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obsessedwhyyes · 23 days ago

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The Learned Observer

Fic Request: Voyeurism

Summary: On a sleepless night, Gale notices the distinct sound of hushed voices outside his tent. It couldn't be you and Astarion… could it? When he decides to take a peek - to satisfy his scholarly curiosity, of course - he gets more than he bargained for.

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 2623 Pairing: Astarion x Fem!Reader, implied Astarion x Gale x Fem!Reader Content: Gale's POV (first person), voyeurism, dry humping, handjob, public sex, male masturbation, a little bit of jealousy.

A/N: Gale, in my humble opinion, would not use the word, “cock.” I cannot express how hard it was to not use the word, "cock" in a smut fic. I frigging love that word. Anyways, writing entirely in Gale’s voice was honestly the most fun mini challenge I’ve set myself so far, and I would gladly do first person BG3 companion POVs again. Thank you, dear anon, for the request!

Another sleepless night.

The orb pulses beneath my skin, each throb a reminder of my predicament.

I implore my mind to wander to the events of our journey, to the challenges that lie ahead, in pursuit of a worthwhile distraction. But the orb’s hunger grows stronger, like a raging maelstrom, each tribute to its insistent pull a mere ripple against the tide of its endless consumption. Perhaps I should consult the others about–

… Voices drift from outside my tent before I can finish my thoughts. Curious.

Hushed laughter and whispered words. Astarion's distinctive timbre and… you.

The sound is soft, subtle - a quiet exchange. Yet, here I am, catching fragments of something private, something perhaps not intended for outside ears.

I shift, the faintest spark of curiosity pulling me from my solitude. It's innocent, surely - a late-night conversation, perhaps a shared joke. And yet, as the moments pass, I can't ignore the intimacy in your laughter, the way Astarion's voice drops to that silken murmur he reserves for his attempts at enticement.

Just a glance, I tell myself. Merely to understand what could be so amusing at this hour.

Slowly, carefully, I draw back a sliver of canvas, just enough to peek through.

My breath catches as my eyes adjust to the firelight outside. There, on the other side of the campfire, resting against a fallen log, you sit beside him, close - very close - your faces inches apart.

Your legs are entwined, and there’s an intensity in the way you look at each other. I’m taken aback by the hunger in the kiss that follows - one neither timid nor restrained. Your hands begin to explore each other with what I can only call fervour - the kind of urgency I hadn't known either of you possessed, let alone with each other.

The way you move together speaks of raw desire rather than tender affection - this is clearly a new physical relationship.

When did this start? How did I miss the signs? Though perhaps I was too caught up in my own concerns to notice the lingering glances, the way you always seemed to find reasons to be near each other…

I tell myself it’s simple curiosity that keeps me here, observing. A certain academic interest, if you will. After all, Astarion has always been something of a hedonist - a man who indulges in his desires with a recklessness I sometimes envy, though rarely approve. But to see him like this - in action, as it were - offers a unique perspective on his character.

You murmur something I cannot make out, a teasing lilt in your voice, and Astarion laughs in that rakish, honeyed tone of his, as though thrilled to have you so wholly entranced. His hands grip your waist, and with a practised grace, he pulls you into his lap, the hem of your skirt spilling around you both. As his hands settle on your hips, you grind against what I can only assume to be a prominent hardness in his trousers, judging by the satisfied smirk on his face.

You seem eager, pliant under his touch, responding in ways I confess I hadn’t thought you capable of - no, not like this. Not with him.

My heart hammers in my chest, a tension spreading through me that’s… increasingly difficult to ignore. And yet, I remind myself, this is mere observation, nothing more. A clinical exercise in understanding the intricacies of interpersonal attractions between a vampire and a mortal; the undercurrent of danger that befalls such an arrangement.

He holds you with a blend of confidence and entitlement that borders on decadent, his mouth at your neck, lips brushing against your skin with a maddening leisure that’s somehow indulgent and teasing all at once. His fangs linger there and, for a moment, my heart stops - surely he wouldn’t… Ah, no. No, he’s not feeding. He merely kisses your neck, fangs scraping lightly against your throat - close enough to tempt and tantalise. I see the goosebumps flare on your skin.

He whispers something low and unintelligible, and you let out a soft giggle, yielding in a way that speaks of trust - trust that’s he’s earned, somehow, despite his nature.

And then your hand drifts between you both, touching him through his trousers.

Gosh. I hadn’t thought you so bold.

Astarion’s body arches into your touch, his gaze darkening as he watches you with a hunger that’s both terrifying and… strangely beautiful. I find myself entranced, my breath shallow as I observe the way your fingers trace over him, the way he leans into you. The noise he makes when your fingers flex, squeezing him gently over the fabric… Gracious.

There’s a strange, reluctant curiosity building within me. I should look away. I should grant you both the privacy you likely assume you have. And yet, my gaze remains fixed, drawn to the details of your encounter: the way his hands tighten on your waist, the way your breaths synchronise, the way he murmurs softly into your ear…

I am aware - painfully so - of the ache low in my body that has built with each passing moment, each glance, each touch. I am no stranger to restraint - I have spent years tempering my desires, sacrificing comforts in the pursuit of knowledge, of power. Yet, here, now, I feel that restraint begin to falter; to dissolve like ink in water, dispersing until it is all but unrecognisable. It has been so long, after all. So, so long.

When your hands move to the waistband of his trousers, my breath catches. Gods above, surely you won't, not out in the open... but yes. Yes, it seems you will.

When you pull him free, well - I’ve always wondered about vampire physiology, purely academically, of course. But the sight of him prompts rather less scholarly thoughts. He’s impressively endowed - perhaps it is wishful thinking to believe that this is but another gift of his condition. It’s fascinating how vampiric transformation affects every part of the body - he’s almost luminescent in the firelight, every inch of him perfect and unmarred. I notice the veins that trace along his length, faintly visible beneath his skin. He is, even now, a study in confidence, exuding a subtle power that one can only achieve when utterly comfortable in one’s own skin.

Your hand wraps around him, sliding up and down his length at a teasing pace, drawing forth a sound I have never heard our pale companion make - a soft, broken gasp, caught somewhere between a moan and a sigh. It sounds almost reluctant, as though he hadn’t meant for such a sound to slip past his lips. He twitches under your ministrations, and his grip on your hips tightens enough that there will surely be bruises tomorrow.

My fingers rest at my thigh, trembling ever so slightly. A small part of me - a remnant of reason, perhaps - tells me to pull back, to look away, to let this moment pass without surrendering to the need that has taken root within me. But my body, the traitorous thing it is, does not heed such commands. Instead, I find my hand drifting lower.

My fingers trace over the fabric of my trousers, over the aching hardness beneath. A gentle palming, barely enough to ease the tension that coils tighter with each passing moment as I watch the scene unfold.

Your hands elicit quiet murmurs from Astarion that grow deeper and more insistent with each passing moment. For a moment, the two of you share a look - one of conspiratorial mischief, perhaps - and then a soft, shared giggle, the sound mingling with the crackling of the fire.

You're so utterly engrossed in him; so utterly unselfconscious.

You shift, a question in your eyes, and as he nods, giving his assent, you rise just enough to shift, positioning yourself over him. Your skirts drape around you both, providing a veneer of modesty, though there's no mistaking what follows when you sink yourself down on to him. The way your lips part in a gasp as he enters you, the way his head falls back with a victorious grin - it makes the tightness, the great ache between my legs, almost unbearable.

I find my hand slipping beneath my waistband.

