you, kissing your shoulder. You relax against the foreign feeling, gasping as something hot and unfamiliar slides against your folds, holding onto his sides for support. This is it.

"Take me, take me inside. I've got you," he whispers feverishly against your neck, groaning low in his throat.

His lips feel so soft and his hair tickles your chest, scarred arms keeping you safe and pressed between him and your bed. It's a sin but the consummation feels holy all the same. No, not a sin. A betrayal. Throwing away your chastity. And yet, as you whine and dig your nails into Chuuya's bare, muscled back, you don't regret it one bit. You're right where you're meant to be, surrounded by him and full of him at the same time, feeling his hot breath on your skin as he trembles above you. Your /husband/. It stings only a little, his thick girth stretching your walls, breaking your purity and you lean into the feeling. Only he'll feel like that.

“Move Chuuya, please….. I can take it.”

Chuuya nods, wide eyed, his gaze never leaving yours. He drinks in all your expressions, the twitch of your brows and how you bite the inside of your mouth and cling to him, your nails surely leaving little marks on his skin. You groan quietly, the feeling of something dragging along your walls is strange, but you also feel oddly full. Oddly whole. You fit together perfectly, your warm cunt wrapped tight around him and twitching with arousal, Chuuya's breath catching in his throat when his cock is squeezed. He gives a few timid strokes then moves his hips more, in and out, sloppy motions that are nonetheless perfect. He cups your cheek with one calloused hand, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the corner of your eye to wipe away the last of your earlier tears.

Chuuya's eyes travel down your body and he leans back a little to get a good view, running his hand down your chest and stomach with care. He reaches down, down between your legs where your bodies connect, and pauses to look back up at you.

“Yes, Chuuya. You can,” you nod, rubbing his arm.

His fingers trace your cunt gently, reverently, feeling your entrance stretched wide around him. He brushes against your clit and you gasp, you hips twitching up to chase more of that unexpected pleasure.

“Is that good?” Chuuya asks, stroking the spot and feeling the hard nub hidden under its hood.

You nod, grabbing his wrist and pushing his hand further against you, biting your cheek and squeezing your eyes shut.

“Don't stop,” you whisper, “move more, Chuuya, please.”

He nods, wide eyed, his breaths shaky as he begins to pump his hips again. Chuuya slowly finds a rhythm, one thumb stroking your clit in messy motions as he fucks into you. You groan and writhe under him, your head tossing from side to side, unsure where to put your hands or where to look, pinned under those beautiful eyes that seem to want to devour you.

“It's okay, it's okay, I'm never leaving,” Chuuya is babbling incoherently, such a stark contrast to his usual strong, expressive voice. His eyes look unfocused, his mouth hanging open a little and lips glistening with spit.

“Chuuya…” You whine, pulling him in by the hair to kiss him and feeling his lips continue to whisper reassurance against yours.

“I'm yours, okay? And you're mine, all mine.”

You nod shakily, the words sending a spike of need straight to your pussy. Chuuya smiles, dazed and self satisfied and full of love all at once, gripping your thigh and pulling it against his side. Something about the angle lets him go deeper, dragging against your walls while you hold him tight and hide your face in his hair. His head is bowed as if in prayer, buried in your chest as he groans and swears under his breath, pressing your bodies closer until every smooth roll of his hips rips a gasp from your throat. Your hands find their way into his hair, pulling on the silky strands as you hook your legs around his waist, finally relaxing and letting yourself be louder. His hips slap rhythmically against yours to create a wet, embarrassing noise and his thumb never leaves your clit, rubbing and circling and playing with the slick pearl as it swells and twitches. Something is building, growing tight and hot in your cunt, making your legs tremble and squeeze him tighter.

“I think… Chuuya, I'm going to…”

“Let go, please my love, let yourself go…”

Your eyes roll back as the knot snaps, your voice breaking on his name as you finally cum. Your hands fisted in his hair and clawing at his back, your legs locked around his hips while he keeps pumping into you, as if your body is instinctively trying to draw him in deeper. The whole world narrows down to him, his warm body over yours, the sharp smell of sweat, his gorgeous voice muffled into your chest as he almost cries from the feeling. Your cunt is spasming uncontrollably, tightening around him to the point of being painful when he moves, trying to suck him in. And Chuuya was never a strong man when it came to you. He gives in as soon as you cry out, his own orgasm crashing into him until he's gritting his teeth and digging his fingers into your bedding, his hips stilling as he fills you up. It's warm, spreading through you and mixing with the feeling of satisfaction sinking into your very bones.

Chuuya trembles through his orgasm, all his muscles tense, before falling into a heap on top of you. He's panting hard, his hands refusing to leave your hips as you wrap your arms around him. You're both sticky with sweat and you can feel his cum beginning to dribble out of your cunt, probably staining the sheets, but you feel too exhausted and wonderful to move.

“My knight,” you say happily, kissing the top of his head.

Chuuya rubs his cheek against you, turning his head just enough to press a warm kiss to your chest. “Yours.”

#chuuya.bsd #knight!chuuya #chuuya x reader #chuuya x you #knight Chuuya

94 notes · View notes

thesugarsoiree · 7 months

Text

Of Winter’s Flame | CHAPTER FOUR

When Y/n arrived back in the King’s quarters she was confused, seeing a small dining table set up near the fireplace. Apparently her first supper was to be exclusively with the King and Queen, slowly easing her into the Targeryen family.

“The King and I have been pondering this subject since you left on your journey from Winterfell,” The Queen began after the second course was served, pleasantries and idle chatter out of the way, “but we have finally settled on it. In the coming days we shall throw a weeks-long festival in honour of your arrival.”

“Are you certain?” Y/n smiled, a bit taken aback by such a gesture.

“A great celebration for a great Lady.” The King said, taking a sip from his goblet. Y/n never knew anyone to be as frivolous as southerners, especially as frivolous as Targaryen’s. Such a large event should be saved for truly important occasions, such as a nameday or wedding, not the arrival of an estranged family member.

“I thank you, uncle, aunt,” Y/n tested the new title on Alicent, the woman doing nothing but offering a humble nod, “your kindness is unexpected given my fathers past actions.” Viserys sighed at that, Alicent’s pleasant expression dropping for a moment at the mention of Y/n’s father.

“My brother has made hideous oversights the past few years, and I hope that we may show that not all of your family is quite the same.” Viserys shook his head, a disappointed frown wrinkling his face.

