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two-white-butterflies · 11 months

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you're losing me (six) | am. targaryen and j. velaryon

Description: A song that you wrote after breaking up makes Aemond to go back to you. In which, a man gives away everything for love.

Rating: General Audiences

part five

Aemond keeps watching you - already memorizing the choreography to every song that you wrote. He takes a sip of his water, rolling his eyes as Aegon began to cheer for the surprise song. "This song is very personal to me, I wrote it after breaking up with someone - and I don't wish that any of ya'll relate to this," you laugh, and the entire crowd cheers, hearing the few notes. "I get myself twisted in threads to meet you at the Alcott," you sang.

Your face flashes on the LED screen - your eyes were blurry with tears, and hair wet with rain. You looked a like a goddess in his eyes - seemingly staring at his soul. "I go to the corner in the back, where you'd always be." you hummed - thinking of him while you walked around the stage. The Alcott was a place that only the two of you knew about - a secret con, and a hotel garden.

"- and there you are, sitting as usual with your golden notebook. Writing something about someone who used to be me." you added, his brother elbows his side gently - leaning his head closer so that they'd be able to hear each other through the singing crowd. "It's about you," Aegon yelled and he nodded - not finding the power to take his eyes off you.

"- and the last thing you wanted, is the first thing I do. I tell you my problems, you tell me the truth." you added with a small pout, waving at the crowds from beyond the stadium. You could attend a thousand interviews and swear to the gods that you were over him - but you'd be lying, because he was your greatest love - the what if that rattled your brain constantly.

"It's the last thing you wanted, it's the first thing I do." you repeated, walking towards the VIP Station and freezing once your eyes bump into each other. "I tell you that I think I'm falling, back in love with you." you pointed at him, and chills ran down his spine. Maybe this was the way that you'd reconnect with each other - the string that was tying you back again. "I sit there silently waiting for you to look up," you sang - watching as the lyrics of the song unravel into reality. He smiles slowly, avoiding the crowds that were cheering at him. He keeps his cap on his head - hiding his face.

"I see you smile when you see it's me. I had to do something to break into your golden thinking. How many times will I give up and you'll still believe?" you changed the lyrics, deciding to move into a separate part of the stage. The connection was there - but the crowds didn't need to get suspicious. "Tell me, which side are you on dear?" you sang, kneeling on the stage and glancing at his figure.

You were stupid to pretend that you could lose him. That the heart was incapable of CPR.

"Give me some tips to forget you," you smile hearing the backtrack sing back. "Have I become one of your problems?" you smile again, knowing that he was your problem - the headache that you couldn't send away. "Could it be easy this once? Everything that's mine is a landmine." you sang the low note - deciding to go back to his part of the stage. "Did my love aid and abet you?" you joke, reminiscent of the toilsome beginning of the relationship.

He nods his head with a smirk, mouthing the words 'yes'.

"I tell you that I think I'm falling back in love with you." you finish the song, signaling the technicians to shut the lights. There was no use singing more of the song - because the answer was right in front of you. Aemond wasn't a landmine, he wasn't a place that you could go away from - he was part of you, half of your soul and you didn't need any reminding to remember that. "I tell you that I think I'm falling back in love with you." your voice fades out.

y/nkittens: SO ME AND MY FRIEND WERE IN THE VIP SECTION (separate seats) and I just noticed that she kept going back to our section (she started there when she was singing 'The Alcott' and she was smiling at some guy behind us) then she kept going back for 'invisible string' and 'Fearless'

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diveediva: kittens do ur thing 🫣

y/nkittens: UPDATE: the guy kinda looks like Aemond Targaryen 👀 but ya'll didn't hear it from me.

Y/N L/N WINS COURT CASE AGAINST AMERICA: SHE'S ALLEGEDLY PAYING HER TAXES, FOLKS!

JUST IN: After three-years of a hefty legal battle with the state of California, all charges against singer, Y/N L/N were waved. According to the singer, her father (who is a renowned con-man) used her name to create expensive purchases that she was unable to file the tax returns of (as she wasn't aware that those expenses were made) and her father was the one who handled her finances at the time.

Despite the betrayal, the singer asserts that she still 'loves and supports her father' and that her fans shouldn't throw any 'hate' at the man.

Aemond nervously bounces his legs, waiting for you to finish the show. He was escorted back-stage after a few songs. He was playing with the ring - callously placing it on his fingers. It was a family heirloom, a ring given to him by his mother that came from his grandmother. "Aem," you began to bolt in his direction - wrapping your arms around him. "Darling," he breathes - holding you tightly in fear that you'd let go.

"What's the meaning of this? What are you doing here?" you inquire - eyes narrowing around the sight of his disheveled figure. "I've been attending your tours since January." he began, cupping your cheeks with softness and longing. "I thought that you were better without me - because I'm not better without you," he bit the inner corners of his lips, ignoring the staff that were watching you. "I haven't slept properly in months," you chuckle, letting him know that he wasn't the only one having a hard time.

"Let's get back together please," he pleaded, preparing the ring. "You don't give a damn about your family, but I do - your mother loves you." you hum, knowing that his family would never accept you. "I've grown to realize that it doesn't matter what they think. I can do what I want. I'll do what makes me happy - as for my mother, I think she loves you too." he smiled - pulling the ring out of his pocket.

A gasp escapes your mouth.

It was the same ring that Alicent was wearing when she warned you to stay away from Aemond.

"Mom can't stop talking about how generous and humble you are. That you're prepared to drop everything just because you think that it'll make my life better." he explained - your eyes were painted solely on the ring. "Will you marry me?" he asked, dropping on one knee.

"Yes."

(one year later)

(your full name): can i go where you go?

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officialaemondtargaryen: 💚

toelicker69: Congratulations y/n and husband!! 🕷

-(your full name): thank you sm heleana 🥰

Daemon_Targ69: 🎉 congrats,,,kids

LarysNoor: feet

officialaemondtargaryen: All along there was some invisible string, tying you to me.

10 comments 234 likes

jacaerys_velaryon_author: Congratulations uncle 🤘🏽🎉

-officialaemondtargaryen: thank you jacey-poo 💚

toelicker69: Is it too late for a divorce? @(your full name)

-officialaemondtargaryen: I'm afraid that it is 🙂

Jace hands the both of you a glass of champagne. There was a tinge of regret on his heart - festering like an open wound.

He longed for what you had.

You were his greatest love, but he wasn't yours.

"Congrats," he smiled, happy for you. "Thanks," you two say in unison. You looked around you with tears in your eyes - sure, Aemond wasn't going to inherit his father's company but you had everything you could possibly want.

Support. Love. and Peace.

"Cheers to forever," Aemond raised his glass, and you smile. "- and eternity," you add while taking a sip of your champagne.

(your full name): i hope that the kids know that mama and papa loved each other very much. 💗

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shesjustanothergeek · 1 year

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His Love

|Aegon II Targaryen x Fem!Reader|

Part Thirteen

Master List of Series

Summary: Being a bastard born in the slums of Flea Bottom was all you were known for. Not the streak of white you had in your dark hair, the violet ring around your pupils, or how your sharp tongue and skills with the blade resembled your father, Daemon Targaryen. You were just a bastard, nothing more, but to him, to Aegon Targaryen, you were everything. You were his love.

Author's Note: The first part of this is pretty plot heavy. I had initially planned for this to be a part of the previous chapter because I really don't like splitting up an event that's happening into separate parts, but it would have been super duper long. I didn't want someone to have to split reading the chapter when you could do it in one sitting. Idk. That's just me. When I finish the story, I'll re-edit everything and combine specific chapters, but that won't be for a while. ANYWAYS, thank you so much to those who have been with me since the beginning and those who have joined along the way. It means a lot to me that you decided my work was worth being interested in. I live and breathe for your support.

Chapter Warnings: Corporal punishment.

The time between arriving at the Keep and being escorted to the Queen's apartments felt like you were in a dream. Your body's subconscious was controlling your limbs, pulling and contracting the muscles to work as you climbed stairs, crossed underneath red rock archways, and stood before the drawbridge of Maegor's Holdfast—the only entrance into the royal apartments.

You stole a glimpse at the twins escorting you, Aegon in the middle of them both. They seemed to have aged at the same rate, with no grey in either of their chocolate-colored hairs. Erryk, you had found out was the Prince's sworn protector since birth, and it had you speculating just how old they were.

You realized it would be necessary to decipher which twin was who, judging by how many people believed they were talking to one when speaking to the other as you walked past guards. It would likely gain the favor of both of them, and you needed all the allies you could gather in a den of vipers. Besides, you supposed they preferred to be called by the correct name.

Thinking back to the night's earlier events, you believed Daemon would be proud of you. How you fought, schemed, and plotted before you even met Queen Alicent. Seeing Ma for sentimental reasons was not your only purpose for being there. You remembered in letters past how she mentioned her network of spies went further than that of the notorious White Worm, Mysaria, and you intended to use that to your full advantage.

You knew that Madam would help you even if you had not offered a substantial flow of Gold Dragons for the rest of her life. Her anger and resentment for what the Hand and the Queen did to Lyra and one of her spies, Sara, was enough incentive along with her love.

"Open the bridge," Ser Erryk shouted, interrupting your thought. "We are on orders to escort His Grace Prince Aegon to the Queen."

The drawbridge lowered with a screeching of its metal hinges, creating a path over the moat of iron spikes that separated you from the Holdfast. Another member of the Kingsguard appeared, his white cape flowing behind him as he walked over the stalwart oak, his short dark hair blending into the night.

"I trust you brought him well, Princess," he spoke, tilting his head at the sulking Aegon and disregarding the brothers.

"Ser Criston Cole, I presume," you shot back, walking between the three men you were with. You could feel their eyes on you, but you held firm, clasping your hands behind you. "I have brought the princeling unharmed, a feat that has proven..." You stopped before him, lowering your voice as your boots scuffed the bridge, "toilsome for you. Or so I have heard."