Just a little relief, I tell myself. Just enough to ease this maddening tension.

There is a certain poetry to it, I suppose - this surrender to the pleasures of the flesh. I allow myself to imagine, as my hand finds the throbbing heat of my arousal, what it might feel to be in your place, to have someone look at me with that same confidence, to experience touch imbued with the certainty of one who knows precisely how to elicit pleasure - a knowledge gleaned from centuries, no doubt, of indulgence and conquest.

It’s enough to leave me aching for more than mere observation.

The fervour with which you move against him… it’s hypnotic, each roll of your hips drawing forth increasingly wanton sounds from you both. Astarion's carefully crafted demeanour gives way to something more roguish, a playful daring that glints in his eyes as you rise and fall and rise and fall on his length.

I find my hand instinctively matching your rhythm, every shift and motion, as though I, too, am bound to the undulating tempo that you and Astarion have created.

Gods… what must it be like to be him? To have someone so openly, eagerly drawn to you, meeting every touch with matching fervour? To hold someone close and feel their raw desire, the thrill of each laugh, each gasp, offered without hesitation? I wonder what it must be like to inspire such a response, to be desired so freely, without need for pretence or restraint?

With Mystra, I was ever the pursuer, striving tirelessly to earn even the barest hint of her approval, each moment together feeling like an examination I desperately hoped to pass. But Astarion… well. He needn't chase or convince. Despite his vampiric nature - or perhaps, in part, because of it - he is simply desired, freely given all that I once had to beg for. The inequity of it all would be rather poetic, if it weren't so personally vexing.

“A-ah!”

Your gasp cuts through my ruminations, pulling me back into the scene.

Astarion’s hand has slipped between you, guiding you to that final crescendo with a practised touch. The sight of it is utterly spellbinding: his fingers moving with a precision that speaks to centuries of experience, knowing just where to press, where to linger. The control he exercises over you is enviable, each movement of his hand coaxing you closer to that peak, his attention wholly focused on your reaction, even as your hips rock back and forth on his length with an increasingly frantic, unrestrained urgency.

The way your eyes roll back... Gosh.

The expression on your face, one of pure, unfiltered abandon, is a sight to behold.

Your body trembles as you reach your peak, and a sound - a cry, too loud in the stillness of the night - escapes your lips. Astarion’s palm clamps over your mouth, a futile attempt to muffle you in the throes of your climax. Though he hushes you, his expression suggests that he is not in the least bit concerned. In fact, he seems rather pleased - more than pleased, really.

There’s a thrill in such a public display for him too, no doubt.

I swallow, the sound almost too loud, my heart pounding against my ribs as though it seeks to betray me. Astarion's head tilts slightly, his gaze flickering to the shadows, and for one heart-stopping moment, I think he has sensed me, that his attention has shifted from you to this invisible interloper, the scholar caught red-handed in his quiet act of voyeurism.

Could he... sense me here, lingering on the fringe of his private moment? Could he smell the stir of my own arousal, feel the faint tremor of my breath as I fight for composure? For several heartbeats, my hand freezes. I dare not even breathe.

But then his attentions return to you, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

He brings his hands to your hips, holding them firmly in place as he drives himself upwards into you, deeper, with mounting desperation. It seems he seeks to chase his own release, content with the pleasure he has wrought you.

You respond eagerly, pressing closer, your own sounds growing louder, heedless of who might hear, and I can see that thrill in his face - the satisfaction of knowing he’s eliciting every reaction from you, drawing out each gasp, each shudder.

My hand glides hastily across my arousal, my own breathing growing ragged as I watch his control begin to slip. Even from here, I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his head tips back in pure abandon.

In the final throes, he presses himself against you, buried firmly to the hilt. It’s almost animalistic, all thoughts, all calculated movements, making way for one singular goal: to empty himself into you, filling you with all he has to offer with breaths rugged and low. All composure is stripped, replaced with instinct and pure need.

I find my own movements quickening to match his pace, as though some invisible thread binds us all to this moment. My hand tightens as I lose myself in the same tempo, every sound from you both spurring me closer. The sight of his final shudder, the look of utter satisfaction crossing his face as he reaches that height, is enough to tip me over the edge.

For a heartbeat, the night seems to hold us all in perfect suspension - your quiet gasps, his satisfied murmurs, my own silent echo of shared pleasure - all woven together in this clandestine tableau.

Only then, as the euphoria begins to fade, does a most uncomfortable awareness creep in.

Gods above, what have I... A scholar of worldly acclaim, reduced to voyeur, caught up in base desires like some common... No. Best not to dwell on such things. Though I suspect sleep will prove rather elusive tonight, haunted by questions of propriety and... other matters.

With a groan, I roll onto my back, the orb’s steady throb now a minor annoyance compared to the tangled thoughts that flood my mind. Perhaps I can chalk this entire… incident up to fatigue, a wandering mind, even a fevered dream. Yes, that must be it. The product of a restless night and, possibly, a touch of indigestion. After all, who could believe that I, Gale of Waterdeep, would be brought so low as to... well, that.

As morning light spills across camp, I attempt a façade of normalcy, willing my cheeks to cool and my mind to settle. Just as I convince myself the night’s events were nothing more than a peculiar dream, Astarion sidles up, his expression one of leisurely amusement.

"Restless night, Gale?�� he murmurs, just loud enough for me to hear. His gaze is as sharp as his tone, a knowing glint in his eyes that makes my stomach twist in the most uncomfortable way. "I thought I heard a... stirring from your tent."

The corner of his mouth quirks up in that infuriatingly smug way of his, and I nearly choke on my response.

He knew.

Astarion knew.

I force a cough, pretending to inspect the morning sky.

"A dream," I reply a bit too quickly. "Perhaps the cheese at dinner was... overly ripe."

But Astarion merely chuckles, a wicked sound, before strolling away with a satisfied air. And as I watch him saunter off, I’m left to question just how much of the night was a dream - and how much, mortifyingly, was very, very real.

Masterlist can be found here!

No Pressure Tags: @roguishcat @davenswitcher @silverfangmarks @sparrowbard @chonkercatto @stokzr @trafalgarussy @asterordinary

#astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion x f!reader #f!tav #bloodweave #astarion smut #astarion fanfiction #gale fanfic #astarion ancunin #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #bg3 #bg3 fanfic #astarion fanfic

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stormhearty · 9 months ago

Text

Pairings: Azriel x Reader

Word Count: 2.8k

Triggers: pregnancy trope, longing, mention of death, thoughts of suicide, blood, baby’s death, open-ended ending

Summary: Hiraeth definition: “homesickness, longing, nostalgia and a wistful desire for something irretrievably lost.” It had been several years since your passing, one that he cursed the Mother and the Gods for. Now he wanders the world, endless and lost, waiting for the day you would whisper in his ears to come home — home to you.

Note: From this request! Thank you @soulsansang (I cannot tag you for the life of me), for sending this request! I fought every urge to connect this to my Seer!Reader fics. The idea of hiraeth fit perfectly with a mourning Azriel; however, I needed something else. Needed an Azriel who was mourning not because of his actions, but due to unforeseen circumstances that fate seemed to have placed him in. I’m sorry for the “pregnancy trope”, I didn’t think I would be writing this one like this. If you do not like that trope, I completely understand and I respect you not reading this. But I do hope you enjoy, and I hope it fills the angst and sadness that you had requested!

“Azriel~!”

