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#nanny x gardener
servantserah · 2 months
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Can you give us random ggAU arts because I need more arts from it in my life?
These are the only unpublished (on tumblr) works that I can find on my phone rn! They’re all from last year. 💜
I feel like I should share more sketches and unpolished stuff in general agshs
Matching covers for the playlists I made for them:
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Memes:
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Sketch for the ggAU 4th anniversary last year
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ggAU Skyrim AU
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Their kids Eden and Toni (aka the fellspawns. Well, two of them, anyway.)
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lijzeil · 4 months
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Missy 💜
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legendoftherisingtide · 3 months
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im sure someone’s said it but i love when crowley and aziraphale blend and mix and become those shades of grey.
like obviously the famous switch in s1 gave aziraphale the freedom to go feral and he was fully gonna kill a kid that one time (and also prepared to let kids die in s2 but i will just believe that was just his faith in crowley).
but i love the subtler times. when they were raising adam, they switched roles in a way. you would expect aziraphale to take the nurturing nanny role and we see that crowley loves plants and is the only thing he has with him wherever he lives. but they chose to be the other.
i just love the influence they have on each other. crowley is so blatant with his influence across their history: pushing aziraphale to think critically and challenge his views. but aziraphale’s kindness and understanding allows crowley to be more open and vulnerable.
they have spent their whole existences pretending like they aren’t all the other has. but in reality, it is hard to see where one ends and the other begins.
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I've seen a few posts that mention/imply it's odd that Crowley became the Nanny while Aziraphale became the Gardener. (I will give it to them that Crowley is the one with a luxurious potted garden in his flat. But that is implied to have started in the 1970s. Can you imagine him yelling at the plants out in the garden at that Offical London Residence for the Dowling family?)
My take on this is that it makes perfect sense Crowley became the nanny. It is Crowley that looks appalled and even distressed that the children are getting killed in the Flood in Mesopotamia. Crowley. The demon. Would never kill kids. He's the one that actually loves kids. He's the one that sat and let some little child hands braid his long hair before the Flood. He's the one that probably justified saving a group of whatever children he could grab and secreted them away to the depths of the Ark because it was contrary to heaven's plan that they all die. ('Yes, my dear, you are such an evil wily serpent. You surely bested us this time.' - Aziraphale, with a soft smile.)
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flowersandbigteeth · 1 year
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Can you do a werewolf x bunny female, I think that would be so cute, like this big scary looking werewolf with a innocent bunny girl, adorable! Sfw or nsfw I think it would be super cute
I had this idea rolling around in my head for a while, but it works so well with a werewolf and a bunny I couldn't resist ^_^
General Plot: You are the nanny for a wolf king and he wants to try some of your development techniques.
Wolf King x bunny female reader
Word Count: 2k
💕 SFW MASTERPOST 💕
W: sfw yandere monster fluff, hunting and chasing, cute werewolf pup
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“Rawr! I’m the big, bad wolf!” Joel growled, baring his little fangs at his terrified prize. 
“Put that mouse down, prince Joel,” you chided, following the precocious little wolf pup through the garden. 
“No! I’m a vicious predator! I don’t have to listen to herbivores!” he snarled at you, shaking the mouse in his little fist. 
You sighed. His tutor had taught him all about predators and herbivores that morning, so he was an expert or so he thought. 
“Yes, carnivores are very important, your majesty, but your father put me in charge of you and he is the biggest predator around,” you pointed out, “do I have to tell him you wouldn’t listen to your nanny?”  
He stiffened at the mention of his father and dropped the mouse, who scampered away. 
“I don’t need a nanny!” he pouted at you. 
You put your hands on your hips and pouted back. 
“Fine! Then I’ll just go play hunter with some other little wolf pup who appreciates me!” you said, turning to walk away. 
A tug at your skirt told you that you’d won. 
“You don’t have another pup do you?” he asked from behind you. 
You turned and looked down at him. 
“There are lots of wolf pups in the village who would love a nanny willing to play with them,” you said. 
He wrapped his arms around your leg and squeezed his eyes shut. 
“No! You’re mine (Y/N)!” he shouted, “I’m the prince and I won’t allow it!” 
“Calm down prince Joel,” you said, scratching him between his ears, “I’m not going anywhere right now, but you have to be good so we can play!” 
He nodded, excited. 
“Okay!” he said, “you go hide and I’ll hunt you!” 
You glanced around the royal garden to make sure the guards were all at their stations before you agreed to let him out of your sight for a moment. 
“Okay,” you said, “count to twenty! I’m just a bunny, you have to give me a fair chance!”
He nodded eagerly while he covered his eyes. 
You scurried to the small patch of trees at the far side of the garden and ducked behind some branches. He would find you quickly, he had a very good nose, but he never seemed to get tired of chasing after you.  
You were so busy peeking around the branches to watch for Joel, you didn’t notice the shadow looming over you. Your hearing as a bunny was very good, but you didn’t hear the branch snap until it was too late. Gasping, you tried to fight as a heavy hand wrapped around your mouth. Immediately you looked around frantically for Joel. This was likely an assassination attempt. It made sense to take out the nanny first. 
“(Y/N), why are you hiding from my son?” a low rumbling voice growled in your ear. 
You squealed on instinct in the presence of a predator, your heart pounding in your chest. His hand loosened on your lips. 
“We’re playing a game, your majesty,” you said, swallowing heavily and gasping for breath, “h-he’s hunting me.” 
Upsetting the king meant certain death. Herbivores weren’t regarded very highly, you were considered disposable servants at best. His heavy breath brushed your long ear, making it twitch. 
“You wish to be…hunted?” he asked, husky voice husky and full of gravel. 
You blinked, your cheeks flooding with color. 
“It’s just a game, your majesty, for children. Joel likes it and it is good for his skill development,” you explained quietly, aware of the heat of his body at your back. One hand was clutching your waist, the claws of his fingers digging into the cotton fabric of your dress, while the bands of muscle in his arm held you close.  
“You will let me hunt you…tonight. Meet me here at 9,” he rumbled in your ear and then he was gone. 
You collapsed into the grass, a cold sweat on your chest. 
“Gotcha!” Joel shouted, pouncing on you and you screamed louder than you’d ever screamed in your life. 
—-
You trembled as you approached the garden a few minutes before nine. Surely you were walking to your death. If you’d been more creative you’d have fled, but you didn’t have any ideas for what to do for money, food, or even passage out of the capital. So you faced your end bravely, hoping it would be quick. 
Before you’d put prince Joel to bed, you’d given him an extra long hug in case you didn’t come back. You hoped he would remember you fondly when he became king and maybe he would be kinder to the herbivores than his father. 
The garden was dark, with only the torches of the castle flickering at the far edges and as you walked deeper and deeper the sounds of the building got further and further away. The beating of your heart in your chest filled the silence. 
“Y-your majesty?” you murmured to the quiet garden, but there was no reply. 
Padding over to the trees where you’d been before, you looked around, wondering if he was going to be late. He was the king, after all, he never had to be on time. You hoped against all hope that he’d forgotten entirely. 
You howled as a hot breath in your ear growled, “RUN!” 
As a bunny you were very fast and you instinctively took off immediately, heading for the farthest side of the garden that touched the forest. Perhaps if you could make it there, you would survive. Your powerful legs sent you launching over planters and darting around a fountain, but it was no use. 
You could hear the scrape of the king’s claws on the concrete as he scrambled over a statue after you. If this went on for much longer you’d die of a heart attack before he got a chance to rip you to pieces. 
Just beyond the palace wall you caught sight of a hole, your frantic mind instinctively favoring a place to hide over a tiring chase. Diving towards the gap, you wiggled your body through it panicking as thick hands latched onto your ankles. You squealed and kicked, but he was much too strong now that he’d gotten you. Your nails collected dirt as he dragged you back towards him. 
He flipped you over, straddling you with his big body and your eyes widened, wondering if the last thing you would see would be the moonlight sparkling off of his silver fur. His eyes, deep black, were shadowed in darkness and the most you could see of his face were his massive, sharp teeth dripping saliva. This was it. You were going to die. 
“Caught you,” he said, panting clouds in the cool night air and grinning. 
Your heart beat faster than you thought it could and the world went black. 
“Papa, is (Y/N) dead?” you heard Joel ask and you felt something warm shift beside you. A little claw tapped your nose.
“I’ve already told you seven times! She’s not dead. She’s sleeping. Get away from there!” the King’s deep voice grumbled. 
Your eyes popped open and without thinking you scurried as far away from it as possible, crouching in a ball at the far corner of the bed you were in. Your eyes flying around the room, you realized you were in the King’s bedroom, in his bed. 
“(Y/N)!” Joel beamed and his tiny furry body collided with yours knocking you over. 
With wide eyes you looked up at him. 
“Daddy said you were being naughty and playing in the garden at night and that’s why you fell asleep! You said I’m not allowed to play in the garden at night! Do I get to punish you? You get no pudding for a week, you have to give it all to me…no a month!” 
Thankful and surprised to be alive, you threw your arms around your little charge and squeezed him to your chest, tears tumbling down your cheeks. 
“Come on (Y/N)!” Joel pouted, pushing you off of him, “if you're gonna be a crybaby about it I’ll make it half a week, okay?” 
You heard the King sigh. 
“Can you please go fetch (Y/N) some juice from the kitchen and the doctor, Joel? Take your guardian knight…” he said. 
You blinked at him. He wasn’t dressed as he usually was in shining gold armor that only made him look larger, instead, there was no shirt on his firm chest and he was just wearing some loose pants. You’d never seen him informally, even as often as you were in the personal rooms of the royal family, and your cheeks pinkened. 
He came and sank into the bed next to you and you scooted so far away you slipped off of the edge of the bed with a squeal. 
“Oh for goddess’ sake, (Y/N)!” he grumbled, pulling you up from the floor with his big hands and plopping you in his lap. 
He gave you a bit of a gentle look and brushed a damp lock of hair out of your eyes. 
“I don’t think this hunting game is good for your health, love,” he said, running the back of his knuckle over your cheek, “you looked like death had come for you and then you passed out!”
Your eyes got wide and your mouth dropped open. 
“Game!?” you gasped, “I thought you were going to eat me?!” 
He laughed out loud.
“Eat you?” he asked, “why would I eat you?” 
He pouted, stroking your ear with his padded fingers. 
“Do you really think I’m a mindless monster?” 
You hurriedly shook your head, not meaning to offend him. He’d spared your life once, he might not do it again. 
“No your majesty,” you stammered, “you simply startled me that’s all. I didn’t realize we were playing a game.” 
He snorted. 
“Well that’s what I told you,” he pointed out. 
You gave him a wan smile and nodded. That was not exactly true, but you weren't going to argue with him. You were sure he thought he'd been clear as a magnifying lens. His fingers were still playing with your ear, stroking the length and gently tugging it this way and that. 
“That you did, your majesty,” you said, trying to slow your heartbeat, racing like a wild horse. 
 “I don’t like to see you frightened, (Y/N),” the king murmured softly. 
His hot breath brushed your head, stirring the threads of your hair. You fit quite neatly just below his chin, much smaller in his lap.
“It pleases me how sweetly you and my son get on,” he said, his big hand curling around your waist and drawing you close to him, “I have to teach him to be regent, I can’t always coddle him…but you give him the gentleness I can’t. It’s quite a comfort to me.” 
“You’re very kind, your majesty,” you said. 
He tipped your face up to his. 
“I’m not. I’m not kind at all,” he said, smiling, “I’m very, very selfish. When I want something I take it.” 
“I’m sorry?” you stammered, confused where this was going. 
“I want you in Joel’s life more permanently. His mother was a monster. I don’t want to see that develop in him. I think you’d make a much better mother.”
“I-I don’t think I understand, your majesty,” you whispered, searching his dark eyes. They were black and endless, difficult to read. 
“I’m making you my wife,” he said plainly. 
“But I’m a herbivore,” you gasped, “I mean…is this a joke, your majesty?” 
He snorted. 
“Half the kingdom are herbivores, don’t you think they’d adore a sweet, pretty bunny queen?” 
You were sure they would, but this all seemed very strange. 
“I guess so…” you said. 
His eyes twinkled. 
“Don’t think of declining,” he warned, flashing his fangs, “no is not an answer I’ll accept. You’re mine (Y/N) and I’ll do what I have to to keep you.” 
Your eyes got big and you nodded slowly. 
“Oh…Okay…” you said. 
“(Y/N)! (Y/N)!” Joel cheered, splashing juice everywhere as he came barrelling into the room. 
The King gave him a fatherly growl and he froze. 
“What did we talk about earlier?” he asked. 
Joel brightened as if he were remembering something he could accomplish correctly. 
“Momma!” he cried, hurrying over to you with the cup of juice. 
You scooped it out of his hand before he tried climbing up on the bed with it. 
“Do you feel better, momma?” he asked, putting his arms around you and his cheek against your shoulder. 
“Um…yes…” you murmured, clutching the cup, pinched between the adoring arms of your new wolf family, “yes, I guess I do...”
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tremendum · 2 months
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heaven is a place on earth; joel miller
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prologue; im a loser, baby!
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au (pre-outbreak, altered ages), Joel Miller x fem!nanny!reader.  dedicated to the anon who suggested this trope.
↬     series masterlist main masterlist
↬      it's 2000. you're freshly single, three weeks away from being evicted, and your coworker knows a hot, single dad who is hiring for a nanny. you'll take anything you can get.
↬     warnings; tagged 18+ for eventual smut and mature themes. MDNI. age gap (reader is 22, joel is 35), fiscal anxieties, allusions to a shitty ex. if your name is michelle, norah, or dan, you get to be twins with my ocs in this series <;33
series mixtape, song one; Loser, Beck. 1994.
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"fuck."
your voice hisses through the rows of books you stalk down, legs carrying you with fervor towards the front desk. "fuck, fuck, fuck!" 
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you whirl past a mother reading a children's book to her toddler and wince at your language, mouthing sorry! at the baby as you pass. avoiding the harsh glare of its mother, you mutter under your breath. "shit." 
in your hurry, your hip slams into the wooden corner of the front desk; a small grunt of pain hisses through your clenched teeth as you trudge up to your swivel chair. 
"god, damn it!" you bemoan, lowering yourself into your chair and sighing heavily as you drop your head to your hands. 
"so...it can't be good news." Michelle says to you, quietly, as she grimaces apologetically to the mother who walks towards the exit, shielding her stupid baby's ears from your foul mouth. you ignore the woman's harsh look of judgement, instead biting your lip, willing yourself to calm down.
with a suck of deep breath you shake your head. "no, it is not."
she sends you a consolatory look and to this you groan, "the rent's too much here. thought I'd get this one, I really did." you mutter helplessly, picking up several of the books from the drop bin to check them back in on your computer. "they made me endure four interviews. all for nothing." 
a consolatory hand graces your shoulder and you offer your coworker a small smile of gratitude. she sends you a smile so hopeful that you nearly forget the desperate state you're in - the heavy fear of starting new.
"we'll find you a good one. you're smart, marketable, charming..." Michelle shakes her head as you move to protest, pointing at you. "-no, don't even start. we'll get you some more interviews. in the meantime...Dan and I were thinking. we have a couple hundred we could spare this month, just to..." she glances at your shocked stare, shrugging her shoulders. "-you know, get you on your feet. it's not easy to restart, especially after a breakup." 
your heart drops at her words, a crawling feeling of shame licking your throat as you shake your head. 
eyes stinging, you stare down hard at your keyboard, where your nails pick at the F key. "I couldn't- I couldn't ask that of you. thank you, but I-" you shake your head. "don't do that, really Michelle."
she waves her hand, "we insist. but Dan wants to discuss it in person, so we'll be having you over for dinner soon, okay?" she insists, and you hide your burning face between your hands. "this is too much." you say with a grumble, shaking your head. 
"think of it as a gift." she says hopefully with a shrug. "your birthday's soon, isn't it?" 
you sigh, smiling over at her as you shake your head. "at least let me do something for you in repayment. do you need any rooms painted? gardening? babysitting?" you offer, sliding slightly towards her to take a sip of her coffee. 
"we'll talk about it." she agrees, but you know she isn't going to ask you to do any of it; she and her husband are much too kind.
at your silence she just hums triumphantly, typing away on her keyboard as she files a damaged book report. the library hums with its inherent stillness, the fluorescents flickering as you busy yourself filing your own work for the evening.
five whole minutes pass in silence; a feat for you and the woman who sits just beside you. as you work idly, your eyes jump back to the payphone on the wall across the room where you'd heard the words: thank you for your interest, but we decided to go with another candidate. 
whatever. they don't deserve you, anyways. and honestly, the job had shitty benefits.
a sharp sigh from you gives Michelle the narrow opportunity to swivel her chair to face you, as if she'd been waiting for an opportunity to speak.
