#Alternatively he mentions he was in prison once | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

krysmcscience · 5 months ago

Text

It’s finally done, guys – five whole pages of Narilamb AU comic AND MORE be upon you! (If you have trouble reading any of the text, view the full-size! These pages are huge!)

Yeesh, this took forever. <:)

There’s probably a ton of inconsistencies and anatomy/perspective wonkeries, but this was mostly just comic practice, so Oh Hekkin Well, Lol <:D

(Yes, I am aware the Gateway’s door isn’t present in the Afterlife, and the actual way in is just a pentagram portal. Yes, I put the door in there anyway because Artistic License, i.e. it felt more impactful for there to be a prison door of sorts to walk through to freedom, rather than just a bland boring portal on the ground. 😠)

anyway, i hate backgrounds so much lmao

Alternate ending and a buttload of bonus art under the cut, followed by goofy AU rambles and headcanon stuff:

I’m calling it the Revival AU. It’s not all that creative a title, and someone else has probably used it already, but I am too lazy to really care, LOL

Alternate ending page, which you will Definitely need to view the full-size for, Whoopsie Daisy:

The alternate ending was actually the first ending I finished things off with, because I had a brief badbrain moment where I forgot the emotional beat I initially wanted the comic to end on, and I tend to write comedy, anyway. I later remembered and drew out the proper ending, but I preserved and finished this one, too, because it still makes me giggle.

They had to go back for the followers off-screen in the AU’s real ending. And by ‘they’ I mean just the Lamb, because they weren’t about to ask three newly freed cats to go back into what used to be their prison. The Lamb DID spend some time watching Narinder and the bois enjoying the outdoors first, though:

In other news, here’s the Lamb and me making fun of my anatomy-drawing ‘skills’:

Meanwhile, if you’re wondering why the Lamb is just a-okay with how things went down vis a vis Their Murder, this bonus comic should answer at least some of your questions:

Ah, yes, also this is how they get engaged outside of the alternate ending. Forgot to mention that bit. XD (I already refuse to believe that Narinder is capable of flirting normally, so why would his initial marriage proposal be any better???)

Oh, and before any of them get a chance to actually head back to the cult grounds, there is one potential problem:

And by ‘problem’ I mean something Narinder intends to ignore for At Minimum a thousand years. Cuz he’s a petty bitch like that. :D

what do you mean i drew the lamb too tall compared to the background? clearly they’re standing on top of baal and aym lmao, why else would you think those two aren’t in this one??? (aym and baal got way too excited about finally being outside, you see, and their silly modes are nothing to sneeze at)

And, speaking of heading back to the cult grounds, I’m sure y’all would love to know how the Lamb’s followers felt about the brand new change in management:

It all went better than expected. <:D Tiny ramble now, feel free to skip down to the next comic.

Before you ask, no, the Lamb does not have any actual powers anymore, other than the immortality Narinder definitely grants them. The Red Crown just thinks it’s funny to suggest otherwise, and Narinder does nothing to discourage this. Also, the Lamb and Narinder aren’t actually married here yet, but, uh. Pretty safe to say that particular ritual directly follows the events of this comic. XD

Given how quickly he mellows out in canon, Narinder probably chills out a lot in this AU once he’s in charge of the cult, too, if only because 1.) He’s finally free, and 2.) He’s equally smitten with and distracted by the Lamb. He’s definitely in charge at least 95% of the time, though, because the Lamb never actually wanted to be a cult leader and, now that their time as a vessel is done, they just want to be a normal(ish) sheep who’s wholly devoted to their hot new divine husband.

Some followers do still have some valid concerns about these two being together, though, which I’m sure at least a few of you might share…

Unfortunately for any such concerns, the Lamb is a bonafide masochist in this AU. :D

They’re also 100% a sub, obviously

Anyone at all: Your relationship is problematic and potentially toxic

The Lamb: fuck yeah it is, it’s so hot~ OuO

Here’s just the last panel, made transparent for whatever nefarious purposes y’all might have for it:

Additional exchange Narinder and the Lamb have at some point, probably after the Lamb does a fatal whoopsie while out on a mission trip or in response to things getting a little too sadistic in the bedroom, ahaha:

Look, there is a very important distinction between life and death, and if you don’t understand that, then you’re probably not worthy of being the God of Death, anyway. (At least, according to Narinder, and ONLY Narinder.)

Last but not least, have these shittens:

~Such creative naming conventions I have utilized, lololol~ :D Anyway, there's a few deets on them in the rambles down below.

The rest is all ramble, so before I get to that, I’ll just say – likes and especially reblogs are very much appreciated!!! :D If you happen to really really REALLY like my stuff, meanwhile, I do have a link in my bio to my ko-fi page, where I’m accepting commissions and donations if you’re especially generous… ÓuÒ

Now, BE FREE IF YOU AIN’T DOWN FOR READING MY GOOFY RAMBLES

First ramble is re: Baal’s question of ‘Did it really work?’, since I didn’t feel like expanding on it in the comic proper, and it’s arguably pretty vague? He doesn’t ask because he doubts Narinder or his capabilities, exactly, but because neither Baal nor Aym have ever actually seen their god at full power before (he’s still technically not at full power here, either). It’s not expressly stated how soon the brothers were brought to Narinder after his imprisonment, but whether it was early on or after a length of time for Shamura to (somewhat) recover from his attack, he must have already been weakened, since I have no doubts that there was a huge battle that accompanied the Bishops working together to trap him. So, between that fight with all four of his siblings, sharing his power with a variety of vessels over time, and being chained immobile for a thousand years, he must have been severely weakened by the time he lent the Red Crown out to the Lamb, which would have only weakened him further.

I like to think this is how the Lamb is able to defeat him if they refuse to be sacrificed, despite how it took all four Bishops working together to subdue and chain Narinder in the first place.

All that aside, the three cats have been trapped in the Afterlife for so long that Baal also wanted verbal reassurance that they are all, indeed, actually able to leave it now – something that I headcanon isn’t possible without a significant amount of power (i.e. the Red Crown’s cooperation with its bearer/vessel).

(On a semi-related note, I don’t headcanon Aym and Baal as twins. I like sweetheart big bro Baal and snarky little goth bro Aym too much to have them be that close in age.)

Ah, teeny thing: If you noticed I switched up the art style for Narinder on the second page, that was intentional. It's sort of a visual indicator that there has been a Big Change for him - that being, how much power he has after sacrificing the Lamb. As for why I changed up his arms in the grass rollin' pic, I don't really subscribe to the notion that his arms are spooky bones because they're horrifically injured (beyond chain-chafing scars, that is), but rather just because he's the Bishop of Death, so he can change how normal-to-spooky they look at will. At some point I might doodle out how I imagine his appearance to range between least to most eldritch... 🤔

Next ramble, regarding Narinder’s feelings towards the Lamb...he was initially too focused on being freed from his imprisonment to form any real attachment to them. They were a tool for his use, first and foremost, but he did notice their intense devotion towards him. It was impossible not to notice, because the Lamb was always very happy to see him, even if it was because they died during a crusade (yet again). He wasn’t originally planning to revive them once he was freed, either, because he saw no real point to it – after all, they were already dead when they first met him, just as any other mortal would be when meeting him in the Afterlife, so death has very little real consequence in his eyes. But, once the chains were off, and it really sank in that he stood to lose the most devoted follower he’s ever had, he decided…why put their soul to rest for good or leave them stuck in the Afterlife when he could just as easily revive them again? And why not reward them for their hard work, anyway? Not only would it cost him nothing by comparison, but the future devotion that could come of it would surely make up for his (bare minimum) effort in reviving them.

He wasn’t expecting to get a full dose of that devotion and a smiling face so soon after killing them, though~ :3c (because the Lamb is a bonafide freak, and not-so-secretly into the fucked up power dynamics going on here, lol)

I should mention here that I am firmly of the belief that any non-god/vessel who crosses through the Gateway and into the Afterlife just straight up dies. So, Aym and Baal? Also straight up dead, from the second Shamura brought them through. Their souls were just never put to rest so that Narinder could have some company – if only according to Shamura. Narinder kept the two around mostly out of bewilderment, because honestly, who are these kittens, and what is Shamura’s game here, anyway??? They never even explained anything, they just tossed these kittens into the Afterlife and LEFT!!! At any rate, Aym and Baal being dead is how I explain why their souls apparently become lost in the void if they’re killed, along with the added complications required to revive the two because of it.

So, with those deets in mind, and given a bit of time, if Narinder hadn’t chosen to revive the Lamb, and also hadn’t chosen to put their soul to rest, they still would have woken up at some point, despite being as straight up dead as Aym and Baal. Who, don’t worry, were also properly revived while Narinder was waiting for the Lamb to wake up. Because I am also firmly of the belief that, first, the dead cannot leave the Afterlife without the use of a ritual/relic (and can't stay in the living world for long regardless), and second, dead followers’ devotion isn’t anywhere near as potent as that of the living, given how much more the living stand to lose.

Final ramble, regarding the Lamb’s feelings towards Narinder, and why they’re so devoted to him…

Well, you don’t spend most of your life on the run with your steadily-dwindling herd, trying to evade the ongoing genocide of your species, without becoming a little fucked up in the head. Maybe a lot fucked up in the head. Life is suffering, so might as well have fun with it, right? Maybe start finding death and pain to be kind of hilarious, even a little bit hot, once everyone you know and love is dead and gone, leaving you all alone? And maybe after that, there’s something comforting in how, despite the cold, cruel uncertainties of life, at least you can always count on the inevitability of death, patiently waiting for you until your very last breath? Who knows. Either way, as soon as the Lamb was killed, and they learned that the literal God of Death was offering them a second chance at life and vengeance via effective immortality, they were 100% ride-or-die-devoted all at once. Turns out death is kinder than life – go figure. (Of course, it helps that Narinder is 100% their type.)

They weren’t put off by Narinder’s thinly-veiled sadism or manipulations, either – they’re not too different in those regards, albeit opting for vastly different methods. It’s a very ‘two sides of the same coin’ sort of deal. In order to stay alive once they were made the last of their kind, the Lamb had no qualms with using others to their advantage, and that did not change once they were revived and expected to run a cult. They didn’t care for the position of authority, though – being a sheep and all, they’re much more of a follower than a leader, and thus greatly appreciated Narinder’s need for control. With how they had to keep on their toes for so long, the Lamb was also pretty good at reading people by the time they died, so they could recognize that a lot of Narinder’s posturing was just that – posturing. Dude’s 95% bluster and only 5% bite. He could obviously be vicious when he wanted or needed to (the Bishops' injuries were clear proof of that), but underneath his outer layer of cruelty was a generous layer of tsundere, and underneath all THAT was a soft squishy middle sibling velcro cat in desperate need of attention and affection.

(Which, for the record, he Did Not feel comfortable getting from Aym and Baal – Narinder still has no idea why the fuck Shamura sent them to him, beyond acting as keepers at best or trying to sabotage his attempts to escape at worst. Which, he thought HE sabotaged in turn, by guiding the kittens into being his devoted disciples instead. He thought he was very clever for it. ‘I outsmarted Shamura!’ he thought, despite that there was never anything there to outsmart. ‘What do you mean, Shamura sent your kittens to me for company?’ he demands of Forneus later. It may or may not lead him to pull Shamura out of Purgatory just so he can shake them and scream about how they should have Fucking Explained that!!!)

But, getting back on track as to why the Lamb was so willing to be sacrificed, I cannot stress this enough – if you pay even a minimal amount of attention to what he’s saying, Narinder is REALLY NOT SUBTLE about his intentions. ‘Death is of little consequence.’ ‘Followers are for you to use to your advantage.’ ‘Sacrifice a follower to absorb more power.’ So, yeah, the Lamb knew exactly what would be expected of them once the other Bishops were dead. They knew Narinder would expect them to die for him one last time. But, after all, death is of little consequence (not to mention hot), so when the time came, they wanted to see him freed, even if it meant oblivion for them in the end.

He’d given them a second life, and the ability to avenge their kin, and they felt indebted to him for that – so, while they were still pretty glum about the possibility that they might not get to see him free of his chains, nothing beyond their devotion and debt to him mattered. They never wanted all the drama and expectations that came with the Red Crown’s power, anyway, so, better for Narinder to have it back so that he could deal with it. What he did with the Lamb afterward would be up to him, and seeing as he was their god, they’d accept his decision gladly.

Were they in love with him by that point? Oh, obsessively so, but only in the devotional sense – romance was nowhere on their mind nor radar. That is, until he unexpectedly revived them again, told them he still needed them, and then offered down his hand to help them up.

The Lamb fell HARD for him in that moment. :3c

And now, a tiny shitten ramble. Lu and Li are twins, because sheep tend to have those a lot, and are conceived not long after the Lamb and Narinder’s marriage ceremony. Lu is the minutes older one, but Li is much more mature. I have put no further thought into these two, other than that they are utter menaces, birthed by the Lamb, cling hard to both their parents but especially Narinder (who spoils them rotten), and they are both genderfluid, using whichever pronouns/names they feel like at any given time. They are also both intersex, same as the Lamb, who was initially infertile up until Something Something Vague Magic, which I have also put no further thought into ¯\_(シ)_/¯

oh, and before anyone tries to suggest i headcanon this AU’s lamb as trending more female due to them giving birth or whatever, no, no, a thousand times no, they might have a vag, but they've also got a dick, and even if it's not as big as they'd like, they still know how to use it

Finally, the very tentative name for the Lamb in this AU is Yazdi, which is really just another name for the Baluchi breed of sheep XD (Not that the Lamb is this specific breed, I just didn’t like any of the other sheep-related names I found, ahaha...)

THAT’S ALL FOR NOW (collapses into an exhausted pile of goopy limbs)

#fanart #comics #cult of the lamb #cotl #narilamb #cotl lamb #cotl narinder #cotl shitten #cotl mystic seller #cotl aym #cotl baal #aym and baal #this is why i have been especially quiet lately XD #even just the bonus stuff took several days to finish because i don't know the meaning of DOODLE anymore apparently #everything must be fully inked and colored with backgrounds I Fukken Guess #at least using medibang's sumi brush keeps me from focusing on making my lines perfect :\#and yeah i copy-pasta'd a lot of my own backgrounds don't at me bro #if you're on desktop and want to full view but don't know how: right click the image - open in new tab - zoom in as needed :)#feel free to ask questions about the AU if you want - but uh - this is basically the extent to which i've thought it through LOL #edit: oh right - aym and baal really out there assuming narinder already put the lamb's soul to rest so the body's just fodder now lmao #last edit i hope: fixed the transparent cult certified freak image 8|#nope - one more edit: there is one (1) loophole for how living mortals can be in the afterlife without dying #that loophole is currently narinder XD #'sorry universe but the god of death says i can be in here so back off with your rules and regulations'

2K notes · View notes

fioiswriting · 1 year ago

Text

Reunion | oneshot

Summary : After the Battle Above the Gods Eye, Daemon returned victorious. Aemond was presumed dead, though his body was never found. Three years later, you've mourned your former husband and are ready to move on. But it seems that some ghosts from your past have come back to haunt you, and that the dead aren't really dead after all...

[Part 2]

Rating : Explicit 18+, MDNI

Pairing : Aemond x Velaryon/Strong!niece!Reader, implied Cregan Stark x Reader (you can interpret them as lovers or not). Reader is Rhaenyra and Harwin’s daughter so I imagined her with dark hair like Jace, Luke and Joffrey but feel free to imagine her as you want of course <3

TW : unprotected sex, breeding kink, mention of characters death, angst, possessiveness, p in v sex, oral m receiving, praising kink, dom/sub undertones, mention of war, AU where the Blacks won the war, Alys Rivers (but no cheating), Reader has a child, grief, light choking, not proofread.

Words count : 7600

Author's notes : Hi everyone !! Sooo I’m posting my first ever fanfic on here, my first x reader and my first fanfic for Aemond. I’m very anxious haha But well, this fanfic is heavily inspired by a RP that has been going on for months with my wonderful gf <3 She writes Aemond so well I swear and now she’s making me fall in love with Cregan too haha oops whatever. Some of Aemond’s lines in this fanfic are hers so of course the credits go to her 💕 Long story short the reader’s backstory is inspired by my OC! The plot doesn't make any sense but whatever

Also English is not my first language, so sorry for the grammar mistakes !!

Enjoy 🖤

I don't know what I'm supposed to do Haunted by the ghost of you Oh, take me back to the night we met The night we met - Lord Huron

The snow had covered the landscape of Winterfell in a thin white layer so similar to ash, and the image tugged at your heart for a moment. Ashes. Fire. War. It was strange, the stillness that had followed the fury of screams and blood, of fire and ash, the constant anguish and pain of loss. It was like a long howl and then sudden silence. Life had resumed its course, the earth and the grass nurtured in red, as if nothing had happened, and that still irritated you sometimes, three years later.

For this peacefulness was a constant reminder of your life before. Before the war, before your own family ripped itself apart from within, before you lost him. There was something bitter in the thought that, in an alternate reality, you would have been happy with him by your side. The night brought its share of sweet dreams, lulled by the embrace of his arms, and you closed your eyes with ease, hoping to see his face again, which was fading day by day, desperately clinging to the details that made him.

It had been the best solution, you knew.

For there was no reality in which he could live as much as you wished for. And you had accepted your duty by straightening your shoulders, silencing your heart, digging your thumbnail into the inside of your wrist. Your stepfather had said he was dead; he had seen Vhaegar fall from the sky, wounded. He had seen the huge dragon crash into the water with all its weight. He had waited, and no silver hair had returned to the surface. He had searched and no body had been found.

So, he had returned, triumphant, with the conclusion that Aemond Targaryen was dead.

The room had swayed around you, but your fingers on the hard, rough wood of the table had kept you grounded. You had nodded, unsure, your ears ringing, your teeth sinking into the flesh of your tongue to hold back the tears that were beading at the edges of your eyes.

You knew it was inevitable, perhaps even fair. But it still hurt. It sill fucking hurt.

Daemon had reassured you by pointing out that you were now released from your marital obligation. A marriage to him that you had hoped for, waited for, dreamed of in your younger years. A marriage you had despised, once forced into, once made captive, a prisoner to be used against your own mother. And then a marriage that you had loved, cherished even, when he had opened up to you, when he had changed, when he had revealed that soft side despite his rough edges. And you loved him, truly. The childhood love, the shy love that had blossomed between laughter muffled behind the curtains, hand-in-hand runs through the Red Keep and reading session hidden under the library table, had been rekindled. Raw, devouring, bruised by war, but more powerful than ever.

Out of the corner of your eye you had caught a glimpse of the comforting gaze of your mother, the Queen, her gentle eyes searching for clues that would betray what you were feeling. It was she who had stroked your hair that evening, her presence welcome and soothing.

During the war, events had made you more uncertain than ever; blood and cheese had broken something in you. Suddenly shaken by the horrific actions of someone you hardly recognised, by the actions of your own family and the father figure who had raised you as his own daughter. You questioned your loyalties more than ever. Of course, you'd been devastated by Luke's death, your beloved little brother, so innocent, so sweet, and the despair you'd felt, the sadness, had gradually turned to anger.

Your desire for revenge had fed on your rage, on your anger.

And in your quest for revenge, you had grabbed the dagger hidden in your bodice when you had kissed him, when you had poisoned him with your lips and your body pressed against his. Perhaps it was cowardice to do it on your wedding night, right after the pitiful ceremony in which you had been forced to exchange your vows of fidelity, the humiliation of the white, blue, red and green cloak around your shoulders. Perhaps it was cowardice to wait for him to surrender to your touch, hard with desire, before plunging the blade straight into his heart.

But you didn't do it, in the end, the humiliation of your failure burning in your cheeks, and you had seen the horrible reality in the icy eye fixed on you: he was expecting it. He knew. He had anticipated you, as usual, one step ahead of you, ahead of your plans. And the humiliation was all the more bitter.

First he had defied you, knowing full well that you couldn't do it, despite your momentary hesitation. Then he had wiped away your tears, the sound of metal echoing off the floor as he captured your lips with his own.

And both you and he had sought to release the accumulated tension in the comfort of your naked bodies, in the rough, demanding thrusts.

You weren't quite sure when your relationship had changed. When he had become more forgiving. When he had trusted you. When he had become gentle. When you had felt him slipping away, subtly, almost imperceptibly. When you had begun to seek comfort in his arms, to seek the warmth of his body, to seek his love on his lips.

You loved him.

So you spent the nights lying awake in fear. Fearing the moment when you would have to make a choice. Fearing the moment when you would have to betray.

Which side would you choose when both armies were coming towards you, carrying the same flags, the same weapons, both calling your name?

Anxiety had spread its roots in the pit of your stomach, crescent moons in the palms of your hands. You felt as if you were losing your mind.

But the choice had been forced upon you without you having to make it. You had accepted it, as your duty demanded, as your loyalty to your family demanded.

Life at Winterfell wasn't so bad, quite the opposite in fact, despite the cold and snow you weren't used to. Cregan Stark was a good man. He had given you time and space to grieve, and had opened the castle gates to you with kindness. You had decided that you could get used to the cold and the snow, to the stone and the rustic wood, so different from the refineries of the capital, but infinitely warmer.

It was your choice, your departure for Winterfell. Dragonstone was still haunted by the ghost of Luke, by the ghosts of Joffrey and little Aegon and Viserys and Rhaenys and all the family members you had lost. King's Landing was haunted, too. By your sweet aunt and her cries of despair, by Aegon's descent into madness, by the humiliations you had so gracefully endured, by the recurring announcements of deaths, by the smell of the innocents’ blood, by the pitiful looks of Alicent, who had seen in you the image of herself a few years earlier, powerless and manipulated.

But above all, it was haunted by him.

The weight of the memories had become unbearable and you needed to leave.

You chose Winterfell, hoping the cold would help you forget. And Jace had come with you, his thumb caressing the back of your hand with affection, always the protective, reassuring big brother he was to you. Probably glad to see his friend again, too. Your friend, to both of you.

But forgetting was something you'd never really been able to do, even less with the last memory he'd left you.

Now, just over three years later, you felt ready to return to King's Landing to visit your parents, to face the demons of your past and to mourn once and for all. It was inexplicable, perhaps a little strange, but you felt the need to go back.

On his first dragon ride, Rhaegar clapped his hands along the way, nestled into your arms in front of you, closing his eyes as the wind ruffled his dark curls. Midnight, your dragon, as pleasant as ever, as easy and gentle as ever, took care to be careful with the two of you on his back.

When you arrived, Rhaenyra hugged you as tightly as she'd ever hugged you, her nose buried in your thick hair, before bending down to take her grandson in her arms.

"I've missed you, sweet girl." she said to you. You smiled and reached for her arm, glancing at your son who'd grabbed one of your mother's long silver curls: "Daemon has missed you too. You know he doesn't show his feelings, but... he missed you."

You smile, your eyes dropping to the floor. You missed them, too, terribly, despite the frequent letters.

"And of course... we’ve missed you too, little one!" Rhaenyra added, catching the child's nose with her thumb and forefinger, causing him to burst into laughter.

It felt good to be back. It was good to have regained some sort of routine in your daily life with your family. It was good to see the walls of the Red Keep return to their original familiarity, chasing away the ghosts you feared you might see again.

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

Perhaps you should have listened to your stepfather and not stray under any circumstances from the knight who has been following your every step with concern, afraid to lose sight of you.

Five years earlier, it was Sir Erryk's vigilance that you had deceived when you had carelessly followed your eldest uncle into the dangerous streets of the capital.

The streets of King's Landing offered you a freedom you had missed. But now you almost regret sneaking through the crowds to escape the vigilance of the knight who had escorted you. You decide to take a shortcut, the hood of your cloak pulled down over your forehead. It must have been your imagination. You aren’t on the worst side of the city, not like five years ago, and the streets have become safe, much safer now that your parents are in power.

Your footsteps led you to some stone steps, which you climb at full speed, your heart pounding in your chest. Glancing behind you, you disappear like a shadow around the corner of an alley, but the feeling is still there. You feel as if you are being followed.

At the Red Keep you already had the unpleasant feeling of being observed. In the gardens, with your son. Along the ramparts, enjoying the sea breeze on your face.

But you blamed it on your body's automatic response to the anxiety that had built up in all the years you'd spent within the walls of the Keep.

You slow your pace as you spot the dome and towers of the Great Sept at the end of the alley. From there you can easily find your way back to the Red Keep. All you had to do is keep moving, staring ahead, pressing your pace, wrapped in the thick wool of your cloak.

One step after the other. Breathing deeply. Half-moons in your palms.

The Great Sept growing closer give you a strange kind of reassurance.

And then suddenly, one hand closes over your mouth, the other around your waist. Your back bangs painfully against the cold stone wall of the winding alley into which you have been dragged. Fuck. Fuck.

You are too paralysed to struggle, too paralysed to bite the hand of the stranger holding you prisoner between the wall and his own body.

"You obviously learned nothing from my advice, Lady Strong," the icy voice whispers in the hollow of your ear. Your eyes widen.

That voice. It couldn't be.

Lady Strong. Lady Strong. Lady Strong.

It can’t be.

That is your sick mind playing tricks on you again.

"As reckless as ever, hm, aren't you? You could easily get yourself killed."

The stranger releases you and you look up again, tears forming at the corners of your eyes, searching for that icy blue, tinged with lilac, that have read through you so many times before.

It is impossible.

He has died three years before, falling from Vhaegar's back into the deep waters of the lake at Harrenhal.

Is it a ghost? Is it a hallucination?

"You are dead. You were dead," you whisper, more to yourself than to him, still in shock from the feel of his body against yours. You feel the tears that have formed at the corners of your eyes roll down your cheek, and your little fists pound his chest.

You have so much to say to him. So many things to reproach him for.

His hand cups your cheek to turn your head and force you to look at him, his thumb wiping away your tears.

The way he looks at you hasn’t changed; it still makes you shiver. You still feel that your uncle could read through you, that he could discover your deepest secrets. And there is still that hint of desire, too, that gleam in his one seeing eye.

You want to kiss him. You want to slap him.

He clenches his jaw as he pulls you against him, burying your face in his chest, his arms around you. He rests his chin on your head. One of his hands strokes your dark hair as you stifle sobs into the wool of his cloak.

The situation takes you back to your wedding night, when he had comforted you in the same way after you had told him that you couldn't hate him, even if you had tried.

"I know," you hear him whisper, the vocal cords vibrating from his throat against the top of your head.

He is standing there, in front of you. You cling to the fabric of his clothes with all your might, as if you're afraid he'll slip away again.

"How?" you ask, eyes closed, head against him. If he is to be taken from you again, you intend to enjoy every moment in his company.

He clenches again. You step back to look into his eyes, to search his enigmatic gaze for answers, for clues, for signs that would explain how. Why.

He doesn't answer you, but he is filled with desire as he grips your chin between his middle and index fingers, as he captures your lips with his own. You rediscover the possessiveness you've been missing. He pushes you a little harder against the wall behind you, as if to remind you who you belong to. Who you were married to.

A familiar warmth blossoms between your thighs, a warmth you haven't felt for too long. You're trapped, right there, your uncle towering over you, trapped between the wall and his body. His fingers close around your jaw and you kiss him back hungrily, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him closer.

You're perfectly aware that the situation is surreal. You're perfectly aware that you're making a mistake, that you shouldn't respond to the kiss of the man who used to be your husband, not when he's technically still your enemy, not when he's technically dead.

But you shut out the voices in your head begging you to stop.

"I still want to hate you, you know," you breathe between his parted lips. He merely mutters hm in reply, trying to shut you up again, his hands wandering under your cape, tracing the ribs of the body he'd missed so much. He reaches for your waist, your hips, which he grabs meanly.