He looked over his shoulder, his name echoing in his ears, as he stepped out of his apartment and into the pouring rain. Dull hazel eyes stared at the gray skies as the rain poured down, relentless and unforgiving.

It had been days since this rain had started, and it seemed as if it would never stop. It was torrent, heavy with the mix of strong that howled through the empty alleyways. Valeris was almost like an abandoned city — its inhabitants were locked indoors due to the storm that shook its walls.

Azriel’s form shuddered, the wetness seeping into his clothes. He barely wore something that would keep him warm in such icy weather — a simple black jacket, a long-sleeved tee hidden underneath, and black jeans. His leather shoes were soaked in the rain as he stepped into another puddle, not caring that the wetness soaked into his feet.

He walked through the deserted city, only a few who braved the torrential storm were running through the streets. Those out looked at the Spymaster with confusion and worry, but none voiced them out loud — he wouldn’t have listened anyway.

He had one destination — and he would make it there — despite the storm.

Stepping across the Sindra River, the cobblestone bridge was overrun by the river below. Waters crashed upon slowly decaying rocks, splashing over the sides and onto the bridge. Traversing it might seem impossible for any normal Fae, but for Azriel, it was easy.

He stepped onto the bridge, not minding how the cold waters of the river splashed onto him. He paused, at the arch of the bridge, leaning over the stoney rail to look at those rapid waters that raced down the riverbend. They crashed and crescented over rocks, splashing against everything and anything that stood in its way — and the downpour only amplified the river’s maelstrom.

Azriel looked into the waters below him, barely making out his reflection in them. He blinked out the water that tricked into his eyes, and when he looked back down into his reflection — instead he found a familiar figure — hair blowing in the raging wind, eyes looking up at him, hand reached out as if to tempt him into those frigid cold waters below him.

It was tempting, to say the least, the call to be submerged into the depths of the river, to feel the icy liquid deep into his skin — and make the river his grave.

He couldn't help it — the image was like a siren with its sailors, tempting them to their end. Leaning across the cobblestone rail, he leaned down — down into the depths of the water. Azriel had every mindset, every want to drown in that very river.

However, he felt his body pause, as if a tiny hand tugged on his shoulder — a child’s laugh echoing in his ears.

His body snapped up, his head whipping over his shoulder, frantically looking around, only to stop. Eyes noticed a fallen blue-violet on the drenched cobblestone. Azriel felt his body go rigid at the flower, remembering what it had meant. He turned around and knelt, shaky hands reaching down to pick up the soaked flower. He felt his eyes prickle with tears as he turned it in his hand, before bringing it up to his lips and pressing a kiss on the petals, standing up and pocketing it.

Dull hues stared at the river below him, noticing his reflection once more — and not the mirage that tempted him to death. A frown tugged on the edge of his blue-tinged lips before making his way across the bridge once more, the call of death barely whispering in his ears.

He turned, his feet bringing him off paved grounds into a mud-soaked one. The mud squished underneath his feet. He weaved through familiar trees, and as he delved further into the forest the canopy above him blocked the gray skies above, the pitter-patter of rain on soil lessening. There, underneath the canopy, Azriel shook his wings out — the rain that had drenched his wings flying off in droplets. He raised a hand, running through soak locks, pushing them back away from his face. He fixed his jacket, dusting off the moisture from its soaked fabric before he continued walking.

Hazel hues saw the familiar clearing, watching as the downpour continued to drench the soil in its never-ending attack. He stood at the edge of the clearing, hues staring up at the sky once more. He silently cursed the Mother and the Gods above for this rain — all he wanted was to see the clear skies for once.

Azriel stepped into the clearing, the rain drenching his clothes once more — not that he minded anyway.

He stepped into the middle of the clearing where a lone headstone stood. A simple one, nothing to extravagant. Azriel felt his heart race in his chest as he got closer to the headstone.

Azriel kneeled in front of the headstone, a tearful gaze as he read the words that were etched onto the stone: Here lies (Y/N), the wonderful wife of Azriel. Mother of their unborn child. May the Mother and Gods bring her safe passage to the Havens.

It had been two years since he had to bury your body, along with your unborn child.

The Mother was cruel to him.

You and Azriel had been married for over three centuries — his life was full of color, full of happiness and full of love. You were everything to Azriel. He would miss you when he went to missions, kiss you silly when he got home from said missions; he would spend lazy time with you, your head on his lap or vice versa — just spending time with each other. And for those three centuries, both of you had tried for a child, but because Fae menstrual cycles were so sporadic, it had been difficult.

But two years ago, your miracle baby happened.

“Azriel!”

Azriel turned around after shutting the door to your apartment, only to catch your body that flung towards his way.

“Hey love,” he greeted you, a chuckle escaping his chest as he wrapped his arms around you, looking down and noticing how your head tucked into his chest. He could feel your excitement vibrate through your body and he couldn't help but wonder what had gotten you so happy.

But at that moment, he just leaned down and pressed a kiss on the crown of your head, watching your head tilt up to look at him, your eyes shining.

“What is it?” he hummed out with a raised brow.

He watched as you bit your lower lip, fighting the smile that tugged at the edge of your lips.

“You know how I have been feeling unwell the past few weeks…” you had started off.

Azriel hummed out, shifting you in his arms so that you were at his side, his arm wrapped around your waist before leading you into the kitchen. He maneuvered you around, grasping your waist and lifting you with ease onto the countertop next to the stove.

“Azriel!!” You shrieked in surprise, your hands grasping his shoulders to stretch yourself.

He smirks up at you, settling himself between your legs, “Now what were you saying, love?”

He watched you huff softly before continuing your story, “Well I went to Madja earlier today and I told her of my symptoms—-”

“Nausea, headaches, bloating…” he listed off.

Azriel knew your symptoms, it had worried him to the max. Both of you didn't know what had happened — he was worried about some sort of poisoning… he thought of the worst-case scenarios. And you had to be the one to calm him down from those spiraling thoughts.

You hummed and nodded your head, “Well… it looks like you didn't have to be so worried about that poisoning scenario, my love…” you whispered as you leaned down to press your forehead against his.

He felt your hands slide down his shoulders, down his arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

Azriel always loved how you touched him — there was no hesitancy in the way you held him, touched him — whether it he sexual or intimate. You had always initiated touching him and now, he can't live without your hands or body near his own.

He felt your hands grip his own, sliding then to your lower abdomen, pressing his hands against the soft skin.

“… I’m pregnant, Azzie…”

Your words were a whisper and Azriel felt his eyes widen at the words that had left your lips. He stared up at you and watched as your eyes sparkle light the night sky at your confession.

Hazel hues looked up at you before sliding down your body to where your hand lay over his own. A wide smile tugged on his lips before he slipped his hands away from your own, cupping your cheeks and kissing you.

He poured everything into that kiss — all his love for you and this unborn child.

When his lungs screamed for air, he was content with pressing kisses on your skin while you giggled, feeling your hands run through his hair.

“We’ll be having a child…” he whispered in disbelief.

He heard you let out a hum, feeling your head nod, “Yes we are… after centuries… our beautiful child…”

Every word that you whispered was full of happiness, adoration, and excitement. He knew, from hearing you speak, that you'd be a wonderful mother… one that would dote on that child.

He was elated — after centuries of both of you trying, watching your family build their own little families — Azriel was worried that both of you would never be blessed with a child. Yet now, the Mother seemed to rain her fortune on the both of you.

But deep within him, worry festered like mold, slowly growing. He worried about the complications — he heard about it with Rhysand and Feyre, Nesta and Cassian. And he worried for you — and all he could pray to the Mother that you would be spared from it.