"you know," she puts on the look of innocence, "I was thinking..." 
you fix her with a look - the last few suggestions for money she'd given you were take up dancing (which you would certainly consider, if the nearest club wasn't fourteen miles away) or marry rich. for a woman who's still with the same man she was with in high school, she sure has an imaginative mind.
you're a month away from losing your new apartment and you cannot fathom moving back in with your ex; you'll take anything. Michelle holds her hands out in defense at your glare. "listen, Norah's got a teammate whose father is looking for a nanny." 
you let the words sink in as you spin your chair to her in interest. nanny? 
"-he owns a construction business. he mentioned looking for a nanny for weekdays at the girls' tournament last Saturday." 
you sigh, touched that she'd thought of you, but exasperated. "I work weekdays!" you sigh. she lifts a brow, leaning closer, "yes, but..." she looks around conspiratorially, "-I think Joel would give you higher pay - and you can still work here on weekends." 
your brows raise in shock, hope growing in your chest. "what, is he loaded?" 
at this, she laughs.
you blink as she holds a hand to her chest, chuckling to herself, leaving you unaware of whatever was so funny to her. "no, no." she calms herself as you stare, less amused. "-but he loves his girl. definitely the type of man who will pay well to make sure his baby's safe."
your lip is tugged between your teeth as you consider; "kids don't really like me." 
it’s not even true- kids love you as much as you love them, but something self-sabotaging within you begs to differ.
Michelle snorts, "Norah loves you." she counters; you cross your arms, "well, that's different. she's, like, an eleven year old version of you." 
she grins at this; Michelle has known you since you were a sophomore, just freshly out of the dorms - she may be older than you by over a decade and a half, but she and her husband are the closest to family you have in this part of the country. 
you nod. "please, will you give him my information? I need any money I can get. I'll be the best nanny in the world."
you're convincing yourself more than her, but she smiles all the same. "I'll see him when I pick Norah up after practice this afternoon. I'll share your number with him, okay?" 
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you have the next day off of work; you spend it unpacking some boxes and organizing, taking a walk around the new neighborhood, trying to befriend the building cat with a can of tuna.
you watch people pass in the street, distracting yourself from the disappointment of leaving your old neighborhood, even if it'd been infested by your cheating ex.
the opportunity to nanny this summer lingers in the back of your mind as you walk past a park, watching as the kids clamber and scream and laugh; you smile to yourself, watching a young mother push a child on the swing. 
sometime past noon, an unknown number texts your cellphone and you pause the TiVo to flip it open eagerly. 
Hey there, it's Joel Miller. Our mutual friend Michelle passed along your number. I've been looking for a nanny for my daughter and heard great things about you. Would you be open to chatting sometime this week? I'd love to discuss a nannying opportunity with Sarah. Let me know if that works for you.
Thanks, Joel
you stare at the words, reading them slowly with a pounding of excitement in your chest. suddenly, the walls of your new, too-expensive apartment seem brighter, the sun opens up the sky - you nearly call Michelle in a burst of excitement before even thinking of a response. 
an inkling of doubt pulls at the back of your head; the man seems kind enough - even if he texts like he's a hundred years old, Michelle and Dan know him personally. you slide your phone, staring at the phone screen for a moment before starting to type out a response. 
Hi Joel! Nice to hear from you, thanks for reaching out. I'd be happy to meet this week to chat about Sarah and nannying opportunities. I am available in the evenings most days, so if there's any time that works best for you, I can make that happen. 
knuckles cramping, you roll your eyes at your effort to be professional over text. you tweak your message several times before signing your name, shutting your eyes, and hitting the send button. 
Joel doesn't respond until very late; nearly eleven in the evening, suggesting a time later in the week and telling you his address. Michelle is ecstatic for you, even helping you draft up ways to tell your boss you'll be going part-time in a professional way; it's accepted gracefully, and now all you have to do is hope this Joel Miller can pay enough. 
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he hires you an hour after meeting up.
to your relief, his daughter Sarah is a darling; big eyes and a bright smile that hides no malicious intent or snobbery. your anxiety slipped away the moment Joel opens their front door, replaced instead with flustered surprise in your lower belly at the man who stood before you.
why hadn't Michelle at least warned you?
he's taller than you'd imagined, and much more handsome; his dark hair is slightly tousled, a faint hint of stubble framing his jawline, biceps defined by a dark gray shhirt. he's curt but chivalrous, voice a low baritone and veins that trickle up his thick forearms golden skin glowing as he talks.
and jesus christ, his eyes - the memory of how they'd scaled over your body, taking you in as you'd stood in the dying sunlight on his doorstep that first time. dragging slowly, eyes dark and shrouded by long lashes, as you'd introduced yourself. how he'd cleared his throat and let you through with a half smile and a nod.
you'd had to try your hardest to keep your eyes on his as he explained he'd need you most weekdays because he has several new projects and has been working longer hours recently.
it took Sarah all of a minute and a half of shyness and hiding behind her father's leg before you showed her your tamagotchi; immediately after, she decided you were new best friends - with her hand in yours, she eagerly showed around the house in a half-intentional tour, pointing out the best hide and seek spots and showing you her collection of toys. 
by the end of the evening, Joel was shaking your hand and agreeing on a bi-weekly payment much higher than you'd expected.
he'd insisted on walking you to your beat-up car, smiling as he opened your driver's door with a shrug - it's dark out, don't want to let my new sitter walk alone at night, do I?
you'd tried your hardest to keep your thoughts professional, but the moment your head fell to your pillow that night, you knew you were fucked. 
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up next: chapter 01 ; as long as you don't care there is no longer a taglist; follow @tremendumnotifs to be notified when i post.
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nackrosor · 4 months
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~Your Wish~
(pt.1/3)
PART 2 - PART 3
Brahms Heelshire x nanny!Reader
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warnings/tags: smut, voyeurism, masturbation (nothing explicit), not much happening tbh, it's more of a teasing for what might come next... (i'm thinking somnophilia, dub/con, eventual consensual sex but we'll see...) words count: 1,1k. a.n: this is just a lil' something to keep the writing block away and to get used to writing less but posting more. Also, for once I focused on the character's - in this case Brahms's - feelings/thoughts instead of the reader's, so there's that. Enjoy!
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The boy watched you as you placed Brahms in its bed with the care of a mother. You've been looking after the doll for weeks now, treating it with such gentleness; he noticed it and it made him happy, proud of you. He liked you even more because of it. 
He's been watching you the entire time, peeking through the slits and gaps between the walls. Every time your hands held the doll's small form tight to your chest or each time your lips brushed its ceramic face for a goodnight kiss, he wished it was him instead of his fake counterpart. He wished to be touched like that, to be cared for like that… By you.
Despite his ardent and ever-growing fondness for you, he stayed back, hidden behind the walls, only coming out when you were outside in the garden or asleep in your bed. He was afraid you'd be scared to see him, scared of him. That you would run away, leave him alone… He would not be able to bear it. No. You were his. His y/n. 
He'd stay hidden for you, content to watch you and admire you from a distance… fantasising about your touch, your warmth, your lips... 
You leaned down and gave the doll the mandatory goodnight kiss, drawing Brahms's attention back to you. A soft groan left his lips at the sight. Everything you did aroused him. It was an instant reaction. Even at that moment, he could already feel himself growing… 
"You know, Brahms?” 
His ears perked up at the sound of your voice. He eagerly leaned in against the wooden panel in the hope of hearing you better. 
“Sometimes I wish you were a real boy so that we would keep each other company in this big, scary house." 
You admitted with a little smile on your lips as you caressed the cold doll's face, and he almost lost it. He would have punched through the wall and wrapped his arms tight around you, right there and there, if only he could. Would you have accepted him? Without reservations? He had just heard you say you wished he was real… Would you have been happy to see him? To see that he was, in fact, very much real and just as desirous to keep you company.
The melodious sound of your chuckle drew his attention back to you, and he saw you shaking your head in amusement before you tucked the doll in and retreated towards the door to leave the room. 
Brahms ran after you without even a second thought, rushing through the maze behind the walls to follow your path.
You made it to your bedroom and started undressing yourself to get ready for bed. His breath caught in his throat; the sight of your bare body always made him twitch in need. Oh, how he would love to strip you out of your clothes at least once... His probing eyes raked over your curves, his breathing becoming ragged, while you slipped into your nightgown and crawled into your bed with a tired sigh. 
The light went out, and he hissed. It was difficult to watch you with the entire room enveloped in pitch-blackness, but at least he could make out your faint silhouette since that night the moon shone high in the sky, its kind rays gently illuminating your soft curves through the dark drapes.
He kept watching you for a while, making sure you fell asleep, making sure you were alright. 
As he was turning around to crawl back to his place and take care of himself, he heard a soft, muffled sound coming from your room. He immediately moved back to the hole to peek inside. 
You were stirring under the sheets. Were you having a bad dream? Or perhaps you couldn't fall asleep? 
He leaned in further, squinting through the gap in an attempt to see you better. More weak noises came out of you, causing him to frown in confusion. It didn't sound like you were in pain… But your breath came out in short gasps, as if you were having trouble with something.
Brahms felt his muscles tense up, his whole body urging him to follow his instincts and barge into the room to help you. 
“Ohh, f-fuck…f-fuck…”
The sound of your voice made him freeze on the spot, his eyes growing wide. He watched as your legs spread apart under the sheets and your body arched up slightly. He could see it clearly now; your arm hidden beneath the sheets, resting right between your thighs. 
It took all of his strength to hold back the deep grunt that was about to spill out of his mouth when he finally realised what was happening. His legs gave out, causing him to fall to the floor, but his hands muffled the thud by holding onto the wall, slowing down his fall.
He leaned his forehead against the wooden panels, his breathing shallow and his body trembling in restraint. His hand tentatively reached for his pants, while the other rested on the wall in front of him for support. He had to bite down on his lips to muffle a moan the moment he palmed himself from above the fabric. His bulge twitched, desperately screaming for attention but he knew he couldn't answer… He would make too much noise… and alert you… Scare you… No… He couldn't risk it… He had to wait… Wait until you finished and fell asleep… Only then… Only then he could… 
Reluctantly, he tore his hand away from his pants and rested it on the wall as well, going back to focus on the sight of you. Your voice was growing louder, and each single moan and whimper that escaped you went straight to his throbbing erection, making him grit his teeth. His hips started bucking up, thrusting into the air on their own accord, moving in unison with your own as if he was the one pleasuring you… hitting your most precious spot inside you instead of your fingers. 
He had to summon every ounce of willpower inside him to control himself and hold back when he heard you cry out in pleasure, your body spasming violently, shaken by waves of ecstasy. 
The muffled sound of his ragged breathing drowned out your sounds as it reverberated through his mask, his hot breath condensing into tiny drops on the cold ceramic. 
Brahms kept staring at you, raptured and shuddering with barely contained lust as you came down from your high and tucked yourself in again, ready to fall asleep this time. 
He nearly came only from watching you, or rather, hearing you. If he could have truly seen you, nothing could have prevented him from bursting inside his pants without even touching himself. It would have been so much better than what he was going through at that very moment —shivering, gasping for air, trying to remain silent, and not answering the urge to relieve himself. 
He had to make sure you were asleep first. 
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[A.N: let me know if you would like to read part 2 of this...]
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[Also consider leaving a tip here on Tumblr or BUYING ME A ☕, if you particularly like what you read. Thank you! 🥀]
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783 notes · View notes
peakyswritings · 6 months
Text
Lullaby || Tommy Shelby x reader
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Summary: It’s been almost a year since (Y/n) has started to work as Charlie’s nanny. For the first time, she finds herself in the position of breaking one of her boss’ rules, but his reaction might not be what she was expecting.
Warnings: mentions of death, age-gap (it’s not specified, I imagine (Y/n) to be in her 20s).
A/N: this is a mix of two requests by anonymous. I changed them a little bit to make them fit another thing I was already planning to write. I hope you like it🤍 Also, I couldn’t restrain myself from using Once Upon a December from Anastasia as the lullaby (Y/n) sings.
Word count: 1.4K
MASTERLIST
Dividers credit
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“C’mon, Charlie.” (Y/n) whispered with a soft voice, gently rocking the three-year-old. “It’s late, you need to sleep.”
Despite all her efforts, the child seemed to have no intention of going back to sleep. His cries resounded in the silence of the night, desperate, probably caused by a nightmare. It wasn’t the first time he woke up in the middle of the night, and surely it wouldn’t be the last. It was quite a common occurrence, but there was nothing surprising about that. At such a young age, Charlie Shelby had already been through so much pain.
(Y/n) had been Charlie’s nanny for almost a year now. She had moved to Arrow House shortly after the late Mrs Shelby, Charlie’s mother, had died under tragic circumstances. As for her boss, Thomas Shelby, she rarely saw him. He didn’t spend much time at home, and when he did, he locked himself in his study until it was time to go out again. Everyone could see that the man was still grieving, that the guilt of his wife’s death was eating at him day by day. And Grace Shelby was everywhere in that house. In the portraits, in the photographs, in the very air the people who lived there breathed. It was as if her ghost was still lingering inside those walls, restless.
Truth was, some part of (Y/n) was glad she didn’t have to see Mr Shelby too often. His cold eyes gave her chills, and she always felt small under his expectant stare. It felt like he could read right through people. But she couldn’t complain, because despite his exterior harshness and his coolness, he was kind to her. She figured the reason why was that Charlie had become fond of her right away, just like she had become fond of him.
On the other side, Thomas Shelby piqued her curiosity. He was a peculiar man, she had never met someone who even remotely resembled him. She knew who he was, what his family did, and before meeting him she was expecting to find herself in front of someone entirely different. When after putting an ad in the papers she received his secretary’s call, she had considered refusing. But the pay was good, and she needed to get out of her house, to be independent, and the general terms of her contract were to good to be ignored. So she mustered up the courage and attended the interview, and to this day, she could say she made the right decision. Charlie was lovely, the staff was friendly, and she felt relatively safe in a house surrounded by men who protected it night and day.
(Y/n) sighed, glancing at the clock on the wall. It was three in the morning. She had been trying to get Charlie to sleep for over an hour, but nothing seemed to work. She had tried everything: she had cradled him, given him water, she had even taken him to take a breath of fresh air in the garden for a while. It was all useless. There was just one thing she hadn’t tried, she hadn’t dared try, for if her boss found out he would probably fire her for breaking his rules. It was the first thing people would do to help a child fall asleep, and yet it was not allowed at Arrow House. Because Mr Shelby didn’t allow singing. But she was running out of options, and her boss was still out.
Just one song. One lullaby wouldn’t hurt anyone.
She hesitated, sending a look at the door of Charlie’s bedroom, then she quietly started to chant the lullaby her grandmother used to sing to her when she was a child.
“Dancing bears
Painted wings
Things I almost remember
And a song someone sings
Once upon a December”
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Tommy closed the front door behind him, exhaling a deep breath. Another long day was over. However, not even the comfort of being home was enough to lift the weight pressing on his shoulders. Not anymore. It was always there, pushing down on him, waiting for him to bend, or to break. But he had to keep on marching, relentlessly, pretending that the burden wasn’t there.
He took off his coat and hanged it, trying to be as silent as possible in order not to wake the whole house up at that hour. As he walked further into the dark parlour, Charlie’s loud cries came to his ears. He was having troubles sleeping, again.
He made his way towards the stairway, squinting his eyes in the semi-darkness to see better, when something caught his attention. It was a voice, a soft, soothing voice singing a song upstairs.
Someone holds me safe and warm
Horses prance through a silver storm
Figures dancing gracefully across my memory
Tommy began walking up the stairs, step after step, drawn by the beautiful sound. He knew who that voice belonged to. (Y/n) was disobeying his orders, yet he couldn’t bring himself to be angry, far too fascinated. Soon Charlie’s cries faded, and the only thing that could be heard was her enchanting voice.
Far away
Long ago
Glowing dim as an ember
That hauntingly beautiful lullaby brought him back to over a year ago, when his late wife’s voice used to reverberate through the walls. Ever since her death, the silence had been haunting him, only broken by the echo she left behind.
Things my heart
Used to know
Things it yearns to remember
Tears welled up in Tommy’s eyes, but he was quick to push them back. He stopped at the entrance of is Charlie’s bedroom, watching as (Y/n) tenderly held the child in her arms, unaware of his presence. His son had finally fallen asleep, and the peaceful expression on his face reflected how safe he was feeling.
“And a song someone sings
Once upon a December”
She finished her song, and there was silence again. She placed Charlie back on the soft mattress and tucked him in, careful not to wake him up again. When she turned to leave the room, causing their eyes to meet, fear dawned on her young features. It was clear she wasn’t expecting to find him there. For a few seconds, neither of them did nor said anything. Then, as if remembering where she was, (Y/n) slowly exited the room, closing the door behind her. Her arm accidentally brushed against him in the process, the contact almost burning through his shirt. As they stood face to face in the hallway, she avoided his gaze, probably waiting for him to scold her, or fire her, or something worse. And a question popped into Tommy’s mind. Was she that scared of him?