“Yes, we shall appreciate the greatest gift the north has given us.” Alicent beamed, calling a servant forward. He handed her something he had been holding all dinner while dessert was being served, Alicent giving an ornately decorated box to Y/n.

“For you, my dear.” The Queen said as Y/n opened the box with a snap. She gasped, the case opening to reveal a shimmering necklace, adorned with black and green jewels the colour of which Y/n had never seen before. Her usual jewelry contained white diamonds and deep blue sapphires, perhaps the occasional blood-red ruby to honour her fathers house, but a green such as this was rare to find in the north. She felt the cool stones in her hand, watching the way the firelight reflected off of them in quick bursts.

“A welcoming present, we know that you shall wear it well.” Viserys held his hand to his chest, easing his breath as Y/n placed the necklace back within its case.

“This is the most beautiful shade of green I have ever laid eyes on, your grace.” She almost couldn't contain her girlish giggle.

“I believe that you will come to find that green is the most attractive of colours.” Alicent laughed, and Y/n laughed with her. The rest of supper was spent discussing the celebration which was to be held at a nearby forest, only the royal party joining while the small folk enjoyed an excuse to be drunk in the streets without reprimand from the Citywatch.

That night while she tried to fall asleep Y/n tossed and turned, body too excited to force sleep now. Y/n wrapped a shawl around herself, taking a lantern and going for a short walk. Her guards once again tried to accompany her but Y/n declined, taking Tohrren with her instead. The halls of the Red Keep were surprisingly quiet during the night, its darkness illuminated by the occasional torch. She would have thought the Red Keep was far more busy during the night than Winterfell, but it seemed just the same, with no one up but the guards who stood watch for their Lady’s and Lord’s.

She often found herself on these walks, strolling alone with her thoughts and without duties to attend to for the day. It was a moment of calm; a moment of peace. This time, her peace was interrupted. He was like a shadow against the wall, Y/n didn’t realize he was there at first, looming like a scorned specter. She caught a glimpse of him in the corner of her eye, the current area of the hall darker thanks to its unusually spaced torches. She was left with only her flickering lantern to illuminate the frightening figure, something blue glinting briefly in the light, like a fire of warning.

Y/n gasped, Tohrren standing on guard, and whipped herself to face him. He was leaning against the wall, sharp features aggressively outlined in the dim lighting of her small fire. The shadows moved against his well defined face, and although there was not much light the darkness filled out the rest of him for Y/n to see.

The Queen was right, green was the most attractive of colours, especially on the one-eyed prince, for he wore green like he had never worn another colour in his life. They were nightclothes, light and airy, his white linen shirt halfway tucked into deep green trousers. His hair was pulled back into a loose braid, rouge strands framing his face and the smirk that held firm on his lips.

“My Lady Y/n.” His voice was a smooth timbre, soft in tone as not to echo through the empty halls. He stood from the wall and approached her with confident strides, taking her available hand and putting it to his rosy lips.

“What a pleasure it is to finally meet you.” He leaned down into a bow, gently kissing the skin on the top of her hand. Y/n was at a loss for words, entirely caught up in the sudden meeting and sudden attraction to her estranged cousin. He looked up at her with one eye, the other covered by a soft eye-patch with subtle hand-stitching on it; no doubt his mothers work.

“Prince Aemond,” Y/n curtsied, finding her manners, “I did not expect to run into you so suddenly, I was merely clearing my head before I slept.”

Aemond stood to his full height, a head taller than the girl in front of him, and chuckled, “I find I have the same problem during late hours, perhaps it is a trait we Targaryens share, hm?”

“Perhaps, I have not known my uncle to wander about Winterfell as I have.” She looked away from him, nervous at their proximity to each other with no one else around.

“Then I should hope we can accompany one another on our sleepless nights, would you care to walk with me?” He offered out his arm, cool lavender eye unwavering in its gaze. Y/n looked down at his arm, taking it with hesitance but smiling nonetheless.

“Of course, your highness.” She said as they began walking, silent at first. Tohrren was close by her side, still on edge although trained enough that he did not attack unless instructed.

“So, I hear that you arrived yesterday, correct? I apologize I was not there to greet you, my mother has taken it upon herself to make sure you are settled before you join court.” Aemond commented, taking her down another stretching hallway.

“I am glad that the Queen has such a fondness for me, I would not want to be one in her bad graces.” Y/n breathed out a nervous sigh, holding tighter onto her lantern.

“You’re smart, being one that the Queen likes is always favourable. I have heard that my sister Rhaenyra also holds a certain appreciation for you.” He uttered his sister's name with less love than she expected.

“The Princess did visit me as a young girl, that is true. She will make a fine Queen one day, and I hope that I shall be in her good graces as well.” Aemond tensed up at the mention of Rhaenyra ascending the throne, mouth twitching subtly.

“I’m sure you will be.” There was silence for a moment before he spoke again, “You are more northern than I expected given your parentage.” He hummed, looking down at her.

“So I have been told. I respect my Valyrian blood but I do not respect who gave it to me. I was born into the ways of the north and I shall not forget them simply because I am here.” Y/n said resolutely, furrowing her brows as if to challenge anyone who would suggest otherwise.

“Loyalty; a trait of the Starks.” Aemond grinned in a sort of childish way before speaking again, “It is getting late, my Lady. I do not wish to keep you for long, I can walk you back to your chambers.”

“Of course, my prince.” Y/n agreed switfly, leading him back to her room. Her guards were on edge as soon as they saw her arrive with the prince, stiff and unmoving save for their eyes which trained on him.

“Good night, my Lady.” Aemond bowed, kissing her hand again.

“Good night, my Prince.”

#x reader #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #hotd x reader #x fem!reader #hotd aemond #house of the dragon #hotd #game of thrones #aemond targaryen smut #aemond one eye #asoif/got #aemond targaryen #ofwintersflame

402 notes · View notes

rookthorne · 4 months

Text

⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ 𝐃𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠

Opulence was so readily and freely available to you in your lifestyle, and you had your love to thank for that. Of course, that meant you were going to find him the most dashing present, and spend a fortune on it, whether he liked the pop of colour, or not.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 ✦ Mafia!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 ✦ 1.1k

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 ✦ Fluff, Princess takes care of Bucky

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆 ✦ Just some much needed softness for my boy.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕 ✦ @rookthorne's Merry Buckmas — Masterlist

𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐄𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐞, 𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐑𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Christmas was a time for you to let your hair down, and for every year before you had met Bucky, that was exactly what you did. Since this was the first Christmas with Bucky, however, you planned on doing the opposite; pairing it back and reining in the festivities.