There's no one in the alley around you, but the hood over his head hides his long silver hair anyway.

"Three fucking years." Your lips leave his, a mixture of anger and desire bubbling up from your lower belly. Aemond stares at you, his jaw clenched. He knows you need to unleash your emotions when you don't read an ounce of regret in his gaze. "Three. Fucking. Years. And you've told me nothing. You never sought to -"

"I couldn't," he retorts harshly. He seems to be searching for words to explain something you could not possibly understand, but his gaze does not soften. You know he needs time, you've learned to know him. You've waited three years, what's another moment? But you're tired, and your patience isn't as strong as it used to be. You look away, a mocking laugh escaping your lips as you repeat his justification. "You couldn't."

"And risk your mother executing me?" He forces you to look at him again, and you feel the lump form in your throat. You know you are perhaps being unfair, but you were alone for those three years while you mourned him, so alone, and in a way, you want to make him pay.

"You were dead to me, qybor." Uncle. You feel him twitch at the mention of your family tie, at the nickname he used to love to hear on your tongue. "I had to live with the idea that you would never come back."

The tears that had dried on your cheeks threaten to flow again, pooling at the corners of your eyes. Aemond sighs.

"I thought I was dead too," he whispers. You can feel the tension in every one of his muscles. There's a moment of hesitation, a silence that hovers between you. You have so many questions, but you don't know where to begin. Not a sound leaves your lips.

"She tended to my wounds," he adds, and you frown in confusion. "Alys."

Alys. You try to wriggle out of his grip, but he keeps you pinned to the wall. Alys, you remember the rumours whispered in your ear by that rat of Larys - those false rumours, you remind yourself - but you can't help feeling your heart clench. You don't trust your voice enough to speak, to say anything.

"There's no one left in Harrenhal but her," he adds, as if you need that clarification, as if you need to know where he's been all this time.

You say nothing. Your throat is tight. If you speak, if you look at him, you'll cry again and betray your feelings all over again. You refuse to make a fool of yourself, not now.

"She's the one who saw you. In Winterfell." There's a hint of bitterness in his voice as he mentions the place where you've spent the last few years rebuilding yourself, trying to forget him. A bit of anger, perhaps, too.

"Cregan Stark welcomed me indeed," you reply curtly. Perhaps you want to hurt him as he hurt you, but you are deliberately vague in your answer. "I have mourned you, qybor."

Everything is so confused in your mind. A paradoxical blend of desire, anger, sadness, jealousy. Of love too.

You want to strangle him and melt on his lips at the same time, and you know that after all this time you should be used to feeling this paradox of emotions with Aemond. Your uncle was a set of contradictions all his own.

"I saw you. On Midnight. That's how I knew you were here."

You nod. Words don't work between you, you know that. It has always been like that; the habit of letting silence speak more than words. The habit of communicating through the carnal acts of your bodies against each other. *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

Aemond pushes you against the wooden door as soon as you enter the mediocre room of the inn. He is demanding, more than ever, as his hands run along your hips to your thighs to lift you up and press you against the door, your legs closing around him. He watches you with hungry eyes, like a predator ready to pounce on its prey. You can't stop a moan from escaping your lips.

There's something feverish, passionate, urgent about the kiss. And when his tongue begs for an opening, your lips part to welcome him. There is only you in this room, an interlude where nothing else exists, where you don't have to worry about your duties and loyalties, where you are guided by nothing but passion.

His hand slams against the wall next to your head and with a movement of his hips he lifts you a little higher onto his waist, your legs locked tightly around him. He grunts into the crook of your neck at the friction of your crotch against his.

"Tell me to stop." His hand which isn't against the wall to support your weight slides up to your jaw. He lifts your chin, his gaze locked in yours, searching for clues, anything that would betray your desire to end whatever it is you're doing. "Tell me to stop now, or I won't be able to."

You don't want to stop. You should, you know you should, but you silence the little voice in your conscience that's begging you to pull yourself together, to end it all before you've even started, before you've even gone too far, and you kiss him with more vigour, with more fervour.

"I'm not going to tell you to stop, qybor," you whisper against his lips. "You know that."

His hardened member twitches beneath you at the mention of the High Valyrian, at the mention of that nickname he's so fond of. It's his weakness, you know, and despite the three years he's been away, he hasn't changed.

It's so good to feel him against you again, to feel his lips against yours, along your jawline to the junction with your neck. In one sharp movement, he rolls his hips to meet yours, pressing you a little harder against the wooden wall, and he catches your moan between his lips.

You know that tonight there will be no shy touches between you, no awkward explorations like in the early days of your love, when it wasn't tainted by war, blood, and death yet. You and he will both be consumed by the burning fire of passion. You both need to release that tension and frustration, to make up for lost time, to drown, drunk with desire, in the most carnal of acts. All that matters now are his hands on your body to ease the pain pulsing between your thighs, the desperate need to feel him inside you.

The barrier of your clothes frustrates you. You need to feel his skin against yours, to feel all of him, and your hand runs down his body to pull at the cord holding his breeches together. Immediately his fingers close around your wrist to hold you back. He wants to be in control, you know. But it has been three years and something about you just isn't the same.

"Let me worship you like I used to, qybor," you whisper against his lips, your forehead pressed against his, and you feel his jaw tighten. There's a moment of hesitation in his eyes, clouded by desire.

His thumb caresses your lips, pressing against your lower lip. You part them, just enough for the tip of your tongue to wet the top of his thumb. There are no further words exchanged between you, just silence, punctuated by your gasping breaths. His hand closes around your throat, not pressing too hard, just enough so you can feel the weight of his palm against your windpipe, just to remind you that he's in complete control of the situation.

Fuck, you've missed it; the adrenaline of his hand around your throat, the adrenaline of knowing he could do anything to you and you'd be defenceless.

"On your knees then."

The command echoes through the room and you feel the wetness seeping between your thighs as you slide to your knees in front of him. Your eyes shine with envy and you look up at him as you did years ago. You know he can't resist the angelic look on your face when you're between his thighs. You know he can't resist the dichotomy between the innocent look on your face and the sinful act you're about to commit. He revels in your submission, and that's something you've learned to use against him.

Your uncle releases his cock from his breeches, his hand wrapped around the base, and the desire you feel between your thighs becomes more and more unbearable. The head is already glistening with anticipation, white pearls beading at the slit, and it takes all of Aemond's self-control not to grab you by the hair and force himself into your mouth entirely.

Closing the distance, he rubs his member against your lips to spread the wetness before pushing into your mouth. Your lips close around him. He's warm and heavy on your tongue and the hand holding the base of his manhood is replaced by yours to cover what you can't take. Your tongue curls around the tip first, absorbing his salty taste, and you look up at him through your long lashes. He doesn't look away from you.

His hand cups your cheek, his thumb caresses your cheekbone before sliding to the corner of your lips, just where his length disappears between them. It's as if he's hypnotised by the spectacle, by the bobbing of your head, by your hollowed cheeks, by your application and devotion.

His hands leave your jaw and sink into your thick curls, urging you to take him a little deeper, and he thrusts between your lips with more vigour. You close your eyes, concentrating on not choking as his member touches the back of your throat. You take it as diligently and assiduously as ever, ignoring the tears gathering at the corners of your eyes.

"That's it, just like that. Such a good girl, mandianna [niece], such a good wife," you hear him grunt, his movements more erratic, more jerky, and you revel in his praise, sending a new wave of heat between your thighs. "Only for me."

You feel him throb on your tongue. You know it won't be long now, and you prepare yourself to welcome him, to let the salty taste of his seed flood your tongue, but your uncle pulls back reluctantly.

"I would rather not waste." he whispers, his eyes riveted on the thread of saliva that connects your lips, glistening with saliva and precum, to the tip of his cock. You shudder. Aemond definitely hasn't changed much, you realise.

His hand finds your cheek again and he caresses your lips to spread the mess you've made by sucking him. You know he isn't finished. This is just the beginning and you're both driven by the consuming hunger of passion. You know what's coming now, your core clenching around nothing, and you rub your thighs together, in an attempt to soothe the impatience.

He urges you to stand. He has that predatory look in his eyes as he closes the distance between you with his determined steps.

" Undress," he orders, and you do not take your eyes off him as you untie the linen dress you had put on to disguise yourself as a common girl.

The garment falls heavily to the floor, forming a grey puddle at your feet, and you take a step forward.

"Do you not like seeing me dressed in rags, qybor?" you ask in a playful tone, teasing, referring to the time, years ago, when he had rescued you during your adventurous walk along the grim Silk Road where your uncle Aegon had accidentally led you.

The memory was so close and yet so far away.

Aemond takes a step towards you, his hand brushing aside the long hair that hides your breasts to tuck it behind your shoulder.

"Not when you are meant to be my Queen." His eye glow with desire. He studies your body in detail as his fingers slide down your collarbone to your breasts. His thumb traces their underside before moving up to your nipples, hardened by the cool evening air and desire. He plays with them, eliciting a moan that satisfies him. He looks at you like one looking at a prize, a long-awaited gift.

"Three years away from my beautiful wife," he whispers, his good eye gleaming as he looks at your breasts.

"You did have pleasant company in Harrenhal though, didn't you?" you hiss through your teeth and Aemond's hand suddenly closes around your throat to make you swallow your insolence. You're not afraid, not anymore, for you know he won't hurt you. You have this power over him and it's delicious.

His face is so close to yours that your noses are touching.

He doesn't let go of you.

"It wasn't like that." He whispers. "With her." You know he's sincere because he's almost awkward with his words, his explanation. You can see in his eye that there are so many other things he would like to tell you, but you have learned not to rush him. It has always been difficult for him to open up, to be vulnerable.

His fingers release you. Aemond is a good head taller than you, and as he puts a hand on your shoulder, moving forward to force you back until your knees hit the mattress, your eyes remain fixed on his.

Your uncle lays you down on the mattress. It's not the comfort of the bed you once shared, but you don't care, you just need him inside you.

You need him to make you feel whole again. Aemond was fire, and you were willing to burn for him. You had always burned for him.

In the candlelight of the small bedroom where you spend the night, you see his thumbs slip under the waistband of his breeches. His clothes quickly join yours on the floor.

There's something soothing about the weight of his naked body on top of yours. Once under him, you know you can surrender completely to him and stop thinking, just stop thinking.

His lips on yours, his hands on your body, his broad torso eclipsing your smaller figure.

He places kisses down your neck to your collarbone, sucking your skin between his teeth to leave purple marks that will blossom tomorrow.

He kisses your breast, his lips closing around an erect nipple which he sucks gently, then around the other. Your hands are buried in his long silver hair. You can feel how wet you are between your thighs. You need him desperately, right there.

The confidence with which his fingers slide down your waist, from your hips to your inner thighs, only emphasises his ravenous expression. His touch on your folds sends a wave of heat through your body, causing your hips to move against his hand. Softly tracing the curves of your crotch, his index and middle fingers finally part your folds to collect the wetness that has formed there.

"Is it sucking your husband's cock that has got you so wet?

Yes, you want to answer, seeking more contact, but the words are stuck in your throat.

"Stay still," he orders in a hoarse voice as you move your hips, his hands gripping your hips to pin you back against the mattress.

You comply, for once, because you know he won't give you what you want otherwise. And you can't wait any longer, not today, not when you thought you'd never feel his warmth against your body again, his hands on your hips, his cock inside you.

"You see, you can be a good girl." His voice is softer when you obey. And to reward you, his fingers slide to your entrance, where he applies a little pressure with the tip of his middle finger without actually penetrating you. "Now beg your husband to fill you."

"Please, qybor," you murmur, your hand taking his cheek to bring his face to yours. You want him to look at you. "Please, I need you inside."

Oh, the slowness and precision with which his finger plunges into you makes you throw your head back. He begins to move back and forth, his index finger joining his middle one, caressing your spongy walls, his thumb tracing circles around your bud. Curling his fingers, he strokes that spot inside you that makes your legs tremble and you clutch the sheets beneath you.

You feel your centre tighten around his fingers, the release you've been looking for so close, so very close. You shut your eyes, ready for the familiar wave of warmth to wash over your entire body, but your uncle pulls his fingers away. You grunt in frustration.

You open your eyes only to see Aemond bring his fingers to his lips indecently, spreading your wetness over his own lips. "You still taste so good," he purrs, and you feel the blush rise to your cheeks.

He leans over to kiss you and you taste yourself on his lips. It's indecent.

He pulls back and you see him wrap his hand around his hardened cock, the head angrily red and already drooling in anticipation. He guides himself to your core, rubbing his length between your folds, coating it with your glistening juices.

The round tip of his member enters you, slowly at first, stretching your narrow entrance as if to give you time to adjust. Aemond pushes and he sinks easily into you until he's fully seated, your warm, wet walls feeling heavenly around him, squeezing him just right.

" You are so tight," he growls against you as your arms close around him, your legs bent and pressed to either side of his body.

He gives you a moment to get used to having him inside you again, to feeling him so deeply. It's exactly what you need; he stretches you deliciously, with a perfect touch of controlled pain.

You feel whole again and you want to cry. You never want to lose that feeling. You want to keep him, against you, inside you.

You close your eyes and bury your head in the hollow above his shoulder, clinging to him as if to feel him more deeply, more intimately.

"You can move," you reply, rolling your hips to support your words. Aemond's hand immediately presses down on your stomach to hold you against the mattress and you bite your lower lip, almost guilty of forgetting his earlier command. He always has that need to control. He's the one who decides, you should know it after all these years, and you should stop being so demanding, so desperate.

"I said stay still," he scolds you, and the waiting is unbearable.

You need him.

When he finally pulls out and thrusts into you again, you let out a whimper. Your nails dig into the pale skin of his back, leaving crescent marks that will probably still be there the next day.

Once under him, Aemond has the ability to make you vulnerable, and part of you hate him for it.

"You take me so well," he growls after a particularly brutal thrust. "You're such a good girl."

The praise is sweet music to your ears. You have always needed it, to be praised, complimented.

You feel him hitting that special spot deep inside you, you feel him pressing in so deeply and your grip tightens around him.

"Did you miss me?" you whisper in a voice made weak by pleasure, but all you get in return are the hoarse grunts of his voice.

Aemond lowers his eyes to look at where you are joined, hypnotised by the sight of his cock disappearing inside you. The rhythm he imposes is powerful, deep, and his fingers find their way between your bodies, reaching your little bud at the top of your folds to trace circles on it. You won't last long and he knows it as he feels your walls tighten desperately around him. Your moans grow louder.

"Look at me." His voice barely brings you back to reality, even though your mind is already far away, even though you know you can't last much longer. Painfully, you open your eyes to meet your uncle's icy gaze. " I am going to fill you up." His pacing becomes more erratic, more sloppy, and you know he won't last much longer either. Leaning on his forearm, he continues to stroke your pearl in small circles. "I am going to fill you up and you're going to take it all."

The image of you, belly round with his child, haunts him. It never stopped haunting him, even on the brink of death, even when he thought he'd exhaled his last breath as he fell into the icy waters of the lake, his heart clenched with regret and remorse. It still is a wonder that he has survived. Perhaps, just perhaps, the Gods still had plans for him.

I'm going to fill you up. Words like that shouldn't bring you to ecstasy, and yet they do. Aemond reaches deeper, and as he feels your whole body convulse with the spasms of your orgasm, he joins you in your release. He spills his seed deep inside you before remaining still, buried against your womb, enjoying your warmth, making sure he's pouring every last drop into you.

He doesn't want to pull out, not yet, and you close your arms around his neck, your breast pressed against his chest as he softens inside you.

The weight of his body on yours is comforting. For the first time in years, you feel alive. For the first time in years, the open wound he left seems to be healing.

When he pulls out, you wince at the sensation of his cock slipping between your still too sensitive folds. You immediately miss the feeling of fullness.

You barely move, your whole body still sore from your lovemaking, but you can feel his cum leaking from your entrance onto the mattress below.

Again, Aemond's fingers are between your thighs that are glistening with the intimate essence of both of you, collecting his own seed and pushing it back into you. You whimper, still too sensitive, your lips brushing against his, and he remains inside you for a brief moment. He wants to make sure nothing is wasted.

And when he withdraws his fingers, he presses them against your lips for you to clean them.

You snuggle up against him, your head against his chest. Your hand caresses his chest, the fine line of his muscles, and he rests his chin on the top of your head, wrapping an arm around your waist to hold you close. You enjoy the warmth of his body while you still can. Between your thighs you feel the sticky sensation of his seed mixing with your wetness as it still flows out of you, but you don't want to leave the embrace of his arms.

"I saw you in the gardens. With the child."

When you feel his throat vibrate, you look up at him, your eyebrows furrowed. "It was you, then?" You swallow. "It was you watching me." It's more of an observation than a question, and you suddenly understand that constant, uncomfortable feeling of being watched. At least you weren't crazy.

He lets out a hm and pauses.

"Is he yours?"

You know where this question is leading. You fear the moment of truth. You'd deluded yourself into thinking you could avoid it, but you were naive; did you really think you could hide the truth from him for much longer, now that he was back?

"Yes." You answer, looking away. You're nervous, and he can feel it.

"He's Cregan Stark's son, isn't he?"

Your heart clenches. You hesitate for a moment. You should lie. You know you should lie. To protect your son and your family, as you've protected them for the past three years. You only need one word.

You hear him sighing beneath you, taking your silence as confirmation.

"No, he's not."

The words leave your lips before you can even stop them. You hold your breath. Beneath you, Aemond tenses. He straightens, puzzled, silent.

"A bastard, then?" His voice is dry, almost mocking, revealing a form of irritation. "I did not expect this from you, dear niece." Disappointment.

You feel anger boiling inside you at the thought of him insulting your son, your sweet boy you love so much. You swallow the lump that has formed in your throat and rise on your forearms, your eyebrows furrowed as you turn your hard gaze on him.

You don't know how to express the words that are desperately trying to escape your lips.

" He has blue eyes," you add, and you can see the confusion on his face. A lock of hair slips from your shoulder and falls around your face. "Your blue eyes."

You feel him tense up. He says nothing, just stares at you with his one seeing eye. It's rare to see Aemond Targaryen so unsure of himself, so full of doubt. He stares at you as if he's afraid he's heard you wrong, as if he's afraid he's invented the words that have come out of your mouth.

"What did you say?"

You look away. You bite your lower lip, regretting your words. You want to bury your face in his chest. You breath.

"He is your son, Aemond." You finally admit it.

It's true that Rhaegar's brown curls could easily make him look like a Stark. Cregan had offered to raise him as his own, and you had smiled at his kindness.

Rhaegar is so much like you. Like you, and like Luke, and especially like Jace as a child, of whom he is the spitting image. He has the soft features of your face, but his eyes make him undeniably Aemond's son.

Your uncle holds you close, his arm wrapped around your waist, his long nose buried in the hollow of your neck, breathing in the scent of your hair.

"My son," he repeats in awe. It's rare to see Aemond smile with sincerity. Especially after the war has worn him down, made him more ruthless than ever.

"His name is Rhaegar," you say. "Just as we discussed." There's shyness in your voice.

He straightens, you on top, straddling him, and he seeks your lips to kiss you fiercely. His desire awakens beneath you; you feel him harden against your core again.

And this time, he makes love to you.

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

"I missed the best part." He purrs against you, his hand absently caressing your breast before sliding down your body to rest on your flat stomach, just above where your womb lies. He clenches his hand possessively over your flesh. His voice is almost tinged with regret. Your hand rests on his.

"You shouldn't have left me," you reply, bitter. Deep down, you're still angry with him. Your gaze falls on your stomach, where both your hands lie, yours on top of his, clasped together. "You shouldn't have let your anger dictate your actions," you add, looking away. "But you were blinded by your desire for revenge, by your desire to prove that you could be better than him.” You swallow.

It is his fault, after all, that he missed your son's birth, that he didn't see him grow through the tender years of his infancy.

Rhaegar needed a father, and it was Cregan who raised him.

"Does he even know who I am? Who his father is?"

The guilty look on your face betrays you, and you know immediately that you've hurt his feelings. It may be selfish of you, but he needs to understand.

"You were supposed to be dead. There's still a lot he doesn't know."

He doesn't say anything. You don't have the courage to meet his hard, stern gaze, you don't have the courage to see the disappointment and pain on his face, because if you do, your heart will tighten and you will fall apart.

"He's still so young. Give him time." You add, your fingers tracing small circles on the back of his hand, in an attempt to soothe him.

You know how much Aemond wanted a son, and you know it's cruel to take that from him. You know he would have made a good father. You can picture him with Rhaegar on his knee, reading him stories, telling him about the adventures of Vhagar and Visenya, and you love the image that forms in your mind.

You told Rhaegar about Aemond, though he was still too young to understand. You told him that his father had once owned the greatest dragon in the world, that his father was a fearless man for it was true, and you saw his big eyes light up.

Aemond pulls you closer to him. "I want to be there for him, you know." Unlike Viserys, but he doesn't have to say it, you understand what he means in the undertone he leaves at the end of his sentence. He has always suffered from his father's indifference.

You cuddle up to him and he runs his fingers through your long curls. For a moment, you imagine that everything is fine and you search for his touch. He plants a kiss on the top of your head.

"I've missed you," he admits, the words landing on the tips of his lips in the silence of the bedroom, but you're already dozing off.

You know that tomorrow will be made up of choices and decisions.

But for now, you fall asleep in the embrace of his very real arms, for once, enjoying the illusion of the life you both could have had.

#aemond x reader #aemond targaryen #Aemond Targaryen x reader #aemond x you #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen fic #aemond x y/n #aemond x fem!reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond x niece!reader #aemond targaryen fanfic

2K notes · View notes

captain-camille · 9 months ago

Text

_𝐠𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐜𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐞_

‣ Jack Sparrow x f!reader

‣ As a young woman of noble blood, society is a golden cage. There is no mention of you unless the subject is marriage or manners while your trip to Port Royal has become a rescue maneuver. One faithful night aboard the Dauntless you finally snap. And meet the captive Captain Jack Sparrow...

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 18+ language, old society rules, emotional chaos, very light angst ‣ 3,4k words

Your dress weighed heavy on your shoulders, the corset strangled your lungs to a delicate point where you began to feel dizzy.

Silver cutlery laid untouched next to your empty plate. The hunger had long passed.

Either way was it impossible to properly eat with this torture device crushing your ribs. You would fetch a banana later.

“Miss Sheffield“ Lord Somerset hardly drew your attention while he adjusted his white wig “I find myself greatly invested in the many stories of your brother. They're indeed impressive, are they not?“.

It took nerves to hinder your eyes from rolling.

Instead, you gave him an appreciative but short nod. There was bitter sarcasm within the subtlety of your gesture.

Another man's head, adorned with a teal hat with feathers, turned towards you. Father.

“They are, clearly“. You verbally lend weight to your faux-assent as your father's stern gaze fixed on your face.

You suspected him pleased now.

However, his interest in you promptly vanished and a song of praise of someone else continued to fall from his pale lips.

Sweet, boisterous praise for your great brother, of course.

You were sick of it but with time had begun to see it as an opportunity to reign over your own life as freely as possible.

For as long as possible.

Every eye and word was on your brother while you, the sister of the new Governor of Nassau and member of the Privy Council, were neigh invisible.

And still you could never leave the shiny prison that was the English noble society. Like living in a nightmare that had occasional sunlight in it but was full of madness anyway.

As the men's triumphant laughter echoed across the room, you pictured how Davy Jones' Locker would be a better place to bide your time.

Or maybe you should run away and live a seamstress' life. Alternatively, a barmaid.

In the corner of your vision you saw Norrington slightly leaning over to you. The new Commodore stationed in Port Royal, as he was.

“You look fabulous tonight, Miss“ he cooed, voice low.

His blue gaze rested on the glittering necklace you wore. A collective of silver, sapphires and pearls Lord Somerset had gifted you upon boarding the Dauntless.

Or perhaps Norrington's gaze laid on your cleavage but if so, he concealed it well.

He had to. Hell would come upon him.

You flashed him a polite smile and a demure “Thank you, Commodore“ before your eyes wandered off to the sea that was painted in the colors of a tropical sunset.

The windows were small but still incapable to diminish the glimmer. It went straight to your heart...

“Since you are a young woman, too-“ the man continued, hoisting a chalice to his lips. Beneath the table, your hand balled in a fist.

It did little to soothe your nerves, though.

“-I wondered whether you would think Elizabeth liked such jewelry as, um, a wedding gift?“ his smooth voice asked but the hesitant tone betrayed him.

You had long seen it in his eyes that Norrington's desires to marry Swann's daughter weren't as honest as he tried to make it seem.

Just as Elizabeth struggled to let go of the young blacksmith Will Turner she was currently trying to rescue.

Just fellow souls lost in this noble dilemma, you almost chuckled to yourself.

Luckily, you were quick enough to bridle any inner jests and looked back in Norrington's eyes.

“I’m most certain she would be delighted. However, it occurred to me that Miss Swann prefers silver to gold.“ you advised him before he got dragged back into a naval discussion with the men.

Not even thanks were left for your input.

Once again your brother's name was thrown around like a cricket ball.

The urge to just leave this charade of a dinner grew stronger while darkness began to fall upon the majestic Dauntless.

Candle light reflected in the men’s white and grey wigs like it would in the feathers of doltish pigeons.

Nearly scoffing, the focus of your eyes blurred.

Thoughts wandered off to the small bits of information you had grasped throughout the last two days; a business trip to Port Royal had turned into quite an amusing rescue maneuver as Norrington spotted the smoke signal Elizabeth was sending from a lonely island.

She was brought onto the ship along with a mysterious pirate who turned out to be none other than the notorious Captain Jack Sparrow.

Lord, he seemed so different to the men you were used to. So interesting…

“Yn, the Lord's question was, would you be his companion on a visit to your brother?“ The raspy voice of your father suddenly cut through your thoughts like a sharp knife.

You cleared your throat, hiding a muttered “god, no“ along the cough.

No, you simply couldn’t do this any longer tonight.

Tomorrow morning the misery would begin anew and the nights were too short anyway.

Dinner was over for you, you decided and shot up, heading towards the door.

“Young Miss, where do you think you are going?“ your father called across the room, causing you to spin and face him along with everyone else seated on the grand table.

An unreadable expression settled on your face, lips moving on behalf of your temper.

“Father, I do believe you won’t miss me much while conversing solely about my brother“.

Norrington let out a shaky breath, his head turning to expect your father’s answer. Obviously, he was used to Elizabeth's docile manners.

The grey wig beneath Lord Sheffield's hat shifted slightly as he cocked his head.

He looked ridiculous.

“Then go, yn. I do not have the time nor the patience for your behavior right now“ he sighed, waving his hand in an enervated gesture of dismissal “Check on Miss Swann when you pass by“.

The stingy sensation of the corset fighting your big breaths vexed you, along with your father's aloof attitude.

Nevertheless, he granted you exactly what you wanted; to leave and mind your own business.

A business that had preferably sparsely to do with these men.

“Thank you, sir. I will“ you curled your lips, forcing a hasty smile before your knees bent in a curtsy. “Lord Somerset, thank you again for the generous gift. Commodore“.

The Lord stood up with his chest puffed, trying to address you. “The pleasure is all mine, Miss Sheffield. I wish you a good-“

But the rest of his irrelevant set-phrase was cut off by the door closing behind your back. It snapped shut with a soft rock of the Dauntless.

As if she felt sorry for you.

Taking a big breath of the fresh sea breeze your tongue finally spoke some truth. “Damn you, Somerset“.

It felt good, even if it did little to improve your situation.

You knew you had to get away from the cabins or else your words of pent-up frustration would eventually find them.

Maybe you would find solace on the quarterdeck instead?