(Y/n)’s heart was racing inside her chest as her boss’s unreadable gaze rested on her. She had never found herself in the position to fear him, nor had she ever had a reason to, but she had never broke any rule before, or crossed any line. And she had no idea how he would react to disobedience. The last thing she wanted was to get on the gangster’s bad side.
“It was a nice song.” His low voice pulled her out of her thoughts, making her gulp. Suddenly, she realised how close they were.
“Mr Shelby, I…” she stuttered, taking a step back. “I’m sorry.” She whispered, shifting her eyes on the ground, finding it way more comfortable to face him without having to look at his impassive expression. “It’s just… nothing was working, and…” she started to ramble, but the words got stuck in her throat. “It won’t happen again.”
Tommy didn’t say anything. He just looked at her, studying her, and his calmness made her even more nervous, for it made him unpredictable. Then something changed in his eyes. His features softened, and she could swear his lips curved into a small smile. “Go to sleep, (Y/n).”
She opened her mouth to say something, but closed it right away. He wasn’t angry? He wasn’t going to fire her? Was it an emotion, the one that had just broken through his ever-unfazed face? She blinked, trying to recollect herself, deciding that it would be better to listen to him before he changed his mind.
“Goodnight, Mr Shelby.” She politely said, before walking past him to go to her room.
“(Y/n).” He called her, making her stop in her tracks. She turned around, her nervousness coming back again as she waited for him to speak.
“You’re allowed to sing, if you want.”
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Tag list: @iamngoclinh08 @lilywinchesterlove @fandom-puff @capitanostella @caelys @lucillethings @peakyxtommy @queenofkings1212 @lyarr24 @kmc1989 @call-sign-shark @jomarch-wannabe
Tommy Shelby tag list: @50svibes
795 notes · View notes
pucksandpower · 7 months
Text
Gilded Cage
Charles Leclerc x heiress!Reader
Summary: when a girl who craves for freedom meets a boy who knows what it feels like to race at the speed of light
Warnings: overprotective (but loving) father
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The first time you tried to escape, you were seven.
“Y/N, let go of the bird!” The nanny’s frantic voice echoed as your small fingers clutched the delicate cage, trying to unlatch it.
“I just want to see it fly!” You cried, tears streaming down your face, looking at the trapped canary. Its golden feathers seemed dulled, its tiny beak opened in a silent plea for freedom.
The cage slipped from your grasp, crashing onto the pristine marble floors. The sound was deafening in the otherwise quiet mansion. Your nanny rushed forward but not before the canary took off, its wings catching the sun, radiating a blinding brightness.
You watched, mesmerized, as the bird soared above, circling once before disappearing into the vast blue sky.
“It’s gone …” your nanny muttered, distraught at the loss of such a valuable creature.
But you, young and innocent, whispered with a smile of pure joy, “It’s free.”
From that day on, you knew one thing for certain: no amount of gold or jewels could substitute for the glitter of freedom.
***
“Again!”
The shout echoes through the cavernous halls of your palatial home. Somewhere outside, the splashing of the water from the elaborate marble fountain merges with the faint humming of gardeners trimming the intricate mazes. The walls, lined with gold-trimmed tapestries and priceless paintings, feel more like prison bars than luxuries.
"Again!"
Your fingers, stiff and aching, try to mimic the piano instructor’s exact movements. Every wrong note feels like a physical blow, another reminder that you are trapped in a world of perfection and expectations.
“I don’t want to play anymore,” you whisper but it came out stronger, more defiant than you intended.
Madame Lucille, your instructor, raises an eyebrow, unaccustomed to your resistance. “Your father wishes you to be well-versed in the classics,” she reminds you with a patronizing tone.
A voice, deep and commanding, interrupts the tension, “Let her be, Lucille.”
Your father stands at the doorway, his expensive suit impeccably tailored, matching the stern look on his face.
“But Sir, she—”
“I said, let her be.”
Madame Lucille gives you one last disapproving glare before hurriedly packing her things. Your father watches her go then turnes to you with softer eyes. “I just want the best for you,” he murmurs, walking over to sit beside you on the grand piano bench.
You take a deep breath, “I know, Papa. But I want to breathe, to live. Not just exist inside these walls.”
He sighs, looking tired. “The world out there isn’t a nice one. There are those who would want to harm you, to use you.”
“I would risk it,” you admit quietly, “For a taste of real life. For a moment outside this golden cage.”
He takes your hand, his grip firm but gentle. “You’re my everything. I can’t bear the thought of losing you.”
The weight of his love and the prison of his protection bears down on you. “One day, whether you like it or not, I’ll have to face the world. And when that day comes, I want to be ready.”
He leans back, looking up at the ornate chandelier. “What if that day was sooner than you thought?”
Confusion marrs your features. “What do you mean?”
He smiles cryptically, “There’s a Formula 1 race across the country next week. I sponsor Ferrari. Thought you might like to come with me, see something different for a change.”
You blink, taking a moment to process. “A ... race?”
He nods, “Yes. It’s not freedom but it’s a start.”
You look into his eyes, seeing a glimmer of understanding. “Okay,” you whisper, “Let’s start there.”
***
“The roar of the engines, the energy of the crowd ... there’s quite nothing like it,” your father begins, his usually stern voice tinted with boyish enthusiasm. You find yourself watching him, intrigued by this rare display of passion.
Sitting across the opulent dining table, which was rarely used to host anyone but the two of you, you play with your food, pushing it around the plate. “Cars going in circles? I don’t see the appeal.”
He chuckles, taking a sip of his vintage wine. “Oh, it’s much more than that. The strategy, the risk, the sheer speed ... it’s ballet at 300 kilometers per hour.”
You raise an eyebrow, interest piqued despite yourself. “Ballet? Really?”
He nods with a smirk. “Don’t tell me you’re not curious now?”
You hesitate. “I mean, maybe a little? But why the sudden interest in taking me? I’ve never even seen you watch a race.”
He leans forward, his gaze intense, searching yours. “I sponsor Ferrari and have an open invite to every race. Now that one will be hosted nearby, I thought maybe it’s time you see a bit more of the world. Not just through the glass windows.”
You blink in surprise. This was unexpected. “A public event? With crowds and other people?”
He nods slowly. “With crowds and other people.”
You weigh the options in your mind, the yearning for freedom battling with the anxiety of exposure. “And you think I’m ready for this?”
He reaches across the table, his fingers brushing yours. “I think we’re ready for this. It will be an unforgettable experience, I promise.”
You look into his eyes and realize that this is as much a leap for him as it is for you. Taking a deep breath, you reply, “Alright, Papa. Let’s go watch some ballet.”
***
“The red ... it’s everywhere.” You can’t help but blurt out, momentarily overwhelmed.
Your father chuckles beside you. “Well, it is Ferrari. Red is their signature.”
You gaze down, the red soles of your Louboutins now seem almost camouflaged against the vibrant Ferrari decor. “Feels like I’m stepping into another world.”
“Just stay close,” your father advises, his protective instincts rearing up again.
Promising him with a nod, you’re soon lost in the kaleidoscope of sounds and colors. The hustle of engineers, the chatter of excited fans, the roar of engines being worked on.
Suddenly, a man clad in a racing suit accidentally bumps into you, causing your drink to splatter.
“Mon dieu! I am so sorry!” He exclaims, eyes wide.
You find yourself staring not at the stained dress but into the most expressive eyes you’ve ever seen. “It’s ... it’s okay,” you stutter, taken aback by the unexpected jolt of electricity at the brief contact.
He looks genuinely apologetic. “Let me make it up to you? Another drink, perhaps?”
You laugh, “Only if you promise not to spill it.”
He grins, the smile reaching his eyes. “Deal. I’m Charles, by the way.”
Hesitating for a split second, you reply, “Y/N.”
He raises an eyebrow, “No last name?”
You smirk, “Not today.”
Charles chuckles, intrigued. “Alright, Y/N-with-no-last-name, let’s get you that drink.”
You follow him, weaving through the crowd. Every now and then, someone stops Charles to shake his hand or pat him on the back, throwing in a “Good luck, Charles!” or “Can’t wait to see you on the track!” He greets everyone with a genuine smile and a word of thanks. It’s clear just how loved he is here.
However, you remain a mystery to him. He sneaks curious glances your way, the playful teasing evident in his eyes. “So are you a big Ferrari fan or just here because you look particularly fetching in red?”
You laugh, the sound more carefree than you’ve felt in ages. “Let’s just say I’m here to explore something ... different.”
Charles nods, handing you a fresh glass from the bar. The bubbling champagne mirrors the effervescence you feel inside. “Different can be good,” he muses, taking a sip from his own plastic water bottle. “Sometimes it’s the unexpected moments that change everything.”
The weight of his gaze, the intensity of the moment, makes your heart race. “Tell me, Charles,” you begin, leaning in slightly, “What was the unexpected moment that changed everything for you?”
He looks taken aback, clearly not expecting such a question. He takes a thoughtful pause, “Every time I get behind the wheel. Each race is a new story, an unexpected twist waiting to happen.”
You nod, appreciating his sincerity. “It’s brave, you know. Facing the unexpected at such high speeds.”
He smiles warmly. “It’s not bravery, it’s passion. When you love something deeply, risks become challenges instead of threats.”
Your fingers toy with the stem of your glass, his words resonating with your own yearning for freedom. “I envy that,” you admit softly.
Charles tilts his head, studying you. “Why?”
You search for the right words. “I’ve lived in a world of certainty for so long. Every step planned, every move calculated. It’s ... suffocating.”
Charles reaches out, placing a comforting hand on your arm. “Then maybe it’s time to take a risk, Y/N-with-no-last-name. Even just a small one.”
You smile, the promise of the unknown beckoning. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s time.”
***
“Do you trust me?” Charles’ eyes search yours, intense under the paddock lights.
You blink, taken aback by the sudden question. “We just met.”
He grins, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “That’s not an answer.”
Drawing in a deep breath, you reply, “I might. What are you proposing?”
His gaze drifts momentarily to the track. “After qualifying … how about a drive? Not here,” he adds, seeing your hesitation, “Away from all this. The city at night, the open road. Just two people and the world.”
You tilt your head, contemplating the offer. A spark of excitement ignites within you. “A midnight drive with a stranger? Sounds reckless.”
He chuckles, leaning in closer. The scent of leather and adrenaline wraps around you. “Life’s best moments usually are.”
As his name is called by his press officer, Charles straightens up. “I have to go. But think about it, Y/N-with-no-last-name. The invitation stands.”
Before you can respond, he jots down something on a piece of paper and hands it to you. An address. “Meet me here if you’re in. Midnight.”
You watch him stride confidently towards his garage, the weight of the decision pressing on you. Risk, freedom, the open road — its all you’ve always yearned for.
Hours later, as Charles places his car on pole, you find yourself gripping that piece of paper. The thought of the city lights and the wind through your hair is too alluring to resist.
You whisper to yourself, “Midnight it is.”
***
The ornate curtains rustle as you inch your way onto the balcony of your suite. The sheer drop below sends a thrilling chill down your spine. You’ve never snuck out before but the thought of the night ahead and Charles’ invitation propels you forward. You hitch up your dress, carefully lowering yourself onto the ledge below. The soft grass cushions your landing and you take a moment to steady your racing heart.
“You’re even crazier than I am,” a familiar voice observes from the shadows.
You whirl around, finding Charles leaning against his car, an impressed grin on his face. “I had to make a discreet exit,” you explain, cheeks warming.
He chuckles, pushing away from the car and walking over to you. “Glad you made it. Ready for our adventure?”
You nod, the proximity of him, the thrill of the night, everything heightening your senses. “More than ever.”
The car roars to life as you both settle in. The city lights blur past, the nocturnal beauty of the world unfolding around you. The road beckons, the possibilities endless.
Charles casts a sidelong glance at you, a playful smirk on his lips. “Ever driven with no speed limit?”
You laugh, “Not in my daily commute.”
He grins, “There’s a first time for everything.”
The car accelerates, the wind whipping through your hair, the night alive with potential. The city skyline fades, replaced by an open stretch of road, illuminated only by the car’s headlights and the soft glow of the moon.
Charles’ voice breaks the comfortable silence. “There’s something freeing about the night. The world sleeps, and for a few hours, you can pretend you’re the only ones alive.”
You glance over, sensing the depth of emotion behind his words. “Is this why you race? For that freedom?”
He nods, his profile bathed in moonlight. “And more. Every time I’m behind the wheel, it’s a battle against my doubts, the world, and myself.”
You understand, the weight of your own gilded cage pressing on you. “I’ve been trapped for so long. But tonight, with you, I feel … alive.”
He reaches over, entwining his fingers with yours. “Then let’s live. For tonight, let’s forget the world.”
***
“Why are those men watching us?” Charles’ voice is low, almost a whisper, as he subtly gestures towards two figures in dark suits, positioned at opposite sides of the bar you found yourselves at.
You follow his gaze discreetly, feeling a familiar dread settling in. Security. Your father’s men. “They’re ... they’re just protective, that’s all.”
Charles narrows his eyes, piecing things together. “Protective? Y/N, who are you really?”
A pang of guilt washes over you. You had hoped for more time before this moment, more stolen moments under the veil of anonymity. “It’s complicated,” you admit, hesitating.
He leans forward, his intense eyes searching yours. “Try me.”
You take a deep breath, struggling to find the right words. “My life ... it’s not what it seems. I live in a gilded cage. A cage built by my father’s wealth and influence. A beautiful cage, yes, but a cage nonetheless.”
He processes this, watching as one of the security approaches your table, handing you a phone. “Your father wishes to speak with you,” the man says tersely.
Charles’ gaze sharpens, suspicion evident. “Your father?”
You nod, taking the phone with a sigh. “Hello, Papa.”
“Y/N,” your father’s voice is a mix of relief and sternness, “I’ve been so worried. You just disappeared.”
“I needed some time,” you explain, glancing apologetically at Charles who is watching the exchange closely.
“You should come back now.”
“I’m not a child anymore,” you argue gently, “I need to live my life.”
A heavy silence follows. “Just ... be safe,” he finally murmurs.
Hanging up, you face Charles, the weight of the world pressing on you. “I’m sorry, I should have told you sooner.”
Charles leans back, his expression unreadable. “So, the mysterious Y/N-with-no-last-name turns out to be the daughter of …?”
You sigh, “A very wealthy and overprotective man.”
He processes this, the playful teasing from before replaced by deep contemplation. “You know, secrets have a way of catching up with us. But,” he adds with a hint of a smile, “I’m interested in who you are, not your family name.”
You smile, relief washing over you. “Then let’s leave the secrets for another day.”
***
The morning sun paints the Ferrari garage in a wash of golden hues, every glinting reflection a dance of radiant red. Charles stands out despite wearing the same color as he eagerly waves you over to show off the helmet in his hands.
“It’s beautiful.” Your fingers trace the lines of the design, the light catching on its glossy finish.
Charles spins the helmet so you can see every detail. “Not just the design. It’s the weight, the feel. When I put this on, I’m stepping into another world. Everything else fades away. Just the track, the car, and me.”
You smile, fascinated by his passion. But as your gaze slides over the helmet, you freeze. There, emblazoned on the side, is the unmistakable logo of Y/L/N Industries. You try to hide your surprise but Charles catches your reaction. “You recognize the logo?”
Swallowing hard, you nod. “It’s … everywhere, isn’t it?”
Charles, not picking up on your unease, grins. “Oh yes. They’re our main sponsors this season. Y/L/N Industries is massive.”
Your heart thuds. Every mention, every hint, makes the looming truth harder to avoid. “They seem ... impressive.”
You avoid his gaze, watching the mechanics prepare the cars for the race. Each Ferrari, shining in the morning sun, proudly displays the same Y/L/N Industries logo. There’s no escaping it.
Noticing your distraction, Charles follows your gaze. “I’ve always found it fascinating. How brands link up with teams. How they can become synonymous with each other over the years. Like what we had with Marlboro and now Y/L/N Industries. It’s ... an alliance.”
You chuckle, trying to deflect. “An expensive alliance.”
He laughs, “Very true. But Y/L/N Industries is more than just a name on our cars. I met the owner once, at a sponsorship event. Very ... protective of his interests.”
You gulp, feeling cornered. “Is that so?”
Charles nods, oblivious to your discomfort. “Yes. Has a daughter too, I’ve heard. But she’s kept away from the limelight. Must be hard, living under such a powerful shadow.”
Your voice is barely a whisper, “You have no idea.”
He looks at you, sensing the weight behind your words. “Y/N?”
Taking a deep breath, you finally admit, “My last name ... it’s Y/L/N.”