“What color should the baby’s room be?”

Azriel hummed and raised a brow, turning his head to gaze at you. He fought back a smile — he had found you so adorable. You had waddled, your belly large protruding your tiny stature. Your hand tucked in the crook of his elbow protectively.

Azriel had ensured you were in good hands during your pregnancy; and that he would always prioritize your health and safety. He would never let you go out without him, either himself or his shadows. He always had a hand on you — whether it be around your waist or, like now, your hand tucked into his elbow.

Your features glowed despite the exhaustion he knew you felt — you had looked so beautiful during your whole pregnancy and Azriel worshiped you like the Goddess you were to him.

He watched as your gaze went up to him, your head tilting slightly at the look he gave you. Azriel shook his head, “You know I'd be biased if you asked me, love…” he answered.

Azriel would choose blue, even if it was a girl or a boy, his siphon colors would be that room’s color.

He watched as you rolled your eyes, and felt your hand pat his forearm, “Why am I not surprised that, out of all the colors, you’d choose your siphon?”

The two of you walked into the paint shop, the doorbell ringing above you. You were greeted by a Fae, one who was shocked and nervous to meet the Spymaster and his wife.

Azriel patted your hand and slipped your hand from his elbow, “Go ahead my loves… I'll be here…” He watched you smile before following the Fae to the color room, and he watched with adoration.

“You can't leave me, (Y/N)…” he sobbed, grasping your flaccid hand in his, pressing a kiss on cold skin.

The room was deathly still, his sobs echoing in the loud shared room.

You had gone into labor hours ago, and that labor… was difficult on your weak body. The babe, as Madja had warned you and Azriel all those months ago, had taken a toll on your body. You had been sick and bedridden for most of the pregnancy — Madja had stressed for you to terminate the pregnancy — it was either you or the baby.

Azriel had fought for you to terminate the pregnancy; begged and cried you to.

He could live without the unborn child but without you?

Never.

He watched you cry, begged him to let you keep the babe — he listened to your bargains, and promises; he listened to you cry in the night whispering to the baby all the while rubbing your stomach.

He watched everything… but he couldn't lose you.

But you had been stubborn, wanting to keep the pregnancy — pushing it to term — despite the consequences of it.

And so when you went into labor, the amount of blood you lost… was too much for Madja to replenish with her powers. The baby that was born was already too blue to try to bring back alive. Azriel was by your side the whole labor, watching you push your body to the brink — all for the child.

He felt your pulse slow underneath his fingertips, his hazel eyes frantically trying to find yours as he watched them roll backwards.

“No…No!” he yelled, dropping your hand onto the mattress and cupping your cheeks, “My love… (Y/N)…” he whispered, leaning in to press his forehead against yours, trying to pull you from the call of death.

Azriel watched you smile up at him, your eyes focusing on him, crescenting as you looked up at him, “…Azzie…” you whispered.

He fought back tears as he nodded his head, “Hey, my love, yes, I’m here… I’m here…”

“I’m sorry…”

It was as if you knew… this would be the outcome of your decision.

“No… Don’t be sorry… Please don’t… Just… Please don’t leave me… You can’t leave me…”

He watched as your eyes roll again and he brought your face closer to his own, watching them focus on him again, “…I don’t want to… But, I’m so tired Az…”

Azriel felt a heart wrenching sob escape his throat. His thumb caressed your pulse point, feeling it slow more. He looked up at his High Lord and the Healer and both of them looked at him with a somber look.

A shake from his High Lord gave his answer.

The tears finally fell, as he looked back at you — and you back up at him. He watched your brows furrow in confusion as you stared at him.

All he did was shake his head, leaning down to press one final kiss on your lips.

“Sleep… My love… if you’re tired. I’ll wait for you to wake up…”

He felt you take one last breath, a smile tugging on your lips as you whispered, “I love you, Az…”

Azriel felt your body go limp in the bed, your head roll back and your pulse stop completely. He watched your eyes dull, that smile still on your features.

His body shook, and tears never ended as he pulled your body into his arms, cradling your head as he let out a cry, pressing his face into the crook of your neck — the final time he’d ever feel you against him.

Azriel never thought heart break would be so painful.

He stared at the tombstone, pulling out of his thoughts and memories to reach down and caress the marble stone.

“… Hi my love…” he greeted you, like usual, “It’s raining again… It seems that Valeris is in a typhoon of rain recently…”

Azriel sat himself down on the muddy ground, not caring if the mud and rain soaked through his clothes again.

He had sat there, talking to you about his day, what had happened recently with the family, what was going on with Valeris and Prythian in general. He talked for hours until he felt his voice go sore and his body shake due to the cold from the rain, but he didn’t leave… not until the skies turned dark.

Azriel laid himself down on the patch of dirt in front of your grave, laying on his back as he stared up at the sky. It seemed the rain ceased and the beautiful starry skies of Valeris peaked through the rain clouds.

He watched the stars twinkle, before a shooting star blazed through the sky before another one — much smaller — followed it.

“…Was that you, (Y/N)?” he whispered, thinking that those two fallen stars were you and the child, reaching out to him from the Havens above.

Azriel had been searching for signs, for the past two years of any sign of you in the Havens. Looking for signs that you were calling for him — looking for him. All he wanted to know was that you were out there.

And that shooting star was it.

He smiled and closed his eyes, “I’m coming back home to you…”

#acotar fanfiction #acotar x reader #a court of thorns and roses #acotar fic #acotar angst #azriel x reader #azriel angst #azriel acotar #( .inbox request : when you call me home )#( .inbox request )

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mimimarvelingmarvel · 2 months ago

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time bound part twelve

pairing: worst wolverine!logan howlett x f!mutant!reader

Part Twelve - Masterlist

summary: Y/n’s life takes a dramatic turn when the Time Variance Authority intervenes, pulling her from a critical moment in her timeline. The TVA sends her to the void where she eventually meets with Deadpool and a very familiar face. With Deadpool's universe in the balance, alongside his reluctant would-be pal, Wolverine, and the enigmatic time-bending mutant known as the Veil, the trio must complete the mission and save Deadpool’s world from an existential threat.

overall warnings: 18+, Fem!Reader, AFAB Reader, Use of Y/N, Her X-Men name is Veil, She/her pronouns, Swearing, Angst, Heavy Violence, Character Death, Deadpool (he’s his own warning), Hurt, Fluff, Angst, Eventual Smut, Slow Burn, TVA

word count: 2.7k

a/n: So sorry for the late update, but I’ve just returned to uni and got the flu almost immediately. I am watching the Greatest Showman to make me feel better.

A high-pitched ringing fills my ears, drowning out every other sound. My body feels like it’s being jolted by thousands of volts of electricity, every nerve burning, every muscle straining to hold on. I can barely see through the blinding light, the energy warping around me, threatening to tear me apart at the seams.

“Y/N!” A voice cuts through the chaos, desperate and loud. My head whips to the side, and I see Wade, his arm outstretched, hand reaching for me as he tries to squeeze through the violent storm of energy surrounding us.

“What are you doing?!” I scream, the words barely audible over the roar of matter and anti-matter colliding.

Wade grins, though it’s strained. “Saving your life, Bub!”

Before I can process what he’s doing, I feel another presence to my left. “Take my hand.” Logan’s voice is rough, commanding. His hand is outstretched, eyes locked on mine with an intensity that cuts through the blinding light.