As you marched up the stairs with a grimace on your face from how impractical the heavy dress was, a young maid brushed past you with filled wineglasses on a silver tray.

She smiled with respect, but could barely hide her excited look at the luxurious necklace.

Her soft lips parted when she spoke up in awe “If I may, Baron Somerset really is doting upon you, Miss“.

At her comment, the matching earrings with the similarly cut sapphires began to itch.

“So it seems“ you answered flatly, still trying your best not to let it all out on the innocent girl.

“I happen to have overheard him talking about how beautiful your children would be“ she added with enthusiasm, unaware of your aversion to said nobleman.

You felt your gut twist and tighten at the vision alone.

Children with this man? No.

On the brink of screaming or crying, your hand flew up to grab one of the glasses.

“Did he now?“ You hoisted it and bathed your upper lip in the sweet taste of Portuguese wine “Golden me“.

Hearing her colleague call for her, the maid quickly curtsied and made her way down to the main cabin.

You sighed heavily, taking another sip.

Up on the spacious quarterdeck you wasted no time, set the glass down on a random barrel and began to take off your earrings.

They were burning on your skin now.

Anger, chagrin and despair rioted in your veins like a hurricane.

So untamed, you didn’t even notice the man at the helm observing your actions through curious eyes.

“To hell-“ you shouted, kicking your right foot so that your shoe flew overboard in a wide arc “with you, father“ the other shoe followed suit.

“And Somerset“ you tossed one earring into the black sea, holding the other one while you unhooked the expensive necklace.

You didn’t hesitate a second to proceed with this macabre yet somehow weirdly freeing act of rebellion.

With your right arm outstretched, jewelry in your hands, you stood at the ship’s railing, wind in your face.

“And to the depths with this society of hypocrites and it's stupid rules“ your now hoarse voice exclaimed bitterly before your tossing arm got stopped mid way.

What?

Twisting on your stocking feet, you ended up only inches away from Jack Sparrow’s face who was grinning at you with a pleased sparkle in his dark eyes.

You didn't dare to breathe, mouth agape.

He was still holding onto your arm even though you had lowered it in a mixture of shock and awe.

“Not good. Ye wouldn't wanna be doin' that, lassie“ the pirate purred, gold teeth adding to the captivating shine of his eyes.

Since the Navy took him prisoner, you had never spoken to him. Only eves-dropped when he had persuaded Norrington as if it was easy.

And now you could feel his breath fan across your face, the scent of the sea and rum intoxicating your brain.

Slowly, he unwrapped and lifted his fingers off your arm. One by one like a fan.

“Why not? You cannot stop me“ you eventually found your courage again and yanked your arm away.

The man scrunched his brows, lips closing. The many trinkets in his dreadlocks clinked as Sparrow cocked his head.

Your eyes were slaves to his eccentric mimic for a little while before you finally got to step back.

His presence somehow calmed you down, brought your nerves to a halt. All the way to the point where you remembered your manners.

“My apologies, Mister Sparrow. I didn’t mean to-“ you began to apologize for the snappy behavior but he interjected with a finger pointing at you.

“Never be sorry for disobeying rules that aren't worth following, luv“.

Irritated by the unexpectedly wise words, you found yourself at a loss for an answer.

This man was a real pirate after all. The closest thing to an anarchical life there was.

Your heart pumped awe through your veins that began to pacify the storm within.

Features dropping from trained, polite distance to honest distress, your gaze darted down to the jewelry in your hand. It was worth at least as much as your entire collection of summer gowns.

The blue stones seemed somewhat black tonight.

As grim as your future. With Somerset. Or any other noble, dim-witted aristocrat.

The pirate just stood and watched the tragic poem being written all over your beautiful face. His silence allowed the gears in your mind to shift.

Then, you seemed put.

“What even are you doing at the helm, Sparrow?“ You asked to avoid any potential questions when you mindlessly chucked the bundle of jewelry to him.

He grinned again as an audible clink and clatter signaled you that he had caught it.

You were sure that Sparrow had a better use for it than you did. Whatever it may be.

Admittedly, you would have just thrown it overboard or locked it away in a random jewel casket for eternity.

A husky gravel met your ears when he cleared his throat after sinking the necklace deep into the inside pocket of his brown jacket.

It was as if he knew you didn't have any expectation of thanks or desire for inquiring about your deed.

“Isla de la Muerta can only be found by those who already know where it is-“.

Slow steps of heavy boots on wooden tiles neared you from your left.

“And rumors have it me, meself and I have a heading Norrington doesn’t, savvy?“ Sparrow slurred, snapping open a compass as he leaned his back against the railing next to you.

With your eyes raking over the dusk ocean, you couldn’t help but risk a peak over to his hands.

You grimaced. The compass obviously didn’t point north.

Was he tricking the Commodore?

Suddenly, Jack chuckled, clearly having seen your expression.

“Nah... tale for another night“ he simply stated closing the small, brown box again.

His intense gaze crawled all over your side profile and pinned updo. “Tell me somethin’ about ye, Missy. Plagued by those wig-suckers, eh?“

You gave a snort of laughter, enjoying his unfiltered way of addressing the men you were used to calling 'Lord', 'Governor' or 'Commodore'.

“You know exactly who I am. Do not call me Missy“ you snapped, biting down a playful smile no one had ever elicited as easily as the foreign pirate did.

Perhaps it should worry you but it didn’t in the slightest.

Jack arched his figure to lean back more and study your edged expression from the front. You tried to shoot him an unfazed look but the pirate saw right through it and smiled widely.

How he could read you so emphatically was far beyond what you were used to from men. It confused you.

Just as it puzzled Jack that your behaviour was so devoid of any of the hospitality and judgement he had come to expect from your class.

It only drew the both of you deeper into whatever this conversation would become.

“Apologies, me bad. Miss Sheffield“ his deep voice cooed, finally cracking your surface and putting a soft blush on your cheeks.

“It never occurred to me that Pirates can be this charming“ you snickered with a hint of irony, eyes resting on Sparrow’s unique features for a moment.

His tanned skin was reflecting the flickering light of oil lamps. Sparrow was a handsome man, you realized.

Effortlessly and in tune with the ship's rocking, the man pushed off the railing to trail behind you.

“I always expected Pirates to be more- rogue, I suppose“ you mused, more to yourself.

Sparrow tsk'ed but he didn't seem hurt.

Your head cocked when you felt his hot breath close to the nape of your neck.

“A Shilling that I can alter your outlook on Pirates all by me onesies, eh?“ His comment was nonchalant and smug but in a swinging way.

This man had nerves.

“Didn't I just give you a collier worth far more than one Shilling?“ you asked rhetorically, amplifying the perky tone.

The pirate hummed, as if contemplating. “Alright, then. Consider your debt paid“.

It was utterly refreshing to converse so freely without any rules or boundaries. You grew fond of it with every passing second.

When Sparrow didn’t re-appear on your other side, you turned around to spot him chugging down the wine you had abandoned in your rage.

“Sorry, it’s no rum but-“

“-good. That’s good“ he complimented the red liquid, analyzing the ornate chalice through narrowed eyes before he sat it back down.

Carefully, with his pinky stretched out with decorum.

You caught yourself giggling but promptly covered your mouth with a palm. Habits.

“So, Miss Sheffield...“ the pirate urged you, swaggering closer until he stood by your side again. His elbows were quickly propped on the reddish railing.

“Pray tell“.

You sighed. However, the will to empty your heart was unbreakable.

It was easier when your gaze found shelter in the darkness of the Caribbean night but Sparrow’s stare lingered on you nonetheless.

“I- I feel like- No, I am trapped. Trapped in a golden cage with only dull bumbles who want to possess women of standing as if they were accessories for their prevalence-striven plans“ you began to complain, your words gaining speed and intensity throughout the sentence.

Honest pity flashed behind the pirate's charcoal outlined eyes.

The man had never thought he was capable of pitying those who were born with a silver spoon in their mouths.

And still, there he stood, stricken by the pain in your melodic voice.

You gasped for air, your mind wanting to go on but your throat began to burn on the verge of crying.

“I must behave according to the rules of society, no matter what it is I truly desire. All the poisoned praise goes to my brother while I am only of importance when the subject of my marriage is discussed“.

“Ye brother be the new Governor of Nassau?“ Sparrow eventually asked, his gaze sliding down to where your nails were nervously scratching lines into the wooden railing.

You couldn’t help but scoff in annoyance of his title. “Yes, that be him“.

The man next to you shrugged his shoulders, the trinkets and charms once again clinking. You would love to find out where he got each of them from.

“I could, in fact, sack Nassau port for ye as soon as I rip me Pearl from Barbossa’s slimy, old hands“ a tad of disgust infused his bold words at the foreign name.

“Jus' a humble offer. What ye say, lassie?“.

Sparrow was trying to cheer you up.

A small smile began to reign over your lips again, toes curling. “That would only get you killed, fierce pirate“ you noted, trying to sound as judicious and rational as possible.

Instead, he grinned even broader and spread his arms in an eccentric, self-presenting pose. “I’m Captain Jack Sparrow, luv“ he declared as if it was self-explanatory.

For the first time in a while the sea breeze caught and carried your sincere laughter.

Sparrow’s braided goatee twitched as he found himself biting his lip at the pretty sound and look.

You were a stunning woman in noble clothes with noble blood in your veins but with a spirit as wild and ravenous as his own.

You enthralled him.

“Bring this to my daughter. She shall eat, at least. The Commodore risks too much by rescuing young Turner, he cannot afford to see his fiancé unwell“ Governor Swann’s order suddenly boomed across the main deck, followed by hasty steps of a maid.

Instinctively, Sparrow snaked his hand around your shoulder, across your chest and pulled you back with him.

Out of sight.

His rough hand on your mouth muffled a shrill cry just enough.

“They thinkin’ yer asleep, eh, Miss Sheffield?“ His voice was lowered, almost just a husk and yet it was filled with this mischievous, flirtatious tone.

God, this man sent shivers down your spine like no other.

But he was still a lawless pirate.

A prisoner, even.

Suddenly, whyever, the gravity of your situation and the futility of tonight's zeal made you feel how cold and wet the floor was without shoes.

Brown dreadlocks pressed against the back of your head irrevocably disheveled your updo.

“Asleep, as I should be...“ you muttered, infused with a hint of re-surfacing anger and despair.

You wriggled yourself out of his protective grasp. The pirate's brow was raised, eyes narrowed on your face.

There was a haze of danger and waywardness about Jack Sparrow that made you question your own courage and spirit.

“Why did I even tell you all that in the first place?“ you exclaimed, hands thrown up. Slowly stepping away from him, you felt all the emotions crushing your mind.

“You most likely do not care, neither do I profit by wailing. It doesn’t bear contemplating...“.

Sparrow wrapped his right hand back around the handle of the helm, looking rather unfazed by the confusion that was spreading in your system like the Portuguese wine in his own.

Heavy silence and the occasional laughter from the men in the Captain’s cabin mingled with the soft splash of sea water.

Your feelings were now as erratic as the rhythm of the crashing waves.

“Look 'ere, luv“.

Your gaze was just about to turn from pleading to the usual bored emptiness as you saw his free hand wander down to his leather belt.

A smirk adorned his bearded face when skilled fingers rapidly detached the compass and threw it over to you.

Stumbling slightly as the ship rocked, you caught the brown box before it could hit the ground.

You heard Sparrow mutter a muted “Thank god“ that made you want to snap at him but the gesture was too interesting not to query.

Why would he think you needed a compass?

Fluster painted your features when you met his weirdly satisfied expression.

“Aren’t you Captain Jack Sparrow? Don’t you need a compass for... that?“ You asked with less challenge in your tone than initially planned.

He chuckled beautifully, shaking his head with eyes closed.

“What?“ You probed when his dark gaze began to rise up from the floor, along your figure.

“I may be without me compass but not without heading and a plan“ the pirate finally explained, taking another step closer to the helm “You, contrastingly and tragically, lack both“.

Your arms came up and crossed defensively in front of your chest.

But his words and the tight corset made you drop them again rather quickly.

He was right. You had been lamenting about your situation barely three minutes ago.

“So? What exactly is your compass going to change about that, Sparrow?“.

You peered down at the inconspicuous looking box.

“Everythin'.“ Sparrow stated with a touch of mystery. “Listen what ye heart wants and the compass is gonna give ye a heading, savvy?“.

A big part of you wanted to believe what this infuriatingly interesting man promised while another voice was whispering to you how it was literal magic he was implying.

Magic.

With a hesitant gesture of offering it back to him, you hoped to find out which voice to listen to.

“But you would want it back, right? It is yours after all“ you commented your action with genuine concern and a small smile.

Plus, the fear that Norrington would kill Jack if he couldn’t find the Isla without his compass.

Captured by the pirate for one last time, you watched his gold teeth flash in a wide grin, his tattooed hand spreading on his chest as a sign of integrity.

He was being honest, you felt it.

“I will be gettin’ it back, luv. Don't ye worry“.

Before you creeped down the stairs and eventually headed for your cabin to ponder on your heart's desires, the last you saw of Captain Jack Sparrow was a charming wink.

The last for now, at least.

♡ thank you so much for reading my very first POTC fic ever ♡

𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐮𝐩 𝐦𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐬, 𝐲𝐨 𝐡𝐨

@mochie85 @holdmytesseract @socksracoon10 @goldencherriess @chronicallybubbly @kcd15 @always-on-hiatus

#jack sparrow x reader #captain jack sparrow #potc x reader #potc #jack sparrow fic #fanfiction #jack sparrow x y/n #pirates of the caribbean #jack sparrow #Pirates of the Caribbean fanfic #captain jack sparrow x yn #jack sparrow x f!reader #language

605 notes · View notes

iid-smile · 3 months ago

Text

can't get rid of me , fushiguro toji

a strong legacy to be left behind , chapter one

the series masterlist. | previous | next

cw: profanity, mentions of pregnancy (pills) but filtered for megumi's sake, mentions of violence in prison, you're broke, smoking cigarettes

author's note: sigh... im out of my fluff era 😞 (sorry guys) kinda wanted to write something that i think would actually happen in some sort of alternate jjk universe and um idk how far to go because this kind of stuff does happen in the manga, but writing it feels illegal??? idk...

"mom?" megumi peeks out from around the corner in the hallway. "who was calling?"

another groan escapes your lips, around the fifth one in the last three minutes, and you silence your phone once again. "your— excuse my language, shitty deadbeat dad keeps wanting to call me." you slap your hand across your forehead and lean back on the couch, a small creak coming from somewhere below. "apparently he's getting aggressive in prison. shut off the house phone, but they still found my number..."

your son comes closer to you, and you scoop him up, placing him by your side. he glances up at you, and you swear your fight or flight instincts nearly kicked in, (not that you'd be able to fight of a guy as big as toji anyways) flinching slightly from his sharp gaze. it sucks how he looks so much like his dad, because you loved megumi so much. but the image of that guy was almost too much to bear, and he's the spitting image.

"shitty?" he repeats. for a well-behaved kid, he really doesn't respect your words.

"don't say that megs, it's bad language." you swear around him all of the time, so what's the point in scolding him? "only your mama can say it."

"don't tell me what to do."

wow. okay. why do you feel threatened by a six year old? "damn, you've got his attitude too." you mutter, but you've only got yourself to blame for that. you knew you were never cut out to be a mother, so your ways of parenting weren't the best.

he snuggles closer to you, and you openly accept, moving your free hand to his hair to rub over it. "why can't i see toji?"

ah, this lovely story again. "because he left me as soon as you were born, love." really, you couldn't and didn't want to stop yourself from wrapping him up in your arms, feeling the need to protect him. "at this point, he's dead to me. seems like he doesn't feel the same though... i'm so sick of his ass." you also knew it wasn't good parenting to rant to your child about adult issues, but you've only got him to talk to.

that hug was out of comfort then. why are you lying to yourself?

he looks up at you with an irritatingly cute but blank face. "why?"

"god, i hate how many questions you ask." you speak under your breath once again, looking up at the ceiling from any sort of help from a higher being. the amount of times you've had to family-friendly-ify things that have happened isn't even funny. you're not naturally rated u for universal. it's more embarrassing when he recites those same stories to his teachers, and you get called into the school for a little talk.

yikes... here we go. "he lied when he said he gave me the right magical candy after we visited the stork. tried to make it drop you off back to where babies are made in heaven, but i wanted it to deliver you to me, whether he liked that or not." the story's got to be a little filtered somehow. you'd rather not get yourself in the principal's office again. "you're my little hero; a miracle to me. i would've given up on myself ages ago. your dad is a bad, bad man."

the type that would kill. if he found where you lived, or perhaps where megumi goes to school...

"and now i'm left broke in an apartment that barely functions, yet i still spoil my little hero." you sing-song, leaning your head back. "and with what money? i'm broke as hell, megs. can't even make both of us breakfast in the morning cuz your elementary school is too damn expensive."

"is this my fault?"

"...no. no, baby, of course not." you furrow your eyebrows more, a small pout in your lips. "if anything, you made my situation a bit more fortunate."

it's a selfish way of thinking, using your child to avoid solving your problems, using your child to wail and complain about how much you hate your life, but you've got nothing to lose. nothing to lose except for the one person you love.

you can feel your phone buzzing again.

"you stay here and watch tv, okay? mama's gonna go to the kitchen and talk to her friend." he seems a bit relieved as you let go of him, and you stand up.

you hear him mutter. "it's only playing the news though..." no shit it only plays the news, you can't afford to get a good television company that has any kids shows. that is, unless you wanna get scammed out of all of your money.

begrudgingly, you make your way to the kitchen, confirm that you closed the door completely, and answer the vibrating device. "hello?" you sigh, placing the device over your ear.

the other person on the call replies quickly. "is this miss—"

"yeah, yeah, it is. what the hell do you want?"

"um... we apologise, but we strongly suggest that you come to the prison building. he—" the guy's voice cracks. must be really nervous. "pardon me. he's been physically assaulting other inmates and guards, he doesn't follow orders, he never leaves his cell unless it's to visit the closed visits room. you know, in hopes that you'll come..."

obsessed much? where was this energy six years ago? "that's got nothing to do with me."

"please, ma'am. he won't listen to anyone, and we are unable to place him into special facilities as he doesn't emit any cursed energy." ah, he's begging? that's a first. you never would've thought you'd hear a person who works at a prison begging.

cursed energy, cursed energy, this talk again and again and again. "urgh..." you take a deep breath. your options are limited, and they won't stop calling until they can get that lunatic to calm down... surprise, surprise, you really don't want to go.

but if you were really uninterested in him, wouldn't you have already spent the bail money that's been sat on the counter for ages, neatly concealed in an envelope? wouldn't you have paid off all of your debts already? "will i— hm..." choose your words carefully, goddamn it. "can i get a reward of some sort if i go? money?"

"yes, yes! please do visit. there's nothing we can legally do to him in check anymore." ...you think this guy sounds a little too eager.

damn toji and his "supernatural powers", or else you wouldn't get yourself into this mess. finally, after your moment of silence, you respond. "okay. i'll visit."

"thank you—!" you cut off the line.

"fucking bastard..." you drop your phone on the counter, running your hands through your hair and over your face. "stressing me out for what? you don't even love me." your words turn into whispers. with haste, you rummage through your back pocket, trying to find those last few cigarettes, but as your hands were occupied, your eyes moved over to the ashtray that was collecting dust on top of the microwave. oh, right... you don't smoke anymore because there's no ventilation indoors.

you'd have to head out if you wanted to, but then megumi would be in the apartment on his own. and nobody can babysit, because you don't have anybody to ask to babysit. great, you can't smoke until monday. it's a friday afternoon. you have two whole days to get through!

you know for a fact your addiction won't hold out for that long.

168 notes · View notes

flowerandblood · 7 months ago

Text

The Fall from the Heavens (28)

[ canon • Aemond x Strong • niece female ]

[ warnings: mention of masturbation, public dirty talk, sexual tension, smut, angst, swearing ]

[ description: A cool distance turns into friendship and more when two children see that they can find refuge and understanding in each other. However, naïve dreams collide with the reality in which every event has consequences and what once could have been love becomes a dark, newly painful obsession. Angst, sexual tension, obsession, violence, madness, very dark Aemond. ]

The story in this series is an alternate reality from the oneshot Stay and love, leave and die, in which Aemond reads the letters his niece has sent to him over the years. They are the same characters and it shows what would have happened between them − I have changed the background story from their childhood slightly for the sake of the plot.

Characters & Series Moodboard Lady Strong Moodboard Aemond & Lady Strong Moodboard Aemond & Lady Strong Childhood

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

Even though he had expected nothing else, his wife's reaction completely devastated him anyway − her words cut through him like daggers, showing him his own face in the light of the truth.

What should I do now?

Divorce you?

Not speak to you for eight years?

He didn't know what he should answer.

The realisation that he was constantly searching for fault in her because he felt guilty himself, that he was accusing her of betrayal because he had betrayed her himself, caused him to no longer know who he was anymore. He felt so lost and heartbroken that he had simply burst out crying in front of her like a child scolded by a parent.

He just wanted her to forgive him.

When she told him what Alys had seen in her dream and informed him of her conditions, even though he was dying at the thought of spending even one more day in this fortress, he sat down at her oak desk the next morning to write a letter to his brother-king.

My King, our half-sister has agreed to our terms, however, she makes her own demands. I have decided, in order to alleviate the situation, to travel with my wife to Dragonstone, where we are currently staying. We want to try to convince them to change their minds − one order from you is enough for me to return to King's Landing. Your loyal brother

His niece was furious with him − he had never seen her like this before and preferred not to address her at all when she spoke to him knowing that he would only make matters worse. He hoped that his conciliatory attitude and the fact that he had fulfilled her wish would make her calm down.

The thought that he wasn't her prisoner didn't comfort him, because he felt like one anyway.

Wherever he went he might encounter someone he didn't feel like looking at, so he preferred to stay in her chamber and bear it somehow.

As soon as she had left her quarters he rose from his chair and began to walk around her room, looking at the various objects on the shelves and bookcases − he looked through the books she was reading, finding with satisfaction that most of them were also in his possession in King's Landing.

He spotted her embroideries in one of the drawers, including those he remembered well from his childhood, and smiled involuntarily at the thought, wondering if she had kept them for the sake of memories.

He shuddered as the door to the chamber opened suddenly and he slid the drawer back in, turning with a rapidly beating heart − Daemon stood with his hands folded behind him, sighing heavily.

"− come, nephew − we must discuss many important matters −" He said with a kind of boredom, as if what he was speaking of was a duty he had no desire to perform at all.

"− I will not go anywhere with you, uncle − I am quite comfortable here −" He said lowly, looking away, frustrated.

Why did he always feel like a little child in his presence?

Daemon chuckled at his question.

"− it wasn't a request − come, let's have a walk −" He encouraged him in a ferocious, mocking tone from which he felt rage and a clench in his stomach.

He knew he couldn't refuse.

Daemon led him out of the fortress through one of the side entrances − he checked a few times before the sound of the sea surrounded them that the dagger he always carried with him was strapped to his belt.

They stepped out onto a gigantic white beach seeming to stretch on endlessly to him, with only the water to their left and high rising rocks and mountains to their right.

They were completely alone.

His uncle finally stopped and turned to him, looking at him for a moment without a word.

"− why did you suggest you spend the night in Dragonstone? −"

He licked his lips, feeling his heart stop at his question.

"− that was her wish −"

"− don't fucking lie to me or I will pierce your skull with my sword −"

He looked at him in disbelief, his jaw clenched so tight he felt like it was going to burst, his fingers involuntarily tightening into fists.

Silence fell again, the sound of the waves around them, their hair and tunics blowing in the wind.

It seemed to him that his uncle's gaze was piercing him to the core.

"− Larys Strong had his own plans for you − I couldn't let that happen −" He muttered at last.

"− does she know about this? −" He asked coldly.

He swallowed hard at the thought that he was referring to his wife.

"− yes −"

"− did you tell her before or after we came here? −"

He lowered his gaze already knowing what he was leading up to, he felt like his whole body was quivering.

"− after −"

Daemon snorted in annoyance, shaking his head as he looked out at the sea stretching before them.

"− you fucking cunt − I was supposed to personally deal with his rats overdue in the Eyrie, but you ruined my plan − though surely that's good for you −" He confessed looking at him out of the corner of his eye.

He felt a powerful, cold shiver run along his back at the thought that he knew everything.

He knew that they were about to be murdered.

And Rheanyra?

Seeing that he couldn't force out the question that was pressing on his lips his uncle laughed out loud.

"− the rider of the world's greatest dragon since Balerion's passing is unable to get a word out − shame has taken away your speech? − where is your pride that you always boasted so much? −" He continued, provoking him to explode, his heart pounding like mad.

What should he do?

How should he behave?

"− you are exactly as I assumed − you are still a boy who has lost an eye and who is waiting for his betrothed to come to comfort him − you are like a stone, unable to move on − my daughter has sacrificed everything for you, and you stand before me like some fool −"

"− what do you want from me, uncle? −"

"− no − what do YOU want − are you able to name it in your head, or are you like a child in a fog without your mother? −" He asked in a raised voice, frustrated, making him feel a hot wave of humiliation flowing through his body.

"− I want her to be safe −"

"− what happened in King's Landing? −"

"− I −"

"− fucking speak − and you'd better say the truth −"

"− your spies in the Red Keep didn't report it to you? −" He hissed, his uncle taking a step towards him, looking him straight in the eye.

"− you're trying my patience −"

He pressed his lips together feeling his heart rise to his throat, cold sweat running down his back.

"− my mother gave her moon tea without my knowledge − she wanted to be able to pact with you and give her to Lord Arryn's son −" He said dispassionately feeling, however, that his voice trembled. Daemon looked at him wordlessly.

"− and what have you done to punish those who wronged my daughter, and your wife? −"

He looked at him feeling his whole body freeze.

"− what would you have done to her if she had been the one to fail your trust? − if she tried to fight for her freedom, if she stood up to you and threatened your mother? −" He asked, stabbing his words into him like daggers.

He didn't know the answers to these questions.

He never wanted to ask himself them.

"− I did everything I could − she is my mother − you would expect the same from your daughter yourself −"

"− and yet she was the one who came to beg her own mother to surrender her claim to the crown when yours was encouraging your brother to steal the throne that never belonged to him − gods, Viserys has taught you nothing, has he? − you see nothing but your mother's skirt to which you have always been clung −" He muttered with some kind of disgust from which he felt a cold, unpleasant shiver and discomfort in his stomach.

"− I regret − I regret that, seeing this, seeing Viserys fail you, seeing Otto make you his pawn, I was not a fatherly figure for you to follow − I did not, though it was my duty −"

He looked at him in disbelief, feeling with horror the burning under his eyelids. He laughed and shook his head, wishing he could somehow control what was happening to him − he hid his hands behind his back feeling how much they were trembling.

"− are you remorseful, uncle? − do you see that you yourself also contributed to the division of our family into two separate parts? −" He asked with mockery and regret in his voice feeling that he was weak.

What had happened in the last few days had completely destroyed him.

"− I want to hear the truth and I will ask for the last time − what do you want? −" His uncle asked with emphasis on the last sentence.

He shuddered, realising that deep down he knew what the answer was.

He always knew.

"− I wish it was all over − I wish I could take her to Essos, as I promised her − I am tired, uncle − I have been tired all my life − I only rest when she is by my side −"

Daemon looked at him for a long moment and let out a loud breath, looking out to sea. They stood like that, not speaking to each other.

"− is there anything else you have hidden from her? −" He asked coldly, and he felt a squeeze in his throat at the memory of the Witch of Harrenhal's words.

You will betray her at the moment she trusts you the most.

You will achieve victory, but she will never let you touch herself again.

You will put your child inside me, your bastard son, who will rule Harrenhal after our death.