He stares, processing the revelation. The playful driver you spent the past days with is replaced by someone more cautious, more guarded. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
You look down, fighting back tears. “I wanted to be just Y/N, not a Y/L/N. I wanted freedom, even if just for a few days.”
Charles reaches out, lifting your chin gently. “You're still Y/N to me. But secrets ... they complicate things.”
You nod, regret clear in your eyes. “I’m sorry.”
He smiles, though it’s not quite as bright as usual. “Let’s focus on today. The race. We’ll figure the rest out later.”
***
You’re startled from your thoughts when the doors to your room burst open, the journal in which you’ve been scribbling memories of your secret meetings with Charles slipping from your fingers.
Your father stands there, a mixture of anger and desperation etching his features. In his hand, he holds a photograph — one of you and Charles lost in conversation in a hole-in-the-wall restaurant.
“Explain this,” he demands, voice shaking.
You swallow hard, the weight of your secret outings pressing down on you. “Papa, I—”
He cuts you off, waving the photograph. “Weeks, Y/N! Weeks you’ve been sneaking around, meeting him. Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”
Your voice trembles, “I just want something for myself, something real.”
He looks torn, battling between his desire to protect you and understanding your need for freedom. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because,” you hesitate, taking a deep breath, “I want to be just Y/N for once, not Y/N Y/L/N.”
“Don’t you see? That’s exactly why I protect you! The world will never see just Y/N. They will always see a Y/L/N and they will always want something from you.”
“You can’t keep doing this!” The words burst out of you before you can stop them, the pent-up frustration, fear, and yearning for freedom all culminating in this very moment.
Your father stands at the opposite end of the lavish living room, the city skyline a muted backdrop behind him. His eyes, usually so authoritative, are wide with surprise and concern. “I am only looking out for you.”
You shake your head, your voice trembling. “Looking out for me or controlling me?”
He flinches as if you physically struck him. “I want to keep you safe.”
Safe. The word hangs heavily between you, a reminder of the invisible chains binding you. “At what cost, Papa? My happiness? My freedom?”
He sighs, running a hand through his graying hair. “It’s not that simple.”
You pace the room, your emotions spilling over. “Do you even realize? Every choice, every decision has been made for me. Who I meet, where I go, even what I feel. I am suffocating!”
He looks pained. “I never meant to—”
“But you did!” You interject, tears streaming down your face. “Every time you made a choice for me, you took away a piece of my life.”
A heavy silence settles between you two, the unspoken words and regrets creating an impenetrable barrier.
Finally, your father speaks, his voice soft and filled with sorrow. “I lost your mother. I can’t bear the thought of losing you too.”
Your heart aches, understanding and resentment warring within. “I’m not Mama. I need to live, make mistakes, find love. I need to be free.”
He closes his eyes tightly, the weight of your words pressing down on him. “I just ... I love you so much.”
You walk over, taking his hands in yours, feeling the roughness of age and experience. “And I love you. But love isn’t about possession. It’s about understanding, trust, and letting go.”
Tears brim his eyes, the facade of the powerful businessman crumbling. “You will always be my little girl. I would give up every dollar — everything — if it meant keeping you safe. I’m scared that one day I won’t be able to protect you.”
You squeeze his hands. “We have to face our fears. Together.”
***
“He knows. Papa knows about us.” Your voice wavers as you meet in your secret hideaway, a small bakery tucked away from prying eyes.
Charles’ face pales, his fingers gripping the table edge. “How did he react?”
You draw in a shuddering breath, recalling the confrontation. “Not well. He feels... betrayed. I think I got through to him eventually but you never know with him. One second he’s smiling at a business rival and the next he’s snatching away their company in a hostile takeover.”
Charles’ eyes darken with concern. “I don’t want you caught in the crossfire between me and Y/L/N Industries.”
You shake your head, reaching out to touch his hand. “This isn’t about sponsorships or racing. This is about us. He’s just overprotective.”
He sighs, rubbing his temples. “This complicates things. Your father’s influence runs deep, even in the racing world.”
Tears sting your eyes. “So what? Are you saying we should …?”
“No,” Charles interjects firmly, squeezing your hand. “I’m saying we need to be careful. I won’t let anything harm you.”
A bitter laugh escapes your lips. “My father would never hurt me … at least not physically. It’s not me I’m worried about. It’s you.”
He smirks, trying to lighten the mood. “Well, I do have a penchant for driving really fast cars. Comes with a touch of danger.”
You’re not amused. “This is serious. Papa can be ... vindictive.”
Charles looks deep into your eyes. “Then we face this together. Secrets have kept us apart but now, truth will keep us together.”
You lean in, your foreheads touching. “Promise?”
He smiles, capturing your lips in a kiss. “Promise.”
***
A reporter leans forward, her voice crackling with excitement. “Charles, you just secured a stunning victory for Ferrari in a race that almost everyone thought was Red Bull’s to lose. How does it feel to come out on top?”
Charles grins, his eyes alive with a fire that burns brighter than ever. “Honestly, it’s hard to describe. We’ve been pushing ourselves, refining the car, and today, everything just clicked. The team’s effort, the car’s performance, it all paid off.”
The crowd cheers, their elation echoing through the broadcast. The reporter presses on, “You dedicated this win to someone special. Care to tell us who?”
Charles’ gaze softens, a subtle smile tugging at his lips. “There’s someone who has shown me a world beyond the track. Someone who made me realize that the freedom I feel whenever I get behind the wheel is even more precious than I always thought. This win is for her.”
A murmur ripples through the crowd, the identity of this mysterious someone a topic of speculation. The reporter smiles, clearly eager for more details. “And can you give us a hint? Is she here today?”
Charles chuckles, his dimples popping through. “Let’s just say she’s closer than you might think.”
Later, as the celebrations continue, you find yourself in a secluded corner of the motorhome, away from the clamor of the team and fans. Charles walks over, that same victorious smile on his lips. “Did you hear?”
You nod, heart still racing. “You dedicated the win to me.”
He steps closer, his hand cupping your cheek. “Of course. You’ve given me one more reason to keep pushing, keep racing. It’s not just about the cars. It’s about the freedom, the moments we steal away from the world.”
Tears well up in your eyes and you kiss him passionately, pouring all your emotions into that single moment. The crowd may not know the truth behind his dedication yet but you do. And that’s all that matters.
***
“Charles seems ... different than the others,” your father begins, his gaze distant as he looks out from the penthouse balcony.
You step closer, the night air cool against your skin. “Different how?”
He sighs, turning to face you, vulnerability evident in his eyes. “He looks at you like you’re the only person in the room. He looks at you how I used to look at your mother.”
You smile, “I never expected you to notice.”
He chuckles softly. “Just because I’m protective doesn’t mean I’m blind. I’ve watched people all my life. It’s how I built everything,” he gestures towards the sprawling city below, the twinkling lights of his corporate empire.
The weight of the moment settles between you, the years of misunderstandings and unspoken words pressing down. “Papa, I know you’re scared. Scared of the world out there, of what it might do. But I can’t be trapped forever.”
His expression softens, pain evident. “I have seen so much, faced so many betrayals. The world is rarely kind.”
You reach out, touching his arm gently. “I understand. But holding on too tight will only push me away.”
He closes his eyes, taking a shaky breath. “It’s just ... hard. Watching you grow, wanting to spread your wings. I wish I could shield you from everything.”
You smile gently. “But then I wouldn’t truly be living. Charles, he’s shown me a world beyond these walls. A world that’s unpredictable, thrilling, and real.”
Your father nods slowly. “I saw that. The way he stood by you, the way he spoke of you. He … he loves you.”
You wrap your arms around yourself, the night’s chill deepening. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted. Someone who sees me, not my last name, not a walking dollar sign.”
He steps closer, pulling you into a comforting embrace. “I’m trying. It’s not easy, letting go. But I trust you. I just need time.”
You nod, resting your head against his chest. “I know. Just promise me one thing.”
He tilts your chin up, looking into your eyes. “Anything.”
You smile, a weight lifting off your shoulders. “Trust him too. Give Charles a chance.”
He sighs, the walls he built over the years slowly crumbling. “For you, I’ll try.”
***
“I’ve been waiting for this moment,” your father says, breaking the tense silence that envelops the extravagant dining room.
Charles, sitting straight-backed and visibly anxious, clears his throat. “Sir, I assure you, my intentions with Y/N are—”
Genuine laughter interrupts him. You glance in shock at your father, who chuckles, “Relax, Charles. I’ve watched you on the track. You face challenges head-on. That’s a quality I admire.”
Charles exhales a sigh of relief. “Thank you, sir. Y/N means the world to me.”
Your father studies Charles, his gaze thoughtful. “I can see that. And I have seen the change in Y/N since she met you.”
You bite your lip, waiting for what he might say next. “Papa, I—”
He raises a hand, silencing you. “I’ve spent my life building walls around you, trying to protect you from the world. But maybe ... maybe it’s time to let you fly.”
Your heart leaps in your chest. “Papa …”
He smiles at you, warmth shining in his eyes. “You’re my daughter. All I’ve ever wanted is your happiness. If Charles is the one who brings that joy, then I give you both my blessing.”
Tears glisten in your eyes as you stand, moving to embrace your father. “Thank you.”
Charles stands too, extending a hand towards your father. “Thank you, sir. I promise to take cherish and take care of her.”
Your father grasps Charles’ hand for a moment longer than expected, a thoughtful look in his eyes. “Charles,” he begins, a twinkle of mischief evident, “just remember … if you ever hurt my daughter, they will never find your body.”
Charles gulps, eyes widening, then realizes the playful tone your father has adopted. He chuckles, nodding, “Duly noted, sir.”
You can��t help but laugh, shaking your head. “Papa, you are impossible.”
Your father grins, the atmosphere significantly lighter. “Just making sure he understands.”
Charles playfully raises his hands in surrender. “Message received loud and clear.”
***
The pitter-patter of little feet echoes through the grand halls, accompanied by peals of laughter. The once silent mansion is now alive with the exuberance of youth. Every corner and every room tells tales of play and joy, of childhood memories being crafted.
“Slow down, my darlings!” You call out in amusement as you chase the energetic duo.
Charles laughs as one of your kids hides behind him, tiny hands clutching his leg. “You can’t hide here forever!” He teases.
From the doorway, your father watches, his eyes glassy. The stoic businessman, the guardian of a vast empire, is rendered soft and vulnerable by the presence of his grandchildren.
“Grandpa!” The children cheer, running to him, their arms outstretched.
He bends down, scooping them into a gentle embrace. “I have a surprise for you,” he whispers, producing a small cage with a golden canary inside from behind his back. Its wings barely beat, eyes darting around to mirror its trapped spirit.
The children’s eyes widen in wonder. “Why is it in a cage, Grandpa?”
Your father looks up, meeting your gaze, the weight of the past reflected in his eyes. “It looked sad at the market, just like someone I once knew. But we’re going to set it free.”
Together, the family moves to the balcony. Your father opens the cage door, and the canary, after a hesitant moment, takes flight, its song a melody of freedom and hope.
As you watch the bird disappear into the horizon, your father breaks the silence. “Sometimes, we cage the things we love, thinking it’s for the best. But true love is about letting go, letting them spread their wings.”
You lean into Charles, his arm wrapping around you, the children nestled between you both. “Thank you, Papa,” you whisper. “For letting us learn the true meaning of freedom.”
Your father smiles, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “It took me a while but I finally understand. Love, life, freedom — they’re all interconnected. We just have to find our sky.”
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fayes-fics · 9 months
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Moments: Like Father, Like Son
Moments Masterpost
Pairing: Benedict Bridgeton x fem!reader
Summary: One-shot set in the Moments universe. Thomas inherits a rather embarrassing trait from his father...
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Artwork credit: @margowritesthings 
Warnings: none... this is pure fluff and humour.
Word Count: 1.8k
Author's Note: It's been AGES since I did anything in the Moments verse. This idea has been kicking around in my drafts for six months, maybe more. Thanks to @chaoticcalzoneranchsports, who came up with this idea with me all that time ago. This is very silly, light-hearted family nonsense. Enjoy! <3
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“What the…?”  Benedict’s voice fades out, standing by the window.
“What is it, my love?” you ask mildly, taking a bite of toast as you read the newspaper.
“Thomas… he is running full pelt down the lawn… absolutely nude,” he answers, perplexed, “.... and there goes Abigail…” he adds, referring to your nanny, “she can barely keep up, poor thing.”
Wiping the toast crumbs from your fingers onto a serviette, you get up, walk over to join your husband at the window, and have to stifle your giggle behind the back of your hand as you observe the tableau before you.
Out in the early morning sun is your youngest child, now four, running circles around his nanny, giggling loudly. As naked as the day he was born.
“You know you could go help her. Round up your son?” you twist your mouth into a bemused pout and look up at him, bumping him gently with your shoulder.
“She seems to have it in hand,” he responds as you both watch her change direction and fool Thomas, catching him and picking him up to bring him back indoors. “I do hope this doesn't become a habit,” Benedict comments airily as you retake your seats at the breakfast table.
“What makes you think it would?” you frown.
“No reason…” he responds, a little too hasty. 
Something in his tone makes you think there may be more to that story.
_____
“Mummy, Thomas has taken all his clothes off again.”
“Amelia, what are you talking about? And what do you mean by ‘again’?” you question your daughter as she throws herself into the chair next to yours on the terrace outside your home.
“He is always doing it, Mummy. Last week he lost a game of tag and took off his clothes in protest. Nanny Abigail had to give him bonbons to put them on again before you and Daddy got back from your walk,” she breezes, pushing a strand of hair from her face.
“Hmm, I never heard about that.”
“Well, now he’s done it again,” Amelia rolls her eyes.
“Where is he?” you ask.
“He's down by the fish pond. He's upset about something,” she shrugs.
“And his answer was to take his clothes off?” you check.
“Apparently,” she says dryly, with an almost world-weary expression of someone who has seen such a thing far too many times.
“Let's go find out what is going on, shall we?” you offer your hand to your daughter and round the garden to the pond where sure enough, your son is naked—and looks absolutely furious.
“Thomas,” you call gently, “what on earth is the matter, my love? And why are you without your clothes?”
“Frogs.” He opines—as if that one word explains everything.
“Explain to me, please, and put your clothes back on.”
“Do not want to,” he pouts.
“That was not a suggestion, Thomas,” you warn firmly and raise an eyebrow. All your children know better than to argue when you use that tone. 
Thomas stomps back to the pile of clothes and starts to redress with tantrum-like dramatic flair, and again, you have to stifle your giggles about his antics behind your hand.
“Now come here, my love,” you kneel now he is back in his shirt and trousers, holding your hands out wide for a hug, “and tell me what the problem is.”
“The tadpoles are not frogs yet, and Daddy said they would be soon. I want to see frogs Mummy,” he huffs into your shoulder as he accepts your embrace.
“Of course, Thomas. As soon as they are frogs, Daddy will show you. But why did you take off your clothes?”
He just shrugs as if even he doesn’t know why.
“Next time, rather than take off your clothes, please find me or Daddy, and we can talk about whatever is upsetting you,” you soothe.
“Alright,” he grumbles mutely.
_____
Later that night, as you lie in bed, you raise it with your husband.
“Thomas took off his clothes again,” you comment casually.
“Why?” Benedict puts down his book and frowns deeply as if he appears very troubled by the idea.
“He was upset about the tadpoles not being frogs,” you sigh, nonplussed.
“And his answer was to remove his clothes?”
“Yes.”
“What did you tell him?”
“To come and speak to you or me before taking off his clothes next time.”
“Let's hope that works,” Benedict hums thoughtfully. Again you get the sneaking suspicion there is something he is not telling you.
_____
You are hosting a party the following week with all the Bridgerton clan visiting your cottage when it happens again. The dinner table chat is lively and convivial as dessert is served. Suddenly the door swings open, and in runs your youngest son.
“Mummy, where is MooMoo?” Thomas calls loudly, asking about his favourite cow toy.
Everyone stops talking, their attention drawn to your child, completely unphased by his audience as he stands there. Once again, completely naked. 
Hyacinth snorts so loudly that apple juice shoots out of her nose just as Benedict slumps his head into his hands, mortified. As you go to stand and move him, Abigail bursts through the doorway, out of breath.
“My sincerest apologies, my lady,” she puffs, “he managed to unlock the nursery door somehow,” she adds very contritely, curtseying and picking Thomas up, bundling him out of the room before you can reply.
“Apologies for the interruption, everyone,” you call a vaguely embarrassed smile painted on your face as you gesture for them to continue talking as they were before. 
Conversation restarts, but as you take your seat at the far end from Benedict, you notice that Violet sitting next to you is trying valiantly but failing to control a bout of silent giggles. When she sees you looking at her, she attempts to school her expression and calm herself to speak.
“Oh my. I was wondering if this would ever come to haunt my darling son,” she stutters between laughs.
“What do you mean?” You ask, genuinely baffled.