My heart pounds in my chest, and I feel tears welling up in my eyes, blurring the chaos around me. Logan. Wade. Both of them reaching for me, trying to pull me out of this—whatever this is. I stretch my arms out, trembling from the force of the energy ripping through me. Wade’s hand clasps mine tightly, and Logan grips the other, their strength anchoring me as the meeting of matter and anti-matter surges in a deadly collision.

The energy pulses violently, the air crackling with power. I’m the anchor. The focal point holding it all together. And I can feel it building to a breaking point, the pressure unbearable, my whole body vibrating under the strain.

Then, everything erupts.

The world explodes around us. A deafening boom rattles my bones as the ground beneath our feet gives way. I see walls crumbling, debris flying in every direction, a swirling maelstrom of destruction. But somehow, through it all, I remain anchored—connected to Logan and Wade, their hands the only thing tethering me to this world.

As the building collapses, I feel Logan move. He pulls me into his chest, wrapping his arms around me in a protective embrace. His body, hard and unyielding, shields me from the falling rubble as the room disintegrates around us. Wade is somewhere nearby, swearing loudly between coughs, but I can’t focus on him. All I can feel is Logan’s warmth surrounding me, his heart pounding in his chest, his breath hot against my ear as he whispers something I can’t make out over the chaos.

Eventually, the chaos begins to subside. The air clears, the dust settling around us. Logan’s grip on me loosens slightly, but he doesn’t let go, keeping me pressed against his bare chest as he rises from the wreckage, surveying the damage.

My head swims as I open my eyes, coughing through the dust and smoke. Logan still has me held tightly, his shirt ripped away in the explosion, leaving his torso exposed. My eyes can’t help but wander over the way his muscles ripple as he moves. He glances down at me, his face streaked with dirt, but his expression softens as he meets my gaze.

“You alright?” he asks, his voice low and gruff, concern etched in his features.

I nod weakly, my heart still racing. “Yeah… I think so.”

Logan’s eyes linger on mine for a moment longer, then he releases me gently, stepping back as Wade stumbles over, covered in dust but grinning like a maniac. “Well, that was fun!” he quips, brushing off debris from his suit. “Let’s do it again sometime.”

I roll my eyes, still trying to catch my breath. “You’re insane,” I mutter, shaking my head.

Wade winks at me. “You love it.”

Logan lets out a low growl, giving Wade a hard shove on the shoulder. “Enough.”

We make our way through the debris, stepping over broken stone and shattered glass. Logan stays close, his arm brushing mine occasionally as we navigate the remnants of the room that was once whole but now reduced to ruins. The scent of dust and burnt metal fills the air, thick and cloying in my throat. My body still aches, my muscles protesting with every step, but it’s nothing compared to the adrenaline pumping through me.

We round a corner, sparks fly around us, the lingering energy from the explosion still crackling in the air. Wade walks out first, declaring; “He has risen, baby girl!” Standing there, looking anything but pleased to see us, is Paradox. “Fuck!” He’s flanked by a group of TVA agents, each of them looking ready to intervene at any moment.

Deadpool points to me, his expression mischievous. “Found your new Anchor Being.”

Paradox stares at me, disbelief clear on his face. “I don’t understand. How is she still alive?”

With a flourish, Deadpool shrugs. “Turns out she’s basically a little mutant cross between a human and a time ripper. Indestructible motherfucker.”

One of the TVA agents steps forward, her voice steady and commanding. “Let’s get this Deadpool variant back to The Void,” she orders, her eyes locking onto Wade with a no-nonsense expression.

Wade’s eyes widen in mock horror. “Wait, hold on, what?”

Before anything else can happen, a new figure enters the room—Peterpool. He rushes in, arms waving. “Nope, actually, this one’s homegrown,” he says, nodding toward Deadpool. “Like me, he belongs here.”

The TVA agent, her badge reading B-15, raises an eyebrow. “And you are?”

Peterpool grins. “Peterpool. But you can call me Peter. And I hope that you do.”

Paradox, still clearly frustrated, throws his hands up in exasperation. “What the fuck is happening here?”

B-15 crosses her arms, unimpressed. “You are under judgment for operating an unsanctioned Time-Ripper. Take him,” she orders, and in an instant, her agents move in on Paradox.

As they grab him, Paradox struggles, his voice rising in anger. “I was just doing what you don’t have the guts to do! Get off, get off! Your hands off me!” He continues to shout as the agents drag him through a shimmering TVA portal, his voice fading as he disappears.

B-15 turns her attention back to the rest of us, her gaze landing on me and Logan. “I’m grateful. Let’s hold the bows, though,” she says dryly. “You led an Omega-level mutant to this timeline.”

Deadpool’s grin widens. “You’re welcome.”

B-15 looks between me and Logan, her tone growing serious. “And you two shouldn’t even be near this timeline.”

Deadpool steps in, unfazed by her reprimand. “They’re welcome.”

She pauses, her eyes sliding over to Peterpool, her expression softening slightly. “And you look damn good in that suit,” she says, a hint of a smile pulling at her lips.

Peter’s face flushes, his voice apologetic. “I’m so sorry.”

B-15 shakes her head, clearly amused now. “I wanna show you something. Something huge.”

Deadpool, ever the opportunist, quips, “That’s what Scoutmaster Kevin used to say.”

Ignoring him, B-15 gestures to her little TVA device. “Do you see that? Your universe is regenerating.” The lines that represent the timeline is slowly fixing itself. “Whatever you did here, you not only saved your world, but you also spared your timeline from extinction.”

B-15 steps back, preparing to leave. “Rest up. I have a feeling your work is only just getting started.”

She turns to go, but Deadpool isn’t done yet. “Wait! We couldn’t have made it out of The Void without some help from some people that the world kinda forgot. Is there any way you could maybe find a way to bring them home?”

B-15 hesitates, glancing over her shoulder. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“And,” Deadpool continues, his voice taking on an uncharacteristically serious tone, “I promised my friends here that the TVA could undo some pretty awful shit in their timeline. What would you say to that?”

She looks at us, her gaze thoughtful. “Change the past?”

Deadpool nods. “They did help me save the world.”

B-15’s expression softens, but there’s an edge to her tone as she responds. “And their pasts brought them here today. There’s nothing to fix, Mr. Wilson.”

With that, she steps through her portal, disappearing into the stream of time. The reality of it all settles in—I'm forever chained to this world, this timeline. But somehow, it’s almost comforting to have a place to live again. A world that, despite all the chaos, I’m now part of.

Deadpool breaks the silence. “Shawarma?”

Logan, his voice as gruff as ever, grunts, “I could eat.”

As we step away from the destruction, the world feels both unfamiliar and strangely right. And for the first time in a long time, I feel... at peace.

Next Part

taglist: @oscarissac2099 @somiaw @100percentlazybonez @obsessedwthdilfs @sun7lowxr @corvid007 @aheadfullofsteverogers @raptor192 @bontensbabygirl

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lucarionite9364 · 2 months ago

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titan havik…titan havik and his silly stupid ridiculous arrogant attitude being a TEASE !!!

Chat, lemme cook for a second-- (this idea is great and so are you!)

Magnificent Maelstrom

Titan Havik x fem! reader

WC: 2,645

CW: SMUT! Mentions of violence, blood, bodily harm. Oral (M & F receiving), bitingg, scratching, creampie :3, uhhhh Havik is the warning tbh.