He chuckled, briefly looking into the sconces on the stone walls, the fire reflecting in his dark irises. "I believe we can forgo the general pleasantries, Princess. I will escort you to Her Majesty once Prince Aegon is safe within his chambers."

"No. I will take him myself," you declared, leaning closer. You needed to present him yourself. Your plan hung on the dramatic appearance of Aegon, for you were afraid without it, Queen Alicent would not listen. "Given your history," you jabbed, covering the oddness of your demand.

As a smirk formed on your lips, Criston swore he saw a flash of Daemon in the darkness. The same arrogant smile he knocked off a horse and bested with his beloved flail, Morning Star. He did not want to repeat the same things he thought about your father about you. No matter your lineage, you were still a daughter of the Mother and a picture of the Maiden.

"I understand," he said, something simmering beneath his bronze skin you couldn't quite name as he motioned for the waiting siblings to bring Aegon forward.

Erryk took Aegon's arm rougher than you would have thought of someone's protector, the Prince wincing as he practically dragged him. You hoped you had hidden your displeasure at his actions as he walked past, trailing behind them.

The trip was short from there, following the Kingsguard to Alicent's apartments as the two brothers departed with a bow. You looked at Ser Criston expectantly, waiting for him to open the chamber doors.

"Please, afford Her Grace some patience. She had hoped this would be in the morn rather than at the hour of the wolf," he answered your unasked question.

You acknowledged him with a curt nod, leaning against the stone wall next to the door frame, at ease for just a moment knowing there was someone else to watch the runaway prince.

A flicker of movement caught your eye, a pristine eggshell-colored cloth extended near your face. You glanced at Ser Criston with a raised brow as he moved his hand to swipe across your jaw. You had forgotten of the blood splattered onto your skin. The remnants of how far you would go to protect Aegon, what sacrifices you were willing to make for your family.

Despite your picking, you knew Ser Cole was a fine warrior, his skills unmatched with Morning Star. You could not tolerate how he was rumored to speak about your brothers as you quickly snatched the handkerchief from his hand, cleaning your skin.

You could barely stay awake and were sure you appeared like it as you relaxed. Your eyelids slowly closed before you would snap them open again, swiftly looking around to make sure no one saw. You wanted to give Queen Alicent the courtesy of waiting. It would only be proper, as Ser Cole mentioned, but you couldn't help how your knees gradually weakened, sliding down onto the floor as you rested your head against the stone wall.

Aegon watched you fight with sleep as everyone waited for his Mother to ready herself, ever the one to keep appearances. He saw the delicate features of the girl he once knew as your body finally gave in to rest, your lashes fluttering.

He believed today was a day of old memories, seeing you in the flesh again and recalling how you looked with your cheek squished against his sweaty chest so long ago.

Had you thought of him while you were tucked away at Dragonstone? He thought of you every day. You were the only person in his life that had shown him what it was to be cherished. What it felt like to have someone enjoy his presence without any enticement. You were his only true friend, and after years without contact, he was frightened that brief friendship had slipped away.

Aegon knew you were still there and that this current persona was angry and resentful for what happened with Sara and Lyra. He saw it when you placed his grimy hands on your face, your eyes a window, showing him how much you still cared. He saw it in how you carried him while drunk, whispering words of encouragement to keep moving into the night air.

Since then, Aegon had been watching you, gradually comprehending throughout the eventide how much you had changed. Your hair had gotten longer, your ebony tresses nearly at your waist, even when braided. Your maids had woven the white streak throughout the intricate designs on your scalp. He had forgotten how divinely that birthmark contrasted the rest of your strands, a single patch of snow glimmering in the moonlight.

Throughout his observations of you, he concluded that even though you had a scowl when you saw him, your lips in a thin line of disapproval when you looked at him, you had not changed. Not really. The darling little girl he met in an alleyway at Flea Bottom was still there, hidden deep within you to protect yourself from the horrors of the past, present, and future.

He did not care how his Mother invariably said your plain-looking features matched those of your adopted siblings. How insulting it was for the House of Dragon to become a House of Bastards, she would reiterate over dinner, noticeably when the King was not there.

Aegon did not care much about what his Mother said about you and your siblings. He had no concern for propriety and appearances; in his opinion, it was all too priggish. He did not understand why she concerned herself with Rhaenyra's children. The oldest of the Strong boys still had a claim to the Iron Throne through his mother. You all still had Targaryen blood within you despite what she made it seem.

You were not sure how long it had been when a servant opened the door. It was enough for you to doze off and wake up as you saw Aegon above. It startled you, not expecting to see his violet eyes so close, but the feeling that rose as he looked at you made your heart skip a beat. They appeared sad and empathetic as they stared down.

You frowned, pushing yourself up as you smoothed your messy hair, annoyed with his proximity as he followed behind. It was as if he was your shadow as soon as you entered the Queen's meeting room, being uncharacteristically silent when he saw his Mother. Ser Criston announced you both, trying to make the informal situation formal. She sent him away with a grateful nod, leaving the room silently with just you and her son.

Aegon continued to hide behind you, his shoulders slumping and chin tucked into his chest as you turned. You wanted to reach out and extend a comforting hand but thought better, your fingers fidgeting at your sides.

He did not deserve sympathy.

"Princess," Queen Alicent broke the silence, "Thank you for returning my son to me. You have proven fit for tasks even the best men of the Kingsguard could not accomplish."

You extended a polite smile, curtsying as you thanked her as well. "Thank you, my Queen for confiding in me about your worries. It is an honor to aid the Crown in any way I can," you spoke.

"I see," she said, her lips pursed and her hands clasped as she peered around your body. "Aegon, my son, please let your dear Mother see you. I have been sick with worriment in your absence."

Aegon peeked from behind your body, looking like a scared child rather than a man of ten and nine, soon to be twenty.

"You missed me?" he asked, his voice small and soft like in his youth. She smiled, opening her arms to him as he reluctantly approached.

You watched the exchange with apprehension; your brows creased as she whispered to him words you could not hear. Aegon took a breath to say some, but before he could speak, the Queen's hand came down, smacking him across the cheek.

You stifled a gasp, covering your mouth with your palm as the urge to yank Aegon away caused you to take a step. Alicent was furious, as any parent would be, if their child had run away for such immature reasons, scolding him with trembling lips.

"Have you no conscience for your actions? You shame us deeply every hour of the day and night and know this, yet you continue to do so," she shouted, her cheeks tinting pink in anger. "I could not find you for a week! I am your Mother. How do you think this makes me feel? Not knowing where you went or what might have happened to you." You wanted to insert yourself into the conversation, to act as a buffer between Mother and Son but did not want to make things worse for Aegon.

"I had to request the help of this," Alicent paused, glancing at you before her voice lowered, "bastard in order to find you. Do you not know the embarrassment that brings me? To ask-"

Before you could think of being insulted by her words, Aegon's hunched form stood to his full height, looking down at his Mother.

"Do not call her that," Aegon snapped, speaking as a man. "She saved my life! Killed three men who had the intent to rob and beat me!" Alicent released a quiet breath of air, her features softening at the mention of her son's life in danger. "The Princess cared for me with a kindness no one has extended before. She is honorable and undeserving of the insults you spout when father is not around. She is royal not only in name but in blood. The same cannot be said for you, Mother." He spat her name out like sour candy on his tongue, his anger palpable.

You were overcome with guilt at his words. You were anything but kind after you found him. Berating Aegon with a variety of scurrilousness based on your outrage for acts he had no part in. You hated him simply because he was the kin of murderers, a show you had associated him with even though he had no role in it.

You could see the Queen becoming outraged at what he said, looking like she would strike her son again as you moved, making space between her and Aegon before she could try. He did not warrant abuse in his defense of you.

"Her Grace is not wrong, Prince Aegon," you interjected, easing the tension between the two. "I am a bastard by birth."

"The King has legitimized you; therefore, you are a princess, undeserving of her bad-mouthing," he sneered at the Queen, a petulant imp talking bad to their parent.

Your eyes grew wide as you stared at him, stunned into silence at his steadfast protection of your honor. You realized then how wrong you had been in your thinking. It wasn't right for you to blame the by-product of the people you hated. They had nothing to do with Aunt Lyra other than they were their kin.

Why had you been so callous? He did not warrant it, no matter how hard you tried to convince yourself. Aegon did not deserve any of the harsh whispers people spoke. Unquestionably, he was a drunken whore of a man, uncaring of traditions and customs that he was expected to abide by, but there was more to him than the gossip. If only people had given him the opportunity. It should not have surprised those around him that Aegon became what everyone believed him to be.

"Yes, my Prince." You looked to the Queen, her features covered in shame at how she had lost her temper before you. "The King legitimized me, but it does not negate the origin of my birth. It no longer upsets me when people use it in degradation."

Aegon moved away from you and Alicent, slightly stumbling as he recoiled into himself, tear tracks on his cheeks. You wanted to embrace him, whisper in his ear how much his words truly moved you, how such a sweet boy he was, but you didn't.

"Thank you, Prince Aegon, for defending my honor so valiantly. Your actions are not something I will soon forget," you said instead, bowing your head gratefully.

Aegon did not like this side of you. It was so cold and impersonal, fitting into the shell courtly manner dictated you to be. You turned to the Queen, your expression hardening into one used when speaking to Lords and Envoys.

"Queen Alicent and I have much to discuss, my Prince," you said, looking at him with a doe-eyed expression, hoping to cater to his permissive side.

"And I am sure you are tired from your long journey back to the Keep. We will reconvene in the following days when you and I are both well-rested. After all, your name day is coming soon, and I should hope to see you at the events."

It was an intelligent way to revisit your original purpose as you saw the protests die on his peony-colored lips.

Aegon cast you one last glance of his purple glassy eyes as he left, reminding you of how your Mother's looked when you left Dragonstone. If you fell for every sad puppy look thrown your way, Luke would indeed be attached to your hip at this very moment.

The Queen stared at you in silence once he was gone, her neck so stiff and straight in the simple green gown she wore, wavy hair falling past her arms. You waited for her to speak, etiquette lessons coming to your mind.