He raised his eyes to his uncle and met his gaze, proud and distrustful, his heart pounding like mad in his chest.

"− I −"

"− speak −"

"− there is − there is a woman in Harrenhal, called by some a witch − she came to me last morning and −"

"− did you take her to your bed? −"

His voice stuck in his throat at his question, so he shook his head quickly, horrified.

"− no, but she said − she prophesied to me that this would happen − that − that I would put my child inside her −" He muttered, feeling with what difficulty those words left his mouth. Daemon raised his eyebrows in disbelief and rolled his eyes.

"− and? − if she said so, now there's nothing left for you to do but put your cock inside her? − don't make me laugh −" He sneered, shaking his head as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"− she can predict the future − I −"

"− are you listening to me, or have you not only gone blind but deaf? − if she told you that you would run away with her to Essos and beget twenty children with her would you believe her too? − she told you exactly what she wanted to happen − she hopes to still use you in the future by doing so, and you reflecting on her words are doing exactly what she wants − I don't know any man who would put his cock into a woman by accident or by fate − pull yourself together −" He said impatiently, causing a warm wave of embarrassment to surge through him.

He thought he really was a fool.

How could he have believed her with such ease?

Though he didn't want to admit it to himself, his words brought him relief.

"− do you have anything else to convey to me? − this is your last chance −" He asked coldly, and he shook his head.

"− very well − I'm glad we've got it behind us − you may leave −" He said dryly; he pressed his lips together at his words and simply walked away, swallowing his dignity and pride.

As he stepped into his wife's chamber he noticed her seated figure out of the corner of his eye, but he did not say a word to her − he felt humiliated and tired and did not feel like making conversation.

He also recognised that she certainly still hadn't forgiven him, so they might as well keep quiet.

He therefore sat down with one of her books by the fire, trying to concentrate on what he saw before him and not on his uncle's words.

I regret that, seeing this, seeing Viserys fail you, seeing Otto make you his pawn, I was not a fatherly figure for you to follow.

Though some part of him did not want to admit it, he knew that subconsciously he had been waiting for those words, for any praise or appreciation from him, the Rouge Prince himself, the greatest warrior and dragon rider he had seen in his lifetime.

So why did he feel so bad about what he had said to him?

You are still a boy who has lost an eye and who is waiting for his betrothed to come to comfort him.

My daughter has sacrificed everything for you, and you stand before me like some fool.

He swallowed hard, knowing that there was partly truth in his words.

For some reason though he wanted to, he couldn't completely free himself from the past and move on.

"− Jace kissed me − on the lips −"

He lifted his gaze to her from his book thinking he had overheard himself. He felt a wave of anger and disbelief surge through his body when he noticed in her gaze that she wasn't mocking him.

She meant it.

"− he did WHAT? −" He growled, getting up from his seat, throwing his book on the table and leaving immediately thinking he was going to kill this fucking bastard with his own hands.

When he finally walked into the right chamber he breathed heavily and grinned, feeling as if all the frustration, the things that had been happening to him after his conversation with his wife and uncle were going to find release at this very moment.

Jace stood up from his chair, pale at the sight of him, clearly knowing exactly what awaited him.

"− haven't you learned yet not to take what's not yours? − hm? −" He murmured teasingly, feeling the presence of his niece beside him, the scent of vanilla filling his lungs again.

"− Aemond −"

"− your sister when we were children told me that she never desired you as a man − she knew even then that you were a cunt −" He sneered, cocking his head to the side, resting his weight on his right leg, watching curiously as his nephew turned all red with embarrassment.

"− Aemond, that's enough −"

"− how dare you? − you are a guest under our roof − get out −" Baela growled, his smile widening even more at the sight of her, her lips tightening into a thin line.

He thought he would love to hit her in the face again before he remembered that she was a woman.

What a pity.

His wife appeared suddenly in front of him, looking at him warningly.

"− we are leaving −"

He felt like laughing at her words.

Her brothers were getting away with far too many things.

"− no − I'm speaking with my nephew −" He said sweetly, looking his nephew straight in the eye thinking with amusement that this time would be different.

"− we are leaving, uncle, or I swear I will never return with you to King's Landing −"

"− so I'll stay here with you − Jace as ruler of Dragonstone will surely be delighted to host us, won't he? − he seems to have a weakness for you, sweet wife −" He muttered in a voice filled with challenge and poison seeing that Baela looked at her betrothed in disbelief.

Always pretending to be so righteous, so wronged.

He was nothing more than a pathetic brat who was once again reaching for what didn't belong to him.

"− Jace, say something at last! −" Baela thundered, clearly wanting Jace to stop being a scared cunt, which unfortunately he was unable to do.

He could feel his own heart pounding fast, his hands clenched into fists, his breathing quick and deep.

He was ready to attack him, he was ready to rip him to shreds.

Some part of him wanted to do it.

A fucking would-be King.

You'll never sit on the throne − he thought with satisfaction − and in my wife's eyes you were never a man she could desire.

"− I made a mistake − I shouldn't have done it, forgive me − I −" He mumbled in horror as he looked at his niece with pleading eyes.

Did he really think that he would let him hide behind her skirt like a coward?

That he would allow him to escape the consequences of his foolishness again?

"− you made a mistake? − I seem to be able to understand the feeling − I have made a similar one many times, as well as others, even worse ones −" He hissed grabbing her cheeks, heard her draw in a loud breath, shocked, as his lips pressed against hers in a hot, aggressive kiss − she moaned quietly as his slick tongue forced its way deep into her throat with his low sigh of delight.

He pulled away and met her simultaneously terrified, enraged and thirsty gaze − she only mewled when he turned her with a confident tug with her back against him and pressed her figure against his chest, gripping her neck with one hand, the other sliding down her lower abdomen.

He involuntarily licked his lower lip when he felt her fingers tighten on his wrist trying to stop him from doing what he wanted to do, her mouth parted in disbelief.

"− so beautiful, isn't she, nephew? − I couldn't help myself either − I can't count how many times I took her − how many times I have filled her with my seed − right here −" He breathed out, not really understanding himself what he was actually doing, focusing more on her than on them as he dug his fingertips into her womanhood lying beneath the material of her gown.

Her head was tilted back, her thighs clenched, her lips struggling to hold back the moan from which his erection slapped impatiently against her buttocks in his breeches.

He thought he will fuck her with his fingers in front of his eyes.

"− u-uncle − stop −"

In fact, he had to stop when Daemon walked into the chamber − the ashamed, horrified expression on Jace's face who couldn't even look at them and the accusing look his betrothed turned towards him was reward enough for him.

He wanted to watch his world, everything he desired burn and fall apart in his hands.

He wanted him to know what it felt like.

He knew his wife enough to know that her rage was mixed halfway with the desire and tension he himself felt. He wanted to respect her request not to take her and break it at the same time, feeling that he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, so he did something that stopped halfway between both, coming with a sigh of relief on the material of her nightgown when he heard her moans of sweet fulfilment.

He wanted nothing more after this than to lock her in his arms and fall asleep.

"− let me embrace you −" He muttered.

"− no −" Her frustrated, trembling voice answered him.

He huffed loudly, heartbroken, at the same time understanding her and longing to take refuge again in the warmth that the closeness of her body gave him. In a gesture of desperation, he simply pressed his face against her neck, taking in her scent.

"− move away, uncle −"

"− I inhale the wonderful scent of vanilla after having experienced fulfilment with my wife −"

"− your wife does not wish for this −"

"− sleep −"

He heard her sigh heavily, annoyed, but said nothing more. When he finally felt she had fallen asleep, his hand slowly touched her waist and slid to other side, taking its place on her warm lower abdomen.

"− no −" He heard her quiet, unclear mumble, her body stirring in his embrace.

"− shhh − let me −" He whispered in her ear, his lips placing a soft, warm kiss on her cheek.

"− mhm −" She muttered, twisting towards him immersed in a deep sleep − he sighed heavily as her body involuntarily clung to his, her face sinking into the hollow of his neck.

He swallowed hard, feeling the squeeze in his heart and the tears under his eyelids that, one by one, began to run down his cheeks as his hands wove through her hair and the material of her nightgown at her back, pressing her close to his body.

He thought that for some reason during the nights he spent with her he was most vulnerable and weak, her presence, the warmth of her flesh, her closeness made him feel as if something was melting inside him, not allowing him to pretend that Daemon's words had not hurt him.

Despite repeating to himself that his uncle's words meant nothing to him, as a child he had looked up to him, dreaming of being like him − fearless, ironic, intelligent, confident, proud of his family and his heritage.

I regret that, seeing this, seeing Viserys fail you, seeing Otto make you his pawn, I was not a fatherly figure for you to follow.

He pressed his lips together at that thought, at his words, which cut into his heart like a sword, because although he had tried to find his pattern of masculinity in his father, in his older brother, in his grandfather, in Ser Criston, it was his uncle that his gaze had always followed, it was his uncle's reaction that he looked at when he and his father watched them duel.

He never heard a single warm word from his lips.

The fact that he was his mother's son had crossed him out in his eyes, and he had no intention of apologising for anything.

So what was he to do with his words?

That he did not know − nor did he know what purpose the conversation had served or why he had told him about the Witch of Harrenhal. He thought with shame that guilt and fear had crushed him so much that he had to get it off his chest, and he had chosen the worst person to do so.

What if he uses this against him?

Poison his daughter's thoughts with words that her husband feared that he would betray her in the future, beget a bastard child with another woman?

He felt a cold shudder run through his body at the thought, but for some reason he had a feeling that this would not happen.

She told you exactly what she wanted to happen.

She hopes to still use you in the future by doing so, and you reflecting on her words are doing exactly what she wants.

He was right.

This woman, whoever she was, was playing with him and his wife.

He thought she was hoping to frighten them both and lead them to lose trust in each other.

That this was perhaps also part of Larys' plan.

He had no intention of killing his wife.

He wanted her to do it herself.

That thought, that realisation flashed through his body like a flame, his fingers clamped down on her flesh as he swallowed hard, feeling some kind of indescribable relief, finding meaning in it at last.

They knew that if his wife disappeared, he would join the war.

He sighed quietly, thinking with surprising calmness in his soul, stroking his wife's soft, dark curls with his fingers, that he would cut off the heads of all the vipers plotting against her, one by one.

He intended to personally inform his brother what their grandfather and Lord Strong were planning to do behind his back.

272 notes · View notes

multi-fandom-imagines8 · 2 months ago

Text

Bound by Duty

Summary: Y/n is a Spring Court fae who’s loyal to Tamlin. Once she’s allowed to visit Feyre, she starts developing feelings for Cassian. But their love was never meant to be…

A/N: y/f/f = your favorite flower.

Warnings: angst, mention of abuse toward the end, Y/n being in denial about it.

Word Count: 3.1 K.

You can read part 2/alternative ending here.

The Spring Court had always been a place of comfort, beauty and peace. But lately, it felt suffocating. When Feyre came into your lives, she ignited something in Tamlin, and you grew to become close friends. With her gone, it felt empty, especially with Tamlin throwing fits of rage and being his broody self.

Before Feyre came into his life, you had been his source of joy amidst the curse and all. He had saved your life, and ever since, you stayed by his side, never refusing him a request. After Feyre left, you grew apart- or rather, he did.

“What’s wrong?” his voice cut through your thoughts, pulling you back to the present. You blinked, almost forgetting that the two of you were eating dinner until he spoke. His brow was furrowed, concern flickering in his green eyes.

“Nothing” you lied, forcing a smile to your lips, though it felt strained.

“Don’t lie to me” he said, his voice growing firmer as he set his fork down, leaning closer. His eyes narrowed slightly as they searched your face “I know you. Something is bothering you”.

“What makes you think that?” you mumbled, your fingers idly playing with the food on your plate, unable to meet his eyes.

“You used to be full of life- happy. Now, you rarely even smile” he said, his expression softening, a flicker of something vulnerable flashing across his face.

“Oh! I hadn‘t realized that” you responded, blinking in surprise. You hadn’t noticed the change yourself, too distracted by everything weighing on your mind.

“Well?” He pressed, his eyes never leaving yours “What’s going on with you?”.

“You don’t have to worry about me. I’ll sort it out” you gave him another fake smile.

“There you go again, pretending that everything is fine when it’s not. Now, tell me what’s wrong”.

You sighed deeply, trying to keep your voice steady as you looked down at your lap “I don’t want to upset you”.

“You already have by not telling me”.

“Fine… I miss Feyre. I wish I could just visit her” you didn’t mean to say the last sentence- at least not out loud.

“Oh” you could see the pain on his face. He was silent for a moment, thinking about something. “If you wish to see her, you can go. You’re not my prisoner, Y/n. You may do as you please”. One look into his eyes and you could tell that he was afraid that you’d leave him too.

“I know that, but I don’t want to leave you. You come first” you said softly, your voice soothing as you reached out and gently placed your hand on his.

“Do you mean it?” he asked, his voice betraying his surprise.

“Of course. Tamlin, you saved my life. I’m indebted to you, and I’ll forever be grateful to you. I won’t go if you don’t want me to”.

“If it’ll make you happy, go! You have my blessing” he murmured, though his expression remained conflicted.

“Thank you” you said, offering him a genuine smile this time, one that felt real as your heart lightened.

—

Stepping into the Night Court felt like stepping into an entirely new world. You hadn’t left the Spring Court in years, and anxiety prickled at your skin. Not only were you nervous about traveling alone, but you’d heard stories about the Fae who lived here.

You had sent Feyre a word of your arrival and she informed you that one of her most trusted men would be there to pick you up.

Just as you looked up at the sky, a massive male with wings descended gracefully, his broad shoulders and muscular build making him appear more imposing. He was handsome- strikingly so- and you found yourself momentarily speechless.

“Are you Y/n?” he asked, his voice deep yet calm, though he raised an eyebrow at your wide-eyed stare.

“I- uh, yes, I am” you stammered, cheeks flushing with embarrassment as you realized you’d been staring.

“Cassian” he introduced himself, extending his hand to you with a charming grin. “Nice to meet you” When you didn’t immediately react, his expression shifted to confusion “Are you alright?”

“Sorry” you quickly shook his hand, feeling the strength in his grip as warmth flooded your cheeks again. “I’m just nervous. This is my first time traveling alone”.

He chuckled “That’s alright. Come on, let’s go” he said, extending his hand once more, this time to help you as he prepared to take flight.

You hesitated for only a moment, before placing your hand in his, feeling the calluses of a warrior on his palm. His wings stretched wide as he effortlessly lifted you into the sky.

Arriving at the House of Wind, you saa Feyre waiting with the rest of the Inner Circle. Your heart lightened at the sight of your friend, but as you approached, a winged male with a more intimidating presence stepped in front of her, his gaze sharp.

“Az, that’s not necessary” Feyre said, stepping past him and wrapping her arms around you in a warm hug.

“She could be a spy for all we know” Rhysand added, his tone casual, yet assessing.

“You promised me you’d behave” Feyre turned and gave her mate a pointed look.

“I- I’m not, I’m not a spy” you stammered, your voice faltering as you tried to defend yourself, feeling your cheeks flush under Rhysand’s scrutiny.

Feyre smiled warmly at you “It’s alright, don’t worry about them. They can be mean to strangers sometimes” she reassured you, her hand gently squeezing yours.

“Hey, not all of us” Cassian chimed in with a playful grin, earning an eye roll from Feyre.

“Are you joining us for dinner, my lady?” Cassian asked, his voice carrying a teasing lilt as his eyes flicked to yours.

“I- uhm” you looked at Feyre, uncertain if you were welcome to stay that long.

“Of course she is. You are, right? You’ve come a long way, you must stay the night” Feyre insisted.

“I-” you wanted to object but seeing Feyre all hopeful, you relented “alright, but I have to leave early in the morning”.

—

While most of the IC remained distant, Feyre and, surprisingly, Cassian were friendly, making you feel more comfortable. Cassian in particular seemed genuinely interested in what you had to say.

“Even if relations weren’t strained, I would not be able to enjoy the Spring Court” Cassian remarked, his tone casual as he leaned back in his chair.

You turned to him, a slight frown tugging at your lips “Oh! And why is that?”

“I have an allergy” he admitted with a half-smile, causing Feyre to chuckle softly.

“That must be horrible… you must really hate flowers, then?” You asked, eyebrows raised in curiosity.

He shrugged with a small grin “I don’t hate them. I just can’t be near them. I do enjoy observing them, though. There’s something about appreciating beauty that you can never have”.

“Since when are you a poet?” Rhys teased, earning a sharp glare from Cassian.

Cassian tried to quickly divert your attention “What’s your favorite flower?”

“Uhm, I do like many flowers. After all, they’re unique in their own way. But if I must choose, then y/f/f. What about you?”.

Cassian grinned awkwardly “Me? My favorite flower is also y/f/f. What a coincidence!” he chuckled, clearly lying but trying to play it off.

The evening continued pleasantly, and talking to Cassian made you forget about the tension and your worries. You didn’t want the night to end, but eventually it had to.

Cassian volunteered to escort you to the quarters you were staying in for the night. As the two of you walked down the dimly lit hallway, the air between you shifted. Silence hung heavy for longer than you had hoped, the only sounds being your footsteps echoing in the corridor.

Cassian glanced sideways at you, his lips parting slightly before he finally broke the silence “Will you be coming back soon?”

You hesitated, lowering your gaze to the floor as you walked“Oh, I don’t know. Your friends didn’t seem too keen on having me here.”

Cassian gently bumped your shoulder with his “Don’t worry about them. They’ll come around. Besides, Feyre was happy to see you… and I was glad to meet you” he admitted, his voice growing quieter at the last part.

You finally looked up, meeting his gaze “Really? You don’t think I’m Tamlin’s spy? Here to tell him everything about you?” you teased.

He chuckled lightly, shaking his head “No, Y/n. I don’t believe you’re a spy” he said softly, a subtle, almost shy smile playing on his lips.

You sighed, your smile fading as you reminded him “I still have my duties, just like you have yours.”

Cassian’s expression tightened briefly, his brow furrowing as he spoke again “Of course. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push you” his hand twitched at his side, as though he wanted to reach for you but stopped himself.

“No, no. It’s fine. I’d like to come back soon” you reassured him quickly, offering a soft smile in return.

Cassian’s face brightened at your words, his eyes gleaming with hope “And I’d love that very much”.

“I believe this is my room” you averted his gaze again.

“Right, yes. Yes, it is. I bid you goodnight” he stepped back slightly, clearing his throat.

“Goodnight, Cassian” you whispered, lingering for a moment before closing the door behind you. As it clicked shut, you felt a spark ignite your heart, an unfamiliar lingering in your chest.

—

It had been a while since your last visit, and when Cassian heard you were coming, he couldn’t hide his excitement.

This time, Rhys insisted on picking you up, leaving Cassian a little disappointed. He paced the living area of the House of Wind, his wings twitching with nervous energy as he impatiently awaited your arrival. Every minute that passed seemed like an eternity.

“They’re taking too long, don’t you think?” Cassian turned abruptly to Azriel, who leaned casually against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, watching his brother with a knowing smirk.

“Relax, Cassian. They’ll be here any minute now. What has gotten into you?” Azriel smirked, knowing exactly why his brother was behaving this way, yet he decided to tease him.

Cassian huffed, running a hand through his hair in frustration “Nothing. I- I- it just, you know how Rhys can be. What if he threatened her and she decided to go back?” his voice held a slight edge of panic as he considered every possible worst-case scenario.

“You worry too much, brother. I don’t think Rhys is going to threaten her. After all, she is Feyre’s friend. He’ll treat her as such… but with caution, of course. She does work for Tamlin” Azriel reminded.

Just then, you stepped into the room, awkwardly waving, with Rhysand close behind you “Hey.” Cassian’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of you and he found himself staring.

Azriel gave a polite nod, while Cassian blinked, finally snapping out of his daze.

“It’s been a while” you said with a smile, trying to ease the tension.

“Far too long” Cassian replied quickly, his words coming out in a rush. “I- I mean Feyre missed you. She wondered when you’d be back”.

“Was it Feyre or you, Cassian? Because I do recall you asking her every day if Y/n was coming soon” Rhys exposed him and you chuckled.

Cassian’s face flushed, and he stammered “I- it’s- I” He couldn’t find an excuse fast enough.

“I have something for you” you approached him and offered him y/f/f in a glass container “this way you can have it without your allergy acting up”.

Cassian’s eyes widened in surprise, his cheeks turning a deeper shade of red “You actually brought me y/f/f. This is brilliant. Thank you” he said, his voice flustered as he took the gift, holding it like it was the most precious thing he’d ever received.

Rhys, ever the instigator, smirked again “I believe this is the first time I’ve seen you blush, Cas”.

“Shut up. You’re just jealous you didn’t get a flower” Cassian shot back with a playful shrug. You shook your head, smiling to yourself. For scary males, they certainly acted like children. It was not what you imagined at all.

Time passed, and your visits to the Night Court became more frequent. What began as excuses to see Feyre evolved into something else- you found yourself coming back for Cassian. You timed your visits for moments you knew Feyre would be busy, relishing the chance to spend more time alone with him. Your friendship deepened, but neither of you dared to speak of the feelings that lingered beneath the surface.

This all changed one day, as the two of you strolled by the riverbank. Cassian noticed something different about you- your usual joy was absent, and the weight of something unsaid hung in the air.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, stopping in his tracks.

You stiffened at his question, turning your face away to avoid his gaze “Why would you think anything is wrong?” you snapped defensively.

Cassian’s expression softened with concern. He placed hus hands gently on your upper arms, forcing you to stop walking. His grip was light but steady as he tilted his head down to meet your eyes. “We’ve known each other for almost a year now. I think I know when something is bothering you” he said quietly, his voice laced with tenderness.

You winced at his touch, the sudden sound not going unnoticed. Cassian’s eyes narrowed as he lowered his gaze to your arm, his fingers brushing against the fabric of your sleeve “Y/n, what is wrong?” his eyes began scanning your body, searching for any sign of injury.

“It- it’s nothing. Let’s just go” you stammered, stepping back slightly. You knew that if he found out, this wasn’t going to end well.

“No. Stop, please. Come on, tell me what’s wrong. Don't shut me out” he begged, his eyes searching yours for any clue.

“It really is nothing. I just bumped into the wall” you lied and knew he wouldn’t believe it.

Cassian’s jaw clenched as he raised his hand toward the top of your sleeve, fingers lightly grazing your shoulder. “May I?” he asked, his voice gentle, but his eyes filled with a fierce protectiveness. You nodded reluctantly, and he carefully lowered the fabric, revealing the dark bruise on your upper arm.

“Y/n, this isn’t from bumping into a wall, is it?” his voice was dangerously calm.

“Let it be, Cassian.” You whispered, pulling your sleeve back up as you turned away.

“This is Tamlin’s work, isn’t it?” his voice trembled with barely restrained fury, and you could see him struggling to keep his emotions in check.

You sighed, unable to deny it. “And what if it was?”

Cassian’s nostrils flared, his jaw clenching so tightly you could almost hear the grind of his teeth “That fucking monster. I’m going to kill him” he hissed, his wings twitching in agitation behind him.

You immediately stepped forward, placing a hand on his chest to stop him. “You can’t!”

“Give me one good reason I shouldn’t”.

“I owe him my life” you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Not anymore, you don’t. Not after what he’s done to you. Not after you’ve endured all these years by his side.”

Your throat tightened, and you shook your head, trying to make him understand “You don’t understand. Tamlin is not the monster you think he is. He didn’t do it on purpose, alright? He had one of his outbursts, a moment of rage. He didn’t mean to hurt me.”

“Now you’re finding excuses for him? He doesn’t deserve your love and kindness.” He reached out, his hand cupping your cheek gently.

You closed your eyes, leaning into his touch just for a moment before pulling away “That is for me to decide.”

“You can’t see it, can you? He is abusive. Look at what he did to Feyre. What he’s done to you. You say it was an accident, but what happens next time? What happens the next time he loses control? He needs to be stopped”.

“Please, you can’t go” you begged again, your voice breaking. You placed a hand on his arm, feeling the tension in his muscles.

“Why not?”

“You will disrupt the peace between the courts.”

“To hell with peace. I don’t care about any of that. He.Hurt.You.”

You reached up, cupping his face to calm him “Please, Cassian. If you're not going to do it for peace, then for my sake.”

Cassian’s eyes fluttered closed as he leaned into your touch, his shoulders sagging slightly Z the weight of his anger began to subside. He placed his hand over yours, holding it against his cheek as he exhaled slowly. “Alright, I won’t do anything. But you can’t go back to him.”

You shook your head slowly, knowing this was the moment you had been dreading “I have to.” You pulled your hand away from his cheek, stepping back.

Cassian reached for you instinctively, his hand grasping your arm gently as if to stop you “No, please don’t.”

You swallowed hard, the tears finally spilling over as you stood on your tiptoes and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. The world seemed to stop as his breath hitched, and his hands slid around your waist, pulling you closer. He kissed you back, his lips warm and tender against yours. One of his hands moved to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as he deepened the kiss, as if trying to hold onto this moment for as long as he could.

When you finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, his breath mingling with yours. “Please stay” he whispered against your lips, his voice raw with emotion.

You closed your eyes, wanting nothing more than to say yes, but knowing you could ‘t. “I can’t.” You whispered, stepping back. His hands lingered on your waist before finally falling to his sides. “I must leave. I think it’s a good idea that I don’t visit for a while” you said, your heart breaking with every word.

“What? No, no. If it is because of what I said, then I’m sorry. I just-”.

You placed a hand on his cheek again, cutting him off gently. “Hey, it has nothing to do with you�� I’ve been spending a lot of time here lately, that I’ve neglected my duties back home.” This was one way of saying it. The truth was, Tamlin started to get jealous that you were spending more time with Feyre at the Night Court. He felt left out and that triggered his fit of rage. But of course, you couldn’t tell Cassian that. So the best thing to do was to stop your visits for a while…or forever.

#acotar #cassian #fictober #promptober #cassian x reader #acotar x reader #cassian imagine #cassian one shot #acotar imagine #whumptober #angst #acotar angst #cassian angst #fictober24

116 notes · View notes

soobnny · 2 years ago

Text

don’t be a stranger — han jisung.

trope. friends to lovers. college au. u live in the same apartment floor. fluff. part 2 to meet odd.

synopsis. you really need to stop meeting han jisung under odd circumstances or alternatively, i accidentally locked myself out of my apartment and you’re offering that i sleep at yours for the night?

word count. 4.3k words

warnings. mentions of that sex-addict neighbor from the first part, mentions of killing bees, and i think nothing after that except for a few curse words

note. this can definitely stand alone but for it to make more sense, read the first fic here! i’ve finally decided to write a part 2 after popular demand, i hope this was ok!

A lot has changed since that night at the rundown convenience store with Han Jisung.

For one, your shared neighbor had moved out after the person living in front of her finally had enough of her. Guess they had more courage to confront the problem than you and Jisung combined.

This meant that the solace of your dorm was finally yours again, and you couldn’t be happier for the return of silence and comfort. Since then, you’ve officially said goodbye to Seungmin’s couch and your noise canceling headphones.

And Jisung.

With no reason to leave your dorm at ungodly hours in the morning anymore, the chances of seeing each other grew significantly low until you were back to small “hi”s and “hello”s.

Sadly, letting go of that neighbor had apparently been a package deal with lesser opportunities to talk to Jisung too.

You hate to admit your disappointment in your lack of interaction after that night. While only a month has gone by, that’s still 30 whole days without that shift in your interaction that you thought you’d bear witness to. That night you’d spent with him was a moment you enjoyed and cherished, and you would’ve hoped he felt the same way.