AN: Thank you Tan for the request,, I had fun writing this. <3

“VICTORY IS MINE!” You hear crowds cheering out as you roar your triumph in the pit. You throw your arms up as you circle around your dead opponent. Many of the Havik clones are throwing their arms at you in applause. Only one Havik catches your eye in particular though.

Lord Havik, the man he is. You hold his gaze on you. That crazed look he has on his face just looking at you covered in your foes blood is wild. It’s like lightning shooting through your veins. He knows exactly what drives you crazy for him.

With a final show of glory, you turn to your deceased enemy and plant your foot firmly on his back, yanking your greatsword out from his side. You throw your sword into the air and watch as it lands mere inches away from your Lord. He doesn’t flinch. You know whether you strike him or not, he is never afraid.

Climbing the wall of the arena, you take your spot next to Lord Havik. Takeda comes up to slap you on the back. “Nice job in the ring! I knew you’d win.” He laughs to himself as Kenshi comes up. “He bet on the other guy.” Takeda looks offended that his father would rat him out so easily. You elbow him in the side. Maybe a little harsher than expected, but he deserved it.

“Oh please, as if I’d lose to the nobodies they give us in the ring.” This might have turned into petty squabbles had Havik not interrupted. He lightly traced his hand around your neck making you shiver. “You did well, my little hurricane.”

He growled that last part in your ear, making your knees grow weak. Totally not the fact you just kicked ass in the ring. “Perhaps I should reward you.” The rasp in his voice never ceases to send heat straight to your core. Your mind couldn’t wander very far before you heard your telepathic friends stifle a cough. You glare at him, “How many times have I told you not to read my mind Takahashi.”

You could punish him, but he’s already being punished enough by Takeda’s insistent pestering about what he heard in your mind.

You roll your eyes and turn your attention back to the ring where a significant increase in severed limbs has occurred. Everyone’s focus was on the ring as the next fight was to begin. You’d like to think Lord Havik knew that you want to keep your relationship on the down low. So why did you feel his fingernails creep up your back? Trying to keep your composure while he massages your neck slowly is more difficult than it sounds.

You swiftly move to catch his wrist, in doing so he lets out a low huff of amusement. You lean over toward him so you can keep your voice quiet. “I’m starting to think you do this on purpose to test me.” Your mind clouds once more as you feel his breath creep down your face.

“Your reactions fuel me, my dear.” You don’t even have to look to know he has that arrogant smile on his face. Not that he can make any other face. It’s the intention that counts you suppose.

“The chaos in the ring should intrigue you more, shouldn’t it, My Lord?” “Oh yes, but the madness you yield has far more interest to me.” You feel him gently squeeze your ass from behind. You can only stifle your groan and hope neither of the other two heard you.

You feel a presence prod at your mind. Since you can feel that it’s there, it must be Takeda. “That’s it.” You break free from Havik’s grasp and yank your greatsword from the stone ground. “Takeda, you’re a deadman!”

You hear him laughing hysterically as he runs, and you chase after him.

Kenshi and Lord Havik can only watch in amusement as Takeda uses his ropes to swing away from you. You tried throwing your sword at him only to narrowly miss.

. . . . .

Later, you enter the Citadel. The room with seemingly no beginning or end. There were fragments of cobblestone pathways everywhere. In the sky, or down below, there were walkways and obstacles in every part of the room. Is it even a room? A dimension? That doesn’t matter as you approach the man you’ve been looking for.

Titan Havik is observing a reverse waterfall with great interest. He always does, it seems to calm him, even if ‘calm’ is the opposite of his whole being. He held his mace on his shoulder. He was rarely seen without the sharp object in hand, you thought. His attention diverted as he heard your approach. He gazed upon you with pure arrogance, like he knew you would come crawling to him eventually.

His bludgeon dissipated into the air as he made his way toward you. He reached out an arm to touch your face, but you swerved under his hand going behind him. His expression dropped slightly. “My Lord, you have been such a tease today,” you keep walking backward. “Do you really think I’d give you what you want after that performance?” Your smirk rivals that of which he wore earlier.

“Would you really deny me? Your ruler?” His voice is almost husky enough to make you give up then and there. You remained strong. His words, however, did bring a smile to your lips. “If you want me, come and get me.” At that, you took your last step off the edge of the walkway.

Falling, you can’t see the nigh primal look in his eyes as he licks his teeth in anticipation for the chase. You quickly grab a floating stone to break your fall. You land on the path underneath just in time to see Havik break through the path above to get to you.

“My hurricane, you can’t run from me in here.” You feign a pout, “Oh? But it makes my day that much more fun.” Expecting you to run away from him, you surprise him by heading straight for him. You slide between the gap in his legs and spring off the edge of the platform and leap on the larger floating rocks to move upward.

Due to your many games of cat and mouse, you knew it was only a matter of time before he played dirty. As you jumped to the next stone, you didn’t see that he threw his arm at your leg until you tripped. Now in free fall, you see Havik follow you stone path to catch you in the air. He firmly lands on the next platform, but not without a sickening crunch indicating he broke his leg.

You hear the limb snap back into place and his skin sealing itself together. As you're in his broad arms, you start nibbling on his exposed neck. He openly groans into your touch. “Now who’s being a tease?” He tilts his head toward you and leans to start licking your face.

His unusually long tongue makes its way to your lips and parts them with ease. As your tongues dance around each other, he sets you back on your feet, roughly grabbing onto your chest. You moan into the sloppy makeout session. As he exits your mouth to give you air, saliva covers your lower face.

You smirk and wipe your face on your unsleeved arm. You let your hands roam across his broad chest as you kiss your way down his torso. He looks down on you as you get on your knees before him. His hand makes its way to your hair to caress the soft strands as you start undoing the cloth surrounding his pants. His hand balls up into a fist, pulling deliciously on your hair.

“Now will you serve me?” He asks, already knowing the answer. “Yes, My Lord.” You purr as you pull down his pants. You’ve seen him before, but his size still marvels you everytime.

You grab the base with one hand and slowly lick a stripe up his shaft. The fist in your hair tightens as he groans. Wanting to tease him one last time, you swirl your tongue around his tip, occasionally dipping into the slit. “Your cruelty knows no limits, you maelstrom.” He grits his teeth as you lower your mouth on him.

You suction your mouth on him as you bob your head up and down. Just for added measure, you cup his balls and gently squeeze. You look up to see his dazed expression as his tongue lolls out from his mouth.

You know you’re doing good when he plants his feet and thrusts all the way down your throat. You gag around him which makes him want to thrust harder. He grabs the back of your head with both hands and sets his own pace, using your face as his fucktoy. He knows you love it though.

As much as you can’t breathe, you want to pleasure him. You hollow out your throat to allow for more room to take in air between the onslaught. You roughly grab onto his thighs and drag your nails down his leg in desperation. Clawing at anything to keep you grounded.

You can feel his pace grow erratic as his hips stutter. He roughly pulls out and you heave in a large breath. As you regain your focus, you see blood creeping down his chiseled thigh from where you grabbed onto him.

You could feel yourself soaking through your pants from how wet you were. He pushed you to your back on the ground, laughing lightly as he could see your arousal. He knelt down over you, rubbing the spot between your legs that felt oh so good. But the little friction you got from that is nowhere near enough.

You squirm as you undo the top of your pants, allowing him to pull them off of you with a harsh tug. You kept wiggling as you saw him stroking himself. You only wanted him inside you at that moment, but he had other plans. It seems like being a tease would bite you in the ass. Literally.