"Please, sit, Princess. I am sure the day has been extended for you," she said, gesturing to the high-backed armchairs near her.

You instinctually wanted to protest your pride, wanting to show her it was no trouble for you, but you could not deny the ache in your feet, the pang of lower back pain that was emerging, and decided to accept.

"Words cannot convey how grateful I am for what you have done," she started, picking at her red cuticles. "I realize he can be such a difficult child, and I want you to know that my words were honest when I said your efforts will be rewarded. I will give you whatever you desire. A place at court, land, and titles to your name, gold, garnering a match more impressive than your status lets you," she trailed on. "Anything you want, Princess, name it, and it will be yours."

You already knew what you wanted. You didn't need to think. Money and matches and titles were not something you cared about. You would become a penniless spinster if it meant Rhaenyra and her true-blooded children ascended their thrones. What you sought was for them.

"The only thing I desire, my Queen," you paused, taking Alicent's attentive expression. Oh, how you would reveal in her misery once you finished. "Is a seat on the Small Council."

You watched her features fall, her once slightly upturned lips now in a deep frown as she processed your answer. Clearly, it was not something she anticipated.

"As a consequence of my Mother's years residing at Dragonstone, their has been a lack of her presence—one unbefitting for the heir to the Iron Throne. I will take her seat that has remained vacant for so long."

"Princess," the Queen stuttered, glancing at her red fingers, "your Mother's presence is already there with us in the form of the Hand. He only makes decisions with the King's and The Heir's opinions in mind."

"It must be exhausting, having to cater to two people's thoughts," you said with a front of sympathy, though you knew the truth of the matter. "Let me take the burden off his shoulders."

"A duty in which he follows deligently," she interrupted, defending her crooked father.

"Lord Hightower does have a commitment to the Crown." You did not have to say it outright for her to know why. "That is something which I have no doubt, but the lack of her royal presence is something people have taken note of," you replied, dancing around the valid reason for why you wanted on the Council, but she already knew.

"I must admit," she paused, taking a breath, "my confusion on the matter. I do not understand why Princess Rhaenyra needs someone in her place when she already has one."

You placed your elbows on your knees, resting your head in your palms as you leaned closer. Unladylike for you to do so, but you did not care. You needed her attention.

"You have a seat at the Small Council, do you not? Whose interests are your representing when you say your father already does for both?"

Alicent could not answer, the anxiety in her wide brown eyes reflecting the candlelight as you saw her pull a thin piece of skin from her fingers.

You raised a brow at her. "It certainly cannot be your own. The Queen does not have a say in matters of the realm." You couldn't stop the giggle as you continued, "Until my mother takes the throne."

She still sat silently, staring at your improper position an demands as you grew impatient. "Your Grace, you gave me your word that I could have anything I wanted. This is what I want," you said, sitting up straighter.

"Is it?" She couldn't help but ask, the words rolling off her tongue before she realized it.

Anger began to bubble inside your stomach, your neutral expression leaving your face for a scowl.

"Yes. It is," you sneered. "Does the promise of a Queen mean nothing now?" You questioned rhetorically, forgetting your place.

She inhaled deeply before she spoke again, stopping the fiddling of her fingers. "I," she paused for what felt like the tenth time, "will see to it. I owe a debt to you, and I intend to pay it."

Alicent was beside herself with fury, bested and taken advantage of again by Rhaenyra in the form of her adopted child. It seemed as if the Princess was intent on rocking the boat, even if it was not her own. Imagine if she did that, Alicent thought. She would not have been offered a seat at the table if Alicent had. She had to work silently and delicately for that treatment while Rhaenyra demanded and received it without hesitance.

The Queen's jealousy raged within as she dismissed you, further fueled by the triumphant smile on your face.

The thought that she might do what she had done to Rhaenyra on Driftmark all those years ago crossed your mind, but you brushed it off with a quiet laugh as you left, a slight bounce in your step as Ser Criston escorted you out of Maegor's Holdfast and into the Guest Wings on the Keep.

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Thank you so much for reading! This was a turning point chapter for the main character. I'm glad she finally realized it was wrong of her to lump Aegon in with his mom and grandfather. I hope she doesn't find out anything that will change that...

Tagged Peeps: @zeennnnnnn, @malfoytargaryen, @targaryencore, @justasmallbean, @alexandra-001, @omgsuperstarg, @sommornyte, @minttea07, @silverslive, @unclecrunkle, @prettykinkysoul, @duesobabe, @djlexi, @ynbutbetter, @honestlykat, @graykageyama, @legolas017, @iiamthehybrid, @brezzybfan, @dd122004dd, @ladybug0095, @millies0bsimp, @kalfild, @sheislonelyalways, @tempt-ress, @bellameshipper, @minttea07, @trikigirl271, @esposadomd, @buckylahey, @justarandomflowerchildofthenight, @partypoison00, @please-buckme, @pastelorangeskies, @joliettes, @existential-echo, @priyajoyy, @valaenatargaryensdragon, @merovingianprincess, @rachelnicolee, @candy12110, @w3ird11, @ruhjkie, @fatalewomen, @somemydayy, @ariana-dumbledore8, @marikkjj, @zillahvathek, @adelusionalwriter, @sunny-boy-06

Bold means I couldn't tag you for some reason :(

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precious-little-scoundrel · 4 months

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Twenty Songs Challenge, written after being so lovingly inducted by the powerhouse that is sweet Mey, @the-ugly-swan . Challenge being to choose twenty favorited songs and write one shots based off of them with any pairing or fandom of my choosing. Being a weirdo and a little burned out in my own created universes beyond the fics already in works, I chose what currently inspired me most, obscure as it is.

Pairing: Henry “Hotspur” Percy and Lady “Kate” Mortimer Percy -early 15th century

Fandom: RPF, Shakespeare? Tom Glynn-Carney’s 5 magnificent minutes of a performance as Hotspur in <The King 2019> the armor alone was amply inspiring. The Hollow Crown fans feel free to imagine whoever, as you like. I love this historical pairing in about any iteration and the plot is drawn from both Shakespeare’s play and real history, the timeline, plot and politics being pretty self explanatory through the incorporated dialogue. NOTE- wordplay ahead with “cur” and “Kerr”, the latter being a Scottish clan holding great enmity with the Percy Family and charged with holding the Scottish side of the border. Also I kept Lady Percy’s name as “Kate” even though it was technically Elizabeth in the records.

Dynamic: a rough northern lord and his too good for him lady -a lady who has, through years of an arranged marriage gone horribly well, come to find his homespun gallantry and blunt ways more than a little intoxicating when knelt before her in amused deference. She could almost find it in herself to be gentle with him -if he hadn’t just started a rebellion whilst away from her at the Capitol.

Dedicated to my wifey @prompted-wordsmith who I did proselytize into the Percy cult one fevered evening with inestimable results, including her contribution of a few choice lines herein.

🕯As it Was ~ Hozier

“There is a roadway, muddy and foxgloved

Never I'd had life enough

My heart is screaming out

And in a few days I would be there, love

Whatever here that's left of me is yours just as it was”

Warnings: 18+ to be safe. a small amount of sexual content, flirtations, a husband and wife touching in public, verbal sparring and talk of making children and use of the word “bred”, swearing, use of the words “cock” and “cunt.”

The sound of hooves in the courtyard rouses Kate from her anxious stupor by the hearth, toilsome grain list forgotten on her lap. The scroll swishes to the floor at her abrupt standing, wafting out of her path as she rushes to the window.

First the clatter of a single, foremost, over-eager rider, followed at a lag by his retinue, skilled riders all and armored as befits the guard of a nobleman. They make such a clatter in the yard when they come in after him. Some petty part of her briefly considers the tactic of staying here in their chambers in protest, a quiet sign of disapproval with his errand, of discontent with his brusque leave taking two weeks agone.

Her Harry would find her anyway, and like it better that she were in their chambers. He would like it well she were so near the bed and like it ill she slighted him in her dutiful welcome -but he would not speak of that. Not one for speaking much, her husband, not on matters that plague her these days, weeks, months. Kate might have it out with him in the old way and slap him about and toss cold quips and get from him little more than the same benign aggravation and good humored laughs between, a couple dozen kisses to her neck and a grapple in the sheets.

That is what talk they would undertake were she to stay up here.

It is that lone, eager, forerunning clatter of his horse that speaks to her, speaks for him. Just as his sword and his reputation and his gruff graciousness has spoken well of him across these northern lands, his eagerness to return to her, to outstrip his men in haste to be back from his fool’s errand and into her embrace -it is all the declaration of devotion she may expect from him. It is the truest form, without jape lacing his tone or tonic of lust clouding his confessions.

Harry Hotspur, as fast to return to his wife as he is to meet a fight.

It is love, of the sort she has grown to be grateful for, and it is that and fear of losing it besides, that rushes her out from their chambers and down the polished steps, out to the great hall and past the giant outer doors, cursing a lousy servant or five and ordering a bath and commissioning supper and refreshments as she goes. The torch flames bend from her flight, a whoosh and a shadow stalking Alnwick Castle’s stone passageways until the gray light of evening pours into her sight from the opened great doors. Squires and stable boys clutter her path but they part as she dashes, nay, only a dignified hasten now, out into the courtyard where nearly all of this fool’s troup have dismounted.

There are doffed helms to the Lady Percy, the jangle of chain mail crinkling with bows and scraps of deference all around them, but she sees only him, with mist dripping on his nose and a face too boyish for the insolence he has returned from discharging.

“Kate.” he utters.

Will ever he say her name lazily? She hopes not, for that alone she will endure the unwarranted cheerfulness with which he greets her on this dire occasion. She has heard it said in anger, in jest and in passion, vows and quips, praise and warning. And now in cheerful pleasure as evening mist soaks her gown and the heavy clunk of her husband's footsteps clang ever near her on the paving stones.

“Lord husband.” she greets, hands folded over her freshly healed womb.