He had vehemently insisted that you could do whatever you wanted, going as far to give you his whole wallet and telling you to get out of the penthouse and have fun, but you refused.

Only on the basis that you already had your fun.

Bucky’s present was hung, hidden, in one of the spare bedroom’s closets. A luxurious suit, tailored to Bucky’s measurements — thanks to the sneaky idea of using his usual tailor — in pressed cashmere in the colours of deep reds and maroons. They lacked subtlety, but the Christmas vibe from the paired colours was just what you were after.

He needed more colour in his life, you reasoned.

The click of the lock on the front door made you look up from your phone, where you were mindlessly scrolling. “Baby? Where are you?” Bucky called, his voice strained.

You frowned and answered, “In the study.”

His footsteps sounded slow and deliberately heavy, ladened with the weight of the day. You placed your phone down on the side table and looked at the doorway just as he appeared — exhaustion clung to his built frame, the slump of his shoulders and lack of his signature smirk when his gaze focused on you was all you needed to know to realise that it had been a rough day.

“Are you alright–?”

Bucky shook his head once, and sighed. “Shit day. Shit people.”

You got to your feet and went to the small bar, just next to the opulent electric fireplace, and you pointed at the wine in the small fridge — one that was normally reserved for special occasions. “Do you want one, handsome?”

“Yeah,” he answered tiredly, rubbing his face with his right hand as he fell onto the loveseat. “Why the fuck not.”

The small Christmas tree on the opposite side of the bar gleamed in the firelight, the reds and golds patterned with ambers and oranges of the flames as you poured two glasses full. “Did you want to talk about it?” you ventured, glancing up from the glass to his face, and you caught the minute shake of his head. “Okay—it’s up to you babe.”

You couldn’t take the deep frown of contemplation on his lips, the furrow of his brow that aged him — the ache of your heart deep the longer it was there. It was heart wrenching to see, and you decided enough was enough.

The surprise for Christmas that you had worked hard on was just going to be early; his smile would make all of it worth it.

“How was your day, doll?” Bucky asked quietly, sipping at the wine. His eyes sparkled as he looked at you this time, and you smiled softly. “I’m sorry I couldn’t message as much–”

“Don’t you worry, babe,” you rushed, grabbing his hand. “I had a good day—nothing eventful, thankfully.” The skin of his right hand was callused and warm; scarred from knives and triggers alike. “I actually have a surprise for you.”

Bucky blinked. “Okay, now that’s a shock.”

“Don’t be so surprised, wow,” you teased, and he chuckled. “Now, you wait here. And close your eyes.” The wine glass in your other hand made a small thud when you put it down on the side table. “I mean it,” you said, getting to your feet. “Close them. Now.”

He raised a brow in challenge as you walked backwards out of the door, and you pointed at him. “Do as you’re told.”

“Whatever,” Bucky groaned. He threw his head back over the ornate carved frame of the loveseat, then he put an arm over his eyes. “I’ll just have a nap, ‘kay?”

Sighing, you rolled your eyes before you walked to the closet that held the suit. The fabric of the garment cover was scratchy against your arm, but you powered through to walk back to the study — an otherwise silent space, if you discounted the low mutters and curses in Russian coming from the slumped figure of your love.

Your heart broke at the sight. If Bucky outright refused to tell you what had happened that day, you knew it was a dark, dangerous topic, and you wouldn’t push, but it did not stop the longing you held to help lessen the burden on his shoulders.

“Buck–?” you said quietly, and his shoulders straightened. “Are your eyes closed?”

“Yeah,” he answered.

You rounded the loveseat to find him sitting comfortably, thighs spread and hands relaxed either side of them. “Okay,’ you ventured, moving to stand in front of him. The rustling noises of the cover made you sure he had already guessed what you had brought in — at least he at least didn’t know for certain, not yet, you assured yourself. “Open your eyes.”

Bright, clear eyes met yours, and then they glanced down at your gathered bounty. “Oh–” His hands twitched as he reached out to unzip the cover, and he beamed at seeing the red and maroon fabric. “Baby—what the–?”

“I thought you needed something that’s not black, and something that’s Christmassy,” you explained, smiling down at him. “And your lovely tailor helped me get it together. It’s why I haven’t gone out at all, because I had all of what I wanted to get right here.”

“Oh, baby girl,” Bucky breathed, running his fingers over the fabric. “This is beautiful. Hang on.”

You watched him get to his feet and straighten his shirt. “Unzip it for me?” he asked, fiddling with his cuffs. “I want to wear what my girl got me—‘cause she’s got amazing taste.”

Heat crept up your neck at his praise, but you unzipped the cover with haste and you held the shoulders of the suit carefully. Bucky offered his arm and you slipped his arm through the sleeve, then the other; careful of the breadth of his biceps and shoulders. The suit shuffled and creased as Bucky shucked it up his frame, and it settled perfectly on his shoulders. “Damn, Princess.’

A beaming grin split your cheeks as you watched him turn to face you. The deep red and maroon made his eyes pop with colour, and his tattoos deepened with the contrast. He looked truly beautiful. “Holy shit, babe,” you breathed. “You look—fuck, you look so handsome; dashing.”

Bucky grinned at you, and pulled you close. “Why, thank you, baby girl,” he purred, and he kissed you on the corner of your mouth. “Now, I need to find you a dress to match.”

⠈⠂⠄ 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱 | 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 | 𝐚𝐨𝟑 ⠄⠂⠁

⠈⠂⠄𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 ⠄⠂⠁

#bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x f!reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x female reader #bucky x f!reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fluff #MB #rookthorne's works

90 notes · View notes

inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 1 year

Text

Now I’m Covered In You [Chapter 7: Sundials]

Series summary: Aemond is a prince of England. You are married to his brother. The Wars of the Roses are about to begin, and you have failed to fulfill your one crucial responsibility: to give the Greens a line of legitimate heirs. Will you survive the demands of your family back in Navarre, the schemes of the Duke of Hightower, the scandals of your dissolute husband, the growing animosity of Daemon Targaryen…and your own realization of a forbidden love?