He dips his lead lower and puts a bite mark right on the inside of your thigh. You yelp in surprise. He has to pin your hips down, but not before ripping your panties off you. You shiver as the oddly cold air of the Citadel hits your lips.

“Look at me, my dear,” He glares into your eyes as he says one more word. “Payback.” His tongue dives straight to like a thick line up your slit. Being the worst tease he is, he harshly sucks on your clit.

You can’t help but moan out as his teeth hit your sensitive bundle of nerves too. “Ahh, Havik!” You barely whimper his name, but to your surprise he stops. His gaze soured into a stern expression as he brought two fingers to gather your slick. “That is not my title.” You realize your mistake and quickly correct yourself.

“I’m sorry My Lord! Please, don’t stop.” You have a pleading tone in your voice. He seems to like your answer as he pries you open with his two digits. Moving them in and out, scissoring them open to loosen you up.

Your breathing increases in intensity. You feel the knot in your stomach tighten as he continues to suck your clit and finger you. You tangle your fingers in his hair, surprisingly soft, and tug on it. He growls out into your pussy as he keeps up the pace.

“Lord Havik, I’m. . . I’m gonna–” “Let it out.” He commands, and you do as you're told. You yank his hair tighter as you shove your pussy into his face. Feeling your slick and release mix with his saliva as he continues to lick every last inch of you. You let go of his hair, but he doesn’t stop licking you, helping you ride out your orgasm.

After he is done, he leans up to give you a sloppy kiss. You can taste yourself on his mouth as you bring your hands to wrap around his neck. You feel his still hard cock bumping your leg. Even after that strong orgasm, you still can’t help but want more. Want him. Need him.

He pulls away from the kiss and looks down on your disheveled form as he positions himself at your entrance. He pushes into you only to miss and slide up your soaked cunt. The tip nudged your clit sending a bolt of pleasure up your spine.

Growing frustrated, he repositions himself and pushes all the way into you in one thrust. You can feel the breath being knocked out of you. You moan out at the intrusion, never being fully ready to take him. The stretch was a little painful, but the pleasure overtook that feeling as he pulled out and pushed back in with force.

He started with a harsh pace, not giving you any time to adjust to his large size. You can feel yourself squeezing his shaft and you get impossibly wetter as he abuses your sopping cunt. He takes one of your nipples in his calloused fingers and pinches it while teething on the other.

The thought that someone can find you splayed open underneath your Lord never crossed your mind as you moan every time he thrusts into you. He brings his unoccupied hand down to rub circles into your clit. His thrusts falter for a moment as you rake your sharp nails down his muscular back. Leaving bloody trails in its wake.

He loved the scars you left on his body. He wore them just as proudly as his battle scars. Letting people see the things you do to him, whether they knew it was from you or not. His thrusts lost their pattern and became erratic. He was close, and you were too. However, he was dead set on making you go first.

He bit into the sweet spot on your neck. That coupled with his endless thrusts and toying with your clit cause you to let go for a second time. Your juices came gushing out all over his lower abdomen. He stopped playing with your clit, but his thrusts picked up till he finally threw himself over the edge.

You locked your legs around his back to make sure he couldn’t leave. Your body heat rose three times as his hot cum was shot into your womb. He lost control of his groans as the bite on your neck drew blood. He had his hands holding your hips in such a grip you thought it might bruise as he finished spilling into you.

You almost blanked as the please was too much. Were it not for the fact he’s holding you up, you would have slumped over already. He stayed inside you for a little longer. Growling out into your ear, “You drive me mad. You are the anarchy I crave.” You feel warm tears well up in your eyes. You can’t tell if it’s because you’re overstimulated or his words meant more than he realized.

You breathlessly confess, “You are the disorder to my disarray. Nothing is better than the great turmoil you bring to my life.” You plant one more kiss on his exposed teeth before you groan as he pulls out of you. You shudder as you feel his cum drip out of your spent cunt. An idea, good or bad, sparks your hand into motion. You make a show of scooping his cum from between your legs and bringing your fingers to your mouth.

You made sure we watched every second of your display. His voice drops to a growl as he speaks, “We have time before the next battle in the arena.”

#havik x reader #mortalkombat 1 #mk havik #mk1 havik #mortal kombat smut #mk1 #titan havik #mk1 khaos reigns #titan havik smut

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undiscovered-horizon · 1 year ago

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Ah, wonderful choice, Little Wanderer! Browse the stories, take your time. If there is something else you would like to read, just come back to me. If you don’t find what you’re looking for, make a request to the librarian.

1. Roronoa Zoro

➳ You're impressed by another man and Zoro is jealous

➳ Your father would never let you date Zoro but he still climbs through your window at night

➳ "Put it on me" -> Zoro asks you to put your burdens on him. He wants to worry about you.

➳ "Ultimatum" -> Zoro hits you with a "fine, I'll be your boyfriend" when you try to break off your casual situationship

➳ Zoro and Sanji's rivalry is about to become extreme when they find out they both have set their eyes on you

➳ "They way to a man's heart" -> Your relationship with Zoro is turbulent and ambiguous until he gets a spear stuck in his chest helping you escape.

2. Vinsmoke Sanji

➳ "Die Happy" -> Sanji is disillusioned about his unrequited love. Still, he lets you crawl into his bed when you can't sleep. ➳ "Maelstrom" -> Confessions are made and Sanji can't believe that someone like you loves someone like him

➳ "4 A.M." -> Sanji's doing prep for the next day and you can't sleep which leads to a heartfelt and intimate encounter.

➳ You're crying and he slow dances with you in the rain

➳ He's jealous of the attention you're getting so shows off that he's got you wrapped around his finger

➳ Zoro and Sanji's rivalry is about to become extreme when they find out they both have set their eyes on you

➳ Sanji is jealous of another cook flirting with you

➳ You're afraid of being vulnerable with someone but Sanji is more than willing to wait for you

3. Dracule Mihawk

➳ Mihawk doesn't like when his acquaintances ask about his wife

➳ You're married to Mihawk but Shanks is still in love with you

➳ Mihawk gets angry when a Marine cadet tries to flirt with you

➳ You're married to Shanks but Mihawk is still in love with you

➳ "Everywhere is good but home is..." -> Mihawk is not exactly fond of his in-laws because your family is a little too picture-perfect for him.

➳ Someone upsets you to the point of making you cry and all Mihawk sees is red.

➳ He kills the man who thought it was a good idea to share his unsolicited, sexual thoughts about you.

➳ Years after you had left him in the middle of the night, he finds out you're actually alive.

4. Red-Haired Shanks

➳ You're married to Mihawk but Shanks is still in love with you

➳ "A sharp tongue" -> What is supposed to be a flyting challenge becomes shameless flirting when Shanks can't think of an insult upon meeting you

➳ You're married to Shanks but Mihawk is still in love with you

➳ Years after you had left him in the middle of the night, he finds out you're actually alive.

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lila-lou · 7 months ago

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✨ His only exception - Pt. 21/? ✨

Summary: 12 months ago, Butcher went above and beyond to have you join his team. You had a simple office job at Supe Affairs. The same thing every day, working from 9 to 5 and watching Butcher and his team defeat one renegade after another. One evening, however, something changed.

Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader

Warnings: Language, angst, hurt

Word Count: 3377

A/N: This is part 21 of “His only exeption”.

English isn’t my first language, so please be lenient. 💙✨

As you stood there in the bathroom, staring at your reflection, the tumult of emotions swirling within you threatened to overwhelm you. Jay's presence in your life had brought moments of joy and comfort, but now faced with the prospect of intimacy, you found yourself grappling with feelings you hadn't fully acknowledged.