His stride falters and he rocks back on his spurred heels, an arms length away, an embrace so tangible she can see his jaw tick from the watering of his mouth. “Lord husband is it?” he repeats thoughtfully, eyes drifting down to the paving stones for a brief moment as if to recollect some forgotten crime, they flick up soon and in them is jesting scrutiny, “My lady wife rushed all this way, down five corridors and a furlong of Keep only to greet me thus?”

Did her rising breath betray her eagerness? Could he see her in the hall despite his business dismounting?

“Your cheeks are red.” he shows her mercy, some form of it. His form. “But -Lord husband, it is, nevertheless?”

“Unless you would prefer ought else?” she inquires, he had once thought this smile quite chilling, he had admitted after their first babe, now he finds it rousing, he has admitted after their third.

“If it please you.” his shifting stance is noisy, his tabard and sword and still clutched helm a racket of accouterments in the pattering rain.

“I have any number to offer,” she concedes, stepping nearer, a lady’s step, covering one third of the ground between them that he might vanquish in a single stride. Still, he waits. “Knucklehead.” she whispers, her breath a fog and her insult as lost as vapor in the ears of his watching men, her bearing alone must satisfy their curiosity, as must his growing smirk and rising color, “Jackenape.” Another step until each little scar on his face is visible and the little canyons each raindrop make of them. She saw his finger twitching where it grasped his visor “Cur.”

There was the slightest flinch between his brows at that, a furrow that smoothed as his mirthful lips flattened out. “Careful now, lady wife, with words like Kerr* thrown about, my men might think you presumptuous, their lady gone and married to some other, a Scottish laird at that. So sure of my death already, sweet Kate, that you must speak of Kerrs in mine own yard? Ha, ‘pon my word you are qu-“

“Hush!” Her hand, fresh warmed as it was by recent hearthside and rich velvets pressed frimly to his lips, a tingle shooting straight to her toes at touching him at last. He was silent then, only the puff of breath against her fast chilling fingertips. “Tease me not so,” she begged, her own mirth gone out in her eyes, her arch look turned to grief, “not when you are just returned from an errand all but ensuring such an end. It is too cruel, even of you. Handle me kindly, Percy, as you always have, in words this time, if not in embrace.”

He seemed to ponder this before raising that hand not occupied with his helm, clumsy and clad in gauntlet as it was, to her wrist, wrapping the chilled and layered steel round her pale flesh and gently tugging her hand from his lips, only so far as to press it to his cheek instead, their audience of men at arms unheeded. “I betook myself to London,” he enunciated, as if it were their first night all over again and his thick borderland drawl too strong for her courtly ears to decipher, “to remind a king of his debts.”

“And tell me!” she cried fiercely, a choked, barely quieted protest as her hands dug into the wet leather of his jerkin, wrist twisted from the steel grasp, “What errand is that but a fool’s? Have you no fear at all left in this bruised carcass? Do I patch up an animated corpse time and again from your wars only for it never to have soul and feeling and wisdom in it? Do I, Harry? Gone to remind a king? How do you dare such?”

“It is he who has dared too much!” he cried back, loudly where her’s had been choked, a ringing and rebauld defense, worthy of a man who would chastise his monarch in full view of council. “First his debts, and now my son’s land! We did not make children so as to watch like blithe cowards as their birthright is bequeathed out from under our feet -piecemeal!- to a courtly cunt whose only recommendation is his alacrity to pucker and bow.”

Kate glanced about her at the men making show of industry, piddling at harnesses and armaments, walking horses in circles. Her husband's words could be no worse than what he had said to the King’s own face, anyone without stomach to become a rebel would have stayed behind in the Capitol, sensing dissension brewing. Lady Percy could perceive none missing from his number. So, a war it was to be, then.

“So, a new generation of Percys is to play at kingmaking.” she summarized.

“We make no boast of it.” Harry protested in turn.

“No,” said she, “why would you with how poorly your last choice has served you?”

That caused a start from him, a step forward that was neither gallant nor eager but angry as man to man. Kate, still with hands fisted in the crooks of his armor, stepped with him, backwards to his hall. “It is your brother with the better claim.” he showed his plan at last, a slow and conniving admission, one not common for his brash ways and straightforward mind.

Kate gasped at the implication. “Edmund?”

“He was proper heir, all along.”

“Your father-“ she chose her wording carefully, “-did not agree.”

“My father’s preference is not law.”

“It is mistaken for such, often.” Kate smirked in reply. “And Edmund is not suited-“

“-Edmund is not the turd now stealing from his vassals!” her Harry rejoined, his helmet pressed to her chest, “Edmund will do.” he reiterated once more.

Kate stared at his temper, the signs of it in his flaring nose and his wild eyes, the cure was between her thighs but watching mist drops fall from unblinking lashes was sweet prelude indeed. “Edmund,” she replied quietly and in a manner to be heeded, “is not willing or suited, he prefers instead to listen to welsh bards and lay upon the lap of his savage wife.”

Her Harry rolled his eyes at her truth, an admission, or the closest to one, she would ever receive. As if battling some great inner turmoil she watched him purse his lips and heave out a sigh before in a sudden movement the helm was tossed to the ground -much to the scramble and reaction of a half a dozen squires who ran to pick it up from its puddle- and suddenly steel hands were upon her hips, tugging her near to him even as she shied away, her face turned in a pantomime of demureness. “Strange,” he said and his tone suggested he still pondered her report of her brother's amorous preoccupations, “-and her lap so less Devine than mine own wife’s.”

“Then why do you haste from it so often?” she whined, delivering a smack against his belted tabard, right where the lions paraded across his right breast.

“Only a man dying of thirst appreciates that water has a flavor.” he reasoned and Kate allowed the open mouthed kisses that crept down her neck, her face turned stubbornly still to the south wall. The blacksmith's roof will be in need of new thatching soon, before spring. Before war.

She feels stubble against her tender skin, bracketing those pretty lips she once derided him for. No warrior ought to have lips like that, it was not seemly, not when maidens were denied such richness, such fullness, such rosy hue. But there is roughness about his lips and on his jaw as it tucks into the juncture at her shoulder, that show of clavicle her dress allows drawing him in like a siren’s song. He must’ve rode hard the entire way, no inns or refreshment, no shaving or baths, straight to her as from a battlefield. The King’s city is just as loathsome as any field of carnage, but he went to free her brother, to get a ransom, to reclaim their stolen land, to remind a king.

He did it for her, and the babes she gave him.

Kate turns her face from the blacksmith's thatch and raises her hand to his face, tenderly stroking the three days' beard that's grown as he's been on the road, riding hard to get to her. They have backed nearly to the hall’s mouth, the drip of rain off the gutter patters behind her on the threshold, Kate knows he can smell supper and hear the clatter of their children racing to meet him on still chubby legs. How different is the love of home, man to woman, Harry would sooner fight for it and she would cower within. Her thumb swipes at the raindrops making farce of tears upon his cheek.

"Princess," he breathes against her palm as he crushes her into his chest, still half armored and agonized for it as he cannot feel her softness with the cuirass, the leather, the chainmail. There are curves and bosoms and soft flesh he knows too well just on the other side of this awful barrier.

Princess will be her title if his treason succeeds, if her brother wears that cursed crown. “Princess”. It sours her mouth, but it is kind of him to wish it for her.

"You will come back, Harry.” she commands of him, she declares the outcome of this brewing war, “Soaked in the blood of feckless scum, you will come back and put another babe in me. A little prince or princess," she hisses in his ear, and she can tell he freezes at that, her concession to his treason, still as stone in his metal casings.

His eyes are ever so blue as they search hers.

"So I forbid any recklessness, my Lord Husband. Because I want this - " and her hand slips beneath his jerkin and the hem of mail to squeeze his cockstand most assuredly, as assuredly as she was that he would be sporting one for her, gripping it as one might grasp a chalice of wine during a toast "- and the rest of you, in one piece." Harry slumps against her shoulder, panting into the chilled hair and too heavy for her little frame. "Or so help me God." she intones, sharper than any steel he wields. "Swear it, Harry." She gives him another punishing squeeze, and he groans, agonized, as his mouth meets with the softness of her bound bosom, his knees the hardness of the stone cobbles. If she hadn't promised a use for his cock, he'd think she was liable to geld him herself at his presumption to seat and unseat a king, but now that he is out of her grip, for a moment, and looks up at her with such longing he fears his soul has left his chest for hers.

"So help me God." he agrees, it is in providence’s hands, after all, and in Kate’s clasped one’s atop his head.

“Fool.” she says once more as she bends over him, gently pressing a hand to the back of his head, pressing his face to her belly and her chilled fingers to his sopping hair, “It is not my brother these men fight for, nor for me. Not when it is you that calls them to it.”

“For what then?” He mumbles into her womb, hands heavy on her hips, the courtyard’s occupants dispersed into the shadows of the eaves, but a couple dozen peering eyes twinkle towards them in the twilight’s gloom.

“How often have I heard it said here, in this very courtyard.” Kate scoffs, observing the strength knelt so adoringly before her, “Have I dreamed each cry of ‘no prince save he be a Percy?’ Ha, to think they fight for a Mortimer, indeed. Ha!”

Harry staggers to his feet at this poke, it is, as are so many of his Kate’s wounds, half torment, half praise. His blood pounds with the elixir of her acknowledgment of his capability. “It is well then, Kate Mortimer,” he recites, daring now to put his lips very near her own, to nuzzle his strong nose with her hawkish one, to tip a chin and bat an eyelash against her wet cheek, “it is well that you are Percy now yourself, through and through, wed-“ his lips meet hers in a brush she chases after, “-and bred.”

🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯

Hope all five of you who read that enjoyed it. 😆 I know it’s a fragment but as I’m nothing but hyper fixated when some interests resurrects in me, I’ll probably be back with more of them. Drop a note below if you’d like to be on a taglist for such developments.

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elegantduelliste · 3 months

Text

Epistles of Saints & Sinners

Chapter Summary:

Reflections are made on Tav and Astarion's intimate night together before entering the Goblin Camp.