Series title is a lyric from: Ivy by Taylor Swift.

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+), dubious consent, miscarriage, pregnancy, childbirth, violence, warfare, murder, alcoholism, sexism, infidelity, illness, death, only vaguely historically accurate, lots of horses!

Word count: 6.0k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @borikenlove @myspotofcraziness @teenagecriminalmastermind @quartzs-posts @tclegane @poohxlove @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @chainsawsangel @itsabby15 @padfooteyes @arcielee @travelingmypassion @what-is-originality @burningcoffeetimetravel @randomdragonfires @anditsmywholeheart @aemcndtargaryen @jvpit3rs @sarcastic-halfling-princess @flowerpotmage @ladylannisterxo @thelittleswanao3 @elsolario @tinykryptonitewerewolf @girlwith-thepearlearring @minttea07 @trifoliumviridi @deltamoon666 @mariahossain @darkenchantress @doingfondue @atherverybest @namelesslosers @skythighs @moonlightfoxx @partypoison00 @bellameshipper @coffedraven

He doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t even move.

He just stands there under the arc of the doorframe, half-shadow, half-firelight, dawn and dusk and the Rapture all rolled together into a handful of seconds that stretch on infinitely. He gapes senselessly—dead-eyed like a fish—blinking a few times as if he’s expecting to wake up. Then he spins around and sprints out of your bedchamber.

“Fuck,” Aemond hisses, and again, slamming his fist against the wooden floor: “Fuck!” He scrambles to his feet and pulls on his clothes, his long silver hair disheveled, his skin glistening with your sweat. He’s wearing the evidence of your transgression like chainmail, like rain.

“Aemond…” you begin, petrified, your knuckles pressed to your face. Is this the end of us? Is this the end of me?

He doesn’t reply. There’s nothing for him to say that could comfort you. Instead, he takes off after Aegon and vanishes through the doorway, his footsteps fading into the entrails of the palace. You untangle the bunched-up layers of your gown and stand, wobbling on bare feet as you straighten the hem, dimly aware—like peering through a fogged window—that you’re whimpering with a helpless sort of dread. You follow after Aemond, pausing every so often to listen for the echoes of his steps.

Westminster Palace is serene like still water as the sun rises over it; the Greens are collapsing after a long night of wedding festivities, the Blacks are solemnly witnessing the final days of King Viserys’ mortal illness. Aegon runs all the way through the castle and then out into the gardens, past the stables, and across the daybreak emerald field to the edge of the forest. You don’t understand what he’s doing until you and Aemond finally catch up to him, until Aegon stops just beyond the tree line and doubles over gasping with both hands on his knees. Until he allows himself to be caught.

He knew he couldn’t shout at us inside the palace, you realize. Not without everyone else hearing. Not without announcing our treason to the court, to the world.

Aemond grabs for his brother, and Aegon shoves him away with a viciousness you’ve never seen from him before, that you didn’t know he was capable of.

“It wasn’t enough for you,” Aegon seethes through bared teeth. His face is a mottled, furious red, tears streaming from his bloodshot eyes. “Mother loving you more, Grandsire regarding you as more worthy, being stronger, smarter, more talented, more disciplined. You had to have everything. You had to take her too. She was the only thing that was mine.”

Aemond glances at you miserably. “She didn’t choose you.”

“Since when have I chosen anything?!” Aegon screams, his hands like claws against his own chest. “None of us got to choose what we are or who we marry, I didn’t, you didn’t. Helaena didn’t, Daeron didn’t, Mother didn’t, and I was resigned to that. I didn’t choose her and she didn’t choose me, and I’m sure if she’d ever been asked she wouldn’t have wanted to be burdened with me because who the fuck would? But she was mine.” His eyes drop to your belly, where you are still a month away from beginning to show. “Am I even the father?”

“Yes,” you and Aemond insist simultaneously.

“You’re both goddamn liars. Why would I believe you? How could you possibly know?”

“Because…we haven’t…we’ve never…” You look to Aemond for help.

“Not all the way,” he clarifies. “Only twice and never to…um…completion. My completion, I mean. She…um…well…” Now he’s accidentally said too much and doesn’t know how to reverse course.

“Jesus Christ!” Aegon exclaims, wincing, rubbing his face with his hands. “You think I’m asking for those details? You think I want to hear that?! You know, maybe I’m the honorable Targaryen son after all, because I’ve had my share of scandals but I know exactly where I spent my fucking wedding night.”

You say softly: “Aegon, you had a child with another woman while I lost four of them.”

The rage drains out of him and the childlike shame seeps in, cold drips that slowly fill a bucket. “That’s different.”

“Because you’re a man?” you scoff.

“No, because it didn’t mean anything! That was the whole point, that’s why it was something I wanted, because it was the only thing in my life that wasn’t heavy or obligatory or self-sacrificial. But this…” He points from Aemond to you and then back to his brother again. “This means a lot.”

“It does,” Aemond admits.

“So she was your escape then,” Aegon says with razored bitterness. “I had wine and whores and you had fantasies of fucking my wife, and I suppose that dulled the pain a bit, didn’t it? The pain of being the second son, the pain of forever coveting what’s been forced upon me.”

“No. Loving her is the most painful thing I’ve ever done. I don’t love her because she was given to you. I would love her anywhere and at any cost.”

You watch him in the faint dawn light, higher than clouds, horrified to the bones. He loves me. He said that he loves me. Aemond gazes back at you. He shouldn’t, but he does. He can’t help it.

Everything about Aegon sinks, vertebrae crumbling like ancient ruins, vessels and ligaments folding in on themselves under the weight of your betrayal. His words are venomous. “I’m sorry that I’m standing in the way of everyone’s happiness. It’s what I’m best at, it seems.” And he begins trudging back towards the palace.

Aemond is frantic. “You can’t tell anyone.”

“God, you really do think I’m brainless,” Aegon replies, but he sounds more defeated than vengeful. “As if I have any desire to see her burned at a stake.”

“Then where are you going?”

“Nowhere,” Aegon throws over his shoulder. “There’s nowhere else to go. There has never been anywhere else to go.”

He leaves you and Aemond alone in the newborn incandescence of the first day of May, 1485. The moment you shared on the bearskin rug is over now. In the daylight, it is impossible to ignore how risky it is, how unjustifiable, an act of thievery that can only end in heartbreak that swallows up lives far beyond the epicenter. Still, Aemond looks to you, waiting for you to decide what happens next.