Similarly, Jisung’s been dejected at the lack of you in his life. He bares no shame in admitting that he had, not once, not even twice, but tried multiple times to gather enough courage to knock at your door just to ask you how you’ve been and if you’d like to hangout with him again — sometimes with a tub of ice cream, sometimes with a cup of coffee he had made for you prior.

Like today.

Han Jisung finds his fist ghosting over your door, hot cup of coffee in hand. Knock, just knock on their door, it’s not that hard. Why is it so hard for him?

He stands there for 2 minutes, studying every fragment of wood on your door.

In that time, he overthinks his actions — do you even drink coffee? Maybe the cup he had prepared wasn’t your preference? He should’ve just gotten the same brand of ice cream you shared that night. Did you want to talk to him again?

Cursing to himself, he trashes the cup yet again after having fallen prisoner to his social awkwardness.

Han Jisung has always had trouble making any type of first move. Truthfully, he was only ever able to gather enough courage to ask you out on that walk because the glint in your eyes was so bright after having laughed with him over your shared situation.

And maybe because he was a little sleep-deprived and you looked really pretty sitting next to him, and you were talking to him like you’ve known each other forever.

Something so humanizing tends to bring people together in weird ways, and that’s what had happened that night.

Now, however, with no reason to spend time with you, Jisung has trouble wondering if you had the same eagerness to talk to him again.

Do male leads in romantic comedies also have a hard time talking like he does? He supposes he could always ask Changbin even if he’d be teased and laughed at in good spirit.

Han Jisung would brave through it if it meant getting useful advice to speak to you again.

For now, with the trashed coffee cup, he retreats back to his own room.

Perhaps he could try again tomorrow.

Jisung recognizes your voice just as the elevator doors open.

He had just gotten back to your apartment after another late night session at the gym with Changbin and Chan — it was their only shared time together, so workouts were always scheduled at night.

With a gym bag slung over his shoulder, he’s about to turn the corner to where your rooms are when he hears you.

Your voice has always been recognizable to him, but this time something else was laced with the way you’re speaking. It isn’t hard to place it as stress, which makes the boy peek in curiosity and concern.

“Seungmin, pick up. Seungmin, pick up. Seungmin! Thank god. Are you at your dorm right now?”

There’s muffled sounds at the end of the line, but your stress seems to grow more and more as the conversation continues. It’s evident in the way your grip tightens around your phone, and you’re pacing back and forth hurriedly, and the way your hand repeatedly moves to run through your hair.

Turns out, Seungmin isn’t at his dorm. He’s gone home for the long weekend, but he tells you Jeongin might be there.

He’ll have to get back to you on that in a couple hours though because Jeongin has a night lecture, and Seungmin can only contact him after that.

Maybe you could kill a few hours in the main lobby – it wasn’t like you were new to that.

Hanging up, you jump back when you see Jisung standing at the end of the hallway, waving shyly at you and bowing in apology.

“Sorry, I must’ve looked like a creep just standing there. I didn’t wanna disrupt the conversation by passing by… I swear, I’m not a creep.”

With a boyish smile, he continues. “I purposefully didn’t pass by because it felt serious. Just in case I ruin the mood by passing by.”

You laugh. “No, it’s okay. You just scared me. How have you been, Jisung?”

Jisung.

He wants you to call him Hannie again.

Still, despite the downgrade in nicknames, he thanks Whomever is Above for the opportunity to talk to you again, even if it was just for a few minutes outside your apartment room.

“I’m great! Just got back from the gym.” He gestures at his bag abashedly, biting down at his lips to control his overenthusiastic tone when talking to you before looking back at you. “Though, I should really ask how you are. You sounded pretty stressed just now.”

“Ah, I was being silly and accidentally locked myself out of my apartment. And I can’t get the spare key from the landlord until tomorrow at earliest. And Seungmin isn’t at his apartment right now, so it’s a whole disaster.”

It’s easy to talk to Jisung about your problems. You feel the same sentiment that nothing ever sounds crazy to Jisung, and it certainly helps that you’ve been through hell and back together trying to survive your previously shared neighbor.

Being locked out of your apartment was basically nothing in comparison to sharing ice cream at the main lobby because your neighbor enjoys having really loud sex.

On the other hand, Jisung has his own conflict in his head.

He’s going over whether it was appropriate or not to invite you over. He could feel his heart pounding straight out of his chest, similar to how it feels when his knuckles are ghosting over your door in attempt of a knock.

“Well… if you really had no other option. You know, my apartment’s just there. And open… for you to stay at, if you want. If you really had no other option, since it’ll be more convenient to you. I’m sorry, is this weird? I’m sorry, forget I said anything.”

Han Jisung is stuttering over his words as he speaks to you, but you think you get the gist of what he’s trying to offer. “No, it’s okay! I wouldn’t wanna make you feel uncomfortable since it’s your space.”

You think he’s feeling pressured to offer since you had shared your problem with him, but you don’t know he’s more than willing to help you out. While Jisung prefers his solitude, he thinks a change of pace for the night wouldn’t hurt.

“I wouldn’t be uncomfortable at all. Actually, maybe YOU would feel uncomfortable, but if you aren’t then it’s really fine!” Then, it’s that boyish smile again and the shy scratching of the nape of his neck and the gentle rock back and forth.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes! Positive!”

He ushers you towards his door, repeatedly telling you that it was no problem for him. And just when he’s about to let you in, he falters.

“Oh… actually.” Jisung remains standing in front of his door, unmoving, hand with his keys hovering over the doorknob. “Can you give me a minute?”

“Uh, sure!” You smile at him sweetly, and then he pushes his key into the keyhole, angling the door just enough so you can’t see anything before slipping into his room.

And then a string of curses follows, and a few stumbling?

His footsteps are loud as he rushes around his room, picking up every piece of clothing and dunking them into his laundry bin. His heart drops to his stomach when he catches his boxers lying on the ground, thankful he had come to his senses before letting you come in blindly.

Close one.

With the wrappers of food thrown out and his dirty clothes back in the hamper, Jisung feels more comfortable letting you in. Reopening the door again, he peeks out to check if you’re still there. “Hi.”

“Hi.” You tilt your head, smiling at the sheer cuteness of Han Jisung and his poked out head from the door and the small ‘hi’ he had addressed to you paired with the cutest smile that accentuates his round cheeks.

“It might be a little messy right now, I hope you don’t mind.” He pouts, opening the door enough to let you in, hands behind his back as he scans your reaction nervously.

His apartment space wasn’t any different than yours, probably the same size, but the way he had decorated his living space was so potently Han Jisung – like a room captured directly from his image. It’s not the neatest, but by all means, it wasn’t messy at all. It was a little chaotic in the way it’s decorated, and there’s a whole mini studio setup in the corner of his room, but it all felt like he had taken a piece of his home and brought it with him in this apartment.

What’s even more adorable is the obviousness of the rushed cleaning that had happened minutes prior. You can see some random things poorly hidden around the house, but you’re too busy feeling flustered to think about it much.

“Oh, it looks so home-y. It feels very you.”

A familiar heat climbs onto Jisung’s features at the compliment that slips out of your mouth so easily, and he suddenly feels more proud of his decorating.

He hadn’t always been the most confident in his living space, only inviting his closest friends over because his place was always deemed the most messy of them all possibly due to his chaotic decorating (and because he liked to keep his things lying around where it’s easier to access – to his downfall as he always forgets where he had put his things later on).

But, the small genuine compliment from you had lifted his worries and now he feels he should invite his friends more often.

“Do you want some water? I’ll get you a glass.” As he navigates through the kitchen, you politely settle yourself on his couch and continue to look around at the artwork littering his walls. It’s signed “Hwang Hyunjin” at the bottom, and they’re absolutely beautiful.

Sounds familiar, you think.

“What did you eat for dinner?”

You snap out of your reverie at his question.

“Actually… I haven’t eaten dinner yet.”

“What?” He rushes over to you with the glass of water, looking at you with wide eyes. All you can do is smile at him sheepishly. “You haven’t eaten yet? Why? Were you busy today?”

“I was probably just gonna eat some instant ramen when I arrived.”

Although he does the same, he can’t help but scold you. “Eat your meals well, you have to eat a lot. Come on, I’ll order us some food.”

“Do you have any recommendations?” You scoot closer to where he’s seated, peeking at his phone as he scrolls through food applications to order for you.

“Hmm.. if you mix seaweed soup in rice and have it with radish kimchi, it’ll fill you up well.” He thinks with a lot of consideration, running over all the options that could replenish your hunger, and ultimately deciding on what he’s been loving lately.

“Let’s have that then.”

You nod your head, and move to return the empty glass of water in his kitchen. Jisung instantly misses your warmth from when you were inches beside him on the couch.

You’re driving him insane.

You drive him a little more insane when you don’t return from the kitchen right away. He makes his way to where you’re standing, but it seems that you’re staring at nothing in particular. With the empty glass on the counter, Jisung doesn’t understand why you’re just staring at the wall in horror.

“(Name)? What’s wrong?”

Your head snaps to the direction of Jisung’s voice. He’s looking at you with curiosity, and you can feel the heat radiating from your face. “I just realized I don’t have any clothes with me.”

“Oh! Don’t worry. You can just wear some of mine.”

Fuck, you feel so embarrassed, but Jisung is making it seem like it’s nothing – like he’s doing you a simple favor, and not the complexity entangled in staying at his for the night. Comfort is unknowingly wrapped around you in everything that Han Jisung does.

“Okay, I laid out some clothes in the bathroom. Just there.” He points at a door before directing his eyes back at you. “You can go take a shower if you’d like, while we wait for the food.”

You nod, thanking him again, but he simply brushes you off with that bright smile. He even hands you an extra toothbrush from his cabinets.

Jisung doesn’t know how he acted so nonchalant while lending you his clothes, because right now, as you emerge from the bathroom with a towel in hand, drying your hair, he feels like he’s about to explode at the sight of you in his clothes.

He knows his face is fully red right now. There’s no way to fight in, not when his shirt and sweatpants were practically swallowing you whole. He feels something akin to when you had messily eaten your ice cream on the walk back home from the convenience store, and he finds himself mumbling to himself. “Cute.”

“How do I look?” You laugh, flailing your limbs around to show the excess of material moving past your feet, and how his sleeves are down to your elbows. Before he has the chance to stutter over his own words in an attempt of a compliment, his phone begins to buzz.

“Must be the food.” He says, and you move to help him grab the takeout containers from outside. Settling them on the table, you move to grab your wallet from your bag.

Jisung blames it on his exhaustion from the gym, but a schoolboy giggle escapes him before he can hold it back the moment he spots the keychain he had won you a month ago still attached to your wallet.

“Don’t worry. I’ve already paid.” He moves to shove your wallet back down from your bag, and he feels himself physically malfunction when you pout up at him. “That’s not fair. Next time, I’m paying, okay?”

Next time.

Han Jisung cannot count the number of times you have made his heart do a backflip.

Over dinner, you talk about a multitude of topics – never running out of things to say. You realize it’s always been like this with him. You always have a lot to talk about, and you don’t feel scared or nervous to talk about anything.

Similarly, Jisung’s feeling giddy at how he feels he can tell you anything, so he does. He likes the laughter and giggles he elicits from you everytime he tells you a funny story. He also likes your efforts to pitch in with your own stories, feeling lucky you’re entrusting him with pieces of your life like that.

“Actually, in 6th grade, I was kind of a bully. I was kind of mean… but I was only mean because there was this girl who was SUPER mean to Seungmin so I had to get back at her.”

“Hmm?” He pushes you to continue your story, looking at you attentively as he chews on his food, following along your every word.

“So what I would do is, I’d step on bees right. I’m so sorry to the bees, I was young and naive. But, I stepped on them and I’d pick them up and put them in a plastic bag, right?” You smile mischievously, recounting the story in your head.

“Don’t tell me.” Jisung dramatically gasps, pointing a chopstick at you.

“Oh, but I did. I put the plastic bag in her locker! Yeah, I was kind of a psycho.”

He laughs, the wholehearted, head thrown back, thigh slapping kind of laugh as he looks at you in disbelief. But your story warms him – to know that even when you were still so young, you had already gone through extreme lengths to protect the people close to you.

In exchange for your story, he tells his own too. He recounts a story of when he had eaten spicy yuptteok without realizing it.

“I learned about the spiciness of life that day. Now, I’m scared of spicy food.”

He allows himself a quick glance at you from time to time whenever the familiar sound of a throaty laughter is bubbling from you, just before he finishes his story. Nothing feels more accomplishing than your genuine reactions and opinions to his stories.

You listen to him. You listen to every single word without fail.

You still listen an hour later while you’re seated on the couch, exchanging stories with each other.

Though, it’s interrupted for a moment when your phone begins to ring, and Seungmin’s face pops up on the screen. He must have an update on Jeongin already as it had been hours past the last time you had ringed him.

Swiping the call button, you answer with the intent to tell him that your living situation for the night has been solved.

“Jeongin’s at the dorm now, if you’re not already sleeping outside your apartment door.” Seungmin is so unserious in the way he says this so nonchalantly, like he has no remorse if you were out on the streets.

You know better though.

“It’s alright. I’ve sorted it out! Thanks again Seungmo.”

“Oh? Where are you staying? Is it safe?” His concern peeks out just a little bit at your words, and he proceeds to tell you it really isn’t a problem if you crashed at their dorms again. Besides, you could sleep on his bed this time, instead of that couch you hate so much.

Seungmin makes another mental note to replace his couch the next time you lock yourself out of your apartment.

“It’s safe, so don’t worry.”

“I’m not worrying.”

“Sure you aren’t.” You giggle.

Then, he hangs up.

You wonder what Seungmin would say if he found out you were at Jisung’s — not that you could ever willingly admit that out loud without stuttering and blushing an intense amount. He’d definitely say something stupid, so you’re almost thankful he doesn’t push at the topic of where you’re staying too much.

You value that he trusts you.

The rest of the night, you and Jisung stay on the couch, unmoving from your positions. Sometimes, you’d chat about stupid things, sometimes you’d scroll through Youtube videos on his laptop – pranks gone wrong, puppies, banned commercials, random videos from years ago.

He’s convinced he could talk all night just to make you keep laughing, and everytime you do laugh, he’s hit with just how beautiful you are, and he feels his heart explode every single time. He can certainly get used to that sound.

It feels so easy with you. Talking, laughing, everything feels so easy with you to the point where it’s scary. What was going to happen after tonight? Would you go back to merely acknowledging each other in the hallways? Would it take another odd circumstance to cross your paths again? Would you stop directing your laughter to his stories? Would all of that have to disappear again?

“Jisung? You okay there?” He blinks out of his own thoughts, looking at you intently before realizing the video you had been viewing had long ended and he was simply staring at a blank screen.

“Just thinking about those poor bees.” He lies straight through his teeth.

“You are so mean.” You hit him playfully, and he grabs your elbow before you can hit him again, laughing down at you. His breath hitches at the sudden close proximity, and he’s letting out nervous coughs while extracting his hand back to himself.

And then you yawn, and Han Jisung feels himself melt into a puddle.

“We should probably head to bed. Take my bed, I’ll sleep on the couch.” He helps you up from the couch, ghosting his arm on the small of your back in case you stumble in your sleepiness.

“It’s your apartment, I can’t kick you out of your bed like that.” You shake your head, planting your feet on the ground so he can’t move you.

“It’s really fine.”

“You’re not changing my mind, Han Jisung. Plus, you couldn’t possibly fit comfortably on this tiny couch. I’d fit right in.”

He sighs in defeat, mumbling a ‘fine’ which makes you grin.

“Let me get you some pillows and a blanket.”

The moment feels strangely intimate as he carefully places some of his pillows and a warm comforter on the couch to make sure you’re comfortable for the night. His eyes are slightly droopy from the exhaustion, but he’s determined in his task.

Han Jisung has definitely taken firm root in your heart, and you hope he stays around in your life forever.

“Do you need anything else?” He had taken it upon himself to tuck you in, and he feels the same suffocating feeling on his chest when you smile up at him in thanks, accompanied by a shake of your head.

He thinks he has a good idea what this feeling is.

“Okay. Goodnight.” Your heart just about melts in your chest at his words. You’ve never heard him speak so softly before with his eyes a little hooded and a gentle smile on his face, with his heart on his sleeve like that for you.

“Goodnight, Hannie.”

Jisung turns off the lights and almost falls when retreating to his own room at the mention of your old nickname for him. It’s a shame you can’t see the lovesick smile he has on his face while regaining his balance.

You don’t recognize where you are at first when you wake up.

When the sunlight hits your face enough to pull your eyelids open, you’re thinking – this definitely doesn;t look like my room.

Stirring slightly, a yawn leaves your lips as you sit up to try and process everything that had transpired the night before. When you remember Jisung and his gentle smile and his crinkled eyes, you almost fall off the couch.

“Good morning!” Your eyes meet his cheery ones, drinking in the details of his features; messy hair that suggests he’s also just gotten out of bed, slightly puffy eyes, clothes from the night prior.

“Good morning.” You peel yourself off of the comforter, walking with him to the kitchen to drink a glass of water.

“How was your sleep last night? Hopefully it’s better than sleeping on your friend’s couch?”

He remembers, and something about that has you biting back a goofy smile this early in the morning.

“It was great. Thanks again for letting me sleep here for the night.” He simply nods his head, eyes still trained on you.

Han Jisung is acting a little strange this morning. While he’s normally this bright and active, it feels like it’s being amplified. He keeps looking at you, in every little thing that you do, and then he looks away when you try to catch his gaze. It feels like he wants to say something, even until you’re bidding him goodbye and thanking him again.

“I’ll return your clothes once I get it in the laundry.” You smile, and he nods his head, but he’s still tapping his foot on the ground excessively fast, bouncing on his feet and walking with you to accompany you outside.

“We seriously have to stop meeting under these weird circumstances.”

Laughing to try and cover up the fact that he can barely pay attention to what you’re saying, he opens the door for you. But can he really allow you to slip through his fingers again?

“Maybe we can meet again soon… tomorrow? For coffee? Under more normal circumstances?” Jisung tries to sound as casual as he possibly can. If you knew better, you’d know he was feeling his most nervous right now – even more nervous than when he had to pass a demo for his classes.

To his luck, you don’t notice the nervous quiver in his voice.

You stop in your tracks at his words, turning to look at him with a smile. The poor boy is falling deeper and deeper, and it’s definitely too late to pull him back up now.

“I’d like that.” You bite down at your lips, glancing up at him with a slight hesitation.

And then you kiss his cheek, and Han Jisung would throw himself out of his window if he could at this moment, running down the streets and screaming in victory.

Instead, he places his hand on his cheek, mouth slightly agape as he stares at your retreating figure.

“Don’t be a stranger, Han Jisung!”

He won’t be.

You’ve reminded him again and again that life and love is here for him to live it, and that’s exactly what he’s going to do.

Starting tomorrow. With coffee. And hopefully another kiss on the cheek by the end of the day.

1K notes · View notes

re-termination · 21 days ago

Text

✿ all-knowing agony

Bloody painter x Reader

Summary: Hardly anyone catches his eye. You were just one of the unlucky few that so happened to spark his interest. Staggering between sanity and death, you don't know how to deal with such a selfish man.

Authors note: lmao I feel like you can tell when I fell asleep while writing this and just gave up with the ending. I never thought I'd end up writing for a creepypasta though. Not proofread btw sorry for any mistakes!!

It all happened too fast, faster than you could comprehend what you were looking at. One moment you're watching in terror as you see a corpse get dragged by some masked man, and the next moment, all you feel is someone's cold hands covering your mouth and nose. You tried to put up a good fight but ultimately lost, your consciousness fading out.

That's all you can remember. As any normal person, you were terrified. You expected to be killed the moment you woke up and saw the masked person staring at you, but the sweet release of death never came. In fact, all he did was stare.

6 days went on, and that's all he would do. Stare at you without saying much. It was chilling. Every time you thought he was going to kill you he just caressed your cheek or played with a few strands of your hair, though he'd be hesitant to touch you even if it is a small gesture.

You hated this. Him, his behavior towards you, and just this prison of a cabin in general. As much as you'd love to leave, you just couldn't. After all, you've been warned that your escape wouldn't be successful. There were so many opportunities, but you didn't want to take those chances - valuing what little time left you had to live.

“Again with that look?”

Hesitantly, you got rid of the scowl on your face and turned to face Helen. He was attempting to sketch your figure on his canvas once more. This isn't the first time he's done this, nor is it the first time you tried to rebel against him by looking displeased with your current situation.

He had mentioned one time over dinner that you're quite pleasing to look at. He wished to preserve your radiance even if it meant resorting to grotesque methods. As flattering as he thinks he worded it, you were mortified. In the end, you gave a better alternative to preserving your beauty, one that didn't involve you getting your eyes plucked out or worse.

So the reason you're sitting still on the stool in his room? You simply offered to sit still while he got busy sketching your figure. You soon came to regret your choice though, for his gaze was piercing and sent chills down your spine.

“As cute as it may be, a frown doesn't suit your face.”

Helen got up from his spot and started to approach you. As much as you loathed him, you were still afraid of him. So, with a shriek, you got up from your stool and attempted to back up. Just as he was about to pat your head, you swatted his hand away.

The words “go away, don't look at me” kept spiraling in your mind.

Still with that ever cold expression of his, he put his hand down and just watched as you trembled. He loved the fact that his very presence was all it took to get you to behave. Just get a bit too close, and you're like a deer caught in headlights.

With the remaining courage you could muster, you looked up to meet his eyes. “I think that's enough for today, don't you think? I could really use a break.” You couldn't stand to be stared at anymore for today. You just wish he'd leave you alone and disappear for good, but that will never happen. For now, you'd just have to deal with his antics.

With a sigh, he only nodded to your request. You immediately darted out the room, not even sparing a glance. Any minute longer near him was unbearable, and time didn't feel like it was moving.

After watching you exit his room, Helen retreated back to sit on his bed. Even with you out of his line of sight, his mind was plagued with the image of you. From your gentle sleeping face to your fearful expressions, he was interested in you. He could even go as far and say you were his everything at the moment. Would that be crazy to admit? Sure, it's only been a few days of knowing you, but you truly were quite an appealing person. Whether this feeling was love or just plain unhealthy obsession, he wouldn't know. He had to know more about you to understand.

That night a few days ago, if it were anyone else, he would've killed them, but you? You were beautiful in his eyes. Whether he'd keep you alive or dead as a piece of work, he just had to have you. Plus, you did witness him committing a crime, so he couldn't have you running off.

Scared as you may be of him, he has to see you.

As for you, you were currently in the living room looking out the window. Curled up on the couch staring as fresh snow continued falling outside, this was your way of finding solace in your grim situation. Being kidnapped, not to be killed any time soon but to be kept as a prized possession. No matter where you went in the cabin, you could always feel him observing you. Sometimes, you could even feel his watchful gaze when you were sleeping, but he'd never touch. He'd never do anything other than watch. Any bit of physical contact was kept to a minimum.

You could feel your sanity slipping. You could never tell what was going on in that head of his unless he told you. Most of the time, whatever he said wasn't pleasing for you to hear. This man was downright selfish and insane but kept it all concealed behind a gentlemanly front.

“You can't go outside. It's too risky and cold for you.” Snapped from your thoughts you heard your captor approaching. You turned to face him, paranoia eating away at you. “It just looks nice outside, I wasn't thinking of leaving.” A lie. You were indeed thinking of the best time to leave, but you won't tell him that. Deeming your response acceptable, he took a seat next to you.

“Want to help in today's artwork-”

“No thanks!” You immediately interrupted him. The idea of cutting through innocent peoples corpses for the sake of art was horrifying. Every time he asked if you would like to help, you would immediately turn him down. He didn't seem to mind, though. He would only pat your head and continue on with his day.

“Hm that's fine, then how about you help me with today's dinner then?”

“No no no! Is it ok if I can just stay alone for the rest of the day?” You were trying your best to find an excuse to not be near him. Today was the day you'd leave. Although risky, it was worth a shot. You've seen him navigate around the snow-covered bear traps before and had a general idea on how to walk around them safely.

Helen could only nod in agreement and raise his hand to caress your cheek before leaving you to your own devices. You watched as he made his way behind the trap door, leading to the secret basement where he spent his time mutilating corpses for his artwork. After ensuring he wasn't coming up any time soon, you went to go look for your coat. The weather outside, while beautiful to look at, was harsh and unforgivable, so you had to be careful.

With a deep breath you opened the front door gently and scanned the area. Your heart was beating erratically at the thought of getting captured. Carefully you started to navigate around the snow, you didn't want to step on the bear traps. The biting cold of winter was unforgivable but adrenaline kept you going. Curse that man for residing in a cabin deep in the forest. Not a single road in sight nor any possible signs of other people. You fished out your phone from out your pocket, but as expected still no phone service to call for help. “Keep going, don't stop now” were the only words you were thinking. And so you did, hopefully your captor wouldn’t catch wind of your disappearance so soon.

Helen wasn’t stupid. He had a feeling you were planning an escape despite the warnings he gave you. Returning back to the living room low and behold, you were out of sight. He looked through the kitchen and his room, yet you were nowhere to be found. He gave you the benefit of the doubt that you’d listen and not attempt to run away, and he regretted that.

Upon opening the front door he didn’t see your body caught in the bear traps so you must be a good distance away from the cabin now. He had to act quickly before he let his muse get away.

Lost. You were definitely lost. You couldn't sugarcoat the situation at all. You'd die trying to escape for sure to either the wild animals or the freezing cold. You couldn't possibly go back to that cabin. Helen, for sure, is already aware of your disappearance.

Just keep going. Surely, someone is crazy enough to be out in the snowy forest and could help you out. You ran and ran, but it all felt futile. It just felt like you were running in circles. You could've sworn you've seen that tree stump a few minutes earlier. A break was desperately needed. You needed to clear up your mind and regain focus on the situation.

“I'm surprised you could manage to get this far, dear.” At that moment, any thoughts of finally being free were shattered. You've been caught. There was no way in hell you could outrun the painter. He's more knowledgeable about this area than you. There just wasn't any way to get out of this situation.

“I admit it was quite dumb of me to trust you wouldn't run off, but I assure you that mistake won't happen again.”

Tears threatened to spill. This was it. He'd just take you back to his cabin and enjoy your suffering. “Just go away! Don't you understand I want nothing to do with you?!” You didn't want to be associated with him any longer. It was agonizing.

You could feel your body going numb as you hiccuped and let warm tears fall freely. Helen wasn’t the best at understanding your emotions or how to comfort you so he could only watch in silence. You'll tire yourself out, and he'll take you back to the safety and warmth of the cabin. It's better to have you limp and pliant than struggling against him.

“Let's go back, I won't harm you over this mistake. Let that serve as my final warning.” He held out his hand, and with a heavy heart, you accepted it and willingly followed him back to his cabin. Better to live in suffering than to die alone in the cold, right?

In the end, you can't say anything. You can't drown out his words and can only follow his directions. Maybe this was your punishment for even being born.

#✿-día writes #bloody painter x reader #helen otis x reader #creepypasta #creepypasta x reader #bloody painter #helen otis

85 notes · View notes

ohtobeleah · 8 months ago

Text

Secret Sacrifices // Jake Seresin

Chapter Two: [Like A Brick]

Summary: With the weight of the world sitting on your shoulders, you confide in the gentle soul that is Bob Floyd. Also known as, your first kiss.

Warnings: Jake Seresin x F!reader. Witness Protection F!reader. Platonic Bob Floyd x F!reader. Mentions of death. Mentions of drowning.