She clutches her sides and dabs her eye. “Your husband was quite the nudist himself as a child,” she says drolly. “He would embarrass Edmund and me by bursting into soirées completely without his clothes. And he was so fast no one could ever catch him, the little scamp.”
Your eyes drift to Benedict at the head of the table, who looks deep in conversation with his eldest brothers, almost like he knows what his mother is saying and wants to look very much otherwise occupied to avoid the topic.
“I KNEW IT!” you exclaim quietly. “He keeps saying things like ‘Oh, I hope this doesn’t become a habit’... I just knew there was something he was not telling me,” you shake your head as Violet continues giggling in sympathy. “How on earth did you get him to stop?!” You quiz with a touch of desperation.
“He grew out of it,” she shrugs, reaching over to pat your hand, “I'm certain Thomas will too.”
“And in the meantime, I just need to accept this will happen?!” you decry.
“Or a stronger lock on the nursery door,” Violet suggests, giggling louder.
Just then, Benedict glances down the length of the table to you; you shoot him a look of daggers that makes his brow knit in confusion.
_____
“What was that look for?” Benedict asks as you guide your guests into the parlour after dinner.
“Thomas. It's all your fault, this nudity thing,” you scowl.
He has the decency to look contrite. “Mother said something?” he guesses, looking sheepish, folding his lips under his teeth and averting his eyes. 
“Yes, she did,” you volley, “why did you not inform me?”
“I did not think such things would be inherited!” he argues defensively.
“Well, I need you to think back. What would have stopped you from doing this when you were a child? Your mother seems to be under the impression nothing can be done. That we should merely wait for him to grow out of such behaviour….”
“I… was three… I honestly cannot recall,” he confesses.
You sigh. “Fine, but next time this happens? It is all upon you, husband.” You raise an eyebrow indicating the finality of your opinion on this topic.
“Understood.” he nods, chastened.
_____
The following day you are all gathered around the lake, having a relaxed afternoon watching the children all playing together spiritedly - Simon and Daphne’s, Kate and Anthony's, as well as your own.
Isobel and Amelia tag out of the games and come to sit with you under a parasol with Violet.
“Hello, darlings,” you kiss them both on the head as they snuggle against you, panting a little from their gameplaying, reaching gratefully for the glasses of water laid out for them on the little table behind.
“Mummy,” Amelia begins, “why did Daddy just give Thomas bonbons and tell him he can have more if he keeps his clothes on?”
Out of the corner of your eye, you can already see Violet shaking with laughter behind the back of her hand.
“He did what?!” you cannot prevent your outburst.
“It is bribery, Amelia,” Isobel pipes up, ever your family’s straight-talking lawyer.
“If I take off my clothes, do I get more bonbons, Mummy?” she asks, twisting to look up at you with fluttering eyelids.
“Most certainly not!” you scoff. “Girls, please remain with your grandmother here,” you add, brushing your dress and going to stand up.
“BENEDICT BRIDGERTON!!!” you yell sternly, striding purposefully towards him, your irritation barely contained. 
As you walk through the assembled family, they all move aside, smirking, already knowing what is about to happen. If there is one thing the Brigerton men are known for, it's their spirited wives.
“Now, ladies,” Violet leans in to whisper with her granddaughters, “pay great heed to your mother. If there is one thing that a man must know, it's when he has done something unacceptable to his wife.”
“Daddy said he likes it when Mummy tells him off,” Amelia answers, between gulps of water, watching you remonstrate with Benedict as he looks suitably chastised.
“When did he say that?” Violet inquiries intrigued.
“I heard him say it once when they were in bed and wrestling noisily,” Amelia sighs, matter-of-fact.
Violet turns bright red and almost chokes on her tea.
“I had left the nursery to ask for biscuits when Nanny Abigail was sleeping, but they didn't hear me, so I just went and got some from the kitchen myself,” Amelia continues, finishing her story with a shrug.
“The lock on the nursery is broken, by the way, grandmama,” Isobel adds, as if sensing this is the right time to announce such a thing.
Just then, Thomas wanders over, fully clothed for once. “Grandmama, more bonbons, please?” he grins toothily, nodding to the glass jar next to her, his eyes so hopeful.
Some family moments are very entertaining indeed.
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Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @lilithseve @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @Mlovesbridgerton @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @desert-fern @starkeylover@corpseoftrees-queen @jeanfreau @magical-spit
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504 notes · View notes
valeskafics · 9 months
Text
"Just Go With It" - Modern!Aemond Targaryen x Best Friend!Reader - Chapter One
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a/n: i lied, surprise shorrrdy, here it is lol.
Summary: Your best friend desperately needs your help with something and enlists the help of your kids to get it.
TW: profanity, innuendo, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, reader is a single mom (the dad is a deadbeat and not a canon character), fluff
Word Count: 2,025 words
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.
Comments, likes, and reblogs are never required but are immensely appreciated ❤️
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You love Aemond. He’s your best friend in the entire world, ever since you met him back in high school. He’s been there for you through everything, all the broken hearts, all the tears, all the good times. When you got pregnant during undergrad by your boyfriend, Robbie Arryn, who can, at best, be described as a deadbeat parent, it was Aemond who took you for every ultrasound, who was in the delivery room with you and held your hand. It was him who offered to babysit when you had to pick up extra shifts at work, despite having no knowledge on how to take care of kids.
Aemond continued on to law school, something both of you had always talked about doing together. But, unfortunately for you with the kids, it just didn’t seem realistic, no matter how many daycare programs Aemond showed you pamphlets for, no matter how many times he offered to pay for a nanny for you. You’re independent, stubbornly so, and refuse to take handouts even from your best friend.
You got a job you enjoyed at a travel agency, always ready to greet everyone with a pleasant smile and help them plan the vacation of their dreams. It’s something that brings you genuine happiness. And your bosses are pretty understanding about the twins, and your situation with their dad, one of them being a single mom herself.
You’d do practically anything for Aemond and you know he’d do the same for you. But what he’s asking right now, sitting in your office under the false pretense of booking a vacation? You feel like smashing your face through a window.
“No.”
“Love, please-”
“No!”
“I’m on my knees, begging you, I’m a proud man, I don’t beg-”
You scowl, “You are not dragging me and my kids into this ridiculous, hair-brained scheme of yours.”
“Come on,” Aemond protests, “It’s an all expenses paid vacation. You love the Water Gardens! You’ve always wanted to visit Dorne-”
“Not while pretending to be your ex-wife and baby mama!” you scoff, “This is the stupidest idea you’ve ever had. This is Aegon level stupidity.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far-”
“I mean, what even is the point of this?”
Aemond heaves a sigh, burying his face in his hands, “Borros Baratheon is deciding who to make partner and is a real family guy. If I show him I’m a family man-”
“Why am I the ex wife then?” you question archly before your jaw drops, “You’re trying to bone his daughter! Oh my fucking God, Aemond, this is pathetic, even for you!”
He looks so dejected that you almost feel guilty, but he opens his stupid mouth again, “Look, Floris really likes kids and I really like her-”
“Aem, you know I love you, but I’ve never been this close to murdering you in my entire life.”
“Not even when Alys keyed your car because she was convinced I was fucking you?” Aemond grins.
“Okay, that comes pretty fucking close,” you relent, “Sometimes I wonder why I’m still friends with you.”
That’s when you get a phone call from your kids’ school. Aemond can tell by the annoyed expression on your face that, yet again, Robbie has managed to forget to pick the kids up. You grab your purse and your keys, giving your best friend a somewhat apologetic look.
“Robbie?” he asks, shaking his head incredulously, “Fucking asshole. He has to do this once every two weeks and he can’t even do that?”
“It’s fine,” you mumble, only for Aemond to rest a hand over yours, “What?”
“I’ll pick them up and bring them over after you’re done with work. I’ll take them out for ice cream or something in the meanwhile,” he offers, “Don’t worry. Just finish your shift.”
You think about it for a moment and look at Aemond, “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, it’s totally fine, love. I’ve got it,” he pecks your cheek before leaving your office.
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Aemond sighs as he walks out to his car car, wondering how the fuck he’s supposed to tell you that he’s already told his boss that his ex-wife and two kids will be joining him on the company retreat. He drives over to the local elementary school where he isn’t the least bit surprised to see your daughter, Saera, pummeling another kid into the ground. He heaves yet another sigh, parking his car and walking over, lifting her off of the poor boy who now has a bloody nose.
“Let me at him,” she snarls, kicking in Aemond’s arms, “Come on, just lemme at him-”
“Saera,” Aemond scolds, ignoring the looks of the other parents - particularly some of the mothers who are quite busy checking him out, “Do you want me to tell your mother about this or are we going to be adults here?”
“Screw you, Aemond, I’m eight, I don’t have to be an adult!” Saera hisses, still trying to smack the other child, “He called Vaegon a nerd! Only I get to do that!”
“That doesn’t mean you go around hitting people!”
“Mom says you did!”
Aemond flounders slightly as he manages to wrangle your daughter into his car, “That was entirely different. Where’s Vaegon?”
The quieter of the two, your son, climbs into the car beside his sister and Aemond immediately fastens their seatbelts, wanting to get away from the school as quickly as possible. Realistically, he knows that he shouldn’t be rewarding Saera’s behavior, and if you knew about this, you’d kill him. But desperate times call for desperate measures. 
So now, he sits, watching the twins scarf down their ice cream, bickering with each other before broaching the subject, “We’re friends, right, guys?”
“No,” they chime in unison.
“Ouch,” Aemond mumbles, “Anyway, how would you like to go on an all-expenses paid vacation to the Water Gardens, huh?”
“Are you trying to abduct us?” Saera questions.
“Stranger danger,” Vaegon mumbles, sliding down in his seat.
Aemond scoffs, “Vaegon, I’m practically family.”
Vaegon shrugs, continuing to eat his ice cream while Saera narrows her eyes, “Why do you want us to go to the Water Gardens? What’s in it for you?”
Aemond pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration, letting out a sharp exhale before responding, “I need you guys to convince your mother to pretend to be my ex-wife and you guys pretend to be my kids so I can make partner and get my boss’s daughter to like me.”
The twins are silent for a moment before Vaegon speaks, “Dang, you’re kinda a loser.”
“Thank you, Vaegon, I’m quite aware.”
“What’s in it for us?” Saera questions, licking her hands clean from the ice cream, an act Aemond has to hold back a smile at, “Huh?”
“Staying at a five star hotel, all the food you could want, and an amazing pool isn’t enough for you?”
“Nope,” the twins chime.
“Alright,” Aemond sighs, “Name your price.”
“Well, first of all,” Saera drawls, “I wanna do an accent.”
“Fine, whatever, next?”
“And I want you to pay for the acting camp Mom can’t pay for. It’s $1,000 for eight weeks,” Saera demands, earning an incredulous look from Aemond.
“You should be willing to do it for the experience,” he retorts, “Two week acting camp.”
“Six weeks.”
“Four weeks.”
“Five.”
“Done,” Aemond nods, shaking Saera’s hand before smirking, “I would’ve done it for the eight weeks.”
“And I would’ve done it for the experience.”
He shakes his head at your daughter before turning to Vaegon, “And you?”
“I want you to pay for me to be a dolphin trainer for the day at the Water Gardens,” he pauses, “And a PS5.”
“Fine. Done.”
Aemond is pretty sure he’s been hustled by the two little monsters, but now all he has to do is get you to agree. The toughest battle yet.
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When he drops the kids off at your place, you invite him to come back for dinner in a few hours, which he happily agrees to, seeing another opportunity to schmooze and try to sway you to his cause. However, when he arrives home to change, he sees his older brother, hiding out in his living room.
“Egg?” he questions, raising a brow, “What’s going on?”
“Heyyyyy, little bro,” Aegon gives an easy grin, “You know how it is, huh? You go to a bar, meet a nice girl, go back to her place, then it turns out her fucking husband who she neglected to mention comes home early and the next thing I know? Pants around my ankles, running out the front door.”
Aemond shakes his head in disbelief, “Fine, whatever. Hide out here. But if he shows up here, I’m handing you over.”
Aegon frowns as Aemond walks over to the bedroom, “That’s not very brotherly of you! The Seven would frown upon that! So would Mom!”
“Why are you talking about her like she’s dead?” Aemond rolls his eye, “Idiot.”
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Later that evening, Aemond comes over, Aegon in tow, which would normally annoy you, but your kids just love Uncle Aegon. Vaegon and Saera shriek as they tackle him, Aegon grinning and hugging them back, the three of them falling into a pile on the floor. Aemond hands you a bottle of wine, which immediately has you feeling suspicious.
“You already said we’re coming, didn’t you?” you sigh in annoyance, “Fucking hell, Aem!”
“Hey, watch your language!” he chides, smirking slightly, “There are kids present.”
You all sit down for dinner and, of course, Saera demands to be the center of attention, telling you all about everything she’s done today, in particular? The newest accent she’s picked up. You and Aemond exchange a weary look as Aegon talks to her about it excitedly.
“I can do a Valyrian accent,” she proclaims proudly, “Taoba, dracarys, valar dohaeris-”
“You’re just saying random words,” Vaegon grouches, flicking one of his peas at his twin sister, who shrieks indignantly and tosses a spoonful of mashed potatoes at him.
You eye both your children with that look only a mother can give, “Hey. Knock it off.”
They settle down after a minute, Vaegon questioning, “So, when do we leave for the Water Gardens?”
You choke on your drink before turning to Aemond, who makes every effort to look innocent as you question, “Vaegon, what did you just say?”
“He said when are we going to the Water Gardens?” Saera sasses, “Jeez, Mom, are you already losing your hearing? You’re old as fu-”
“Swear jar!” Vaegon pipes up, “A quarter in the swear jar!”
Letting your kids argue amongst themselves for a moment, you turn to your best friend, eyes narrowed, “Did you tell them about your idiotic little plan?”
“I might’ve bribed them with ice cream and the promise of a PS5 and acting camp,” Aemond mumbles a bit sheepishly, “I’ll buy you something too! I promise. Love, just do this one thing for me. It could, quite literally, change my life. I’m begging you. I’ll get down on my knees-”
“You already did that,” you retort saucily, earning a bark of a laugh from Aegon, “Fine. Fucking fine.”
“SWEAR JAR!” the twins chime, earning a groan from you as you cough up the money.
“Do I get to go to the Water Gardens?” Aegon questions, tossing a lazy arm around you, “I can keep the MILF here company while you try to cozy up to boss man’s daughter. No sweat off my back.”
“Yeah, no sweat off your back because you’ve been trying to get in my pants ever since your brother and I became friends,” you snark, “Fine, Aemond. I’ll do it. When do we leave?”
“Friday.”
“No,” you shake your head, “I have a date Friday. We leave Saturday.”
Aemond frowns at this mention of a date but shakes it off. You have a life outside of him. He just feels slightly taken aback.
“Okay, we leave Saturday morning. I’ll make the arrangements.”
You all continue eating in comfortable semi silence which your son breaks.
“What’s a MILF?” Vaegon questions curiously.
You swear to everything that is holy, you’re going to murder Aemond’s brother.
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servantserah · 1 year
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Happy international asexuality day from a fellow ace person! ♠️🤍💜
Here’s your reminder that in my GoodGardenerAU Francis is a biromantic ace while Ash is allo and pan! I rly liked that non-seggsual bath cuddles drawing I made last year:
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… and I felt like redoing it! I had a lot of fun redrawing it over the past week! I'm happy with the result, comparing it to the old version is wild. Glad to see that practicing backgrounds and coloring over the past few months has paid off haha
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to-the-stars8 · 12 days
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The Waynes' Nanny
Notes: So, this is my oopsy of adding another story to my roster, but oh well. Here's my other note: Just a little side note. To make this story work, I had to de-age the majority of the characters. So, Dick is 15, Cass 10, Jason 9, Tim 7, Duke 6, and Damian 4. Just FYI. Obvi The Nanny Inspired
Bruce Wayne x Reader, Batfamily, platonically, x reader
Summary: One day, after getting fired from your job by your ex, you somehow ended up in Wayne Manor as the family's new nanny. Working with six kids is tough enough, but the handsome, rich, and emotionally confused father, billionaire Bruce Wayne, who is just too charming makes it a bit more difficult as your feelings for him confuse you. Nonetheless, you love the job and the kids, but soon enough you realize that maybe you're falling in love with the boss, too.
Pilot Pt. 1
“You have to be kidding me, fired?” You said shocked, leaning over the counter.
Your boyfriend then quickly added, “And, I’m breaking up with you.” 
The words could not come off your lips. Instead, you babbled for a good thirty seconds before just turning on your heel to leave. You stopped a couple of times to say something, but the shock was still settling in. It wasn’t until you were outside, watching people on the street that your senses came back. Turning around, you sucked in a breath and threw open the store door.
You pointed at your ex and loudly announced, “You have a small dick, and I’m collecting unemployment! So, hah!” 