After a while—long, burdened minutes punctuated only by birdsong and the rustling of leaves in the wind—you return to your rooms. Aemond retreats to his own. Princess Kunigunde, presumably, waits in vain for him to reappear in her bedchamber, the blankets pulled up to her chin and her clever, immaculate forehead lined with worry. Four people, none of whom should be alone right now, locked away in their own rooms with their own ghosts.

You try to sleep, but you don’t; you just lie there staring up at the canopy of your bed, green roses and gold dragons, shivering despite the warmth of the fireplace, fears clattering in your skull like pieces of porcelain or glass. At last one of your ladies arrives and yanks back the curtains, filling your eyes with daffodil-yellow mid-afternoon sun.

“Good morning, princess!” she says cheerfully, even though it’s long past noon. Throughout the palace the Greens and their supporters are unraveling from slumber and still in good spirits after the dancing and feasting…well, most of them, anyway. “You’ll need to dress straight away. The Duke of Hightower has summoned you.”

You jolt upright. “What? Why? What did he say?”

She offers you a puzzled glance before going to the closet to fetch an emerald-colored gown. “It’s time for lunch, of course. Lunch with the royal family. It’s Princess Kunigunde’s first day as Aemond’s wife. The Duke has had an authentic Austrian meal prepared.”

“Oh. Right.” You remember now; the post-wedding plans had slipped your mind. You consider the prospect of sharing a table with Kunigunde, Aemond, Aegon. “Um, actually Elizabeth, I’m not feeling very well. Nausea. The baby. I don’t think I’ll be able to attend.”

She raises an eyebrow. Your ladies have never exactly been yours. They’re agents of the Duke and the families he considers most loyal, daughters who have not yet married, chess pieces that have not been played. “He’ll be expecting you.”

“I’m sure he will, but under the circumstances…”

“Would you like me to inform the Duke that you are indisposed? I suspect you’ll soon find him here in person to express the importance of this gathering.”

You sigh heavily, swinging your feet to the cool floor. “No, perhaps not.” Of course now he wants me out of bed. Now that we all know my pregnancies weren’t doomed by physical exertion…and now that he wishes to pay every courtesy to the Holy Roman Emperor’s daughter. “I’ll endure it somehow.”

A table has been brought out into the gardens, and everyone else is already there. Kunigunde wears her characteristically neutral colors, not signifying anything except her own intrinsic worth; her gown is a shimmering cream with gold accents. She smiles politely, regally, as the Duke of Hightower boasts about the trappings of the table—kasespatzle, tiroler knodel, tafelspitz, powidltascherl, other mysterious dishes from her homeland, grapes, pomegranates, pitchers of wine and mead—but the princess is notably subdued. Aemond sits beside her with his hands laced together and pressed to his lips, as if in prayer. Sir Criston Cole has just located Aegon and is heaving him into his chair, eyes glazed and still bloodshot, straw from the stables in his uncombed hair. You are determined not to make eye contact with any of them as you settle into your seat as inconspicuously as possible.

“Oh, you poor thing!” Nico chirps, feeling your cheeks and the back of your neck with a lack of formality that Kunigunde seems perplexed by. Nico and Daeron are the dots of lantern light in metaphorical darkness, vines splitting through frosted earth. They are miraculously untouched by the times they find themselves living in. “You look awful! Didn’t you get any sleep at all?”

You hide your face by slurping your cup of mead. “Not much. The baby’s been making me ill.”

Aegon groans loudly, as if in pain, pushing some sort of potato-and-sausage monstrosity around his plate with a fork. The Duke shoots Aegon a repulsed sort of grimace but otherwise ignores him.

“Would you like to know what I’ve heard?” the Duke of Hightower says merrily.

“No,” Aegon mumbles.

“That the strongest children cause the worst sickness for the mother.”

Queen Alicent nods in agreement. She spends her days with her father and children rather than her dying husband. She has definitively chosen a side. “That’s true in my experience. I was horribly sick when I was pregnant with Aemond. Almost bedbound for the first five months!”

Aegon flinches and guzzles wine until it runs down his throat like blood.

“I remember,” Sir Criston Cole says, with a gentle sort of protectiveness that might strike you as odd if you weren’t already consumed by other anxieties.

“And very soon we should have another Targaryen heir on the way.” The Duke beams at Kunigunde with approval. “I understand that the wedding night proceeded without any hinderances. A spot of red on the sheets, as was required.”

She nods modestly. “Yes, Your Grace. That’s correct.”

You turn to her, startled; and you can see from the short-lived crease that appears in Aemond’s forehead that he is baffled as well. Aegon stares blankly at a thorny tangle of crimson roses. Kunigunde’s stoic face reveals nothing…but after much investigation your eyes find a shallow cut between the ring and middle fingers of her left hand. That was wise of her: a wound that can be concealed with gloves much of the time and easily explained away if glimpsed. Hands are a human’s great asset and yet profound weakness: when they go astray they get bitten, scarred, crushed, burned, carved to ribbons.

But why? Why would she lie for Aemond? A man she barely knows from a family that needs her so much more than she needs them?

And then you understand as you watch Kunigunde take dainty nibbles of her food and thank the Duke graciously for his hospitality.

Because she’s honorable, you realize. Just like Aemond is. She’s married to him, she’s been sent by her father to him, and so she’s doing exactly what a wife is supposed to. To support and safeguard her husband entirely. To protect his reputation. To purge herself of any desires, ambitions, dreams that diverge from his.

There’s a weight in your chest like an anchor. After less than twenty-four hours, she is already a better wife than you could ever hope to be. She really is the sort of woman Aemond should end up with. The kind he would have chosen for himself if he’d never met you.

Kunigunde steals troubled looks at you, questioning, wary. Aemond sips wine and forces down occasional bites of Austrian food. His hair is secured in one thick, rather untidy braid, woven in haste after little sleep. It is something that the Duke might easily mistake for a good omen; you know it’s the opposite.

Nico is chattering joyfully about her own wedding, now only three months away. Daeron smiles at her, warm and fond, every few minutes lifting her hand to touch his lips to her knuckles. “Do you think we could have Milanese food when I’m married? Minestrone and ossobuco and polenta? Panettone for dessert? It’ll be the wrong time of year for it, true, we usually only eat panettone at Christmas, but I do love it so!”