Word Count: 2.8k

Author Note: I'm Back! To get back into the swing of things I thought this little chapter would do us good. although this chapter is mainly focused on Bob and Brewer, we, being @a-reader-and-a-writer and myself, thought it deserved its own moment to really capture the significance of the shared secrets.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Being caught deep in swirling memories wasn’t something out of the ordinary for you. Being swept along with the tide, the waves of which push and pull your mind between present times and your past. The very idea of being caught between realities, a paradoxical space between now and then always seemed to be better than the alternative. Live through hell.

“My mum says I’m too young to kiss girls.”

Thoughts of who you could have been and thoughts of who you became push together to create a constant state of flight. Nostalgia is like a whirlpool that you drown in deep inside your mind. You’re unable to tread water as you feel the waves breaking against your skin, forcing you under as you gasp for air. What good were those swimming lessons you were forced to partake in as a child?

“Do you tell your mum everything, Bobby?”

Your mind becomes an unblended mix of memories you’d like to replay on repeat, and those you’d like to hide. Nothing ever seemed simple anymore. Not even the memory of your first kiss. The memory that you’d once considered colourful was now shrouded in forced denial. It couldn’t have happened, for you weren’t Y/n Y/l/n anymore.

“What’re you still doing here?” It has been a long night, so long the sun had just started to kiss the horizon as you made your final lap around the front and back decks of the Hard Deck. Bob sat patiently waiting on one of the picnic tables, typing away something on his phone.

Your voice must have startled him, but you’d never make fun of the way the Back Seater jumped enough to knock the chair his boot-clad feet were resting on into the small outdoor pot plant that sat beside the table. You watched it rock back and forth before steadying itself once again, like a boi floating in the current. That same current that had on many occasions, tried to drag you under.

“I thought for sure you would have been the first one out the door?” You followed up on your initial question as you collected an empty glass you’d missed. Bob pocketed his phone with a tired smile as he looked your way.

“Fanboy’s still in the bathroom with Payback–” Bob explained softly as he looked your way. “Big night, someone had to be the deso though.” You could see it in Bob’s eyes, the colour of a clear blue sky through a broken prison wall. He wanted to ask, wanted to bring it up. He knew you were lying, but why was the biggest question.

“I was gonna call them and the other stragglers a taxi—“ Only a handful of patrons remained inside the Hard Deck as you went about your closing duties. Usually, you would have kicked them out by now. You weren’t necessarily one to want to hang about with people possibly lurking in the shadows. But two-thirds of the stragglers left behind were none other than two-sevenths of the Hard Decks top contributors. “If I had known you were coming back for them I would have told you not to worry,” The chuckle that left Bob’s voice at your statement was undeniably genuine. “I would have sent them home with vomit bags tucked into their back pockets too.”

“That’s why they pay you top dollar I guess?” Ever since Bob first saw you behind the bar that very first night, he knew he knew you. It wasn’t some distant memory of a forgotten past for Robert Floyd. The memory of his first kiss was an easy one to recall from the rolodex inside his mind. It just so happened to be a core memory that unlocked a whole other category of life’s simplest pleasures. But the more you denied its existence, or more specifically denied you were the one who ultimately shared in that childhood memory, Bob wasn’t sure if he’d dreamt the whole thing or not.

Perhaps his first kiss came a hell of a lot later in life than he always thought.

“Top dollar?” You had to stifle your laugh as you joined Bob on the picnic table. As you sat with a small huff, you knocked your knee against his playfully. “Please, but the tips are good.”

There was a heavy silence so deafening that washed over the two of you not too long after you finished speaking. Its gravity felt like an intense pressure forcing itself down against your chest. The longer you and Bob sat there in pure silence, the more time slipped unwillingly through your fingertips, the more your heart beat faster inside your chest.

The silence magnified the pressure mounting, and the scale of your anxiety all felt like it was about to come to a boiling point. As you sat there next to Bob in shared silence, it felt as if the world had turned once again on its axis, and you were just a few short seconds away from falling off the face of the earth.

“I have a small confession to make,” It wasn’t ever supposed to be aired in the open, but the guilt that sat heavily on your conscience was making it harder and harder to keep lying. For three years you had told not a single soul, but Bob Floyd had created a paradox of inner turmoil you weren’t prepared to harbour. “To be perfectly honest it isn’t all that small of a confession.”

“Brewer,” Bob sighed almost reluctantly. The last thing he ever wanted to do was force someone into sharing intimate details of their life. “If there’s a reason why you keep denying it, I’m sure it’s a good one,” Bob had thought about this long and hard, there surely had to be a reason why. He was adamant that you were the girl who kissed him all those years ago. That yellow pigment in your eye was the dead giveaway. He couldn’t ever forget looking into the eyes of the girl who had pressed her cotton candy-flavoured lips against his for three point-five seconds. “And you don’t have to tell me that reason, but, at least tell me, I’m not crazy.”

Again, the silence was deafening as you sat with your secrets for the last few moments. Only a handful of people knew, all of whom were involved in keeping you safe and working your witness protection case. If news got out that you had told someone intimate, key details of your current situation, you’d be forced to restart a whole new life once again. But Bob was different. He was worth the risk for an ounce of normality.

“You aren’t crazy,” It was all the confirmation Bob needed, but that didn’t stop you from wanting to share your personal hell. “I uh, I remember.” You hadn’t told a single soul in three years. You’d been through a thousand things in your life that people didn’t know about. You had experienced things that would shock them if you mentioned the horrors. Those things changed you. Hell—they broke you.

“Bob, I haven’t been Y/n Y/l/n in a little over three years now,” You hung your head low as you spoke, almost like you were afraid that if you looked anywhere but between your feet, you’d see the bloodied and bruised ghost of your dead husband. “I, uh,—saw some things that I shouldn’t have,” The shake in your voice was hard to mask, the sting in your eyes burned like ice against your skin. “I thought that maybe I should tell someone about what I saw, and when I did that I—“

“Brewer,” Bob's voice was soft enough to be barely audible, but you heard him. “You’re in witness protection, aren’t you?” Bob took your immediate silence and broken sob as a definitive yes. He couldn’t even say the idea hadn’t crossed his mind after all the shutdowns and denial.

“I lost my family,” You had a taste of what true love felt like. To experience such an emotion was the greatest gift of all. You loved your son, Charlie, to the moon and back. So much so that you wished every night you let your head fall against your pillow, that you’d be reunited. “I was set to testify against the company I worked for in some whistleblower trial, but the day before I was set to take the stand, we were run off the road.”

Bob sat silently beside you just taking everything you were saying in. He couldn’t imagine what it was like to be in your shoes. To some degree, he almost felt guilty for all the times he couldn’t let the kiss memory go. Every time he brought it up in hopes you’d finally cave and give him the validation he was looking for, it probably felt like an old wound being ripped open.

“You have to understand that I don’t get a choice very often over who I let in,” You finally had to look up, and when you did? Bob was already looking at you. You could see the sympathy plastered across his face in your peripheral. “You can’t tell anyone, and I know it’s a burden to bear, believe me,” The tears had begun to fall long ago and seemed to never stop, but when you finally worked up enough courage to look toward the backseater who sat beside you, your tears were mirrored. “And I know it’s unfair to burden you with such a thing,” The very idea that Bob was now one of the very few people who knew about your situation didn’t taste all that great, but you couldn’t take it back now. You couldn’t shove your secrets back into the can you’d just released them from in a moment of vulnerability. “But please, you can’t tell anyone.”

Bob Floyd was, if anything, a wallflower. He didn’t like being the centre of attention. If he could, Bob would happily spend any time he had off work in the comfort of his own home. He’d spend his free time working on the world map puzzle that had been sitting half-finished on his coffee table for months. But Bob never got to spend those free moments working on his hobbies, no. His found family more often than not would drag him to the Hard Deck. Most of the time Bob would settle into the background and try his best not to draw attention to himself, he couldn’t begin to imagine what it was like to stand in the middle of a crowded room and not be seen for who you really were.

“Nothin’ to tell Brewer,” Bob shrugged his shoulders. “And even if there was? I’m not the gossip type.”

That very fact gentled your soul. All you could do as the overwhelming sense of loneliness overtook you was sob. Bob let you lean your head on his shoulder. His arm soon found itself wrapped around you as your sobs grew stronger and more pained. Tears stained your cheeks as the trails they made collected the makeup you wore, leaving clear indications of distress behind.

“You know there was this girl,” Bob wondered if now was an appropriate time to share his own darkest secret. The idea of maybe holding onto something so important to one another may have softened the blow of knowing Bob held your greatest secrets in the palm of his hand. Perhaps if he shared his own with you, that feeling, that heaviness he knew you felt, would be a little easier to live with. “Her name was Bieanna, everyone back home called her Brick though.”

You had to collect yourself enough to get your breath back before you could speak. Bob understood that. He sat in the silence broken with gentle sobs that softened as more time passed. He wanted until you were ready to speak.

“What did everyone call her Brick?” The question came out easily enough, but the way Bob stiffened at the question as you raised your head from his shoulder made you question if it was harder to hear than to ask.

“She never learnt how to swim–” Bob mumbled as he looked out into the empty car park of the Hard Deck. “If she tried she’d sink–” He waited for you to finish the sentence, and you did.

“Like a Brick.” The realisation wasn’t hard to notice in your saddened eyes. If anything, Bob wondered if he had to continue his story of tragedy or not. You were a smart girl, he knew you could put two and two together. But he wanted to share, he wanted to let you know you could trust him wholeheartedly with your secrets. And you with his.

“Bingo,” Bob smiled softly as you whipped your tears from your heated cheeks. “She ended up drowning a few months after we started dating.”

“Oh, Bob.” Your heart ached for the Back Seater who sat beside you. “I’m so sorry.”

“The worst part is I could have done more to save her,” Bob pressed his lips into a fine line of guilt. “She’d been going great guns for a few weeks while I was teaching her how to swing on her family’s property just outside of town,” Bob could very clearly still remember the taste of the dirt-laced water he’d ingested trying to save her. He could still see the panic in her eyes. “She got her foot stuck in some weeds at the bottom of the damn, panicked, and despite everything I did, I couldn’t save her,”

“It wasn’t your fault, Bob–”

“It was my idea to teach her own to swim though,” Bob admitted as he let his elbows rest on top of his knees. “I don’t ask people to swim anymore, and I’ve never told anyone about the fact she sometimes visits me in my dreams,” Bob explained as he let out a sigh that he wasn’t aware he’d been holding in. “But now you know, and now the secrets we keep don’t seem so heavy.”

The very idea of knowing one of Bob’s longest-kept secrets made you feel a little better about him knowing yours. You trusted Bob, there was no doubt about it. But that gesture of solidarity made you feel safe, trusted.

“No one can know, Bob,” You finished the conversation at that, faking a small smile as Fanboy and Payback came barreling out through the front doors of the Hard Deck. You were instantly on your feet, back in work mode as you wiped away the remaining tears that stained your cheeks.

Bob watched on from his perch on top of the picnic table as you attempted to wrangle the two drunk and disorderly men who could barely tell which way was up and what way was down. He let a few moments pass as he watched on, allowing your life-altering, world-shattering secrets to plague his mind with what-ifs and worst-case scenarios. The very idea that there were people in this world after you didn’t sit well with him. The fact you’d been living a stranger’s life for three years made him want to hug his mother a little tighter the next time he got the chance to see her. He couldn’t begin to imagine to heartache of losing a child, but he knew enough of grief to know what losing a significant other could do to a person.

And for someone who had experienced the worst of what life had to offer, you still saw the very best in people.

“Alright you two drunks, let’s get you two home in one piece,” You chuckled as you walked the aviators over towards where Bob sat. “Taxi’s waiting and the meters running.”

“You’ve given us alcohol poisoning, Brewer,” Payback mumbled as he stumbled with you over to where Bob was. Bob stood with a groan to collect Fanboy from beside you.

“Oh piss off, will ya Reuben–your liver will thank me for cutting you off when you did,” you teased as you handed the men over to Bob with ease. “Get these two home safe Floyd.”

“Will do Brewer.” Bob's soft smile and kind-natured nod was all you needed in response to know he meant his words. “Have a good night, or morning I guess.”

You watched on from the veranda as the three men walked across the sandy car park and over to Bob’s Suzuki, knowing that the next time you saw Bob amongst his Squadron—there would be no mention of that first kiss.

***~***~***~***~***~**

Tags: 🏷️ @a-reader-and-a-writer @xoxabs88xox @hiireadstuff @buckysteveloki-me @athenabarnes @els-marvelvsp @blindedbythelightt @tayl0rhuynh @na-ta-sh-aa @kmc1989 @sunlightmurdock @mamachasesmayhem @jaxfart @lauenderhaze @sugarcoated-lame @maisie-rebloging-blog @captainmoonknight @seitmai @shanimallina87 @kajjaka @imnotcreativeenoughforthisblog @imladrisofabookdragon @buckysteveloki-me @mrsevans90 @allepaula @els-marvelvsp @djs8891 @paperbag33

#secret sacrifices // jake seresin #jake seresin #jake seresin x reader #jake seresin x you #bob floyd #top gun fandom #top gun fanfiction #top gun fanfic #jake seresin fanfiction #jake hangman fic

200 notes · View notes

lightningonatether · 4 months ago

Text

Why c!endersmile were actually friends

ALTERNATIVELY TITLED: my crazy thesis on two bad bitches with not a single moment of screentime fueled purely by my own insanity

ALTERNATIVELY alternatively titled: to all loreheads please be nice i dont usually lorepost. feel free to engage though

So my return is courtesy of litchi, who mentioned c!endersmile like once a month ago, and got me thinking about them so hard I couldn't just walk away.

Namely, litchi reminded me of a few theories I have concerning c!endersmiles relationship, that I developed back when i was watching the SMP live. This might make my recollection of some events a little fuzzy, but everything should be canon compliant cause I was thinking about all this as I watched.

I was already watching ranboo pretty regularly at the point the prison arc started, I cant resist a really weird guy with horrible debilitating anxiety. I already thought the whole hearing dreams voice in his head was really interesting, but as the prison arc evolved it became clear that ranboos relationship with dream wasnt just some hallucination inside ranboos head and actually had some substance.

My theory really started to develop into what it is now with the explosions on the prison roof which led to the lockdown and tommys death; these were confirmed to be set by ranboo in his enderwalk state. He was one of the only people online at the time, ranboo found tnt in his inventory afterwards, and I think dream also told sam he knew ranboo did it at some point, although I can't find the exact stream.

At that point it was obvious that enderwalking ranboo held a different set of beliefs, alliances, and likely more memories than the "awake" ranboo we saw most of the time on streams, and was acting against amnesiac ranboos wishes. The explosions above the prison along with the reveal that ranboo had been regularly visiting dream in prison confirmed that dream and ender!ranboo were some sort of allies.

At the time, my assumption was that ranboo had simply made an attempted prison break. It wouldnt be a stretch to assume, if ranboo had visited regularly, that he would have noticed the poor conditions and tried to break his ally out. However, after the confirmation of the staged finale, and a better look at cdreams motivations(wanting to provide protection for punz, separating himself very publicly from his only known ally to keep them safe) the idea that enderwalk ranboo, an ally of dreams, would go against dreams explicit wishes to stay locked in that prison began making less sense.

It would only make sense if either:

enderwalk never knew about the plan or

enderwalk knew about the plan but went against it anyway

1 is a very tempting explanation. c!dream rarely lets anyone close. even punz, who knew the plan intimately, wasn't aware of dreams true motivations to bring the server back to a peaceful time before conflict. but..... it didnt sit right with me.

Two reasons for this: I know some people may have stopped watching/never watched ranboo lore, but towards the end of the prison arc, ranboo began seeing flashes of "lessons" appear on screen. These lessons all had that utilitarian and paranoid feel a lot of dreams actions/reasoning have, like "dont trust anybody"(paraphrasing, thats just what i remember the core of that message being) or "never hesitate to gain a favor from someone, you can use it to get something from them later". anyone remember technos favor to dream? It was heavily implied these lessons were meant to be from dream, directed at c!enderwalk. This would mean the two spent a significant amount of time together. not only that, dream was sharing his *life philosophy* with ender!ranboo. thats not just something dream would share with anyone, and implies a close allyship at the least. its almost like he was teaching a pupil. yeah, sure, some of his lessons were a little fucked up and weird in that dream sort of way, but he was looking out for the kid. and it seems that enderwalk wasnt hesitant to act on those lessons either. he promised to keep a shulker safe for foolish, gaining a favor, and didnt sign a single one of those prison visitation waivers, on top of sam discovering they were corrupted into enderian when he checked LMAO.

This alone would be enough to persuade me enderwalk HAD to have been let in on the plan, at least so he wouldnt cause any problems (such as trying to get his ally out of prison).

but the other reason is... ranboos stated philosophy against conflict. he doesnt like sides, he wishes they wouldn't exist. I remember watching a stream and nearly jumping out of my seat when he told chat he just wished the server could just be one big happy family! because that is nearly word for word what a bunch of loreheads were saying about dreams motivations at the time(and now obviously lmao). if we keep in mind their contact for those "lessons", ranboos visits to dream in prison, AND the fact that dreams and ranboos motivations coincide on a level even Above dream and punzs(punz seemed to have been unaware of and also not particularly motivated by dreams wish for peace) i cant really imagine dream not letting this guy in on the plan.

which leaves us with 2) ranboo tried to break dream out against dreams wishes.

Maybe ranboo was just an ally and chickened out after he saw dreams mistreatment in prison and went against the plan, but... dream missed him after sam barred him from visiting. he asked sapnap to deliver a note to ranboo(just a smiley face, likely with the hopes of triggering an enderwalk) despite fearing for his ally punz enough to lock himself in prison. it feels reminicent to how dream sounds when he comments on george not visiting him once. like he missed a friend despite trying so hard to separate himself from the ones he'd had.

Maybe ranboo tried to break in because he saw a friend being mistreated, and couldn't leave the plan stand.

And that kind of makes sense doesn't it? that dream, someone whos paranoid about how peoples connection to him puts them in danger, would choose an amnesiac who spends most of their time terrified of dream, and wouldnt remember any of his plans or their friendship to use against either of them in the first place?

#dreblr #c!endersmile #c!dream #c!ranboo #enderwalk

106 notes · View notes

delta-pavonis · 1 month ago

Text

Fic: Solar Futhark

Dreamling (Solarpunk Urban Fantasy AU) | Rated E | 8.2k words | complete

CW: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Solarpunk, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Drow!Dream, Druid!Dream, Half-elf!Hob, GunslingerBard!Hob, investigators, work partners, partners to lovers, banter, temporary bodyswap, being captured, held prisoner together, starvation, tied together, confessions under duress, love confessions, soulmates, mates, escape, prison break, animal transformation, possessive Dream, matriarchal drow society, subjugated male drow, male gestation, male pregnancy, mention of forced pregnancy, mention of platonic soulmates, Dream has a cock and a cunt, pussy eating champion Hob Gadling, cunnilingus, oral sex, vaginal fingering, squirting and vaginal ejaculation, vaginal sex, anal fingering, hair-pulling, rough sex, cum slut Dream, sex magic, Hob probably has a copy of the Belmont Book of Penis Spells, large cock, multiple orgasms, discussion of fisting, happy ending

(AO3 hates me right now, so I will post this there later.)

Hob cackles as he tucks the large hourglass under his arm and fucking runs.

“Oh, what the hell…” Dream drops the vase of flowers he had been planning on using as an improvised weapon and takes off after his partner. A partner who is rapidly climbing the rankings for stupidest sentient being Dream has ever known. “Gadling! What in the name of every god extant and extinct do you think you are doing?”

The half-elf startles for just a moment as Dream easily catches up to him despite his head start and the crowded market streets. “This is evidence, right?”

At this rate Dream is going to pull a muscle rolling his eyes at Hob. “We do not steal evidence! I do not have the least idea of where you learned how to be an investig–”

“Pirates!” He chirrups happily, skidding around a corner as horns start to sound the alarm throughout the resonant underground halls of the Duergar city.

The answer is so absurd that Dream is struck speechless.

Then a rumble sounds to their right and it has Dream reaching across Hob's chest to grab his gun in its shoulder holster under his duster. Luckily the gun and the hourglass are not under the same arm, because Dream is completely out of spells, both divine and arcane. He jumps ahead up the stairs and twists, taking two shots at their pursuers and grinning when he hears a shout of explicatives.

Another set of stairs, then they are scrambling up a wall, grabbing the bottom rung of a camouflaged ladder, and are back in the surface’s sewers before the next round of horns sound. Dream slides the cover over the secret entrance and breathes a sigh of relief as, with a golden shimmer, it seals itself once again.

Panting and apparently completely uncaring of the state of the water around their feet, Hob drops to his arse with a thud. Little bits of duckweed and algae slop up onto Dream’s boots.

“We should keep moving.” Dream scowls at his footwear as he also breathes in huge, heaving gulps. “We don't know the power of their artificers and–”

“Don't have ‘em,” Hob shakes his head. “It made bartering for certain items with them a total crapcircus because they didn't value the same basic material goods. Everything they do is mechanical. Non-magic. Luckily we didn't get stuck down there often.” Dream just stares at him; theoretically those are all common words, but fuck if he parses their meaning right now with the adrenaline crash just starting to take its toll. Hob smirks, lopsided and definitely not charming. Absolutely not. “Pirates, remember?”

He feels a headache coming on and so pinches the bridge of his nose. “Are you actually trying to tell me that before joining the Houndsguild you were a Hawkshaw?”

“Uh… yes?” Hob blinks at him as if Dream is the one asking the dumb question. “Thirteen years. Is that so hard to believe?”

Dream just stares. If this half-elf was a Hawkshaw, one of the pirate codekeepers (the closest to lawmen such outlaws might ever get), then there is so much more here to uncover, so much more to Hob, that he isn't even sure where to start. Hob drops back down in Dream's mental rankings of stupidity. Dream breathes out and now, a little calmer, some of Hob's behaviors slot into place. The impulsivity. The recklessness. The charisma to get himself out of just about any problem caused by said impulsivity and recklessness. “No, actually, now that I think of it. It makes some sense.”

The smile that brightens Hob's face is also extremely not charming. Or cute. No. Not at all. “Help me up?” He holds out his hand and Dream automatically grips his forearm as he continues to speak, “I know we got off on the wrong foot when we first met, but I hope you are coming to realize that in this, in solving cases like these at least, I am actually competent.”

Dream grudgingly nods, but also cannot resist the opportunity for a good jibe. “It at least explains why when we first met you were balls deep in the barmaid bouncing on your lap in the middle of a crowded tavern.” He smirks back, trying to convey that he isn't really judging, just teasing. “Never met a Hawkshaw who didn't want to be the absolute center of attention.”

Hob splutters out a laugh and gets his feet under him, blushing all the while. “Hey there! It is a specific tactic! Think of it like slight-of-hand and bardic performance had a baby, but it acts on a group level. While everyone is busy watching me…”

“Your fellows are working without being noticed.” Dream shakes his head ruefully, ceding the point to Hob. “Not bad.”

“Fun, too.” Hob's grin goes lopsided again as he waggles his eyebrows and he stares at Dream for a beat longer than necessary. Dream has to resist fidgeting under that warm gaze and so distracts himself with their usual banter.

“If that is your kink, then I am sure it is fun.” Speaking of fun, watching Hob's eyes widen and his neck flush when Dream says the word ‘kink’ is extremely fun. He studies his fingernails and tries to exude nonchalance. “Exhibitionism isn't really to my taste, though. More of a leather and ropes type myself.” He hears Hob inhale sharply and smirks, still not looking up. “Did you know that if you get strips of leather soaking wet they shrink and constrict as they dry?”

Dream looks at Hob through his lashes, sees him open-mouthed and panting, eyes dilated. Delightful.

Maybe he will be able to get through this partnership with his dignity intact after all. Or, at least, Dream certainly won't be the first one to lose his composure.

☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼

“Got you,” Hob thrills at hearing the voice he now commands come out as that rumbling purr he loves so much. “Do you yield?”

He looks down to see his own face twisted with a sneer that is familiar but he has never seen on his own features. “Absolutely not.”

It is decidedly strange to hear his own voice this way–not quite similar enough to trigger the embarrassment one feels when listening to a recording, but still disconcerting.

Then again, all of this is disconcerting and decidedly strange. He is currently inhabiting the body of his work partner, a drow who Hob had fallen ass over tea kettle for decades ago. He is using said drow’s body to pin his own to the dirt in a forest clearing outside the overgrown castle ruins they just investigated. They are now speaking again after a long stretch of silence, a silence that was only interrupted because their respective bosses told them they had to work together on this case. Which was very much not how Hob had imagined their reconnection going, but beggars can't be choosers. Or so humans say.

Hob is learning quickly that drow not only look different than other elf-kin, but that they see, hear, and smell differently, too. It makes sense, given that their senses are attuned to a vastly different environment, but as a half wood-elf he had just never thought of it before.

As Hob lowers his face, Dream's long white hair cascades over his shoulder. “I was hoping you'd say that.”

He flexes his hands around the wrists he has pinned and spreads them wider, giving him a stance with the leverage to hop up and have his feet come down between Dream-in-his-body’s calves with enough force to pry his legs apart. The elf beneath him grunts as his thighs splay and their pelvises crash together. Even through the spelled denim they wear Hob can feel how aroused his friend is, no matter how he denies or ignores it.

“I feel it is rather narcissistic of you to enjoy the possibility of a sexual encounter with your own body.” He relishes the breathlessness he can hear in his own voice, how the body beneath him trembles. Hob knows exactly what has to happen to drive his own body to that point and if he is causing that in Dream… well. He was rather hoping they could have one of their catfight fuck sessions before the curse wears off.

“Come on,” Hob says, enjoying the rough, raw sexuality he can convey with just a slight change in tone with Dream’s vocal cords. “It gives a whole new meaning to go fuck yourself.”

It is fascinating to see what is so clearly Dream's eyeroll cross his own face. Drow vision is far more sensitive to movement than his own and it allows Hob to see even the slightest twitch of brow or flutter of lashes or movement of lips. It is kind of distracting, all this detail.

But that is nothing compared to the distraction of this sense of smell. Hob is no doubt never ever going to get this chance again, so he might as well indulge a little while he can. He drops his face into his own neck and inhales deeply. “Tannatell’s tits do I always smell this good to you?” Hob repeats the act, this time dragging his nose up into chestnut hair as he breathes in. “How can you work like this? I’d be on the edge of coming all the goddamned time. No wonder progress on this case has been so slow, you’re the smart one and you only have half your blood going to your brain. Fuck, it is like I am… your...” he trails off as that thought completes itself in his head.

Oh.

Now, drow vision might have traded brightness of color for its enhanced sensitivity to motion, but there is no doubt, when Hob lifts back up and looks down, that there is a fiercely red blush on Dream's cheeks. And Dream refuses to meet his gaze.

Hob lets go of the wrists he holds and sits back on his heels so he is kneeling between Dream's thighs. He watches as the other elf brings his hands to his chest, rubbing gently at them where Hob's grip was tightest. Dream keeps his head turned to the side the whole time.

“Dream, why didn't you t-”

“Don't. Just don't.” His eyes close and his face crumples into something pained. It guts Hob to think that this is something painful for Dream. “The first time we talk about this can't be like… I do not want it to…” Hob has never heard Dream fumble for words and it is distressingly alarming. “I would prefer to be in my own body when we have this conversation, please.”

Hob can't do anything but grant that request.

☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼

“If we get out of this the first thing I am doing is getting a three hour massage, bloody fuck these chains are tight.” Dream tries to twist his wrist to get some wiggle room and can't even manage that; all the movement does is jostle their chairs. His partner whines. “You alright there, Hob?”

They are chained to a pair of chairs, back to back, with heavy steel links. The chains aren't spelled, but they don't need to be when they are this tight: there is no way Dream will pull off even the smallest somatic component restrained like this and Hob certainly can’t play an instrument or draw a gun. Even worse, the room is unnaturally dark.