Not feeling the victory, but glad that there were more than a dozen people to continue the rumor of your boyfriend’s supposedly small penis, you left.
Luckily, you were quick to find another gig thanks to a family friend. Granted, you hated going door to door trying to sell insurance in Gotham, but it paid you just enough not to be out on the street. This week, however, you were assigned to the other end of the city—The rich part. And, it certainly did live up to your expectations. These people had yards and gardens, and the air even smelled better. If you could only find a rich man, you think you’d be very happy in such a place. 
You looked down at the list of addresses your boss had given you before looking back up at the impressive sight of the house. With a sigh, you pressed the buzzer on the gate and went over your script. 
“Hello, my name is…” 
Before you could finish a British accent came through the buzzer. “Are you here for the nanny position?”
Looking around, you didn’t see a reason as to why you shouldn’t say yes. Absent-mindedly, you said, “I could be.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Oh, um, yes! Yes, I am.” It couldn’t hurt 
Suddenly, another buzz and the sound was clicking of the gate unlocking. Cautiously, you pushed your way through and you headed up the path to the front door. It was a near quarter mile to get to the house and up a hill. By the time you got up to the front of the house, you were winded and slightly sweaty. At the top of the stairs stood an old man in a suit, looking down at you with indifference. Slowly, you climbed the stairs to him. 
“You really gotta warn a girl if she’s gonna take a hike,” You huffed. 
“Most people drive,” The old man said, and you recognized the accent from the buzzer. 
You snickered at the old man, following him in, and you were amazed by just how wonderful the place was. As you entered, you did a turn, and you were amazed by just how big the house—No, mansion—was. 
“Would you like me to present your resume to Mr. Wayne?” Asked the man. 
Luckily, you were quick on your feet, “No, I’ll do it myself. Thank you.”
The man relented, giving you a disbelieving look, and went away. You sat down in one of the chairs in the foyer, quickly pulling out some papers to write some type of passable resume. As you were going for a pen, you realized quickly that you didn’t have one. Panicked, you looked around for one. 
“Ugh,” A voice said, and a boy no older than seven or eight stumbled from a doorway. On him, fake blood and a knife. He cried, “I’m dying!” before collapsing onto the floor. 
“You wouldn’t happen to have a pen, would you?” You asked, but the boy didn’t respond. Defeated, you decided quickly what you said as you saw the old man and a younger, much more handsome return. 
“Tim,” The younger man said. “We’ve talked about this. You can’t scare the guests.”
The boy opened his eyes, “I'm studying people's reactions to gore and pain.”
The man rolled his eyes before turning his attention back to you. He held out his hand toward you to shake, you took it and instantly liked the way his grip was strong. “I’m Bruce Wayne—”
“Oh, yeah! I’ve seen you on TV,” You said excitedly. “I loved the black suit you wore for that ceremony in the park last month.”
Mr. Wayne seemed taken aback by the compliment, but thank you anyway. “Just follow me into the kitchen. We can talk more there.” As he started to lead you away, he turned to the boy still lying on the floor. “Tim, go clean up, please.”
“I will, but only because you said please!” The boy cried out. 
Mr. Wayne shook his head and asked you not to mind him for now. Smiling, you replied that it was no big deal, kids were going to be kids either way. He seemed to agree with you on that and asked you more about yourself. You told him as much as you could think of, not willing or wanting to hold anything back. 
When you finally sat at the kitchen table did you stop talking to let Mr. Wayne talk, but he seemed more pleased to listen. Though, you knew better than to rattle on more than necessary. Maybe, you thought, this was why so many women thought him to be such a charming guy. 
“Can I see your resume, then?” He asked. 
Laughing nervously, you said, “Oh, uh, well, you see, I lost it on my way over here.”
“Is that right?” Mr. Wayne said, sounding like he didn’t entirely believe you. 
“Yes! Yes, it’s the damnedest thing,” You said. “I always seem to have these bouts of terrible luck.”
“Uh-huh,” He said. 
You were going to answer when a voice called out, “Dad!” 
Just then, two boys, one about fifteen and the other around ten, walked in. They seemed surprised to see you when they entered, glancing at their father before telling you hello. You got up, walking over to the boys and cupping their cheeks. 
“My, look how handsome!” You looked over your shoulder at Mr. Wayne. “And those pretty blue eyes! They must get them from you.”
“We’re adopted,” The younger one said. “And I’m Jason.”
You grinned and bent over to look at the boy. “It’s nice to meet you, I’m…”
“You’re the new nanny?” The older boy said. 
You started to answer, but Mr. Wayne cut you off. He told the boy, named Richard, that he could be nicer to you. Richard, or Dick as he called himself unfortunately, protested that Bruce was shuffling his responsibilities on some random lady from the inner city. Bruce was quick to dismiss him to his room, stating that they would speak later, and immediately apologized to you. 
“A kid makes a smart-ass comment, what’re you gonna do?” You smiled. 
“Right,” Bruce cleared his throat, not paying attention to what you were saying. “Well, those two were the oldest boys, I have one girl between them. Then, it’s Tim, Duke, and Damian. My youngest is four.”
“Trying to build a basketball team, Mr. Wayne?” You couldn’t help, but laugh at your joke. He didn’t seem as amused by it, so you quickly went quiet. 
“Yes, well, thank you for coming, but I don’t think I’m in the mood to hire sales girls from off the street.”
You rolled your eyes, mumbling that you could do it and that you had plenty of experience in taking care of children as you babysat a lot when you were a teenager. Mr. Wayne didn’t seem to hear anything you said, though, nor the phone ringing off the hook. 
“Alfred! Will you get that,” He called, seeming a bit stressed. 
“Oh, you cannot be that rich not to answer your phone,” You said, getting up and picking up the phone from the receiver. Putting it to your ear, you answered, “Wayne residence.”
“Give me that,” Mr. Wayne said and snatched the phone from your hand. “Hello?”
He went back and forth with the person on the other line, talking about how he needed a nanny. Yet, he seemed to be getting nowhere. The entire time, you laid yourself in front of him as he tried to talk to the person on the other end to get him a nanny. After a minute or two, he put the receiver down and looked at you. 
You grinned, knowing that you got the job. “You’re hired—On a trial basis!”
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Wayne!” You threw yourself at him, squeezing him tight. “You won’t regret it.”
“Right,” Bruce cleared his throat. “Well, I’ll have Alfred show you to your room—”
“I get to live here?” You asked excitedly. 
Bruce almost smiled, but held it back. “Yes. If you like.”
“If I like,” You laughed like he was joking. “Of course. Oh, it’s going to be great.”
Mr. Wayne nodded, acting like he believed you, but didn’t know for sure. He wondered if he made the right choice not only for his children but for himself as well. Since he only knew you for half an hour, he found himself being intrigued by you.
Despite this, how he felt didn’t matter. All that did matter was if the children liked you and if you were competent enough to look after them. After all, it wasn’t like he was going to fall in love with you. 
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whisperingmidnights · 7 months
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Chasing Starlight: Chapter 20
Pairing: Poly!Feysand x female!Reader
Summary: After Nyx’s birth, Feyre is seeking to ease her way back into her duties as High Lady and balance her time at the gallery with being a new mother. To ease her mind, she and Rhys have decided to hire a new nanny, who turns out to be far more than either of them had bargained for.
A/N: I decided to split this chapter into two separate chapters, so you're not waiting nearly as long for an update as you would be otherwise. Happy birthday to me means happy birthday to YOU. I hope you all enjoy it.
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     I don’t need a healer to tell me how bad the poisoning is. I feel it to the very marrow of my bones, in the way my muscles burn and the endless exhaustion that plagues me like a phantom. It takes days to get out of bed on my own, and over a week before I’m able to walk the River House without assistance. All the while, healers buzz in and out of our rooms so quickly, I don’t have time to learn their names…not that I truly need to. Rhys and Feyre oversee everything, from the various potions and tonics and salves I use to manage the ongoing symptoms to the amount of movement I should be getting every day. I let them, and I still can’t decide if it is truly a betrayal of myself to allow anyone else to have that sort of control over my existence, or if it merely feels like one.
     From my seat in the window of this little corner sitting room, I can see Elain puttering around the garden, her golden brown hair tied back from her face. She had mentioned starting the process of preparing the flowerbeds for winter, but I hadn’t truly thought about it until I noticed the frost glistening on the ground and realized how much time has passed. Time I’ve lost. My gaze flicks to Lucien following dutifully behind her, ever the gentleman, but his eyes aren’t on his mate. Instead, his focus is on the bundled up, winged babe she’d deposited in his arms. To his credit, Nyx seems just as entranced as his chubby fists grab at the ends of Lucien’s crimson hair.
     ‘You’re drifting again.’ Feyre’s soft voice drifts through my wafer-thin shields with ease. She’s little more than a wisp at the edge of my mind, as far as she or Rhys dare to go these days, but I can tell she’s getting a peek at what’s captured my attention. ‘I promise he’s fine.’
     “It’s cold,” I murmur, and the Dawn Court healer seated across from my mates makes some startled noise, like she’d forgotten her patient was in the room. I glance over my shoulder to see her begin to rise, only to be stilled by Rhys’s hand raising in silent command. I feel him, too, slipping around the edge of the fragile shield I’d been holding that I finally allow to crumple. There’s no point in maintaining it if it’s not actually functional. Rhysand’s disapproval is thick as he settles a shield of his own around my mind: a barrier of strong, dark adamant I could not hope to penetrate on my own.
     ‘This feels unnecessary, no one is reading my mind here besides the two of you.’
     ‘I would have put a shield in place regardless, we’re leaving after this.’ The detached formality of his tone draws my attention back to him, and I narrow my eyes as he meets my gaze. He’s been distant since the morning after I regained consciousness, and I still can’t decide why. Fear? Trauma? Feyre says to give him time, but I’m not sure how much time it’s going to take for us to move past this, or if that’s even truly the answer. I know we will move past it, whatever it is, I just wish I knew how to help.
     ‘Where are you going?’ I ask, anxious at the idea of either of them leaving me so soon, even if it’s only for a meeting. We haven’t been apart since I woke, and I selfishly want all of the time I have to spend with them while I can.
     ‘We, Dove, you’re going, too. Helion has agreed to meet with us to see if he can break this spell,’ Feyre’s gentle response breaks through the tension beginning to bubble between us. ‘And you wanted to speak to Eris, which we’ve arranged for this afternoon.’
     ‘And we have to leave to do that?’
     ‘We prefer to hold meetings in less personal territory. Our official court residence is not in Velaris.’
     ‘Oh.’ It makes sense, truly, to not wish to host political allies or potential rivals in a previously hidden city. It also explains why they both look dressed for a more formal appointment than meeting with this healer. Speaking of, the healer clears her throat and my mates’ full attention shifts to her, but I turn to look out of the window once more.
     After weeks of testing, no one has been able to say anything beyond what we already know: there is some sort of spell surrounding the magical core in my mind that seems to have been constructed as a sort of barrier. Many decades of trapped magical power seems to have finally breached the confines of a spell degraded by time and the death of the original caster. The migraines and the reproductive issues that had seemed unrelated at the time, the draining, sometimes painful backlash I’d feel if I used too much of the little healing magic available to me…all turned out to be symptoms of a much larger issue that I’ve been shrugging off for most of my life.
     Because I’d assumed my problems were insignificant. That I simply had been born wrong. Less powerful than my family, a daughter who had grown to be a burden, someone meant to go unnoticed. It had never occurred to me that I might not have access to all of my power. I had overlooked myself for my entire life and now…now, after so many years of searching for purpose and love and finally finding it, I might not survive the year. I have no one to blame but myself.
     A shadow lingering at the edge of the window seat’s cushion curls towards me and I slowly turn my palm to the ceiling, allowing it to slither into my hand. My last memories of Azriel are of his boots appearing on the floor of the hall the day I fell ill, but Feyre says this shadow has not left my side. Our friendship is a strange one, but I’ve missed his quiet presence the days I’ve spent wandering this house. The shadow slithers through my fingers, then up the sleeve of my dress to settle in the cool darkness there.
     The seed of anger beginning to bloom in my heart stills with it. Blaming myself won’t do anyone any good now.
     ‘If we’re going to speak with Helion about my condition,’ I muse, prodding at the bond until I’m sure at least one of my mates is paying attention, ‘why are we meeting with this healer?’
     ‘To see if she had anything useful to say,’ Rhys responds, his voice rumbling with impatience. ‘Apparently she does not.’
     ‘Rhys.’ Feyre’s admonishment is sharp, but he doesn’t seem remotely chastened by it. I shake my head and glance out the window to see Lucien entertaining Nyx with a little, dancing figure crafted out of flame. The babe’s small, black wings flutter happily against his back and I press my tattooed hand against my heart at the sight. Elain glances up from the flowerbed she’s tending and a delicate pink flush lights her face as she watches them together. Feyre’s middle sister has always had a way with the babe, and it warms something in me to witness the delight on her face at the sight of her mate bonding with her nephew.
     Some people possess power, but others seem to be made of it. Elain is one of those people, something about her makes happy endings seem a little more possible. Even for someone like me.
     The click of a door closing pulls me out of my thoughts, and I turn to see Feyre at my side stretching out a tattooed hand. I press my hand into hers and allow her to help me stand, wincing at the way my joints and muscles burn as they bear my weight. The pain is more exhausting than the actual illness, and I think it will need to be an early night for me if I hope to feel remotely rested by tomorrow.
     “Are you all right?” Feyre asks, wrapping an arm around my waist as we begin our slow walk to the door. “If you need to rest-”
     “I’m fine,” I say with a sigh, leaning into her side for support. “Truly. I’ll need a little more rest tonight, but it’s not so bad I can’t handle it.”
     “You’ll tell us when you need to rest.” An order, not a question, but I nod anyway to appease the thread of worry hiding beneath her authoritative tone. I suppose she’s entitled to fuss a little. By the time we make it to Rhys, who has been watching us cross the room with an unnerving sort of focus, I hear the sound of heels clicking on the hardwood floor of the hall and perk up a little. That can only be Morrigan, home from a short trip to Rask. Rhys shifts my weight from Feyre’s arm to his in time for the door to open and his cousin to bustle through it, her long coat a cloud of blue swirling around her as she first gathers Feyre into her arms in a warm hug.
     “Hello, my dears,” she says warmly, kissing both of Feyre’s cheeks before she turns to us, hovering awkwardly while she sizes up how best to greet us both without jostling me unnecessarily. In the end, she settles for a kiss on each cheek and a hand smoothed over my hair as her brown eyes sweep over me. “How are you feeling, Dove? You look much better.”
     “I’m fine,” I assure her with a smile as I feel Rhys’s hand flex against my waist. “Tired, but fine…well, mostly fine.”
     “Did the healer have good news?” she asks, her wide eyes narrowing a little as she studies Rhys. Over five hundred years of friendship has given her an insight to my mate’s moods that I don’t ever hope to possess, I wonder what she’s seeing that I don’t.
     “We’ll be seeking another opinion,” is all the response the male at my side gives her. “Are you coming with us to speak with Helion? Amren has already declined.”
     “Oh, no, not tonight. I have…a few things to talk to you about regarding my trip.”
     “Speak with Amren first, then you and I will talk when we return in the morning.” I start at the implication that we’ll be away for the night. I hadn’t thought these meetings would take more than an afternoon. I haven’t been beyond the walls of this house since I fell ill, and suddenly this afternoon jaunt is becoming an overnight stay? I look to Rhys, whose eyes remain fixed on Mor, then to Feyre who only gives me a small, supportive smile. “Are you able to stay with Elain and Nyx tonight?”
     “Yes, of course. Where is my darling boy?”
     “In the rose garden with Elain and Lucien,” Feyre says, gesturing towards the window. “You’ll let us know if he begins crawling with any real enthusiasm, won’t you?”
     “You won’t miss it,” Mor promises with a small sigh, slipping her hands into the pocket of her coat. “I suppose I shouldn’t keep you, then, since it seems you’re on your way out. Breakfast tomorrow?”
     “You know where to find us if you need anything.” Rhys tells her with a brief nod, his violet eyes flicking to the clock on the mantle. “We should be going.”
     “I haven’t packed-” I stutter, digging in my heels a little, but Feyre shakes her head.
     “We’ve taken care of everything,” Feyre says, slipping her hand into mine. “I promise.”
     Of course they have. Of course they have. Knowing this does nothing to smother the flutter of anxiety in my stomach, but I nod in acquiescence and watch Rhys tuck her against his opposite side. I hate the feeling of the world dropping away from me like so much falling water, only to reform into somewhere else moments later. It’s disconcerting on a good day, but today my knees give way beneath me the moment solid ground is beneath my feet and I begin to pant, desperate to calm my roiling stomach before it spills its contents all over the pristine marble floor.