“You could wait to marry until December,” Kunigunde suggests pragmatically.

“December?!” Nico squeals, aghast. “I’m barely going to make it until August! I’d marry him right now if I could, here in the gardens with no ornate ceremony whatsoever, or in the horse stables, or in a dungeon, even! I’d marry him in a tree!”

Kunigunde is disturbed by her unabashed lack of ladylike inhibition. “Nico,” you scold, but you’re grinning. Alicent is laughing, the first time you’ve seen her truly happy in days.

Nico turns to the Duke of Hightower. “Do you think you could write to my parents and convince them to let me and Daeron marry sooner? Perhaps…by the end of May? Oh please, Your Grace, please please please?”

“Unfortunately, as much as I would welcome that, they were quite adamant that Daeron must be at least sixteen and a half before the wedding can take place.”

Nico rocks back in her chair and growls up at the sky. “I’m being tortured. I am a martyr to my parents’ well-intentioned aspirations.”

“Aren’t we all,” Aegon mutters.

“Might I have some more kasespatzle?” Kunigunde asks primly.

The bowl is resting beside Aegon. He pushes it towards Aemond with a balled fist. “Pass that to…” He pauses. He’s forgotten her name. “Uh. Your wife.”

Aemond gives the bowl to Kunigunde. She accepts it and tries to catch his gaze in the process. He peers down at the table instead. Soon he is embroiled in a whispered discussion with Daeron, who looks at him in a way that reminds you of how the Black children once regarded King Viserys: with admiration, trust, awe. You listen as closely as you can as Nico asks you about gown colors and styles, wedding frivolities. In Aemond’s war plans you detect the names of castles along England’s east coast: Norwich, Tattershall, Colchester, Framlingham, Castle Rising. Places for allied armies to meet them. Places to use as footholds against usurpers from the North. Kunigunde is staring at Aemond, and for the first time you see her mask slip, and beneath it is something horrible beyond words: desperation, fragility, despair.

You rise suddenly from the table, your chair shrieking against cobblestones. Everyone looks up at you. Nico is concerned, Aemond alarmed, Aegon sullen and loathing.

“I’m really, really not feeling well,” you say. “I apologize, but I need to go back to my rooms now. Right now.”

Nico begins: “Should I—?”

“No, no, I’ll be better after I rest a while. Please don’t let me ruin lunch for everyone else. I shall see you all tonight for dinner and dancing.” And it might kill me.

Nico frowns anxiously. “Well, okay, if you insist…”

You bolt for the palace. Aemond’s eye follows you all the way to the door. Kunigunde’s eyes stay on him, shiny with delicate longing.

You stumble through the hallways, leaning on the walls to catch your balance and your breath. Nobles pledged to the Greens stop—swarming like flies on a corpse—to ask if they can help you. You have that to thank Daemon for; he’s made you a figure of pity and blamelessness, an idol, a saint. They know nothing about who you truly are. You assure the loyalists that you’re fine and wave them off. There’s nothing they can do to help you. There’s nothing anyone can do.

You wander to the Great Hall, which is presently empty except for a few servants sweeping the floor. And in the quiet, under beams of afternoon light flooding in from the windows, you contemplate the throne. It’s vacant right now, it’s a liminal space like a doorway. The old king will soon be lowered into the earth; a new one is rising. You wonder if there’s a version of this world someplace where things turn out differently. You wonder if in another thread of time—running parallel to yours but never intertwining with it—Aegon was born somewhere else, far away, impossibly far away, and Aemond was the Greens’ heir all along, and you were the woman married to him, no one else, and you never became an adulteress and a traitor and a whore. You touch your belly, where your child is small and weak but growing.

You deserve a better world to be born into. You deserve better parents.

You’ve been standing in the Great Hall for some span of time that doesn’t matter—five minutes, ten, fifteen, twenty—when you hear the tolling of bells from the Tower of London. This is a perfectly ordinary occurrence, except that it isn’t; a new hour hasn’t arrived yet. And the bells don’t stop after a few chimes. They keep ringing, and ringing, and then it pierces you like a stone through a window. Now there are crowds rushing through the halls of the palace. Now there is clamoring, plotting, screaming.

The king is dead. But the war is just beginning.

You rush out of the Great Hall and are intercepted by hordes of cloying Green-affiliated nobles. “Your Majesty!” they cry, bowing to you and kissing your hands and feet. You give them your utmost appreciation—as is required—but your eyes scan the corridors for Aemond.

“Have you seen the prince?” you ask them. “Do you know where he is—?”

But they assume you mean your husband, because that’s who you’re supposed to be thinking of.

“Long live King Aegon II!” they chant, they shout, they will into reality with the brute force of the knowledge that his demise would mean theirs as well. “Long live the king!”

You dodge the crowds and dart through the halls, searching wildly for Aemond. Where will he go now? What does he need from me? Will I ever see him again?

At last, you spy him at the end of a long corridor covered in slanting amber-hued afternoon sunbeams; and the way he races to your side tells you that he was looking for you as well.

“Aemond, what happens now—?”

“Walk with me,” he says. It’s the same thing he told you when you miscarried at five months on Christmas night. And just like then, his arm hooks around your waist to whisk you along with him, his head bent close to yours to murmur secret things.

“My father is dead. The Blacks have already left Westminster Palace. They took their horses and are riding North to raise men to fight and die for Rhaenyra’s claim.” His face goes hard and vicious. “They tried to burn the stables down before they fled. With our horses still inside. Sir Criston and the guards stopped them.”

“Monsters,” you breathe.

“They were in Green territory here and they knew it. They scattered like cowards, like rats. But north of Nottingham, the Blacks have the advantage. They will gather their forces and return to bring fire and blood to our doorstep.”

Aemond is leading you outside towards the stables. Your feet move hurriedly in tandem together over soft spring grass. He’ll have to go to war, you know he will. Between his strategy, his swordsmanship, and Vhagar, he is the greatest asset the Greens have on the battlefield. “When must you leave?”

“Now, Ivy.”

“Now?!”

You’re in the entranceway of the stables; you hear the agitated stomps and huffs of horses who can smell the shift in the winds. “We must ready our own armies and pursue Daemon and Rhaenyra,” Aemond says. “The farther we can keep them from London, the safer you’ll be.”