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Story Summary:

When Astarion meets the humble bard, Tav, he soon finds out he's the only one between them that knows they are bound as soulmates through their marks. Deciding it's more trouble than its worth, he refuses to tell her along the course of their journey across Faerûn.

But, unbeknownst to him and their companions, Tav is harboring a gruesome secret that she only thought was nothing more than a traumatized period in her life.

As they both come to face to face with their pasts and presents, will they choose to move forward or let it consume them?

Healing isn’t linear—after all.

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Chapter 7: Beholden

Ao3

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Main Page & Chapter List

Word Count: 3.8k

Pairing: Astarion x female bard Tav

CW: Blood, Violence, Language, Act 1 Spoilers

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We must follow nature’s course. Whether it be cruel or kind. We cannot interrupt its plan for the world. Their tadpoles connected them in more ways, than a simple acknowledgement of their shared affliction. But, boundaries are toilsome when broken. And creeping upon their coasts, will cost a sacrifice, yet to be demanded.

— Halsin, journal entry 1,200

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There was a stir of a song being born. One from the buds of untilled soil thought dead. The words to accompany it were being haphazardly forged on parchment, like random notes written on coffee-stained napkins.

Tav hummed and wrote. Wrote and hummed. It was an all-consuming process that transfixed her until it was completed. And her lucky muse? A wreath of ghostly ringlets framing two eyes of garnet that haunted the pounding organ behind her cage of bones.

♫On your chariot of umbra, You rode up from the world below, And with a kiss of starlight you…um??? Youuuuuu….♫

“Hope I’m not pesterin’ you. Saw you over here by your lonesome,” Karlach interrupted as she approached the lounging minstrel with a lopsided smile and a ‘hair of the dog’ pint in her grasp.

“Mornin.’ Only struggling with this verse,” she beamed, tucking a wavy piece of hair behind her ear.

“Something’s different about you, eh?” The fiery tiefling observed, taking a sip from her drink.

Tav placed her quill back into its ink pot and straightened out her music sheets while readjusting her position on the tree stump. A cunning prickling of thorns flushed on her cheeks. “I—no. I don’t believe anything has changed about me.”

But, that wasn’t true. Within a man’s arms she came undone, finding empyrean respite. His fingers worked her like a charm spell until she lost herself in the casted shadows of candlelight. Yet, it wasn’t her moans for him in the night nor the donation of her ichor that she gave willingly that surprised her: it was a piece of her trust.

“Perhaps it is because she engaged in quite the exhaustive venture last evening! Blood loss does have quite the effect on people. Or so I’m told,” Astarion cut in. “But, me? I feel wonderful!”

And he does look wonderful. His cheeks are less gaunt. Bags under his eyes are a calmer shade of powdery periwinkle. Eyes appear sharper, a brighter red. The sky blue coloring is more saturated in the prominent veins of his arms.

All his beauty and dangerous splendor are the reasons sonnets are made along the roadways of mud and intoxicating jasmine blooms. There are thousands of intricately weaved words inserted into poems to describe his ilk, like morning mist drops settled upon the threads of arachnids.

Tav cannot contain the lightness she feels when she sees Astarion. Her wings spread out, each feather hiding fragility under their vanes. Will he catch her slim feet as she flies away?

“Hey-o, you dandy! Ready to go gut some gobs today?”

Tav hushed the acrobats in her stomach. “Good dawn to you, ‘Starion.”

“Karlach. Songbird,” he greeted them equally. “You know I wouldn’t miss out on such a gutting show, however, I did come to check on our leader before we head out.”

Before she was able to speak, he had already sailed over to her upon muted silver heeled footsteps. She straightened her posture, suddenly aware that he is bent acutely at his waist, enough to reach out to kindly dust her fresh marks.

“How badly does it hurt?” His pale head tilted, curls slipping to the side.

The smell of his freshly applied perfumes addled her mind. His eyes, a clever decadence, held the knowledge of her ecstasies that she snuck to him during an impulsive need.

“Sorer than the wrist. Like a dull muscle ache from a cramp,” she congenially answered.

“Nothing you cannot surely triumph over. And how about everything else?” He breathed out.

The vampire does not attempt to mask his meaning or shy from the euphoria he exorcized from her body. He was brazen to ask her in front of their acquaintance.

A sharp intake of air blessed her partially opened mouth. Heavily did she swallow to control the overflow of her marching chest. “Fine. Everything else is fine.”

“Hmm. You know…,” Astarion whispered, a low distraction as she watched the tip of his tongue wet his lips. “I can still taste you on my fingers.”

This fancier of the bloodthirsty arts, has two sets of teeth. One with which to feed. The other with which to claim. For this elven bard, a bargain has been made.

She wanted to match him in his torturous tease. To pluck out his devil’s tongue and boil it in a spiritual cleanse.

But, there was fine print that sat on the curled edges of the pages of their pasts, smudged with fingerprints and laced with belladonna. Warnings of holes where their hearts lay; labyrinths of frozen gardens that have no end.

Tav had not forgotten the way their rousing decision ended the night prior—with his fingers covered in her fruit and her lips finding purchase upon his alabaster skin. The vague emptiness that enameled over his touch, apparent through the shadows of his eyes.

She had left his tent, with her sex loosened and a continual masturbatory bomb of fears that she had crossed a broken boundary of his that he didn’t yet understand.

“Astarion, there’s something I wanted to ask you about last night.” She willed her face to form into stone to show her sincerity, attempting to mouth it to him in hushed tones.

“Oh my sweet, you’re not getting mawkish on me now, are you? The only serious thing we need to discuss is when you’ll invite me back for another snack,” Astarion winked suggestively.

The bard continued her well-nigh unresponsive discretion of her features, ignoring Karlach’s pacing behind the pale elf. She stood up, a few inches shy of his natural height, placing her hands on her hips. Her jaw tightened, but she remained silent while she stared into his face.

There was a surprised look, as if she had just turned an entire ocean to desert. He avoided entertaining her with any further quips or illusions, instead, blinking several times before abruptly summoning his trained foxy slink to his face.

“Did you hear that? I think it’s our ghastly duty calling upon us to finally help those Silvanus freaks before they start complaining about ‘the leaves of nature being preserved.’ It may be wise to think of better songs to regale the goblins with then you did that foul ogre. Lest we wind up on the skewer. Now, if you’ll excuse me, ” he dramatically retorted as he casually checked the cleanliness of his nails.

Astarion gave the women a mannerful bow before he strode away without paying another peek in Tav’s direction.

Tav remained calm as he left, breathing out a long sigh. They needed to prepare for the assault on the goblins. He was a distraction—not necessarily an unwelcome one—but one with knobby roots twisted along the cloister inside his dried innards. If she didn’t get her shit together, a lot of people would die and their blood would be on her hands.

“I’m sorry about the interruption Karlach, he—”

Karlach took a long gulp of her drink, the ale dripping down onto her chin. Her face lit up, almost literally, with an excited smile. Tav knew immediately that the barbarian was far too astute in situations of sexual vices to not read the interaction that just occurred.

“Oh. My. Gods. That’s why you look like you’re glowing today! You and Astarion?! You fucked him, didn’t you?!”

The songtress’s vision widened and her face felt like it would burst into flames, much like the tiefling’s engine.

“Hells, Kar. Could you keep your voice down? We just—we kissed. A lot. And he obviously bit my neck to feed afterwards.” She pulled down the collar of her doublet to show her the punctures.

A white lie. Not entirely. She wasn’t one to share the details of her romanticisms with others. It was a preference to keep the echoes of intimate reflections as special moments; treasures discovered along the shipwrecks of life.

“Hey, I’m not judging! Astarion is gorgeous! Bit of a sassy grouch sometimes, but if I had my chance with him, I would not hesitate to get all over that.” The red woman made thrusting motions with her hips. “That being said—you don’t look entirely happy about it.”

Tav pursed her mouth, staring off to the right side of Karlach as she collected her thoughts. Her throat tightened as she spoke, delicately attempting to avoid providing any details she knew of the spawn’s past.

“You mentioned recently that you sensed Astarion has been through a lot of pain, but I’m unsure where that begins and ends for him. And that concerns me. Karlach, I don’t want to potentially hurt him further. I barely know him and it’s… look, I’m telling you this because I think out of everyone, you will understand.”

Karlach crossed her arms. A caring frown accompanied the orangish calm of her irises. “I won’t pry further, but Astarion seems to be fixated on his freedom. Can’t blame him. I am too with my own from Zariel. He can be a real piece of work, but even rotten scoundrels need a gentle hand sometimes. Maybe he hasn’t had that in a long time—if ever.”

The bard blew out the air she’d been holding in. “A gentle hand,” she repeated. “You’re right. Thank you for listening. It’s not easy to open up about these types of subjects. And I want what’s best for Astarion—everyone really—but I’m not sure he even knows what that is just yet.”

“I’ve got your back, Tav. Everyone in camp does—really. And shit will work out. Alright? We’re truly in this together, as sappy as that sounds.” The tiefling knocked back the rest of her drink, a glint of curiosity in her eyes. “Now, can you at least tell me how it was to kiss him? Please let me live vicariously through you.”

A merry laugh passed through Tav. She curled her index finger near her chin in thought. “Okay. Close your eyes and I’ll describe it to you. Imagine lips: Plush, supple, but chilled. Not frozen, but a pleasant degree—like sweetened cool milk soothing your warmed lips. As you press them against his, you can feel your heart quicken and slow at the same time. Your breath’s intertwine with warm and cold temperatures that elicit thoughts you’ve never had. And when your lips start to move? It feels like you’ve both committed the crime of lassoing the sun closer to you as you melt into one another.”

Karlach visibly shuddered, opening her eyes to Tav smiling gently at her. “It’s no wonder you’re a bard. I could almost feel that myself! Thank you, friend. I suppose we’ve wasted enough time talking about boys for the day—should we get things rumblin’?”

She politely nodded and turned around to round up her belongings. Rummaging aimlessly through her satchel, her brow furrowed in annoyance.

“Something the matter?” The tiefling questioned.

“Just something odd. I could have sworn I put it in here before I came to write.”