     “Breathe,” Rhysand’s voice is a strong, steady lifeline I cling to while my vision blurs and an ache begins to build behind my eyes. I can feel him rubbing slow, soothing circles between my shoulderblades, but it does little to settle my stomach. “You need to breathe.”
     The long, artistic fingers that smooth over my forehead and cheeks are delightfully cold, sparkling with frost, and I glance up to see Feyre’s starlight blue eyes focused on me with so much concern I feel I might crumble beneath the weight of it. Over and over, she runs her thumb along my brow bone and beneath my eyes until the ache subsides and it’s easier to breathe again.
     “I’m okay,” I mumble, sitting back on my heels as I finally get a good look at where we’re at. It’s a bedroom twice the size of most of the apartments I’ve lived in, constructed of moonstone pillars instead of walls. Gauzy azure curtains lend some illusion of privacy. The cold marble floor is covered with an assortment of complimentary rugs, the likes of which I’ve certainly seen hanging in a shop’s display window in the Rainbow. There’s a sitting area with plush sofas and chairs, each of which is covered with heavy throws in a variety of knits and furs. Beyond it is a large, heated pool that overlooks a scene of beautiful, snow capped mountain peaks. We’re so high up that even the clouds seem to drift around us. When I glance over my shoulder, I catch sight of a large bed covered in thick, comfortable blankets and the hanging lanterns that dot the room, gently glowing with faelight. An equally impressive wardrobe stands beside an arched doorway, beyond which I assume is a toilet and sink. “Oh, wow.”
     “Wait until you see the rest of it,” Feyre says, and I turn to see a wide, warm smile on her face that makes my heart stutter at the sight of it. I always want her to smile that way, carefree in a way I don’t think I’ve ever seen her. Even Rhys has shed the distance that’s haunted his features for a warm, content smile I haven’t seen in quite some time. I run my clammy hand along his cheek and watch him turn to kiss my palm, his hand catching my own to hold it there. A small, nervous laugh bubbles from my lips, filled with remnants of the anxiety that had previously plagued me. One of them should probably kiss me before it devolves into hysterical giggles borne of weeks of pain and worry.
     Luckily, Feyre seems to catch that absent thought and catches my chin between her thumb and forefinger. Her lips are soft and warm against mine, and I sigh against them as I melt into her kiss, returning it with all of the heat I can muster. My free hand curves around her thin shoulder, and I feel Rhysand’s lips against the tender skin of my wrist as he peppers kisses up to the cuff of my sleeve. ‘We’re okay,’ I think as Feyre pulls my lower lip between her teeth, not caring if either of them are still rattling around inside my mind as inadvertent witnesses to my thoughts. ‘We’ll be okay if we can get through this.’
     “We are more than okay,” Rhys murmurs as Feyre presses me back against his chest and trails kisses from the corner of my mouth and along my jaw to the pulse fluttering in my throat. I’d selected this dress for its loose fit and the flowy, breathable fabric, but the bodice suddenly feels much too tight, the skirts too much fabric between myself and the two people I want more than air. We’ve shared cuddles and a few chaste kisses here and there, mostly before bed, nothing of this intensity in so long I’ve almost forgotten what it felt like. Almost. “We’re going to get through this.”
     I want to tell him not to make promises he can’t keep, but there’s a conviction in his voice that grounds me. There is no hint of doubt, no room for it, only the certainty that he will find the solution to this problem. I want to believe him, more than anything. I want to trust him to find a cure, but he’s no healer. Neither of them are. If the healers can’t find a solution…no, no I won’t think of it now. I won’t ruin this moment with the sort of thoughts best saved for midnight wandering. Instead I lean up to kiss him and thread my fingers through the silky, dark hair at the back of his head.
     The warm press of his lips against mine is far too brief, interrupted by the cool slide of a shadow against my skin. I pull away to watch it slide from my arm onto the floor and melt into the darkness at the edge of the room. Rhysand’s long, dark eyelashes flutter for a moment like he’s waking from a dream, before his eyes clear and he seems to come back to himself. Together, we find our way off of the floor, but I feel the moment the mask slides back into place and the best of him is tucked behind a wall I cannot scale. A spark of intuition lights a cold fire in Feyre’s eyes and, though she’s straightening my dress and her own, it feels like she’s a thousand miles away.
     Arguing with him, if I had to guess, in a dark corner of his mind.
     “We’re staying here tonight?” I ask, though it’s more statement than question. I can’t imagine any of us wanting to find out how I’d react to winnowing twice in one day after such an unpleasant arrival the first time.
     “We’ll dress more comfortably for dinner,” Feyre promises with a distracted nod. “It will be just us, maybe Azriel-”
     “No,” Rhys says, and I turn to watch him slipping his hand into his pockets as the door opens with a wave of his hand. “He won’t be joining us tonight, I’m afraid. He’ll be looking after our guest.”
     “Which one? You have so many.” My tone is drier than I’d intended, but his lips quirk at the bite and Feyre reaches up to tug at my hair. It hadn’t liked that much in the past, but with her? My cheeks heat as vague memories of our night in the Day Court flood my mind and I wave a hand in front of my face, like that will clear them or, moreover, my reaction to them away on the breeze. “Why isn’t it cold here? This place doesn’t have many real walls to speak of.”
     “I like to think I’m above keeping my mates in a lofty palace that isn’t heated.”
     “Don’t listen to him,” Feyre murmurs, threading my arm through hers as she leads me from the room. “I asked the same question the first time he brought me here.”
     “You also threw a shoe at my head the first time I brought you here.”
     “Shoes.”
     “The second one doesn’t count, it didn’t land.”
     “Shall we try it again, Rhys? I think you’ll find my aim has significantly improved.”
     “Your aim has always been impeccable, darling.”
     “He maintains the enchantments so it is always available for use should we need it,” Feyre says, continuing our conversation as she rolls her eyes at his smug tone. I lean my head against her shoulder for a moment as we walk, wanting nothing more than the brush of her body against my own. I don’t know if it’s the mating bond driving me closer, making me crave them both with a growing sense of desperation, or if it’s the feeling of time closing in around us. Now that I’ve had a taste of it, I want so much more of them and this life we might have.
     The palace is beautiful, to be sure. I catch glimpses of several spiraling, moonstone towers with arched windows jutting out of the mountaintop as we move through the halls and up a short flight of stairs to the main floor, and each room I pass is beautifully, comfortably decorated. But it feels empty, more akin to a museum than a place one would raise a family. Had the previous High Lords been in residence here, or is it only opened for formal occasions? Unlike the River House in Velaris, I don’t notice any staff wandering the halls or dusting furniture. It feels like we’re the only people alive up here.
     “Why a palace on a remote mountain though?”
     “It sits above the other half of our court,” Rhys says, settling a hand on my lower back as he lengthens his strides to walk beside us. “The Hewn City was carved into this mountain a long, long time ago. There are natural springs that feed the river running through the city-”
     “Like a dark reflection of Velaris.”
     “Yes, actually. The court is more formal and the culture is vastly different from what we’ve built in Velaris. The citizens of the Hewn City largely govern themselves, and I interfere as little as possible.”
     “Why?” I ask, tilting my chin up to meet those lovely, star-flecked eyes. Shadows are beginning to swirl in them, a darkness I haven’t truly seen in him before, but I’m starting to wonder how many aspects there are of my mates that I’ve never witnessed. We’ve been rather insulated in their home in Velaris, where Rhys and Feyre are the benevolent, adored High Lord and Lady. I’ve not stopped to think about the rest of their territory and the faeries that inhabit these lands before, but perhaps I should. If we complete this mating bond, I will be…something more than a nanny, won’t I? Something formal, surely I would have duties or a title of my own, wouldn’t I? “Are they not your people, too?”
     “They are under my rule and my protection, yes. But no, they’ve never felt like my people. There’s a violence and cruelty to the High Fae living beneath this mountain that chafes against everything I stand for, and I won’t lie and say they’ve ever wanted me for a High Lord. I assure you, they have not, but they aren’t brave enough to attempt a coup.”
     “It would be rather pointless, wouldn’t it?” I glance over at Feyre to see her looking at me with a contemplative sort of interest, and I press on. “I mean, the two of you are obscenely powerful, right? You have power from seven High Lords, Feyre, that’s no small feat. And Rhys is the most powerful of them all, everyone knows that. I think it would be well acknowledged that any effort to truly stand against you both would be a death sentence. If they wanted to make a bid for total independence, that wouldn’t be the way to do it.”
     “I don’t know that they would want it, anyway. There’s a strict hierarchy within their society that requires the presence of a High Lord to satisfy, without that they would have to find a new way to govern themselves. I think they’re too set in their ways to attempt something new at this point.”
     “Perhaps with the older fae, yes, but what about the younger ones? Surely they have children who may want something different.”
     “It’s one thing to want something different, Dove, and another entirely to take a chance on it. I think you would know that better than most.”
     “I ran out of necessity, not because I wanted to.” I murmur as we step into what seems to be a main hallway with high arches and a ceiling glittering with dark, beautiful mosaic tilework. The tiles range from midnight blue and pale moonstone to chips of abyssal onyx that must have come from the mountain below, arranged in a flowing pattern that echoes the sky at midnight. Right above our heads is a decorative window looking directly into the overcast sky. There’s a cold sort of beauty to it that’s striking, but deeply lonely. I wonder if the Hewn City feels the same way.
     “What do you think?” Feyre asks, squeezing my hand to draw my attention back to her. I smile and brush my lips against her clothed shoulder, enjoying the way her own breath catches in her throat. More, more, I want so much more of that. Of her, of them. “You can’t keep having those thoughts if you expect us to get through meetings with Helion and Eris.”
     “Really, Helion is the one that matters,” Rhys says lowly, and I glance over my shoulder to see the darkness gathering in his gaze as he looks at us, suddenly every inch the predator taking in his next meal. When I look back to Feyre, she’s no better: a pale, beautiful wolf eyeing a prize doe, and I don’t think I mind being their prey. “Say the word and I’ll send Eris away-”
     “No,” I interject, swallowing hard against the need building within me. “No. I need to talk to him, I have questions that won’t wait. It took time to arrange this meeting, didn’t it?” Neither of them bother to confirm an answer I already know. “Who knows when we’ll have the opportunity again. Let’s just get through this and retire early.”
     “Very early,” Feyre warns and I nod, eager to please her. Rhysand seems satisfied by her response, if not enthused by it, and trails his hand up my spine to thread through my hair, pulling my face back to his with a sort of possession that feels more like slipping control. He kisses me with a bruising, vicious sort of need. With the way his teeth scrape across my already swollen lips, it feels like a sort of claiming. There will be no doubt in anyone’s mind what we were doing before we walked into that room and I want, no, need more of it. Our blossoming relationship has been such a private thing between the three of us, but I don’t want that anymore.
     I want everyone to know who I belong to and, in turn, that they are wholly mine.
     The unwelcome sound of boots echoing through the hall pulls Rhysand’s lips from mine, but his hand remains in my hair holding me against his chest as he turns my body to shield me from view, giving me a moment to collect myself. Feyre’s hand ghosts over my ribs before she steps away to greet the new arrival.
     “Azriel,” she says warmly, and I release a shuddering breath as I grip the front of Rhys’s black jacket, needing a moment more to truly steady myself. The pads of his fingers rub lightly at my scalp before he disentangles his hand from my hair and wraps the arm protectively around my shoulders. I hear Azriel greeting Feyre with equal warmth, though the low growl in my mate’s chest draws a derisive snort from the both of them while I just shake my head. Territorial fae male nonsense, but I don’t think he can help himself at this point if he’s feeling the pull of the mating bond the way that I am.
     “Has Helion arrived?” Rhys asks, clearing his throat as he turns us both to face his brother. Azriel’s face is stormy when gives a brief nod, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “And our guest has been contained?”
     “For now. She’s still too unstable to be alone for long, but I wanted to be the one to tell you that Eris isn’t coming.”
     “Why?” the High Lord asks too softly as I stiffen against his side. I have questions I need him to answer, I can’t…I can’t die without asking them-
     ‘Don’t go there,’ Feyre warns, her voice swirling through my mind like cold autumn mist settling over an orchard, blanketing every dark thought threatening to break through the haze of want clouding my mind. ‘We’re not going to let anything more happen to you, my love. You will not suffer any more than necessary. There is a cure for this and we will not stop until we find it.’
     I want to believe she’s right, that her conviction alone is enough to save me from this. I just don’t know if it’s true. I hope so.
     “Beron required his presence.”
     “For what?”
     “An execution.” The memory of fire and popping flesh rails against the prison I’d stuffed it in within the depths of my mind. A dark presence swiftly snuffs it out like the night closing in on a guttering candle flame, and the mist descends there as well. I suppose they’ve both decided that memory would bring unnecessary suffering, but the suppression of it doesn’t bother me as much as it probably should.
     “How interesting.”
     “I don’t have details yet, but I’ve sent someone to get them.”
     “I expect we should not keep Helion waiting, then.” Rhys drawls, smoothing a hand over the back of my dress. “Thank you, Azriel.”
     It’s then that the spymaster looks at me, and his hazel eyes warm a little at the sight. I think there will always be a sort of coldness to Azriel that feels as natural as the ever-circling shadows at his back, but there’s something about him that feels like home. Seeing him now reminds me how much I’ve missed him.
     “You look better,” he notes with a small smile as his gaze trails my form from head to toe with a trained precision. “Not well, but better.”
     “You don’t look so bad yourself,” I tease, suppressing a giggle at the way Rhys twitches at my side. The corner of the spymaster’s mouth twitches and he shakes his head, a warning if I’ve ever seen one. Feyre shoots Rhys a look of long-suffering exasperation and I train my eyes on my friend, afraid that if I look at either of my mates I won’t be able to stop laughing. “You’ll have to join us for dinner soon, if only to see your nephew. I swear he grows every time I look at him.”
     “Soon,” he replies with a nod. “I promise. I won’t keep you any longer, have a good night.”
     “You too.”
     “Goodbye, Az,” Feyre says, leaning in for a brief hug. “Thank you.”
     “Of course, Fey.” His words to her are gentle, significantly less formal. A brother giving an affectionate goodbye to a beloved sister. I don’t know that we’ll ever have a relationship like theirs, but I’m not sure I’d want that. I had brothers once and I’d loved them deeply, I don’t know if I would want to replicate that bond with anyone else. But knowing the way Feyre grew up, I don’t blame her for seeking the easy, familial affection she’d lacked most of her life. Once they part, Azriel turns to leave and one of the shadows at his heel breaks away to swirl briefly at my feet before it darts towards a door. He’s gone in a flash of darkness and Rhys rolls his shoulders before he tucks my hand into his elbow and gestures towards that door.
     “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”
     “Then to bed,” Feyre purrs, her blue eyes darting between us as a feline smile tugs at her lips. I swear for a moment I feel Rhys shiver at my side. When I open my mouth to tease him, she looks at me and I get the briefest glimpse of her head between my thighs and the words die on my tongue as I fight to keep my own breathing steady.
     “Yes, darling, then we’re going to bed.”
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runningmunson · 1 year
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My Fierce Lady - Part 2
Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Female!Reader Word Count: 1.7k Summary: After the events of your attack, you felt helpless. You asked Aemond to teach you to fight so you can gain some control back into your life and finally feel brave. Part 2 of My Fierce Lady. Warnings: traumatized reader, mentions of previous attack, use of a sword, slight angst, fluff, soft Aemond
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Agony. You were in agony. Everything had been so different since you were attacked and forced to take a man’s life. Anyone would change if it had happened to them, you believed. Aemond reminded you daily that you are strong and brave, that you and your children were still alive and breathing, and that the man was in the ground where he belonged because of you. Yet you still lived in fear every day, terrified that someone would strike again, but you wouldn’t be so lucky. 
That’s not to say that your husband and his family didn't try to make you feel safe. Your personal guards had been doubled. You were seldom left alone. You wouldn't step into your chambers, so they allowed you to move rooms. They exhausted resources to find whoever plotted to attack the Targaryen household. However, their attempts were futile. They never found who did it, and no matter what they did, you never truly felt safe.
Nightmares often plagued you. Too many nights you dreamed of Maelehra being murdered. You soon followed, only to be woken screaming and crying in the arms of Aemond as he tried to calm you. Your stress and anxiety were so severe that the maester put you on bed rest until the birth of your son. 
You thought things would be better after you brought your son, Rhaegar, into the world, basking in the joys of a newborn, a male heir for your husband. You were sorely mistaken. The maester chalked it up to melancholy as your body adjusted to a new state of motherhood. The royal family tried to keep it hidden. Everything was always kept in the family, never wanted to reveal their personal weaknesses to outsiders. But it was hard to ignore the whispers around the Red Keep with rumors of you going crazy and behaving worse than your sister-in-law, Helaena. 