Aegon—grim and with half of his short hair tied back—strides into the stables. He turns furious when he sees you. “Of course you’re saying goodbye to him. But cheer up, wife, maybe you’ll both get what you most wish for and I’ll be killed in battle.”

“Aegon, I don’t want that—”

“Don’t fucking talk to me,” he snaps, mere inches from your face. Aemond glares at him savagely and your husband withdraws. He goes to Sunfyre’s stall and leads him outside, where servants are working in a flurry to saddle the Greens’ horses. In the chaos and the sunshine, Daeron and Nico are enmeshed in a needful embrace, weeping and exchanging ardent promises as servants slip Tessarion’s bridle over her massive grey head. The Duke of Hightower is issuing orders in every direction.

“Aemond, what can I do?”

He coaxes Vhagar out of her stall and saddles her; she won’t tolerate anyone else doing it. She’ll kick them until their brains litter the ground like fall leaves. Will I see him again before autumn, before the baby is born? Will I ever see him again at all? “Write another letter to your brother Alonzo. It should be able to reach him before he sets sail. Tell him and his forces to meet us at Castle Rising. Nico and Kunigunde should send the same message to their own kingdoms.”

“I’ll make sure it’s done.”

“Get your sword from under the cedar tree. Keep it with you. You might need it.”

“Alright, but—”

“I have to go now,” he says, fastening Vhagar’s bridle. Then Aemond turns to you. Your left palm presses to his chest; the fingertips of your right hand graze the length of his silver braid. You breathe him in, leather and smoke and greatness, and wonder if it’s for the last time.

“Aemond…” The words snag in your throat. I can’t lose you. I can’t do this without you. I love you, I love you, I’ll never love anyone but you.

“Don’t,” he murmurs, laying two fingers against your lips. “Tell me when I see you again.”

“I will,” you swear.

He leads Vhagar—colossal hooves thudding, tail swishing eagerly—out of the stables. Sir Criston Cole is waiting there. He won’t be going with them. He is pledged to Alicent’s service…and he and a small contingent of guards will be the only protection left at Westminster Palace. “Aemond, remember your training—”

Aemond seizes him, pulls him in close, nods to you. “Criston, you stay with her. She is the priority, she carries the heir. If the city falls, Mother can seek sanctuary in Westminster Abbey. Nico and Kunigunde can seek sanctuary, and I believe it would be honored. But Daemon will not spare Aegon’s wife and child. He will kill her if he gets the chance, but he will make her suffer first. So you stay with her.” He shakes him. “Do you understand me? You stay with her.”

Criston looks terrified. “I understand.”

“Good.” Aemond releases the knight. Alicent and Kunigunde appear, dashing out of the castle just in time to say goodbye. Alicent clings to Aemond, whispering to him, no more able to protect him now than she was years ago when his eye was cut from his skull. He replies in words you can’t decipher. When they finally break apart, Alicent’s face is wet with tears.

“Husband,” Kunigunde says stiffly.

“Wife.” You look away as he kisses her, swift and formal. Even that you cannot bear to witness.

And then they gallop away—Aegon, Daeron, Aemond, a retinue of loyalist noblemen—vanishing into the horizon where the sun is sinking towards the west, away from the Continent, away from every part of the earth that is known to you.

It’s the first week of June, and your belly has just begun to show. You don’t want to get your hopes up. You tell yourself that you’ll love it—if it’s ever born, that is, if it survives—with equal power whether it’s a son or a daughter. But you’ve begun to dream of a little boy: quick feet, a shock of white-blond hair, large blue eyes the same turbulent blue as Aegon’s. He never has a name, but he’s yours. He’s a living heir. He’s your ultimate redemption. But more than that—much, much more—he is the family you have wished for since long before you knew the name of the man who would become your husband.

You spend your days scribbling letters and sewing tunics and trousers for the Greens’ soldiers. There have been skirmishes but no full-scale battles yet. Aemond writes to you, although he is vague and impersonal; the risk of interception is far too great. You write to him about the plants that bloom, about the weather, about the books you are reading, about Midnight. Daeron sends the occasional letter to you too, and he pens ten pages at a time to Nico, who sits in the gardens reading them over and over again until her tears ruin the ink and his sentences become illegible, and then she cries even harder. But you never receive a single word from Aegon.

With Sir Criston’s instruction, you fashioned a belt and scabbard to carry your sword around in. The first time the Duke of Hightower saw it, he raised his eyebrows and then acquiesced without further comment. Perhaps now he finally sees the utility in you having some way to defend yourself should the occasion arise. You practice your sparring in the courtyard with Sir Criston, who can never quite shake his embarrassment about training with a woman, and a pregnant one at that. His swings are pitifully harmless, your skills unremarkable next to his or Aemond’s; but they’re better than nothing. They’re far more than Nico or Alicent or Kunigunde have.

When Nico spots you walking through the halls—one hand on your belly, the other on the hilt of your sword—she bursts out laughing. Sir Criston trots dutifully along beside you, as he always does. “Now you really do look like Boudicca,” Nico says.

“You must stop comparing me to a conquered queen who died by suicide. It’ll turn into a curse.”

“I’m always saying the wrong things. If I had the capacity to curse people, I think we’d know it by now.” Then she gasps, intrigued. “Do you think I could curse the Blacks? If I really, really tried? You don’t look like Boudicca at all. You look like Saint George arriving to slay the dragon, and that’s Rhaenyra and Daemon, an evil beast not fit for the rules of our world. I wish for this series of events to come to pass most zealously.”

“Nico, that sounds an awful lot like witchcraft.”

“Oh.”

“Which is punishable by death, as you know.”

“Well…perhaps you’ll be kind enough not to tell the Duke of Hightower.”

“Bad news! That’s where I’m headed right now. You’ll be in the afterlife by sunset.”

She smiles. “Where are you actually going?”

“To the chapel. It’s my turn to pray with the queen.” You, Nico, and Kunigunde alternate accompanying Alicent; she spends a good part of each day there imploring God to spare her sons on the battlefield. You don’t especially look forward to this ritual. It’s not that you don’t believe in God; but you find action a more natural path to work his will into existence.

“Queen dowager, you mean,” Nico reminds you. “She’s not the queen anymore.”

You are, according to the Greens anyway. It’s a title that doesn’t yet feel real. “Where are you going?”