“Maybe I can help find it. What is it that we’re looking for?”

Lost in confusion, Tav held the purse upside down a final time to see if any items stumbled to the ground. “My cuticle oil.”

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When he woke from his trance in the early morning hours with dried blood cracking in the corners of his mouth, his vampiric nose involuntarily breathed in an alien scent that had seemed to fill his tent overnight.

Astarion’s clothes had stunk of Tav’s fragrance she was ever so fond of, having made homes for itself in the islands of stitches on his sleeves and ruffled v-neck. Bodily fluids, now dried on his ornamental pillows, a sexual honeyed musk. He wrapped his tongue around his finger, still tasting the glacé of her sensual defeat; a sour memory of their night together.

He reached for the rags he used to wipe off her bloodied essence from her upper body, scrunching them up to place under his nostrils. He inhaled without reserve and groaned. Cock half-hard, a reminder of the effect drinking from thinking creatures had on his hunger. A pink tongue darted out to clean off his mouth, swallowing the red flakes down.

Under the light of a candle, its single flame licking wicked pathways to her want, he had concealed his guise of disgust behind her shoulder. All he could remember was the act itself—that it happened. That his fingers entered her and he poetically spoke naughty phrases into her ear to anchor her wetness for him.

Trust. Trust. Trust. She gave it to him with the arch of her back into his chest. Just as he predicted. Just as he planned.

However, virtually all of the details of their intimacy—the night—were lost on him. Her face was another among the blur of thousands he seduced over two centuries. Up petticoats and down breeches he searched their bodies to steal their pleasures. His cock would only thicken out of trained habit or a rare wishful fancy of ravaging apart a neck from any creature without hisses and tails. It meant nothing to him.

Yet, a singular detail did remain. A place he entered beyond the second circle of hell in lust, a circle where it seemed like his death could be undone. A river of lyrics carrying him along a raft of flower-crowned skulls towards the banks of her merciful arms.

During the twilit minutes before he released her, he made the blunder of examining her eyes before their ravenous kiss. What he had seen was—acceptance.

And it scared the fuck out of him.

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“I am enjoying our walks together, aren't you Gale?” Astarion teased while they walked through the inner sanctum of the temple overtaken by the goblins.

“Um yes, in silence.” Gale leaned in towards him, whiffing his scent, “By the way, I don’t mean to pry, but did you apply more of your aromatic oils than usual? ”

He searched for a quick remark to hand to the wizard. “Only because I knew I’d be in your presence today.”

Half of the vampire’s morning had been dedicated to scrubbing. Crouched over a bucket of soapy water, Astarion had soaked his clothing and rags, ridding them of scents unknown. Of the lingering remnants of her. His skin raw from how hard he attacked his flesh with suds and woven cloth. The final touch? Excessive dabs of his oils in unusual places to cloy any bits leftover of her odor.

“The Priestess is up ahead. I’ll go speak with her. Wait here for a moment,” Tav’s melodious voice spoke reservedly to them.

No-nonsense. This was a part of her Astarion both equally appreciated and despised. Despite her penchant to offer her generosity to all of Faerûn, she pulled her punches. It was a waste of time to her otherwise and could be messy. Efficiency would deliver the most desired outcomes, but gods, he desperately wanted to create mischief at every turn.

Astarion, be sweet. Astarion, we don’t need to lockpick EVERY chest. Astarion, leave that ogre and bugbear having intercourse in the barn to fulfill their needs alone. Astarion, don’t have fun. Astarion, let’s save all these idiots!

”Astarion? Please don’t hurt me.”

Dizziness. Presumably from their encounter with the dream visitor in the prism as they came upon the entrance of camp a short while ago. It wanted to protect them against The Chosen. The Absolute. All their enemies. To give them power. Yes. Power was the most important ability to hold in all aspects. Power will usher forth freedom and protection. With power: the possibilities were endless.

Thrum-dub…thrum-dub…thrum-dub.

Pulses? Astarion felt the constellation of his soul mark beating mildly. Tav’s back faced him, her features obscured. Her body was hunched over minimally at the waist, hand at the side of her temple. His eyes narrowed, jaw taunt. Something happened.

Thrum-dub.Thrum-DUB. THRUM-DUB. THRUM. THRUM. DUB.

Faster now. Harder pounds of a pumping bass through the bandwidth of their marks. She was nervous—frightened. The threshold betwixt them was closing in as an invisible rope pulled him closer.

He flinched. Really, he should stay out of her way; he shouldn’t get involved. It was perhaps wicked to not divulge to her the shared marks they possessed, but it would change everything. His plans would become a brittle cascade of a future he sought. He didn’t want to disrupt the plank he had been trying to balance upon since his unintentional escape from Cazador. But, he’s aware that he needs her and she needs him.

Besides, what better way to obtain one’s help to a cause—his cause—than a life owed?

“They’re connected. Quickly, we need to do something! If we start attacking, Tav could be in danger.” Gale stepped forward, sweat trickling down the sides of his face.

Light were Astarion’s steps as he snuck upon Tav and Priestess Gut. The creator of his misery appeared stifled, her mouth partly opened with persistent shallow breaths. The tadpoles of the goblin and elf had connected; Tav was fighting to push it out. A dull whimpering snuck out from her throat as if a deer was jerking around in pain.

Astarion seized her elbow, declining his head to press his lips to the opening of her ear canal, nose softly resting against its shell. He whispered in elvish, a language only the two of them would know, steadying his voice firmly.

“She won’t see it. Nothing is going to hurt you. I’m here.”

The hex of the worms severed and she was free! Tav’s body slumped downwards, but faithful hands were catching her, grabbing at her arm to wrap around staunch shoulders—wrapping around the illusionary dripping silverlight he exuded.

“When did you…?” Her voice broke up in a hoarse muttered tone.

Giving her waist a confident squeeze, he smiled sweetly at her. “Hello beautiful. Think you can stand on your own?”

“Urgh...yes, I think so.”

“Splendid. As much as I detest putting you in that wizard’s care, do me a favor and go to him.”

The bard wobbled as she stood on her own, backing away towards Gale. “What do you plan on doing?”

Astarion removed one of his trusted blades from his back. Bringing it to his mouth, he licked the side of it, much like when he smothered his saliva over bitten wounds. “I plan on slicing open the Priestess’s neck. Now stand back—the smell of blood will be in the air soon.”

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

Filets of goblin meat were a stark contrast against the erected statues of the temple dedicated to Selûne. Her lifeless face watched the companions as they carved through the vile threats. Ripped sashes of ruby life essence unwound in the drafty camp, splashing the group.

A witness Tav played, as she paid honor to Astarion’s image under the sparks of the wagon wheel chandelier inside the chambers of Dror Ragzlin. He stood soaked in ichor, peering off to his side; a final swoosh of his dagger through the atmosphere, flicking off excess blood. The dance macabre had been sated.

Flags of pure white raised, red fangs and swords embroidered in the middle. The belief of their crusade, a righteous seat upon golden scales. Raise thy sword in the name of murder. Let us pray.

All three leaders: Priestess Gut, the drow Minthara, and Dror Ragzlin—deceased.

“As you can see, ceremorphosis has been halted, as a surprise to all of us. I am not one to tempt fate, but if you cannot heal us, then any guided direction towards someone that could offer assistance would be most appreciated,” Gale explained hastily to the arch druid Halsin they released from the goblin prison.

Halsin casted a yellow glow that coated Gale’s entire body, sensing the mechanisms of the mind flayers. “Illithid tadpoles. Oak Father preserve you all. I’ve studied these for a long time now, without much results. It was the reason I came here, to seek out research. I may not be able to heal you, but I can at least tell you where a mass amount of true souls are going to be infected.”

The druid was large. Almost the size of the bear wild shape they had found him in. He towered over Tav easily. Scars upon his wise face, a set of misty tea irises surrounded by reddish brown hair that wafted of autumn leaves and sandalwood.

The bard was stunned. “You mean they aren’t all being captured upon a ship and given the worm as we have?”

“I’m afraid not. Moonrise Towers is a stronghold ruled by a man named Kethric Thorm in the Shadowlands. Innocents go in and true souls—infected—come out. The lands are dangerous. Anyone that steps foot there is at risk for turning into demonic shades,” Halsin spoke in caution. “You have two options to enter. Through the Mountain Pass or the Underdark. Both come with their own sets of tribulations. The Underdark specifically is home to a Sharran temple.”

Gale faced Tav, speaking in a muffled shallow. “Shadowheart may be quite interested in hearing about that bit of information.”

Focusing on the fine lines of Gale’s crow’s feet lifting upwards, she nodded. Her eyes swooped down to the strange circular marking in the middle of his chest, the way it seemed like tendrils of smoke sneaking up past his clavicle, to the side of his neck. A part of him, he frequently hesitated to speak on. But, being so close to the human man, she wondered what secrets lay under the surface of his skin.

“I know you’re curious about it—the marking, I mean. But, now isn’t the time to explain. Soon. I promise.” He gave her a reassuring compress on her shoulder. Tav nodded again, embarrassed that Gale had caught her staring.

Turning around, two crimson eyes followed her. Coveting and dark.

Thousands of flowers sprouted behind her as she went to him. With her tears, she would bathe his feet; with her hair, she would dry them. His armor drenched in blood, dripping onto the new growths left behind, urging petals open.

Thankful for his earlier care with the priestess, an inspirited hand graced the tips of Astarion’s fingers with delicate plumy touches as she briskly clenched hers around them before turning to leave the chambers.

“I owe you my life ‘Starion,” Tav whispered, peering away from him.

He deceitfully smiled. ”I’m sure there will come a time when I will need your help in return.”

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blackswaneuroparedux · 1 year

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(Life) is only a film of unsteady appearances stretched over regions deep indeed, but which have nothing to do with the half-truths, half-thoughts, and whole illusions of existence. The road to these distant regions does not lie through the domain of Art or the domain of Science where well-known voices quarrel noisily in a mist of emptiness; it is a path of toilsome silence upon which travel men simple and unknown, with closed lips, or, may be, whispering their pain softly - only to themselves.