You spent a lot of time with Helaena in her chambers, doing needlework as your children played on the floor together with the nannies. Rhaegar was usually fast asleep in his cradle. You had a feeling your mother-in-law, the Queen, had something to do with your time spent behind closed doors, not that you minded too much. You dearly loved Helaena and preferred her company over the other ladies in court. 
For once, you were having a good day. Your anxiety was at bay and manageable. The children were behaving excellently. You knew everyone was safe, and you finally settled in once you checked several times that there were two guards outside the door.
“That looks quite lovely, sister! You stitch our sigil far better than I could,” Helaena’s eyes were wide as she smiled brightly, complimenting your work. You were working on embroidering the Targaryen sigil on a new dress for Mae. 
“That is very kind of you to say. Your spider looks exquisite,” you smiled back at her. You genuinely meant it. While you did not share the same affinity for insects, you were always enthusiastic about her interests and ready to learn.
“Thank you, it’s a zebra spider. We have these in our garden,” she replied, then returned to her work. 
It was relatively quiet in the room, with an occasional sound coming from the children. All your focus was on the dress until your concentration was broken. The door opened without anyone knocking, and an unknown man stepped inside the room. 
You immediately stood up, a scream slipped from your lips. It startled your son awake, and he started crying. Your heart was racing, and you felt as if you could be sick. No, you thought, this cannot be happening again. As quick as you stood, you backed into a corner. You sat down with your hands over your ears and eyes tightly squeezed shut. 
Helaena shooed the man out of the room and told the nannies to remove the children. She slowly approached you, afraid to disturb you even more. You could see her mouth moving but heard no sound. The only thing you could hear was ringing. Tears welled up in your eyes. She turned to the guards and demanded they go get her brother at once.
Aemond made his way to his sister’s chambers in record time. “I am so sorry, Aemond. It was a new servant, he didn't knock first.”
“It’s fine, Helaena.” He looked at you, seeing you in a catatonic-like state. Your hands had not moved from their spot on your head, but your eyes were now wide open, blankly staring at the wall. It made him angry to see you as a shell of what you once were, no longer the carefree and lively woman he fell in love with. He turned to his sister, “May you give us some space please?”
Helaena left the room, and Aemond made his way to you. He crouched down, blocking your vision of the wall. Your eyes finally focused when you saw your husband in front of you and not another stranger coming to kill you. He reached up to take your hands off your face, noticing the scratch marks your nails left behind. With your hands in his, he gently kissed the back of both. 
“I’m here now, love. I got you. You are safe. Nothing is going to hurt you,” he spoke in a soft, calming voice- one reserved for only you and your children. The words he spoke were familiar as he often said these like a mantra in the dark of your room after your nightmares. You threw yourself in his arms, catching him off guard as he almost fell. He steadied himself and pulled you in close, once more repeating those words.
When your heart was steady and mind clear, he pulled you up to the ground and led you to the comforts of your own chamber. As soon as the door was shut, you turned to him. 
“I cannot do this any longer,” you said to him, voice cracking in desperation.
“Do what, my dear?” he questioned.
“Live in fear, no longer feeling safe in my own home. I wish to be free of this anguish! I want to feel as brave as you say I am. I want you to teach me how to fight,” you said to him. It was something you had thought about for some time but too afraid to address until now.
“I don’t know,” he said hesitantly. 
You knew it was unbecoming of a lady such as yourself to fight, but you were at a complete loss at what to do. It wasn’t as if Aemond thought that of you though. He always believed you could do anything you wanted. He never tried to control you or put you in your place unlike the other men of the court. Fighting could be dangerous, and he just wanted to protect you. 
“Please, Aemond. I need this. If you love me, you will grant me this wish,” you begged him, grabbing his hands and looking into his eye. You needed nothing more than to gain back some control of your life.
He nodded his head, “Then I will do just that, I promise you.”
Aemond led you to an empty room in the castle. You were adorned in pants and a tunic, your hair in a single braid falling down your back. He was finally going to teach you how to fight with a sword.
When you made your way into the room, he shut the door behind you for privacy. You noticed a few weapons were already laid on a table. There was a dummy filled with sand in the middle of the room as well. 
“Now, today we will learn the basics of defense, just a simple thrust and slice. Let’s go pick you a sword,” he walked over to the table. and you followed. You knew how heavy swords could be, having handled Aemond’s sword once to see what it was like and almost dropped it in the process. 
He handed you several, having you do a few mock swings to see which one felt best in your hands. You picked a lighter sword, the blade a typical silver color with a black and red hilt. The pommel housed a blue jewel. How fitting, you thought when you noticed it was similar in color to the sapphire where your husband’s eye once was.
When you were satisfied with your choice, you made your way to the middle of the room where Aemond was waiting. With the sword placed tightly in your hand, he led you into the proper stance. He used his leg to move your feet where he wanted them. His back found its way flush against yours. One arm wrapped around your waist to straighten you out. The other helped you hold your sword to the correct height, pointing to where you needed to strike. Whiffs of your scent flooded his nose as he held you close. You were disappointed when he pulled away.
“Alright, keep that stance. This should be an easy one. Draw your arm back and simply thrust it forward,” he said, his hands placed firmly behind your back. He was intensely watching your every move, making you a bit nervous. You drew back the sword and plunged it into the chest of the dummy. When you removed the sword, sand spilled on the ground. 
“Good, you have just defended yourself. Now put yourself back into the same position, and I’ll show you how to slice,” he explained the movements once more and let you do your thing. 
You stood the way he told you, doing a spin to gain momentum before slicing either side of the dummy. Once more, sand flowed from the cuts. Aemond started clapping. You turned to smile at him, finally starting to feel a small amount of control for the first time since your attack.
“My, oh my. Who knew the Gods blessed me with a wife who is a natural in the art of the sword,” he smiled, looking proud.
You laughed, “ Well, I have watched you practice in the courtyard often, my dear husband. Maybe I can be as good as you one day.”
“I’ll make a fighter out of you in no time, my fierce lady.”
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darkshelbyfiction · 5 months
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The Nanny Diaries (Part One)
Pairing: Cillian Murphy x Innocent Reader
Warning: Dark Cillian has an innocence kink...Smut...Infidelity...Dub Con
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It had been three months since you started working for Cillian and Lorna Murphy, looking after their two young children Sienna and Mitch.
You had recently turned eighteen and left your small town in America, eager to see the world beyond your front door so, moving to Dublin, was the perfect opportunity for you.
Through a family friend, who was an actor as well, you were given the chance to work as an Au Pair for the famous Irish actor who, with his wife and children, lived in a beautiful country estate just outside Dublin city, surrounded by vast gardens filled with flowers and trees.
Their home was like a sanctuary where nature merged seamlessly into luxury - wooden floors, high ceilings adorned with original works of art and large bay windows which looked out onto acres of greenery.
Their children were absolutely adorable.
Little Sienna was full of energy, running all over the place, whilst little Mitch would be curled up watching cartoons quietly. At first, it seemed strange, but gradually you found yourself enjoying every moment spent playing games, reading bedtime stories and preparing meals for them.
The only person whose company made you feel slightly nervous, however, was Cillian himself. You felt a strange and somewhat forbidden attraction towards this 45 year old man, something no one could quite understand considering how close he was to your father’s age.
However, being strictly catholic and engaged to young man back home, you brushed this off as simply being star struck and though Cillian wasn't exactly flirtatious, there was something undeniably captivating about him.
Cillian soon noticed the way you looked at him, the subtle flush of excitement that crossed your face when he walked into the room, and despite his own marriage status, he began making excuses to get closer to you. His constant praise made you blush, while the lingering glances gave you butterflies in your stomach.
One evening after Lorna had gone to bed, Cillian invited you to listen to some music with him in the dimly lit living room.
There was a comforting familiarity in the scent of leather, polished wood and roaring embers in the fireplace as you sat down beside him on the plump sofa. For some reason, your heart skipped a beat as you sank deeper into the soft upholstery and Cillian silently handed you a glass of wine and smiled.  
"You did well today. Thanks for looking after them so diligently," Cillian acknowledged just as you traced the contours of his strong jaw line with your eyes.
"They are good kids. Despite, looking after them, is my job," you stammered in response. You couldn't help feeling nervous around this man, even more now since it was just the two of you.
"Still, it's nice not having to worry. So, thank you," Cillian said while leaning back into the couch, crossing one leg over another. "It can be quite draining sometimes looking after them."
"It can be," you smiled while your cheeks reddened as you tried not to stare at him openly. For a moment silence enveloped the space before you continued speaking softly, barely audible enough for him to hear properly.
"So you like Portishead, huh?" you asked, changing the topic to music as their album "Glorybox" was playing in the background. His face shifted to curiosity briefly, then turned serious again as he reached out slowly to brush his hand over your knee. 
"I do. How about you? he asked, turning his head towards you.  "Do you like their music?" he then asked and you felt a mix of fear and excitement surging through your body upon the sudden contact - your heart raced faster, and a warmth seemed to rise up inside you as his fingers caressed gently along your thigh. Trying hard to maintain composure, you responded casually yet uneasily.
"I do," you managed to utter softly as his fingers traced higher along your inner thigh. As his hand lingered there uninvited, your breath quickened involuntarily – a mixture of panic and arousal coursing through your veins. It wasn't right, what he was doing, but still, deep within you, a primal urge took hold.
"How is your boyfriend? Are things good between you?" Cillian prodded, leaning closer as he spoke. You could feel his breath tickling your ear as he whispered these words, sending chills down your spine despite yourself. Your hands trembled lightly, unsure whether to push him away or surrender to his advances, caught somewhere between terror and thrilling anticipation.
"He...uhm...yes... he is good," you stammered as his fingers dipped deeper beneath your skirt, brushing against your underwear teasingly, causing a wave of heat to ripple throughout your core.
Aware of the danger you were in, a part of you wanted to resist, while another desperately desired to succumb to his touch, craving the sensuality he offered with such intensity. 
"Do you miss him?" Cillian asked quietly, almost tenderly while his fingers ran circles over your moistening panties.
Unable to think clearly due to the intensity of his advances, you struggled to find your voice. Involuntarily, your mouth hung open, dazed by the sensations that flowed through your body.
"I do miss him, yes," you finally murmured, unable to meet his eyes, as you fought to quell the desire rising up inside you. This was wrong, terribly wrong, but why did it feel so right?
"Do you miss him touching you like this?" Cillian asked huskily as, finally, he pushed aside the wet fabric of your knickers, allowing his finger to slide tantalisingly over your wet slit.
"He never..." you mumbled hesitantly, trying to regain control of both your mind and body, struggling to ignore the growing sense of guilt mixed with exhilaration that consumed you. 
"He never what?" Cillian challenged, his tone darkening as his finger continued to explore the sensitive folds between your legs. One of his fingers began to push its way inside you, penetrating your tight entrance gently yet firmly, eliciting gasps and whimpers from you as pleasure ricocheted through your body. 
"He never touched me down there before," you admitted reluctantly, knowing it wouldn't matter anyway because you knew deep down that this went far beyond mere physical exploration.
"Really?" Cillian queried with disbelief, pulling his fingers free from your quivering passage before pushing it in again, harder this time, his thumb pressing rhythmically against your clitoris. You let out a strangled cry, lost in the throes of ecstasy as your entire body writhed in pleasure.
"Have you ever touched yourself like this?" Cillian questioned deeply, his tone laced with raw passion, drawing a sharp intake of air from you. You didn't answer immediately, too absorbed in the exquisite sensations consuming your body. But eventually, the truth emerged haltingly from your lips.
"No. It's not allowed," you confessed seeing that you were strictly catholic, ashamed of admitting the fact aloud, wishing to sink into the floor beneath you.
"Do you want me to stop?" Cillian asked softly, lifting his hand away from your drenched crotch to rest it once more on the armrest of the couch. Your mind reeled as the erotic spell broke, leaving you feeling bewildered and confused.
Despite the intensity of the encounter, you shook your head defiantly, determined not to allow yourself to be further enticed.
"Alright. Can you take off your panties for me then?" Cillian commanded authoritatively, breaking the momentary awkwardness. His eyes bore into yours, demanding obedience. Reluctantly, you nodded, sliding your skirt lower until your knickers slipped off easily, exposing your naked thighs and pussy. The bold act sent shockwaves through your system, filling you with a potent cocktail of shame and arousal. Cillian observed you hungrily, appreciating the sight of your supple curves and smooth skin.
With determination in his eyes, he reached for your exposed thighs, rubbing his palms alluringly up and down them until his fingers found your wet labia. Gently cupping your sex, he teased you playfully, watching closely as your breath caught in your throat and your pupils widened with desire. 
His erection strained against his jeans, making your nipples perk up in response.
He then inserted not one but two of his thick digits into your dripping core gently, feeling the resistance of your virginity as he thrust them in and out as small streak of blood trickled onto his fingers.
There was some discomfort in your expression, partly due to the pain caused by your first sexual experience but also fueled by anxiety and confusion regarding the situation.
Inside you, your mind wavered between feelings of remorse and yearning satisfaction as his powerful hands controlled your movements, taking command of your pleasure.
As he moved inside you, his touch became firmer, his pace picking up speed, creating a sensation unlike anything you had ever known before. Your whole body ached, your muscles twitching with the force of the waves crashing through you.
"You are incredibly tight," Cillian remarked approvingly, withdrawing his fingers momentarily only to plunge them back in again with greater fervor. His rough hands expertly navigated your insides, working you mercilessly, ignoring the protest of your uninitiated flesh. Each penetration drove a fresh wave of pleasure through your body, your nerves firing rapidly, setting every inch of your skin ablaze until, suddenly, you couldn't hold back any longer.
With a loud moan escaping your lips, you eventually came undone and Cillian covered your mouth with the palm of his free hand as your body  began convulsing violently in orgasm.
"Sssh, we don't want to wake up Lorna," he chuckled quietly as your vision swam as your world turned upside down, your entire focus narrowed down to the sensations washing over you. Aftershocks radiated through your limbs, causing tiny tremors to run up and down your body as if electric currents surged through your very soul.
Breathless and flushed, you collapsed back into the embrace of the couch, exhausted and invigorated simultaneously as Cillian carefully withdrew his fingers from inside your body. 
Wetness and a tiny amount of blood tickled down onto the leather fabric on which you were sitting as your heart hammered wildly in your chest.
Cillian smiled devilishly at you, amused by how quickly he had brought you to climax, and you felt both grateful and somewhat shocked.
Your stomach squirmed with a strange mix of emotions: gratitude, humiliation, and embarrassment battled furiously amongst themselves. Your cheeks reddened with a combination of both physical stimulation and shame.
"I shouldn't have done that," you muttered, attempting to make sense of your own behaviour. You had committed a sin against God and your morals, and now, here you were - wanting more of it.
The thought scared you, but something stirred deep within you, telling you it would be foolish to dismiss it entirely. There was a power to this darkness that held an addictive quality, like the forbidden fruit you had just sampled.
"You seemed to have enjoyed it though," Cillian smirked. His statement carried undertones that left no doubt as to what he meant just as you both were startled by Lorna who came walking down the stairs to fetch herself a drink from the fridge.
Quickly, you adjusted your skirt to cover your slightly bruised and still wet entrance before hastily grabbing your discarded knickers. Cillian, without missing a beat, made himself appear nonchalant, leaning casually against the armrest beside you.
Lorna looked curiously at the both of you, remarking "It seems quite late. You should come to bed Cillian", unaware of the recent events transpiring.
"I will be up in just a minute love". Cillian lied, hoping to prolong the interaction with you for just a little bit longer but, unfortunately for him, you decided to head to your room instead, claiming tiredness.
After you closed the door behind you, the tension dissolved slightly and Cillian sighed audibly, running his hand through his messy locks, visibly conflicted, pondering on about what happened. 
Even as he prepared for sleep later that evening, right next to his wife, he couldn't help but dwell upon the enchanting image of you submitting to his touch, succumbing under his influence. Something about your innocence intrigued him even more than other women had. Perhaps it was the challenge you presented—the thrill of dominance over someone who belonged to another man.
Or maybe it was the sweet, lingering aftertaste of guilt you left on his tongue whenever he took liberties with your pure body. Whatever the reason, he simply could not resist pursuing you further despite the danger it posed to his marriage.
Meanwhile, you too, were laying in bed, thinking about what had transpired. 
Your mind raced through memories of your earlier interactions with Cillian – his confidence, his touch, his mannerisms. There was that secret part of you that craved more contact, regardless of where it might lead. This newfound curiosity frightened you almost as much as it excited you. 
You wondered what it would be like to touch him the way he had touched you, whether his experienced body would respond to you as you did to him. For so long, the idea of intimacy had been taboo for you, yet somehow, those strict boundaries seemed to shift when it came to Cillian. 
Your core ached from the intrusion, and your cheeks burned with indignation, but there was a spark of excitement that lit up deep within you as well. 
You wanted him to do this again and you knew that this was wrong and so did he. 
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