“To practice my dancing,” Nico says with a wink. “I’m getting married in two months.” Nothing can convince her otherwise. Maybe she thinks it would be tempting fate to doubt it.

You walk outside into the warm, sunlit morning. Bees circle lazily among kaleidoscopic flowers; birds whistle and call to each other. Daylight chases the strip of shadow around the face of the sundials in the palace gardens. Your shoes click on the cobblestones. The hem of your gown flutters in the golden, roomy breeze. When you reach the chapel, Sir Criston lingers just outside the door to give you and Alicent privacy as you pray. Surely no harm can come to you in God’s house. You step inside—blinking, your eyes adjusting to the low multicolored light—and see Alicent in a pew near the front. It’s not until you’ve already sat down beside her that you realize it isn’t Aemond’s mother at all. It’s his wife.

A stunned little gulp pulses in your throat. You try—badly, you’re sure—to clear the dismayed shock from your face. You spend plenty of time with Kunigunde, of course, but only ever in mixed company. You are never alone with her. You don’t want to be. You’re under the impression that she feels the same way.

“Uh, good morning, princess,” you say, rather awkwardly.

Kunigunde doesn’t reply. She gazes at the wooden cross on the altar as if she’s completely unaware of your arrival. The pigments of the stained glass windows fracture across her skin: emerald, sapphire, amethyst, ruby. Her dress is a dim orange, midway between the flag of her homeland and your own. By now everyone knows she isn’t carrying Aemond’s child, but not even the Duke of Hightower can fault her too much for that. Only one night of supposed wedded bliss is hardly a fair chance to conceive.

You stand, making your escape. “Well, I’ll leave you to your prayers—”

“Does it bother you?” Kunigunde asks, her voice perfectly level. “Does it ever strike you as ironic?”

“What do you mean?” you reply; but the dread is already swelling in your gut like an infection.

“Begging God to save another woman’s husband. The one you’re in love with.”

You glance at the chapel door, willing Alicent to appear, willing Sir Criston to interrupt. You truly have nothing to say in your own defense. You know it’s indefensible; that’s what makes it such an excruciating fucking burden.

“And he loves you too,” Kunigunde says. Her face, harrowingly exquisite and hollow and hateful, turns to you. “I’ve scavenged through every corner of his rooms since he’s been gone. He hung your tapestry on his wall. He struck up a correspondence with your brother and purchased Midnight for you. And the poems. The poems. Hundreds of them, in drawers, in trunks, under his mattress, everywhere. And they’re all about you.”

You look to the door again, desperate. “I’m sure you’re mistaken.”

“They’re dated,” she hisses, like she’s stabbing a blade through the gristle between your ribs. “I’m not stupid. They begin the same month you married Aegon. Almost two years ago. And they’re all about you. So clearly about you. Your hair, your eyes, your voice, your wit, your tenacity, your sorrow, your body, how goddamn badly he wants you.”

What can I say? What the hell is there for me to say? You touch your ivy leaf necklace self-consciously. You wear it every day without fail. “I’m so sorry,” you whisper.

“I tried to destroy them. To feed them to the fire. But they were too beautiful to burn.” Her hand skims across her cheek, and only now do you realize she’s weeping. “I did not choose my marriage any more than you chose yours. But I have a responsibility to make it successful, to bear its fruit. I have no intention of returning to my homeland a disgrace. My father and brother would blame me. Aemond’s honor is legendary.” She squeezes her eyes shut, flinching. And then the stoic lines of her face collapse and tears pour down her face unimpeded. “Oh God. What am I supposed to do with a husband who won’t lie with me? Who won’t give me a son?”

“But you are determined to stay the course? To protect Aemond?” And his horrible, traitorous secret?

“Yes.”

“Princess…can I ask you something?”

“I suppose. I don’t see what good performative decency can do us now.”

“Why? Why are you still loyal to him?”

She collects herself somewhat. “Men show courage on the battlefield. Women show it in bed. We endure the unimaginable there. Conquest, childbirth, abandonment.”

You stare at her, a little fascinated, a little appalled. “Then I won’t interfere.”

“He’s not mine if you have to give him to me.”

“I’m not capable of giving him to you. I don’t own him. Nobody does.”

Before she can reply, Sir Criston erupts through the chapel door. “Princess!” he shouts, signaling for you to follow him. He’s not so good at remembering that you’re technically the queen now either. “Back to the palace! Now, right now!”

“What? Why?”

“Now!” Criston commands, and half-drags you there, Kunigunde flying on his heels.

Westminster Palace is crawling with bawling women and frantic men. Servants sprint to cower behind curtains and inside closets without any thought for their duties. Your ladies are quaking, hysterical. Nico comes barreling out of a hallway. “What’s going on—?”

“Daemon,” Sir Criston says breathlessly. “He’s here.”

You whirl to him. “What?” And then you hear the commotion just outside the palace walls: the clanging of blades, rallying cries, horse hooves, shrieks.

You run into the Great Hall, Sir Criston, Nico, and Kunigunde close behind you. Alicent and the Duke of Hightower are both there, squeezing together to peer down on the castle entranceway through a window.

“Oh God,” Alicent moans. “Oh God, God help us…”

You look through the glass, murky with Alicent’s handprints. Below you see Daemon leading a small group of soldiers, only ten to fifteen men.

Small enough to slip by the Greens’ armies unnoticed. Small enough that Aemond doesn’t know.

Daemon is on Caraxes and in full armor, terrifying, already wearing blood on his face. His head falls back and he gazes up at you. His eyes find yours through the glass and he grins like a wolf baring its teeth. Jace and Luke are among the soldiers with him. And—you observe with no surprise at all—so is Baela.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Sir Criston says. “He can’t take the city with numbers like that. Our guards alone will be a challenge for him. Word will travel and within hours reinforcements will arrive from the nearest encampments. The Southern nobles will rush to our aid. He has nothing to gain from this, he’ll be forced out of London within a day.”

“Oh, Jesus,” the Duke of Hightower exhales in sudden understanding.

“What, Father?” Alicent says, clutching his arm.

“What?” Nico echoes urgently.

“He’s not coming to take the city.” The Duke of Hightower turns towards you, horror rising in his pale eyes like the dead at the Rapture. “He’s coming to take Aegon’s wife.”

#aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen x you #aemond x reader

322 notes · View notes