Dream hadn’t realized how used he had gotten to the sunlight and the greenery of the surfacelands until they were taken from him. For a moment he takes comfort in thoughts of twirling tree branches forming the beams of great towers, arched windows carefully grown in between, columns of elevators going so high they meet the top of the buildings in the clouds. He thinks of winding streets made of sandstone and brass and overflowing with greenery, the whirring music of solar panels as they track the sunlight along with their flower-kin.

The thought of the movement of the sun reminds Dream that time has been passing, that they have been in here long enough that he is starting to have trouble tracking time–the only clock he has to go by is his heartbeat and that is only reliable for so long. Hunger has long since passed into a dull ache, which tells him it must be more than a couple days. Both of them have vacated all the remaining volume of foodstuffs left in their digestive tracts, removing another marker of time.

They have not seen another soul since they awoke here. There is a dim illumination that comes from… somewhere, but Dream cannot pinpoint it. It is only enough to see his own knees by, make out the faintest outline of the large stone blocks of the ceiling that is a mere few feet above their heads. It is not enough for Hob to see anything, dull as his half-human senses are.

Cruelly enough, water drips from the seams in the stone structure in a few places, landing on the top of their heads, on Hob’s shoulder and chest, on Dream’s cheek. It is the bare minimum to keep them alive and Dream suspects that is very much on purpose.

Dream leans his head back with a sigh and it presses against Hob's.

“You ever wonder what would have happened if we met under different circumstances?” Hob's speech is slurred enough that it makes Dream reconsider if those arrows they got hit with were a poison targeted for those of the surface. It adds a new layer to the puzzle of who has captured them. “Like, if I wasn't working that night in the tavern, wasn't being the biggest distraction possible?” He is silent for a beat. “I would've asked to join you at your table. Started to chat you up properly. Instead of pretending we were old buddies as part of the case I was working. Because we’re not friends, are we?” His chuckle is hollow. “No, most definitely not. Perhaps I would’ve tried to woo you with song… paint you a picture with music. Gods, you were so beautiful. Are. So beautiful.”

“Hob…” He doesn't sound like himself, can't possibly be meaning to say any of this.

“Do you have any idea how badly I want you? Fuck, like all the time. From the very first moment I saw you, the swish-click of your air walker boots on the tavern floor, noticeable to a trained ear even with the din of patrons.” Dream can hear him swallow. “It never goes away, you know? This yearning for you. It lives inside me now.”

He closes his eyes and tries to ignore it. Hob cannot be meaning to say this right now and Dream certainly does not want to hear it without Hob’s consent; he is relieved when they lapse into silence once again.

But it doesn't last.

“If you get a chance to escape, you have to promise me to take it, even if you can't get me out.” Hob’s voice is a threadbare whisper.

No. They can't talk like this. He won't have it. “Hob, you’re-”

“I am not delirious and I am not talking nonsense!” He is panting now and Dream swears he can hear Hob's racing heartbeat. It is another piece of evidence that he is not himself. “Promise me, Dream. Promise me you will save yourself if you have the chance, even at my expense.”

“No.” Absolutely not. Dream's answer is immediate and brooks no argument; he won't even consider it. The idea is anathema, like teaching the Druidic language outside of a Circle or attempting to unbalance Nature itself. “I will not leave without you.”

Hob’s breath rate is increasing, pushing into hyperventilating, and his voice is unsteady as a newborn foal’s legs. He sounds almost on the verge of tears and it makes something in Dream’s heart crack. “Please, Dream! I need you to promise me.”

He grits his teeth hard enough to make them squeak. “I will make no such vow.” Dream growls. It is harsh, he knows, but he will also not lie to Hob. Not after everything they’ve been through.

They never got a chance to talk about it, what lay implied between them from their adventure with that soul-swapping curse. Not properly. Not before this case, which pretty much immediately went tits up. Fuck, they should have spoken about it.

Dream adds this to his long ledger of regrets.

When Hob speaks again the words are clearly forced through a rising tide of panic. “I need to know you’ll be safe, that y-”

“Breathe Hob. We don’t need to plan-”

“Promise me!” he sobs. “I need to know you wi-”

The crack in Dream's heart cleaves it in two.

“I will not leave without my Mate!”

For a moment the only sound in the small room is Hob’s panting, then Dream lets his head fall back; this time it lands on Hob’s shoulder with a dull whump.

“You were right. What you felt during the curse.” Dream closes his eyes. “I am sorry I didn’t tell you. I just… we were… we’ve been…”

Hob turns his head, twists his shoulders, as much as possible, until his nose nudges the point of Dream’s ear. “Stupid. We’ve been truly. Amazingly. Stupid.”

☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼

They crawl out of the cave system into a raging thunderstorm. Might as well be a hurricane for how the wind is blowing the rain and trees sideways. However, the sight of cypress trees and the salty smell of the ocean limits the possible places that they have been taken to.

“Holy shit we're in Port Essen!” Hob gasps in breathless laughter. When Dream looks at him he is smiling, almost glowing, underneath all the dirt and grime and soil and debris they are covered with, that is all rapidly turning to mud as the forceful winds and driving rain wash them clean. He looks to Dream and it is like the sun has risen, warmth diffusing through Dream's skin. “I grew up here!”

That raises a red flag in the back of Dream's mind–he doesn't believe in coincidences.

“We need to move. Get as far away as possible. Fast. Get on.” Dream doesn't say more, doesn't explain, just grabs some of the reedy dunegrass at his feet and pops it into his mouth as he makes the appropriate hand motions.

Hob lets out a yelp as Dream transforms into a dire elk, huge and black. He wouldn't be able to fly in such rain and he has no meat for a spell component, so his dragon form is out; the elk will give Hob a smoother ride over the widest variety of terrain.

Once fully shifted Dream drops onto folded legs, but that still means his back is at about the height of a horse, so he angles his head towards Hob to lend an antler for leverage.

Luckily Hob catches on quickly, hefting himself up onto Dream with a grunt. “West,” he says as he buries his hands in the ruff of thick fur around Dream's neck, “We’ll hit forest and freshwater fastest if we go west.”

Dream stands, looks back at Hob once to make sure he is settled, and then leaps into action. Hob lets out another yelp the first time Dream lands from a bound, but he sets a rhythm and the bard in Hob cues onto it almost immediately.

Then he outright laughs.

“Dream,” he whispers into his fur, must be leaning over to get so close to his ear, “you are amazing, dove.”

Dream would laugh as well, if he could.

He has never had a rider before, not in any shifted form he has taken, and that it is Hob on his back, moving fluidly with him, legs around him, clinging to him… well. Apparently one doesn’t need wings to fly.

But first they need to disappear. They need to get gone and regroup and get food and maybe bathe in a cold stream and start assembling their meager knowledge of their captors so that they can send out feelers for information and start the tedious process of revenge.

Because Dream will eat their hearts raw for making this the bower in which he told Hob the nature of their connection. He will make them watch as he sucks the marrow from their living bones for how they have treated his Mate. He cares not that he himself has been tortured; Dream has done more than enough terrible things in his life to have earned such an experience. But Hob? No. He will not let them survive this insult.

However, getting to that point, when he will be able to revel in the suffering of those who caused so much of the same, will take time. Dream is always thorough in his planning.

And while they wait, keeping to the shadows and gathering their knowledge and power, Dream will sup upon his Mate. He will devour the finest meal he will ever have. Savor the small pieces that he can pick up between his fingers and drop into his mouth and lick from under his fingernails. Drink long draughts of pleasure of Hob’s body and thereby nourish his own soul. Dream has been starving and did not know it, did not really understand what he was missing, until his body was weakened by the captivity and his mind sharpened by the pain his Mate experienced.

Dream vaults over some rocky ground, avoiding it completely, and then as they crest a hill the treeline comes into sight and he could cry for the relief of it. Within the embrace of the forest Dream will have all the tools he needs to keep them safe. And then he can look towards the future.

☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼

The most shocking thing, honestly, is how shocked Hob isn't.

“Dream,” he sounds like he is calming a skittish horse, “I have been in love with you for literal decades. This isn't a problem for me. So we're tied together on a metaphysical level, so what?”

The druid just blinks.

Hob sighs, running a hand through his hair as he relaxes back against the trunk of the tree. It reveals the gentle point to his ears and Dream has a bolt of desire lance through him, urging him to put his mouth there. He shoves it to the side.

They are deep in the densest portions of this forest now, having ridden for hours, past the midsummer sun setting and the quarter moon rising. They slept almost immediately once they stopped running, along the banks of a creek deep enough to wade into. Once sleep was had, Dream went hunting while Hob washed their clothing, which now lies drying on some rocks and tree branches close by. They have been so exhausted that only now is Dream noticing that Hob being completely naked is rather… distracting.

The trees, strangers though they are to Dream, have generously given them ample shelter on the creek’s bank; even if someone does get close they likely won't see or hear a hint of them through the lush greenery. The maple Hob leans against has been particularly taken with the half wood elf, although Dream is unsure if Hob notices the tree doting on him, swaying its leaves to keep him shaded despite the moving morning sun.

“I’ll be the first to admit that I know close to fuck all about drow, your culture, your biology… really just what is told in popular stories, movies, whatnot, which may or may not have truth in them.” His head thumps back against the tree trunk and he has to tilt to the side to look at Dream. “But tell me what I need to learn and I’ll learn it. Tell me what I need to do, and I’ll do it. The last thing I want is to be a burden to you, Dream.”

A burden?

Dream shakes his head, as much to clear it as to disabuse Hob of such a notion. “No, Hob, I…” He searches for the words and none come, stubborn as they often are, so he decides on action instead.

Looking Hob directly in the eyes, Dream crawls across the space between them, over the gunslinger's legs, and sits with his knees on either side of Hob's thighs. He is so warm beneath Dream that the drow shivers, but all Hob can seem to do is stare in shock at the fact that they are naked and Dream is in his lap.

By the Gods it feels good to be this close to his Mate. It will feel better to touch.

Hob gasps when Dream's hands land on his chest, slide up slowly to his shoulders, his neck. He takes time to savor every hill and valley. Mine. One hand moves higher, fingers curling around the top of an ear, petting softly and making Hob’s mouth drop open and his eyes flutter closed.

“You are not a burden, Hob Gadling,” Dream reassures. “Far from it. You have heard that traditional drow society is matriarchal, yes?” Hob nods but doesn’t open his eyes, instead leans into Dream’s hand on the side of his head. “Add soulmates to that and who do you think gets to end up with the Mate they truly want?”

Hob looks at him at that. “Are soulmates not perfectly matched? Made for each other? Fated?”

“Mmm, a topic of much debate.” Dream cards through Hob's hair with his fingers as he talks. “At its core ‘soulmate’ for drow seems only to mean you are tied to each other deeply. For better… or ill. And it is certainly true that you can fall in love with someone who is not your Mate. There have even been drow who found themselves unattracted to their soulmate, at least sexually.”

Hob’s hands alight oh so carefully on Dream's thighs, a touch radically different than during the adrenaline-fueled ‘work partners plus sex' arrangement they have had for the past few months. And the touch is light years different than their first time together, when an actual duel to the death had turned into a battle of a totally different kind. To be clear, they were no less feral in their fucking when they were high on the rush of escaping imminent danger than when their lust had ignited due to mutual hatred.

Right now, though? Dream lifts up onto his knees, his ass leaving the comfort of Hob's strong thighs, as he leans in to nuzzle into Hob's temple.

“But attraction isn't in question here.” Hob isn't asking; they can both see their mostly erect cocks laying ignored between them.

“No,” Dream chuckles, “It certainly is not.” He drags his nose down so he can bring their lips close, not quite a kiss. “Rare is it allowed for drow males to be able to truly choose their Mate. So many are deemed unfit, taken to serve only as brooders for the Great Mother’s many children. And so it is not something I dared dream possible for myself. Before now.” He speaks against the corner of Hob's mouth. “I want you to fuck me, Hob. I want to know what it is to feel you spend inside me.”

With a wanton cry Hob is kissing Dream, crushing them together, and all the skin contact is glorious, as are the needy noises coming from his Mate’s throat. But Hob doesn't even know… he doesn't know.

“Hob!” Dream gasps, pulling away. “You don't understand.” They are both panting softly and Dream almost gets distracted by another kiss. “I said brooders. Female drow provide only eggs. Male drow gestate and birth our children.” That seems to get Hob's attention and he blinks his eyes until his gaze is sharp once again. Only then does Dream continue. “My cunt, Hob.” The wood elf inhales sharply. “I want you to fuck my cunt.”

Dream is barely finished with the sentence when Hob surges up and wrestles the druid to the mossy ground. Laughing, Dream pushes and scoots away, smirking up at Hob, parting his long slate-colored legs and reaching down to stroke his cock, tugging it up to reveal the wet folds hidden further down. Hob moans, eyes fixed to where Dream is showing himself off. Their fucking has always been frantic, hurried, and with Dream doing the penetrating, so Hob hasn't ever been given the chance to explore what lies deeper between Dream's legs. He looks ravenous for it.

And Dream is ready for such an exploration, except Hob doesn't even stop to touch: he grabs Dream's thighs, slings one onto each shoulder, and pulls Dream's hips to his mouth. “Hob!” Dream barks. Hob is ravenous, quite literally, licking and obscenely slurping up fluids, and Dream can do nothing but scream his pleasure.

Hob laves up and around until he can suck on the side of Dream's cock before purring, “Knew I smelled something more when you’d fuck into my throat, could swear I heard something more wet than just your spit-slick skin slapping my face.” He takes Dream's prick all the way into his mouth, sucks until the drow cries out, then backs off to allow filth to keep spilling from his lips. “Fuck, when we were under that curse I chalked up any feeling that what was between my legs felt different to the fact that drow senses are so different. I never thought…” He licks back down, exploring the wet folds with his tongue and lips. When he next needs air, Hob speaks with his damp cheek against Dream's thigh.

“I can't fill you with children, but I am gonna come in you so many times it is going to damn well feel like I did.” Each word is a puff of steam-hot air on where Dream is most sensitive, making him writhe. “Until there is enough spend in you that I can press on your belly and make it flood out. Cover these pretty thighs in my cum. Once it drips down to your ankles I will lick you clean so we can start all over.”

“Fuck, Hob.” The bard has always been good with his words in bed, but it hits differently here, with Dream revealed to him completely. Further, he’s hit upon a specific kink that Dream has the tools to actually indulge in and not just spin pretty stories about. “There’s a spell. Originally it was to increase chances of conceiving, but more often nowadays it is used in modified form by those of us with a cum kink.”

Hob's groan is muffled when he leans forward into Dream's genitals. “Those of us….modified…”

Dream laughs, fingers finding Hob’s hair. “I’ll take you to Elegy one night. There are many of us, if you know the right clubs.” Hob lets out a needy whine at that. “I’ll need some cum–preferably yours–as a spell component. Then I cast on your bollocks so that the next time you come you produce, ah, lots more.”

His eyes appear above the rise of Dream’s hip. “How much more are we talking about here?”

He smirks. “Let's just say that the modification I was talking about involved merging the fertility spell with a spell that summons water in a person's lungs in enough volume to drown th-ahAH!” Dream is cut off as Hob dips back down and his tongue snakes inside Dream's body, his moan vibrating through Dream's pelvis.

Oh, it is so good to be touched there, for Hob to know all of him, to be laid bare before him, his Mate.

Then Dream feels Hob shifting, moving away so Dream's knees are on his shoulders and he’s sliding a hand around from where it was holding up Dream's hip so that rough fingers can–“Oh yes!”

Hob pushes one finger inside and Dream’s entire body arches. “Let’s see, does your anatomy track with…” he mutters as he changes his angle over the course of a few thrusts and then it is like his finger strokes Dream’s cock from the inside and Dream screeches in surprised pleasure. “Yeah it does.” Hob sounds smug, which is so godsdamned sexy it only pushes Dream closer to tears. He slides a second finger in and Dream can’t stop himself from rocking into it. “Okay gorgeous, I’m gonna loosen you up with a couple orgasms and then you can have me.”

“Noooo,” Dream whines, plaintive, “Want to come with you in me!”

“Oh, you’ll do that, too.” And fuck him, he can hear Hob's grin. “Gonna make you come so many times you start babbling in Druidic. Break down every sense of propriety you have.”

Dream laughs through a moan, making it tumble and bounce. “An ingenious plan to learn the secret tongues.” He uses the word deliberately, playful and so fucking happy.

“Learn the-” Hob clicks his tongue against his teeth, chiding. “Are you saying that you are not satisfied with what my tongue currently knows?” Of course, he lays the flat of said appendage along the underside of the head of Dream's cock, rubs it back and forth as he looks up for an answer.

Seeing his Mate look at him like that, his cock aimed into his open mouth and his fingers buried inside him and his amber eyes burning so bright they are almost gold–fuck, it is so much. And the little movements just under the head of his prick plus the repeated deep massage of whatever that place inside him is, and Dream’s eyes widen as pleasure rushes in.

He barely gets out a surprised, “Hob I’m-” before something inside him feels kind of like it pops and suddenly there is liquid pouring out of him along with his orgasm. It is as if his climax spreads out from a single point within his pelvis, pushing out sweat and screams and cum and tears and whatever else it can squeeze out as it hits the edges of his body.

Dream watches, awed, as his cock shoots white onto Hob's tongue, Hob's eyes closing as he groans, collecting all of it before he swallows. But also fluid gushes down, over his folds and along the seam of his ass; when Dream moves a hand he feels it dripping all the way to the small of his back. The liquid is almost as thin as water. It is most certainly not cum, nor is it the same as the lubrication his cunt produces.

It takes another moment for it to click. “Holy fucking… did you just make me squirt?”

Dream looks up to find Hob licking glistening fingers that are no longer in his cunt. Which might be the most erotic, obscene thing he has ever seen and he feels like his brain short circuits a bit. Hob blinks at Dream twice before his own realization dawns. “Have you never done that before?”

“No!” Dream can't help but giggle. “I didn’t know that I could!”

Hob watches, eyes rapt, as Dream takes his own fingers, the ones that have a bit of the fluid on them, and sticks them in his mouth. Slightly bitter, not as alkaline as cum, not as earthy as his cunt.

His Mate watches his every move and looks like he might spontaneously combust. Dream can't resist teasing. “Like something you see?”

Hob actually growls as he lowers Dream's hips to his lap. His fingers, calloused from the instruments he plays and the grips of pistols, slip under Dream, to the top of his ass. Then Hob pulls his hand slowly forward, scraping, over one entrance, then then next, all the way to the base of the dark cock, collecting Dream's fluids in his hand as he goes.

Dream sees only a momentary glint of sunlight off the small pool of liquid cupped in Hob's fingers before they are heading for his mouth. Oh fuck. He opens his mouth, thinking to accept Hob’s offering as it is poured, but then Hob is smearing it, from one cheek, across his open mouth, to the other cheek. Hob tries to pull his hand away but Dream grabs his wrist, licks a long stripe up the inside of his fingers. When he releases his Mate’s wrist he purrs, “Again. More.” And that hits a goddamned button, because Hob repeats the collecting motion quickly, gathering as much as he can, and then turning his hand over as soon as he gets to Dream’s mouth, dribbling the liquid in. He uses Dream's bottom lip to wipe the last dregs off of his skin and then Hob is grabbing Dream by the neck and kissing him something fierce.

His tongue is a lick of fire and it catches on the kindling of Dream's body, creating a blaze that tears through the drow. Lust. It gnashes, claws, in its effort to get out through Dream's skin and if he doesn't get proper fucked right now–

He rips his mouth away from Hob's with a wail. “Fuck your plans. If you don't get your godsbedamned prick into me right the fuck now I am taking the control of this operation away from you, so help mYES!”

Hob drives into him to the hilt and Dream howls like he is worshipping the moon. “Bratty thing, aren't you?” He grabs a fistful of Dream's long white hair and yanks his head back with enough force to make his whole dark torso bend back into a U-shape. It pulls electric pleasure up Dream's spine as Hob sits back on his heels. “Seems you were never broken to saddle. Is that it? Do you need me to train you to be ridden? To be a good mount?”

Oh hell yes.

Two can play that game.

Dream gets a foot up onto Hob's chest and shoves him away hard, forcing him not only out of Dream's body, but also to sprawl backwards and drop his grip on Dream’s hair in shock. At the same time Dream twists, shifting from being on his back to up on all fours and then lowering his chest and face to the ground. It angles his ass up into the air and towards his Mate, and then he lets his knees slide apart. Presenting himself.

“My God…” he hears Hob gasp.

“You think I need training?” he purrs, all seduction as he looks back over his shoulder. “But you haven't even mounted me properly yet.” He hears Hob panting even from a distance. “Come on, lover, ride me hard.”

He can't help but chuckle as Hob scrabbles to comply, crawling up behind him and pressing their thighs together but holding their hips apart. Hob palms both sides of his ass, meager flesh there is, and parts them with groan on his breath. “How hard, dove?”

Dream sways back into his grasp, forcing himself open wider. The stretch feels good, like anticipation. “Pretend you’re hammering nails with your cock.”

Hob’s muttered curses accompany feeling the head of his prick lining up. They are perfectly ready and yet then Hob stops just so that he can gather all of Dream's hair carefully into one rope to loop around his fist. Dream whines and buries his face in his arms. He just… he just needs. Please. Please.

“Alright, baby, alright. I got you.” Hob soothes, free hand petting down Dream's thigh.

Hob fucking into him again is a homecoming; this, this is where he is supposed to be.

The first withdrawal and thrust back in slaps their skin together so hard it sounds like a whip crack. “YES!” Dream gets up on his elbows and digs his fingers into the soil. He feels his magic root him to the ground. “More!”

Hob tugs on Dream's hair hard enough to make him yelp. “You’re here to get fucked, so take what I give you. Brat.”

And doesn't that make lust curl hot in his belly. He whines and lets his head drop limply between his shoulders, as far as the grip on his hair will allow, hunches to rest his forehead on the ground. “Please Hob. I need… please.” Hob complies swiftly this time, fucking into Dream with these slow rhythmic thrusts that hit like a battering ram. He feels each one shake his very foundations. “So good,” Dream cries, “Yes! So good!”

It is the beat of a drum and Dream falls under its sway. He is hypnotized by it, losing his higher faculties and left only to scream his pleasure as he tries desperately to get fucked faster. But Hob continues the basic rhythm for what might as well be forever, until Dream is sobbing into the ground and smearing mud on his cheek as he hiccups out soft pleas.

Finally, he falls silent, nothing left in him but the ache of his need. And that's when he hears Hob's quiet chanting.

Pace like a drum.

Chanting.

It is a spell.

Hob is casting a spell using Dream's body as an instrument and the rush of arousal at the thought nearly makes him pass out.

“Was wondering when you’d figure it out,” the bard laughs, hands sliding down Dream's thighs and back up. “If your body is meant to birth children, then this spell is for you.” Hob sings one last phrase in a language Dream can't parse right now and then the magic snaps into place.

It takes a moment, but as Hob fucks back in Dream realizes what is happening: his cock is getting larger. It is incremental, but that stretch definitely wasn't there a minute ago, that insistent press against the insides of Dream.

“Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck,” he moans, helpless to the rising tide. “So full. Oh gods.”

The bastard above him chuckles. “Not even halfway done, pet. This spell is calibrated exactly to the receiving party’s limits. Gonna find out exactly how much your pretty body can take, then fuck you loose on that. So next time you can take just a little bit more. And then a little more. And a little more. Until you can take my fist.” Dream wails at that. “Until you can take my fist wrapped around my cock.” The thought makes his entire body shake. “You like that idea? Want me to jack myself off buried inside your cute cunt? Move my fist faster and faster, use a finger to curl up into your G-spot, make you squirt around me…”

He keeps talking, but Dream can't make out the words anymore over the whistling of blood rushing in his ears, over the throbbing, thrilling fullness thrumming deep in his body. It is so fucking good.

But then on the next measured thrust Hob drives in deeper as well as wider and Dream loses the last thread of sanity he ever had.

Digging his fingers into the ground like claws, the druid snarls and uses a surge of strength to pull himself off of Hob and then quickly fuck himself back, feeling how Hob's cock gets a little bigger with the in and out motion. This spell was meant to be taken slowly, but Dream needs more and he needs it now.

Dream rolls his body again, making Hob groan and his hands tighten to bruising around Dream’s hips. “I told you to ride me,” he growls, “So fuck me like you damned well mean it. Fuck me like yoAAAAHHHH!!”

He screeches as Hob pulls him off the ground by only his hair, arms dangling and fingers brushing the ground, until he can get his hand around Dream's mouth. Dream lets his weight sag into Hob's grip and the gunslinger has no problem holding him up. “Fine, you want me to use this spell to ruin you?!” Hob bucks twice in rapid succession, the spell working each time and Dream splays his legs wider, as if that will relieve the building pressure.

It doesn't.

Dream mewls into Hob's hand. “Do you want that?!?” Hob roars.

He nods vigorously, as much as he can with Hob's large palm across his face, and presses backwards as much as possible.

“So be it!” Hob releases Dream's face, letting him flail to catch himself before he falls into the dirt. Then Dream hears the sound of Hob spitting and before he knows it a wet finger is sliding down the cleft of his ass. “If you want to be filled so badly, then I will make sure to fill you completely.”

On the next delicious thrust of Hob’s cock deep into his cunt a finger drives into Dream's ass and the noise he makes is nothing short of a squeal. “YES!”

It is so much. Fullness and pressure and stretching and it doesn't hurt in the least, more like it feels as if his body was made for this, to take and take and take. And on each pounding thrust in Hob gets bigger and bigger, and just when Dream thinks he can take no more, the stretch deepens and his body accepts another finger or another millimeter.

“Fuck, look at you,” Hob's hoarse whisper is tinged in awe. “Never seen the spell last like this. Never seen a body so greedily take more and more and more. So fucking perfect. And all mine. Mine.”

“Yes! Yours!” Dream wriggles, letting his shoulder and face take his weight as he reaches back and grabs behind his knees, pulls his legs further apart. “Please, Hob, wanna come like this. Please touch me, lover. Mate.”

Hob groans and the hand that is not buried in Dream’s ass finds its way to his cock. It barely takes two strokes before Dream is coming, shaking and screaming and oh fuck if Hob just keeps going…

“Don't stop,” he pants, Hob still driving into him, wider each time, making his body sing, “Oh fuck don't stop gonna gonna gonna—HOB!”

Dream howls as he comes again, writhing as Hob keeps thrusting, faster and harder, his fist still tight and pumping Dream's cock, and then Hob’s fist gets tighter and twists. It is too much so much too much, but then Hob fucks into him harder and his vice-tight hand starts twisting on every upstroke and he can't possibly not no oh gods oh gods!

He cries through his third orgasm in as many minutes, overwhelmed and overstimulated and Hob keeps fucking him, even as Dream’s entire body goes liquid and he slumps onto the mossy ground. Hob’s fingers leave his ass with a slick squelching noise and then his Mate’s whole body is pressing Dream down flat, legs splayed, his hips still pistoning his spelled cock in and out of Dream's cunt. “That's it baby, I finally hit your edge. Not gonna get any bigger than this today. You good to let me keep going? Want me to come in this pretty pussy of yours?”

“Yes, please, yes.” Dream rasps, throat raw from his screaming.