- Joseph Conrad

#conrad #joseph conrad #quote #literature #author #writer #life #human condition #existence #art #science #culture #society

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faeriecinna · 2 months

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Bound: Has your OC ever been imprisoned or captured? What happened? How did they get out? Did the experience leave any scars?

Bound - Rowan, Project.Ink

Short answer, Yes. Rowan is imprisoned both physically and mentally.

She was captured during the last raid on the Fae Capital, dragged away and cursed by a powerful sorceress. Not only would she now remember nothing of her past life as one of the Sidhe, but she would have no recollection of her lover - Killeen - or the war between the humans and her kind.

With her appearance forcibly changed under a glamour and false memories implanted in her broken mind, Rowan was made to live as a human, under the ward of human 'parents' with nothing to remind her of her past other than the hollow sense of not belonging and the eerie feeling that everyone she met was hiding something dark and sinister. To be deprived of your own identity is a toilsome thing indeed.

#project.ink #writing #writers #writers on tumblr #writeblr #tumblr writing community #writer #writer problems #writer stuff #writblr #fantasy writer #writerblr #wip #my wips #oc

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myrddin-wylt · 1 month

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Just imagine Arthur on a longship. Mathias teaching him how to love the sea.

god I love this so much, and there's so many different ways we can take this.

for the record, something really interesting to me is that during the Viking Age, sea travel was so much easier and quicker than travel over land, to the point where it would take significantly less time to travel from Vigborg, Denmark to Canterbury than to, say, from Vigborg to Cologne, despite their actual geographical distance.

seriously, if the weather was good, a trip from Denmark to England could take just a few days; you could even go to England and come back within a fortnight if you were quick about it. so if the North Sea Empire (England, Norway, & Denmark) seems like a strange combination to you, maybe it makes a little more sense once you see the North Sea as a means of travel and the continent as a barrier to it.

this is true mostly for the Old Norse culture (in which I'm including Denmark) than the Anglo-Saxons, however, who really did not fuck with the water at all. in their defense, neither did the Romans or Britons; the vikings are the first ones to show up who're all gung-ho about seafaring. there's a brief period where Alfred the Great establishes a navy before dismantling it, but for the most part, the Anglo-Saxons want nothing to do with the ocean.

now that I'm thinking of it, there's a single Anglo-Saxon poem we know of that mentions the sea at all and it's just the narrator being absolutely miserable and whiny about it. this is the first (translated) stanza:

Let me speak, in truth, of my life, tell of toilsome days of travel, days suffering hardship, bitterness of heart: how I endured sorrowful times on ships, on dreadful rolling seas. Hard night's watch at the ship's prow was by frequent task, the ship often tossed along towering cliffs, afflicted with cold feet, numbed by frost, chill bonds. My sorrows burned in my heart, I sighed forth hunger that rent my mind, I, the sea-weary man.

a very far cry from the empire of wooden ships and iron men. absolutely hates it lol.

I'm envisioning Mathias having a blast as the longship prows forward through the waves of the North Sea, enjoying the speed of the ship and the open ocean, and meanwhile Arthur is huddled against the floor, cold and wet and very seasick. well, at least it's a good opportunity for Mathias to get to cuddle him for awhile, assuming he's willing to risk Arthur's seasickness.

I don't know if Mathias succeeds in getting Arthur to love the sea, but I think he might be able get Arthur to stop hating it so much, and that's a positive first step.

#ask #anon #hws england #hws denmark #deneng #north sea lovers #historical hetalia #history tag #medieval hetalia

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fonsmortem · 2 years

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ᅠᅠᅠᅠᅠᅠᅠᅠᅠᅠ 𝐈𝐫𝐢𝐬 𝐯𝐨𝐧 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐜ᅠᅠᅠᅠ

❝I didn't know Iris von Everec, so l can't say much about her. Fate had it a stranger now lays her remains in the grave. At times fate muddles our path, and life turns toilsome, hard to bear. Yet all deserve respite and peace in death…❞

#digital art #the witcher #ведьмак #witcher fanart #the witcher 3 #ведьмак 3 #iris von everec #hearts of stone #digital illustration #dark fantasy #dark artist #dark art #ирис фон эверек #каменные сердца #wiedźmin

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two-white-butterflies · 11 months

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coaxed you into paradise - c. 17

Description: The life of Saera Targaryen told in four acts. She was her father's forgotten daughter, cast aside as she looked nothing like her mother. Her younger days were spent beside her uncle. Years following her marriage with Ser Harwin Strong, she catches him in an affair with her older sister. She returns to seek solace in the arms of her uncle, that she's loved all her life.

(Coaxed You Into Paradise and High Infidelity Rewrite.)

masterlist for this series

Chapter Seventeen: Battle of Birth

Saera spent the last months of her pregnancy bedridden, by this time there were bags underneath her eyes and the pain of having a child was too toilsome for her. Daemon is reminded of the Targaryen curse - that having dragon children was against all laws of nature. He takes a swig of his ale, allowing the bitterness to seep down his throat.

A maid of pale-skin ran towards the Prince, with her eyes cast on the floor. “M-my prince,” she stuttered while grabbing the sides of her gown. His eyebrow raises, a scowl playing on his face at the rude interruption. “Spit it out child, lest it be your tongue.” he threatened with familiar hostility.

The maid takes a deep breath, eyes looking everywhere except his. “Lady Mysaria says that - the Princess has begun her labors.” the woman chokes out, but before she could make any other movements - the Rogue Prince was already marching to her chambers. Daemon never cared about children. He found them annoying and irresponsible, but for some reason - he seemed to care about this one.

He kicks the door open - ignoring the confused stares from the midwives he imported from Pentos. He looked at her body, she was pale as a ghost - he could almost see through her skin. He’d think that she was dead if it weren’t for the rising and falling of her chest - but still, it was too erratic, it was clear that she was having a hard time. His eyes softened, he wanted to touch, hold and whisper sweet nothings to her.

Daemon wasn’t a maester or a midwife, but he knew that her condition was dire - that if the children refused to come out today, her chances of living are slim. He takes a deep breath. He opens his mouth to speak, but instead of talking to her - he grabs the midwife’s hand. “What is going on?” he interrogates, ignoring the man’s blood soaked hands. None of the grime and dirt mattered - only his dragon’s life.

“Princess Saera is having hard labor, my prince.” the woman answered with hidden fear. The people at court found his antics strange - he shouldn’t care deeply about a child that wasn’t his.

“A hard labor? Like Queen Aemma’s?” he insinuated.

His fear of losing her was too great. It would ruin him someday. To the woman’s credit, she didn’t have another round of words with the Prince - instead she ordered the other midwives to send him away and call for Ser Harwin who was in the Capital.

His eyes catch a wisp of Saera. She nods her head, smiling weakly at him. “Go kepus, I can handle this.” she smiles with softness and he relents - his hands reaching for the door and twisting it. He couldn’t be there - he’d cry too much and ask to hold the babe first.

—

Daemon didn’t believe in gods, even if they were real - they were merciless and undeserving of praise. But this one time, he finds himself kneeling on the floor, with his hands near his eyes, preventing the tears from spilling out. Luckily, there was a small chapel in Dragonstone - near the coast with the Statue of the Seven Gods.

‘Please’ he prays, ignoring the strange looks from other worshippers. ‘Please let our child live until five and two or seventy and two. Let them live a full grown life.’ he prayed, feeling his agony seep through the station of the Mother.

The mother guides little children.

But the mother never guides women. She didn’t guide his mother, Alyssa, or his good-sister, Aemma. His eyes open - staring at her cold statuesque eyes. Was there still hope? Or was it a thing of the righteous?

He couldn’t feel the sincerity of his prayers, only despair. That was the bitter thing about being faithless - there was no one to save you, no one to pray to, not even faith to look for guidance. Only yourself.

This wasn’t the first time Daemon Targaryen prayed. When his mother gave birth to his brother: Aegon (stillborn) he prayed too. He asked the father, mother and stranger for guidance. He asked them to take him instead - for his mother had eyes of summer, but the gods failed him.

‘This is your chance of redemption,’ he thinks as if he was conversing with the gods at that very moment. A little negotiation to ensure that the love of his life wouldn’t lose the battle of birth. In the back of his mind, he promised to give the gods everything - even his own life.

To the mother, he promised a shrine. To the stranger, a new statue.

All just to make sure that Saera and her child would live.

‘Please’ he begged, but the gods were cruel and unjust.

—

Saera held the little boy close to her chest - it’s been an hour since the babe was born, but the midwife tells her that there’s another one. She heaves at the sensation of another babe coming out of her. She closed her eyes for a second, feeling the warmth of her babe on her chest - and the warmth of another one coming.

A shrill cry comes out - echoing through the room.

“A girl, my lady.” she informs, and the tears began to flow from her eyes. Saera’s lips shudder and the midwife brings the child closer. Daegon had pale-blonde hair, and dark-lilac eyes. His cry was the loudest the realm has ever known, a permanent frown was etched on his face - earning a chuckle from his muña. Alyssa was different - though her cry was shrill at first, Saera knew that she’d be the patient one, as it was evident with the smile on her face.

She could hear the door slightly open - and the figure of her kepa walked slowly towards them. “Two?” Daemon asked, wiping the tears away from his face. “Daegon and Alyssa,” she smiled, pressing a kiss on both of their foreheads. “Tis unfair, I’m the one who's bleeding and they look nothing like me.” she huffed - he placed his hand atop her head, staring at the two gifts in Saera’s arms.

“Daegon looked like you - when you were a babe.” he informed with an amused smile. There was a petulant frown on the babe’s face, a mirror of his mother as a child. “They are the sweetest thing I've ever seen.” she cooed, already wrapped around the tiny finger of her twins.

“Alyssa looks like you - if you smiled more.” she hummed, watching as the servants flee her quarters, giving the both of them privacy. Daemon exchanged a soft stare with his beloved. “Now, give them to their kepa while you rest.” he pleaded, quickly taking the twins off her arms with ease. They were light - like dragon-eggs and he feared that he’d drop them accidentally.

“Don’t wander too far, kepa.” she hums.

—

His mother, Alyssa taught them how to be dragon-riders. She flew him on dragonback mere days after his birth - but his children were different, they were more dragon than men. He smiles, cleaning their little bodies and wrapping them in brand new clothes. Alyssa in red, and Daegon in black. His children were paragons of royalty.

His dragon, Caraxes, was singing to Melarys - Daemon felt bad for interrupting their romance. “Caraxes,” he opened his mouth - keeping the twins close to his body and secure with a carrier made of cloth.

Both dragons began to turn at him - staring at his chest.

Melarys was the first to roar, smelling the scent of her rider on him. She was giving birth too - at the same time as Saera. There were three eggs inside their nest, and she was hiding it from Daemon. “I’m not here for you, girl.” he breathes, keeping his distance since Saera wasn’t with him.

“We’re going riding,” he announces to Caraxes - earning a roar of disapproval from the dragon’s lover. He pulls on Caraxes’ saddle - ensuring that he’d be safe. He boards the dragon, patting his lightly as they took flight.

Daemon was proud of his heritage. He’s even prouder now that he had children to share it with.

next chapter>>

taglist. @sweetybuzz25 @newtsniffles @loveandlewis-reads @lovecleastrange @julkaamazing @schniiipsel @mirandastuckinthe80s @areaderinlove @i-yam-awesome @ladystardvsts @gracielikegrapes @sweethoneyblossom1 @issybee0611 @tato0od @daemonskelitsos @delaynew @thisbihreadstoomuch @plutoscosmos @immyowndefender @marvelescvpe @batmans-love @marvelescvpe @luanasrta @tesha-i-guess

(comment to be tagged)

#daemon targaryen x oc #daemon targaryen #prince daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen headcanon #daemon targaryen fic #daemon targaryen smut #daemon targaryen imagine #daemon targaryen fanfic #daemon targaryen fluff #house targaryen #house of the dragon #daemon headcanons #daemon prince #daemonism #hotd daemon

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gendervapor14 · 2 months

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Writer ask meme! 15! 17! 23! 38!

ooo thank you!! let's see what we've got here 15. What’s your favorite AU that you’ve written?

immediately hitting me in the kneecaps with a lead bat i see. hmm. my favorite AU i've written. that's so hard. i'm gonna throw a curveball and answer trouble, trouble, toilsome trouble. it's extremely niche and self-indulgent but i'm really happy with the universe and the writing style and it's just my personal favorite. i had a lot of fun writing it. does it have a point? not really. it was just a joke prompt some friends gave me that was basically "what if bell-mere and her gf pegged rosinante" and then it spiraled into 4 chapters somehow. as my stories tend to do.

17. What highly specific AU do you want to read or write even though you might be the only person to appreciate it?

i gotta update my wip list but i had an idea that i've since given up about the dq bros if they never left mariejois, and if arlong sold bell-mere into slavery rather than killing her, and then doflamingo bought her as housewarming gift for rosinante. maybe i'll get back to it but i couldn't decide what kind of tone i wanted, couldn't decide if rosi and bell should get shipped or remain weird platonic frenemies, couldn't decide how it would end. too much for me to think about with my schedule, and i'm not sure i'll ever have time to pick it up again.

23. What’s a trope, AU, or concept you’ve never written, but would like to?

one day i want to write horror. i don't know how to write horror. i don't really like horror. but i want to write something that disturbs people in a good way, yknow? otherwise i tend to be pretty good for writing about every trope and AU that interests me XD

38. Did any of your fics get surprisingly popular (whatever that means to you)? Which ones? Why do you think they were so successful?

YES. donut miss your chance! i wrote it for @gali-la like a year ago and it blew up. i still have no idea why. katakuri x rosinante aren't a huge ship...? and it was kind of long for a oneshot? i'm assuming maybe the coffee shop, fluff and humor tags attracted some people but idk. i'm not totally sure what lured the people in but they were sure lured. it's still one of my top 5 most popular fics.

thank you so much for so many questions nehs 🥰 here's the list if anyone else has got any or wants to reblog it for themselves!

#genrambles #fanfiction ask game #corabelle #katacora #donquixote rosinante #corazon one piece #donquixote doflamingo #donquixote brothers #belle mere #bellemere #bell mère #one piece fanfiction

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kawaii-angelanne · 1 year

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TW/CW: (not very descriptive) blood and injuries

KEY TAGS: gender neutral reader, second pov, fluff and angst, established relationship, physical touch, hurt/comfort

WORD COUNT: 921

CROSS POST: ao3

OPENING NOTE: thanks for clicking on this! please do not repost, copy, modify, or overall plagiarize this work anywhere else please. plagiarism is never acceptable, both in mla 8 format and in fanfiction! for translations, message me, and we can talk about it! reblogs, comments, and likes are super appreciated :>

SUMMARY: "But, you know that Kakashi always comes home. "

or where Hatake Kakashi comes home one night, severely injured.

When Hatake Kakashi leaves for one of his frequent missions, you always leave a space for him in your shared bed.

However, you never face the emptiness to your right. Instead, you lay on the opposite side and eventually succumb to the irresistible allure of sleep after a toilsome day at the hospital. If Kakashi is gone longer than expected, maybe you’ll hug a pillow for comfort.

But, you know that Kakashi always comes home.

It’s not because you miss him so much that you can’t bear to see him not sleeping beside you. Rather, it’s so he can easily slip into bed with you, holding you close with soft whispers of affection and gratitude.

In the early stages of your relationship, you would stay up all night waiting for him to come home, your work thus suffering. It took weeks of him leaving and returning from successful missions for you to relax. Now, having adjusted to his predictably unpredictable work schedule, you’re oftentimes asleep when Kakashi opens the bedroom window to let himself in (he says it’s faster as opposed to having to go through the front door, go up the stairs, open the bedroom door quietly to not wake you, and then join you in bed).

In the past few months you’ve been dating Kakashi, you’ve found that waking up with his arms wrapped securely around your waist and nose brushing against your nape is much better than pacing anxiously around your bedroom floor.

Thump!

You sit up in your bed, startled by the noise. Hearing a series of viscous coughs behind you, you immediately turn around and see the bedroom window open, the curtains fluttering from the wind. A cold draft blows harshly into the room, and you, not completely awake, make moves to close it before the smell of copper fills the air.

Trying to detect its source, you find Kakashi slumped against your wall on the floor with his headband pulled up to reveal his right eye and, more alarmingly, the blood splattering his jonin uniform.

“K-Kakashi!” you rip off the sheets, rush out of the bed, and kneel right in front of him, cupping his face in your hands.

His eyes curve into moon crescents, but violent hacking immediately breaks it into pieces, “I’m…I’m home. Sorry for the…rude landing.”

“What the hell happened!? What was your medical-nin doing!?” your eyes furiously scan over his body and then lock on the ever-darkening stain pervading his shirt.

Rapidly but also carefully (to avoid further injury), you unzip his vest and raise his shirt to find an open slash across his torso. While it’s not shallow, if not treated soon, he can bleed to death by the time you get to the hospital!

“Solo mission,” he answers briefly with slow breaths, “Enemy…caught me off guard.”

“Why didn’t you go to the hospital first!?” you scold him while wiping away the tears collecting in the pools of your eyes.

This was the first time you’ve ever seen Kakashi so horribly wounded. Yes, you’ve seen him all bandaged up when visiting him in the hospital after particularly dangerous missions. But that doesn’t even compare to him bleeding out on your floor.

You try to calm your breathing and still your tears, preparing yourself to perform medical ninjutsu. As a medical-nin working regularly at the Konoha Hospital, healing a wound like this is standard practice.

The only difference is you’re not healing patients you’ve never met before; you’re healing Kakashi Hatake, your partner in life. Of course, you value the lives of anyone who came through the hospital’s doors. But, if you messed up this one time, if you used too much chakra–!

“Relax,” Kakashi wraps his hands over your shaking ones, snapping you out of your anxiety-ridden spiral, “This is why I went straight here…Why go to a hospital…when I have a lovely…and beautiful nurse at home?”

“S-shut up! You could have seen your ‘lovely and beautiful nurse’ tomorrow morning when you're properly healed at the hospital!”

Still, his (frankly) annoyingly carefree attitude worked. With deep breaths, you manage to calm down and, after gently removing them from his, place your hands across his chest. The chakra pours out from your palms and into his wound. Throughout the healing process, Kakashi begrudgingly lets out quiet grunts, his eyes closing from the bitter pain. Slowly but surely, the cut closes up, and all that’s left is the blood to clean up. As a heavy sigh escapes your lips, you’re about to scold Kakashi again before he envelops you in a tight embrace.

“Truth is,” he gulps, still weak from the blood loss, “I thought…I was never going to see you again…if I was going to die, I would have wanted you…to be the last person I saw…not some random hospital staff.”

Shocked at the revelation, you merely return the embrace, burying your face in the crux of his neck. You don’t know what to say to that. You don’t want to acknowledge that, one day, Kakashi might never come back.

“I can't say that I’ll always come back,” he says, as if reading your mind, “but know that…I’ll always try my damn hardest to…until my very last breath.”

With that promise, you nod silently into his shoulder, your arms tightening around him. And the two of you stayed like that until the sun began to peek out from behind the clouds, basking your room in orange and brown hues.

ENDING NOTE: making good on my new year's resolution (write ≥5 fics), here's a kakashi hatake blurb that popped up in my mind after waking up. instead of studying, i have done this! so. i hope you enjoy teehee!

also pov: at the time of this writing, you haven't watched a single episode of naruto but really like kakashi!; now after 43 episodes, i believe that kakashi would never be in a relationship unless they knew each other for years since childhood LMAO)

#kakashi #kakashi hatake #kakashi x reader #kakashi x you #kakashi fanfiction #naruto fanfiction #naruto x reader #naruto #《angel writes》#《small shot》

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