Hob presses his chest down onto Dream's back until not even a molecule of air is between them, his breathing heavy behind Dream's pointed ear. “Want you to do this to me, too, darling. Cast the spell and fuck me until I am gaping and exhausted.” He fucks fast and stays deep, never pulling out very far, and Dream doesn't know what is better, the images Hob paints with his words or how easily Hob‘s now-huge cock rams into his cervix on every thrust. “So good around me. You can already take so much… can't wait to see how far I can stretch you. Can't wait to try that spell of yours, fucking drown you in my cum, so stark against your gorgeous skin. Probably not healthy to cast it more than once in a day, but I’m nothing if not reckless. Wanna flood your cunt, your ass, and your stomach.” Dream moans, shivering and helpless beneath him. “Make you lick up whatever spills out of your holes. Swallow it down. Make sure you take all of it. Then plug your holes, gag your mouth, keep it all inside.”

It is like Hob had seen the beginnings of Dream's most depraved fantasies and he can't help but continue them. “That's… I want that so badly. And more, Hob. I want more. After all that I want you to tie me up, wrists to ankles behind me,” Hob makes a noise like a sob and buries his face into Dream's neck, rhythm stuttering, “And then I want you to spend all over my cock. Because I haven't come yet, you haven't let me.” That pulls a whine from Hob. “And after all that there will be paltry cum left in you, but that's all I get. That's all I get to use to rut against the hard floor. Smacking my hips down onto the wet tiles, but at that point any contact would feel like heaven. Would come so hard, for you, my love.”

A hitch in Hob's breath and he starts slowly pulling out as he climaxes, drawing it out using Dream's body just like he has used Dream's hand in the past, cock twitching wildly. He lengthens the pleasure enough that he gets to push back into Dream at the very end of his orgasm, gets to bury himself to the hilt as his last little jolt of overstimulation.

Panting, prick softening within Dream, Hob lets all of his weight collapse onto his lover. “Fuck, you’re amazing. I can't believe I get to have you.” He nuzzles into Dream's hair. “My beautiful Dream.”

“My Hob,” he sighs, “my Mate.”

#Dreamling #Urban Fantasy AU #Solarpunk AU #drow druid Dream #gunslinger bard half-elf Hob #both are investigators #partners to lovers #Pavonis writes

67 notes · View notes

mypearlsareclutched · 3 months ago

Text

We're Sinking Into The Sand

High By The Beach | Chapter Eleven

Modern!Aegon II x Original Female Character, Modern!Aemond x Original Female Character

After the chaos that was Viserys' funeral, Mila heads back to Old Town to help the Targaryen she loves. But it was Aemond who brought her and Aegon together, will it be him who tears them apart?

BTDubs this was where I was originally planning on ending the series but I had SO MUCH MORE TO SAY about Mila and the Targs and ole Creggie and the homies. So (as you can tell from the masterlist) there are a further six chapter coming after this mwah. Also I updated hella quick, huh? Who's proud of me <3

Song inspiration | High By The Beach, Lana Del Rey

CW//TW: Sexual Content (MDNI, 18+), smut, angst, joking at an inappropriate time Aegon style, Old Town and the beach house, drugs, mentions of addictions, HELLA angst at the end, British lingo, morning sex, passionate missionary yuh, consent is sexy, Aegon is OOC in that respect, enjoy the good vibes while they last because I'm here to hurt your feelings <\3

Word count | 5.2k

previous chapter // next chapter

It took almost a whole day to drive back to Old Town. Which was good time. She drove like a bat out of hell, never stopping. Except for traffic lights, because having the police on her ass was not in the cards. By the time she arrived to her destination, the sun was falling down in the sky once again.

Parking Laena's car in the driveway of the Old Town beach house, Mila breathes out a sigh she didn't realize she had been holding in her lungs since leaving the Targaryen home.

Just the sight of the house relieved tension inside her very bones, the smell of the sea air drifting through the open windows and the sound of seagulls flying high above all made her feel like a weight was lifted off of her shoulders.

Another car was parked beside the house, expensive looking and clearly the car Aegon had stolen from Viserys' garage. Mila walked past it to the house, holding the front door's handle with shaky hands.

The house is unlocked, the keys discarded on the table near the door, next to Aegon's alien sunglasses. He must be here.

"Aegon?" Mila calls out, stepping into the entryway.

The house is silent, save for the ticking of the grandfather clock against the far wall. No lights have been turned on, the room is shadowy and painted with strips of sunlight from the surrounding windows. A small sliver of darkness catches Mila's eye, and she crouches down to pick up a black tie.

A pair of sandy, black dress shoes lie a few feet away, the discarded garments leading a bread crumb trail right to the bedroom. Mila stands, walking to the door in search of the MIA Targaryen. A relieved sigh leaves her when she sees him.

He's lying on the bed, legs splayed out over the edge and eyes closed. His black suit from the funeral is still in tact, save for the tie and his shoes.

"Hey-"

"Seven hells!" Aegon exclaims, sitting up. His wide eyes blink at her, before he exhales out a laugh, "Jesus, Em, you scared the shit out of me."

Mila laughs as she shakes her head, her own spirits lifting as she looks at his smiling face, a much prefered alternative to the grimace he wore during his father's funeral.

"So, you took a page out of my book and fled the Targaryen prison?" He asks, standing up.

"Yeah, and Otto is going to drag you by your short and curlies right back there." Mila shakes her head, smoothing her hands over the crinkled black dress she still wore.

"Let him try." Aegon chuckles, "I can disappear if I want to."

He wraps his arm around her waist, pressing his lips to hers in a passionate yet gentle kiss. Mila sinks into it, letting out a please hum as he licks along her lower lip.

The kiss grows heated, and Aegon's hands are quick to wrap around her and pick her up, spinning her around to deposit her on the bed. Mila's legs open automatically to welcome him in, his weight a comforting presence against her sore body. Soft hands run through her hair, over her thighs. Chapped lips run along her neck.

Aemond's hands... Aemond's mouth...

"Baby, stop." Mila says softly, guilt wracking her body as she pushes him away gently. Aegon's face falls, but not from disappointment. Concern is evident on his cherubic features, his hands leaving her as he sits up and looks at her worriedly.

"What's wrong? We don't have to if you don't want to-"

"I fucked Aemond." Mila bites out, closing her eyes.

Aegon is silent, and her stomach drops. He blinks at her, and she can see his mind processing what she just said.

"Oh." He says, voice soft and robotic.

"Aegon-"

"Okay."

"What?"

"I said okay." He shrugs, lying back down on the bed, "That's fine, it's your body, babe."

"Aeg-"

"I don't want to talk about it." Aegon sighs, one hand coming to cover his eyes, as his other hand takes hers. Mila looks down at their clasped fingers, squeezing his hand.

"I'm so sorry."

"Hey, shh." He sits up, eyes once again soft and face warm again, taking her hands in his, "I'm not mad at you, baby. I would never be. This shit is complicated. I just... don't want to hear the details. It'll make me want to cut open my stomach and pull out all my internal organs.

"I wouldn't tell you." She smiles weakly, reaching a hand up to move a stray strand of his hair out of his eyes, "It meant nothing, really. It was just... a moment of weakness. I got too caught up in who I wanted him to be, instead of who he really is. I want you, for who you really are."

Aegon smiles sadly, "If you saw me for who I really am, you would run for the hills."

"Maybe I'll surprise you."

"All you do is surprise me." Aegon laughs, nosing at her hand as it fiddles with his shoulder-length hair, "Wherever you were yesterday doesn't matter to me. I'm just glad you're here now, with me. I really do love you, Em. So much."

"I love you, too." Mila reaches a hand up and cups his cheek, his face leaning in to hers, "Otto is still going to come for you."

Aegon is silent, his head lifting so he can look over at the ocean through the window panes. The sun has begun to set, casting the bedroom in a hue of blush pink and burnt orange. A far away look forms in Aegon's blue eyes, a small crinkle appearing between his pale brows as he thinks.

"What's going on in that head of yours?" Mila asks, prodding his temple playfully.

Aegon sighs, looking at her, "Suicide pact?"

"Aegon."

"So that's a firm 'no' on the suicide pact?"

"I need you to take this seriously." Mila says, taking his chin in between her thumb and forefinger.

"I am." Aegon says as smiles, taking her hands in his, "I'm taking this seriously."

"This?" Mila laughs, confused.

"This. You and me. This. Us." Aegon smiles, rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand.

"Us?"

"Us."

The next morning, as the sun rose over Old Town, Mila woke up encased in the warm arms of Aegon Targaryen.

She slept like the dead, immediately falling into the land of dreams after Aegon had helped her get out of her dress. He grimaced at it, throwing it in the bin, waving away Mila's complaints.

"You look better in the crappy clothes we got from big Tesco anyway." He grins, tossing her an oversized shirt with the words 'Straight Outta Old Town' written on the back. She rolled her eyes with a smile of her own as she put it on, laughing at Aegon's ogling as he removed his own clothes and threw on some joggers.

The second her head hit the pillow, and Aegon wrapped around her from behind, Mila was out like a light.

When the sun rose, she never wanted to leave this room again.

Aegon murmurs sleepily behind her, offering a quiet 'good morning' when he realises she is awake. Mila hums back, turning around in his arms. He gives her a dopey grin, eyes barely open. She returns his smile, reaching her hand up to trace along his face from his eyebrow, down his nose, and across his jaw. When Mila's fingers dance across the skin of his lips, Aegon purses his lips to kiss her finger tips.

She leans in for a kiss first, and he meets her halfway. Their lips meet in a loving dance, noses brushing and hands grasping onto whatever was in reach.

In an instant, Aegon rolls on top of her, kissing her feverishly as he covers Mila's body with his own. Her thighs open for him to lie in between them, flushes skin pressing against one another.

"Is this okay?" Aegon asks softly, desperate to feel more of her but unwilling to go beyond her boundaries.

"More than okay." Mila affirms, leaning up to kiss him again. He groans against her lips, his hands continuing their exploration as his hips buck against her one.

The hot tip of him presses against her wetness, and they gasp into each other's mouths. Aegon shifts forward, slowly fucking into her as she mewls against him, throwing her head back at his familiar, euphoric size.

"That's it, baby." Aegon murmurs, pressing his face into her neck as he begins thrusting into her sensually, dragging his hips back and forward in slow, loving strokes, "Fuck... feels so good."

"Aegon..." Mila moans out, running her hands over his hair and kissing his temple, "I love you."

"I love you too... so much..." His words trail off as his speed increases, fucking her in earnest. The sound of Mila's breathy whines and Aegon's grunts fill the room, mixed with the sounds of skin meeting skin.

Mila's orgasm creeps up on her, making her body jolt as a loud moan leaves her parted lips. Feeling her tighten around him, Aegon speeds up, breathing out curses and praises.

"You feel so good, baby, fuck!" He grits out around clenched teeth, grabbing the back of her knees to press her thighs to her chest, opening her wider. Mila gasps as he fucks her harder, hips pistoning into her with passion yet great care. Her peak subsides, and her body trembles with overstimulation.

"Aegon, fuck... 's too much..." Her eyes roll back, her hands weakly gripping onto the sheets below her and the pale, soft skin of Aegon's thigh.

"Doing so well for me, doll. Making me feel so fucking good. I can feel you getting tighter, wanna feel you cum again. You can give me another, right baby?"

"M-hm!" Mila bites her lip, words leaving her as Aegon angles his

"Right there? That feel good? Fuck, look at you." He praises, his eyes trained on her writhing body below him, "Come on, baby, need to feel you cum again. Please, baby."

"Aegon, fuck!" Mila shrieks, shaking uncontrollably as her legs tighten, her cunt gushing around him as he pushes her over the edge again.

The feeling sends Aegon over the edge, his pace faltering until he shudders and thrusts into her as far as he can go, painting her walls with his spend. Eyes rolled back, Aegon mumbles praises and promises and recites Mila's name like a prayer as his cock throbs, releasing all he has into her soft heat.

The Stark below him feels boneless and content, her knees still pressed to her chest and her cunt still full of Aegon's softening cock, her walls trying to push him out as she moans softly in overstimulation.

When he finally pulls out, both of their releases leak out of her, making Aegon groan at the sight, "Fucking beautiful."

Mila smiles sleepily, eyes blurry. She winces when she stretches her legs out, her hips and thighs burning.

"I'll be right back, Em." Aegon says softly, kissing her knee before rising off of the bed.

As hus weight disappears, Mila whines as she waves her hand to try to stop him. His tired chuckle makes her heart flutter, and after a minute he returns. A cold rag presses against her inner thighs, cleaning the mess they had made. Aegon's hands are gentle as he soothes her aching muscles, pressing kisses against her flushed skin.

"Sit up, baby." Aegon softly orders, and Mila rises slowly onto her elbows. The cold feeling glass presses against her lips, and she swallows down the offered water.

Satisfied that she's clean and hydrated, Aegon kisses her forehead before getting up again, putting the empty glass and soiled rag in the adjoining bathroom.

"I'm going to have one hell of a time trying to walk later." Mila smiles, dazed. Her eyes follow Aegon as he enters the room again.

"Oh, so you think you're leaving this room?" Aegon asks with a mischievous grin, diving back into the bed atop a laughing Mila.

The next day, Aegon drags her along an unfamiliar street. It's old, all ancient cobblestone walkways and winding alleys covered in ivy.

"Woah, Aeg, chill." Mila finds herself laughing, gripping onto Aegon's hand as he pulls her along like an overexcited puppy.

"Come on, we're almost there!" Aegon says, a beaming smile across his face.

Mila had never been to Honeyholt before. She had woken up this morning to Aegon laying on top of her, his chin against her sternum as he watched her sleep.

"Creep." Mila murmurs, a smile on her lips. Aegon huffs, rolling his eyes with his own cheeky grin as he presses a kiss to her collarbone and stands up.

"Come on, lazy, we've got things to do."

"Lazy? You're the one who twisted me up like a pretzel from dawn to dusk yesterday, no wonder I'm tired." Mila laughs, exasperated as she fluffs up her pillow and gets cozy again, "Also, what things? I don't know if I have the energy to do that last thing we did again."

"As much fun as that was, no. We have more fun things to do." He says as he pulls on his jeans, searching the room for a clean shirt.

"What's more fun than a sixty-nine bridge?"

"If you want the answer to that age old question, you should get your perky ass out of bed." Aegon wiggles his eyebrows as he tosses her a shirt.

Honeyholt was beautiful. Cultural, historic, full of tiny shops and homes. They pass smiling faces around every corner, including a flock of old ladies who chuckle as Aegon drags Mila down the street towards the unknown location.

Out of breath from running and laughing, Mila is grateful for when Aegon halts with an enthusiastic, 'Ah!'

She tosses her windswept curls over her shoulder as she watches Aegon walk into an old shop, dusty and seemingly disused. When he realises she is not following him, he pops his head out the doorway.

"Come on, then!" He calls, beckoning her forwards.

Mila laughs as she follows him in, her jaw dropping when she gets a good look at the place.

It had long been abandoned, cobwebs and dust covering most surfaces and furniture. But underneath the years of misuse, was a work of art. Antique chairs and tables dotted around, dark wooden floors covered in floral rugs. The wallpaper was peeling, and some mould had begun to grow, but the dark coloured spirals of the painted paper remained vivid. Along the back wall were ancient bookcases, and dirty chandeliers were hung from the ceiling.

Aegon bounces around the room, picking up fallen chairs in his wake before he leans against a fireplace across the room, looking at her for her reaction.

"What is this place?" Mila asks in awe, eyes wide with wonder as she walks around the small yet beautiful shop.

"It's just some old litt place. It was like a cafe or something until the lady who runs it, you know, bit the dust."

Mila rolls her eyes at his candidness, running her fingers along the dusty bookshelves that lined the far wall, "It's beautiful here."

"And cheap, too." Aegon comments, walking over to her to wrap his arms around her waist from behind, "The old owners son wants to get rid of it so the price is beyond reasonable."

"You're thinking of running a cafe? Aw, will you wear a frilly little apron while you're at it? You'll look so cute." Mila jokes, turning around in his embrace to kiss along his jaw.

Aegon rolls his eyes, but his smile never falters, "It doesn't have to be a cafe, dumbass. It could be anything we want once we buy it."

Mila stops, looking up at him with wide eyes, "Once we what?"

"Buy it." He says, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I'm thinking bookshop in the front, tattoo parlour in the back. Our own little haven."

"That's absolutely crazy." Mila laughs, wrapping her arms around his neck, "You're crazy."

"You love it." Aegon smiles as he leans in to kiss her.

"I love you, you crazy Targaryen."

They stayed like that for a while, standing in the cramped and dirtied room of a shop that promised a future for them both.

They had stopped off to get petrol on the way back from Honeyholt, when Aegon's phone began to ring.

Mila was paying inside the station, chatting idly to the woman behind the counter. Leaning against the car, Aegon watches her with a small smile, studying the movement of her lips as she spoke, and they way her eyes lit up when she laughed.

His phone ringing caught him off guard. Looking around, he noticed it lying in the back seat where he had flung it over his shoulder on the way here the night of Viserys' funeral. Helaena had given it back to him, chastising him ever so gently for leaving Weirwood without any of his belongings.

Grabbing it, he looks down at the caller ID, a groan escaping him as he rolls his eyes at the name.

"Piss off." He sighs into the phone.

"Hello to you to." Aemond scoffs, voice already sounding annoyed, "Is she there?"

"Who?"

"Hilarious. My fucking girlfriend."

"Which girlfriend? The hot one, or the dinosaur? Oh, wait, the hot one abandoned you after pity fucking you and came back to me."

"...So she is there."

"...No."

"Aegon." Aemond sighs, his rings knocking together as he seemingly runs a hand over his face, "Stop being childish for five minutes, and listen to me."

The older brother laughs, "Listen to you? What could you possibly say to me right now that won't make me hurl this phone into the sea?"

"What did you buy?"

"Should have bought condoms the way this is going." Aegon chuckles, eyes flicking to Mila once again.

"No, Aegon." Aemond's voice takes a dangerous tone, "What did you buy? On your way back to Old Town."

Aegon's blood runs cold, ice water in his veins. He swallows, turning around, as if looking in Mila's direction suddenly hurt to do, "How the fuck did you know?"

"You forget that I've known you all my life, and how you operate as a scumbag junkie for almost two decades." Aemond laughs cruelly, the sound prickling Aegon's eardrums like needles.

"I haven't done anything." He emphasises, "I wasn't going to-"

"Yes you were. If Mila hadn't turned up when she did you would already be stoned beyond human capabilities, possibly even dead. Now, wouldn't that be a shame."

"What the fuck do you want, Aemond?!"

"For you to end things with her."

"Then you are out of your goddamn mind." Aegon bites, knuckles going white around the phone as he grips onto it, "I won't. You can't make me."

"I'm not going to make you, Aegon." His brother chuckles humorlessly, "You've proved time and time again that you won't listen to a single thing we ask of you, even when we try to help you. But it's not you I want to help, not now."

"What the fuck do you mean by that?"

"I mean, Mila should not be around a bad influence like you, Aegon. She's a recovering addict. She's unstable, and delicate right now. And she's going to relapse if she's around you."

"She won't-"

"But she will. Because you will." Aemond explains, simply as if he were educating a child, "You've been down this road far too many times, brother. You will go back to your vices the second things get too hard. Mila stopped you from getting high this time, but at some point, the thrill of being with her will wear off for you. As it always does."

"She's different."

"Oh they were all different to you!" Yells Aemond, startling Aegon into docile silence, "It's all different until it's mundane. Until you get used to those feelings she inspires within you. Then you'll go back to drinking, or to snorting, or injecting, until it's fucking. It'll be all of those and she won't be able to handle it, Aegon. She will relapse."

Aegon flinches, his hands twitching as he takes a shuddered breath, feeling his heart crack at the thought, "I wouldn't do that to her."

"You wouldn't try to, Aegon." Aemond says, his voice softer now, "But you can't protect her from yourself."

It's silent. Aegon swallows this information like a bitter pill. It leaves an aftertaste like bile in his dry mouth, his heart beating like the hooves of a racehorse and his stomach twisting into knots.

Because he's right, a voice whispers inside his head. You are beyond saving. No matter how many times you try, you always go back to your wicked ways. Can you live with yourself? When you poison her, like a spec of black dye in a basin full of crystal clear water? You will ruin her, because that is what you always do.

It is almost like Aegon can hear Aemond reeling back for the final punch, his brother's voice like a siren's when he states...

"Mila deserves better than you."

A blow to the gut, because it is true. Aegon knew it from the second he met her, from the second he saw her smile and heard her laugh. She was good and she was kind and Aegon will kill her.

"Rot in all of the seven hells, brother." Aegon bites out, ending the call. He takes a shaky breath, blinking away tears he hadn't realised had formed. He throws his phone as far as he can, watching it flicker with light reflected by the sun before it disappears into the long grass.

Turning in place, he watches as Mila waves goodbye to the shop clerk, smiling to herself as she walks out the station and heads his way.

If only he felt the contentment she feels. But all he feels is sick.

Mila knew something was wrong the second they got in the car. Aegon wouldn't respond to anything she said, except a few hums and one-worded answers. His smile had vanished, the light in his eyes dimmed.

It broke her heart, because she had no idea what could have caused it.

When they finally got to the beach house, Aegon disappeared inside, walking on autopilot like a ghost. Mila watched him with wary eyes, biting the skin around her gnarled thumb nail.

Inside, he was nowhere to be seen. The taunting ticking of the grandfather clock was the only noise that greeted her, and she glared at it as she walked past, heading towards the bedroom.

Aegon was standing beside the bed, looking down at the rumpled sheets with a frown.

"Aeg?" Mila says softly, standing in the doorway. The room felt cold, the beginnings of winter making the overall temperature drop, but an icy chill surrounded Aegon.

"You need to go." He says, voice quiet.

Mila freezes, staring at him with furrowed brows, "Huh?"

He sighs, rubbing his hands over his face, groaning against his palms.

"I need you to go. You can't be here anymore." With a shrug, he finally looks at her, face emotionless and eyes stony.

Standing before her, was the Aegon she never met. Something in him had changed, switched gears inside his head. His entire aura became somber, uninspired... broken.

Looking into his dulled eyes, Mila took a step forwards. But he took a step back, working his jaw as he flexed and unflexed his hands beside him.

"Aegon... I don't understand what you're saying." Mila pleads, hoping to the old gods and the new that he's not saying what he .

"We can't be together." He shrugs, "Aemond was right. I'm going to fall back into old patterns, and when that happens, it's going to fuck you up. Worse than Aemond did. I'm not good for you."

"It was Aemond on the phone wasn't it?" Mila chokes on a bitter laugh, looking up to the ceiling as she runs her hands through her hair, "I saw you talking on the phone. Aegon, baby, please, let's just talk this through."

"You're wasted on me." He mutters to himself, "You should get out while you still can, before I make you worse."

"All you've done is make me better, Aeg." Mila insists as she takes another step closer to him.

Hearing her insistence, Aegon stares off into the distance, his face hardening while his eyes remain shining with unshed tears.

"Quick question." Aegon says, his voice turning cruelly playful, "Did Aemond tell you to come here when he was balls deep inside you or was it kind of like a pillow talk conversation afterwards?"

Shocked by his impersonal voice and crude statement, Mila is take aback, a shiver running down her spine, "Aegon-"

"No, no, don't answer that." Aegon waves his hands, "I'm sure it doesn't matter."

"It's different with you. All of it is different. What I have with you is so much realer than what I ever had with him."

Aegon scoffs.

"Aegon, I want this. I want us. We can do this."

"We can't." Aegon chuckles, "Because Aemond was right. At the end of the day, you're going to go back to him and I'm going to go back to all of the other shit."

"No, you're not, Aegon. You're not-"

"Will you stick by me?" Aegon asks, his voice taking a taunting tone, "When I come home drunk or high or smelling like some other pussy would you just sit back and forgive me?"

"You're not going to do that, you're doing so much better, you wouldn't-"

"No? I wouldn't? What's this then?" Aegon stomps over to the bedside table, opening the drawer hard enough to send it clattering to the floor. Various items scatter against the faded carpet, but one item in particular makes Mila's heart stop.

A ziplock bag full of various coloured pills and powder filled baggies, "You didn't...."

"Oh yes I did, baby. Stopped round an old buddies house the night after the funeral. Got all the best flavours here; LSD, ket, some molly too, I know you love that... ooh, and some crystal, didn't even realise that was in there-!"

"Stop it." Mila says, trying to keep her voice level though it shakes.

"Ah, come on, baby. Let's have a little fun, eh?" He taunts, shaking the bag in her face, "We both know I will, so are you just going to sit pretty and watch me?"

"Why are you being like this?" Mila yells, frustration building as she watches the man she's loved turn into the nightmarish, fictitious man Aemond warned her about.

"So boring." Aegon groans dramatically, flinging the bag away across the room, "I'll go back to one of my addictions, doll, so pick one. Maybe you would prefer it if I did what my brother did, hm? What if I found myself my own Alys Rivers? Some hot, older lady that I can stick my dick into every time I get sick of you. Maybe I was too quick to judge my dear brother. If I had you on my ass every second of every day I'm sure I would also be dying for some other cunt-"

Aegon is silenced as his head whips to the side, Mila's palm stings as it lingers in the air.

She slapped him. She can't believe it for a second, too shocked

Mila stumbles back, cradling her hand to her chest as sobs wrack her body.

He watches her, cheek slightly red from where her hand struck him, his eyes glassy with unshed tears.

"You're right, Aegon." Mila sobs, "We can't be together."

Though she fully intended to drive away, Mila sat in Laena's car, suddenly struck with an uncertainty of where she would go.

Her apartment in Kings Landing was stained with memories of Aemond, every item of furniture lines with scars where he once sat, stood, lay. Mila used to think fondly about how his cologne could be smelt in the air, on her blankets and on her couch cushions, but now the thought of smelling his scent turned her stomach.

It no longer felt like the comforting aroma of the man she loved, but the scent of a man who claimed her, used her, broke her.

She could go to Cregan's. Or Baela's, or back to Dragonstone where Rhaenyra would always wait with open arms.

But the beauty of Old Town boiled down to its distance. The distance from King's Landing and all the sordid experiences Mila had there that haunted her past. The parties, the clubs, the bars. The drinks, the drugs, the men, the women, the people whose genders mattered not to her in the moments where their lips touched. All the nights spent drifting from reality with magic in her veins, the mornings crashing back down to the real world in fits of sweating and throwing up the contents of her stomach.

The year where she made new memories no longer wrapped in a drunken haze, were ones she made by Aemond Targaryen's side.

Mila could not go back to King's Landing, because the ghosts will be waiting for her.

But she could go to another haunted place.

Pulling out the pay-as-you-go phone, she dialed Baela's number. The sound of her best friend's soft voice greeting her made her feverish skin cool a bit, "Hi, gorgeous. Are you okay? Mom told me you borrowed her car and left the city."

"Yeah, I needed to get away, needed to talk to Aegon." Mila says, her voice thick with her tears.

She can hear Baela sit up straight in her chair, her voice taking a concerned lilt, "Mila? What's wrong? Talk to me."

"It doesn't matter." Sighs the Stark girl, "I'm going home."

"Okay, babe. Do you want me to set up my sofa so you can sleep on it?"

"No, Bae. I'm going home."

It's silent on the other end for a moment, seagulls caw in the near distance, and another tea tracks a warm trail down Mila's face.

"Holy shit... really?" Baela asks in a soft voice.

"Yeah." Mila sniffs, wiping her nose on her sleeve. The sun looms behind the beach house, casting the patio and driveway in shadows. Within the darkened windows, the shadow of Aegon watches from behind the sheer curtains.

"I'm going back to Winterfell."

AN// nOW LISTEN PUT THE GUN DOWN I CAN EXPLAIN. Don't hurt me for making Emiliaegon fight :( we are all children of divorce. TRUST things will get better. The sadder the angst, the sweeter the subsequent fluff <3

Lula x

80 notes · View notes