Your mind wandered back to Ben, his absence palpable yet his memory hauntingly present. Could you truly move forward with someone else, knowing the lingering shadow of Ben hung over you?

The sound of Jay's voice outside the bathroom door broke through your reverie, a reminder of the present moment and the person waiting on the other side. Part of you longed to confide in him, to share the inner turmoil consuming you, but another part hesitated, fearing his reaction and the potential fallout of your honesty.

"Hey, are you sure you're okay?". His tone was gentle, laced with concern. "You seem… off. Is there something you want to talk about?".

You hesitated, the weight of his words sinking in. Jay's genuine concern only served to amplify the turmoil within you. How could you explain the maelstrom of emotions churning inside your chest without delving into the depths of your past?

"I'm… I'm fine", you replied, your voice betraying a hint of uncertainty. "Just… dealing with some things".

There was a moment of silence before Jay spoke again, his tone softer now, filled with understanding. "You know you can talk to me, right? Whatever it is, I'm here for you".

His words tugged at something deep within you, a flicker of hope amidst the chaos.

"I know", you murmured. "I just… need some time to sort things out".

You stepped out of the bathroom, your eyes red.

"C´mere", he whispered.

Feeling Jay’s arms envelop you in a comforting embrace, you let out a shaky breath, momentarily finding solace in his warmth. But his next words shattered the fragile calm that had settled over you.

“I just… I can’t shake this feeling”, Jay murmured, his voice barely above a whisper as he held you close. “It’s like… I’m all in, you know? But sometimes it feels like you’re… not as committed to this as I am. I know we haven't been together that long, but it feels like you don't really want the whole thing”.

His words hung heavy in the air, a weighty reminder of the unspoken tensions simmering beneath the surface of your relationship. You swallowed hard, the guilt of withholding your true feelings threatening to suffocate you.

“I’m sorry”, you whispered, your voice tinged with regret. “I don’t mean to make you feel that way. It’s just… complicated”.

Jay pulled back slightly, his gaze searching yours for answers. “Complicated how?”, he asked, his tone a mixture of curiosity and apprehension.

You hesitated, unsure of how much to reveal. But as you met his gaze, the sincerity in his eyes urged you to be honest.

“There’s… someone else”, you confessed, the words tumbling out in a rush. “Was someone else, I… I don´t know. It´s someone from my… past, I guess. And I… I’m still trying to figure out what that means for me… for us”.

Jay’s expression faltered, a flicker of hurt crossing his features before he masked it with a forced smile. “I see”, he said quietly, though his eyes betrayed the turmoil within. “I guess I always knew there was something more”.

You reached out to touch his arm, a silent plea for understanding. “It’s not that I don’t care about you”, you insisted, your voice trembling with emotion. “It’s just… complicated”.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the weight of your confession hanging heavily between you.

Feeling Jay’s gaze fixed on you, you took a deep breath, steeling yourself to share a glimpse of the tangled web that had ensnared your heart.

“We had… a connection, a deep one. But things didn’t end well”.

Jay listened intently, his expression a mix of concern and curiosity as he leaned back against the wall, his eyes never leaving yours.

“And now”, you whispered, the words barely “now I’m here, with you. But… but part of me still feels tied to him, to what we had”.

Jay looked down at you, his gaze searching yours with a mixture of compassion and uncertainty.

"Are you sure you're ready for a new relationship?", he asked. "I mean, if part of you still feels tied to him… it's okay to take more time to figure things out".

Your heart ached at his words, the truth of his question hitting you with a force you hadn't anticipated. Were you truly ready to move on, to fully commit to a new relationship?

You shrugged, unable to meet Jay's gaze as a pang of guilt washed over you. "I don't know", you admitted. "I want to be, but… it's hard".

A flicker of hurt crossed Jay's features at your words, his shoulders slumping slightly as he struggled to mask his disappointment. "I understand", he said quietly, though the pain in his eyes betrayed the depth of his feelings. "I just… I want you to be happy, whatever that means for you… for us".

Tears welled in your eyes as you reached out to him, desperate to ease the ache you had caused. "I'm sorry", you whispered, your voice choked with emotion. "I don't want to hurt you".

Jay enveloped you again in a gentle embrace, holding you close as if trying to shield you from the pain of your own indecision. "It's okay", he murmured against your hair, his voice filled with a quiet resignation. "We'll figure it out together, okay?".

And as you clung to him, the weight of your uncertainty pressing down on you.

With everything swirling in your mind, you felt as though you were losing yourself in the chaos. The person you once knew, the one who had made promises and believed in love, seemed like a distant memory now.

After letting yourself in with Ben, you were pretending to be someone you weren't. And now, with Jay, you had thrown yourself into a new relationship, hoping to find solace in his kindness and affection. But in the process, you were hurting him, and the realization cut you to the core.

As Jay held you close, offering comfort and understanding despite the turmoil within you, you couldn't shake the feeling of guilt gnawing at your insides. How could you continue to deceive him, to pretend that everything was fine when you were barely holding yourself together?

More tears welled in your eyes as you buried your face in Jay's chest, seeking refuge from the storm raging within you. "I don't know who I am anymore", you confessed, your voice trembling with emotion.

Jay held you tighter, his own heart heavy with the weight of your pain. "It's okay", he whispered, his voice filled with compassion. "We'll figure it out together. Just… be honest with me, okay? That's all I ask".

You nodded against his chest.

Jay held you close, his arms a comforting embrace as he gently brushed his hand over your back, soothing the ache that had settled deep within you.

"Hey", he murmured softly, his voice a gentle caress against your ear. "When was the last time you visited your mom, or your family? Or at least met with some friends?".

His question hung in the air, a stark reminder of the isolation that had gradually encroached upon your life in recent weeks. You thought back, trying to recall the last time you had reached out to anyone outside of your interactions with Jay, but the memory eluded you.

"I… I don't know", you admitted. "It's been a while. I've been so caught up in everything… I guess I lost track of time".

Jay's embrace tightened slightly, a silent acknowledgment of the loneliness that had crept into your life unnoticed. "Maybe… maybe it's time to reach out to them. They care about you, you know?".

Again you nodded against his chest, the weight of his words sinking in.

Jay pressed a tender kiss to the top of your head. "Come on", he said softly, his voice tender as he gently pulled away from your embrace. "Let's go back to the living room".

As you settled back onto the couch, Jay wrapped his arms around you once more, pulling you close as if to reassure himself of your presence. His touch was gentle, yet persistent, as he continued to brush his hand over your arm in a comforting gesture.

With each stroke, a sense of calm washed over you, the weight of your worries momentarily lifted by Jay's unwavering affection. Just like it has been for the last few weeks.

As you nestled into his embrace, Jay let out a soft sigh, his voice barely above a whisper as he spoke.

"I think… I think you need to figure out your feelings", he murmured, his words tinged with a hint of uncertainty. "I don't want to push you into anything, but… I really like you. And… and I do not want to lose you. Whether as a girlfriend or just a friend".

His admission hung in the air, a vulnerable confession of his own desires and fears. You turned to look at him, finding solace in the warmth of his gaze as he continued.

"So maybe… maybe we can take it slow", Jay suggested, his voice tentative yet hopeful. "We don't have to rush into anything. We can just… see where things go".

His words resonated within you, a gentle reminder that healing and growth often came with time and patience. You nodded in agreement, a sense of relief washing over you as you leaned into his embrace.

"Thank you", you whispered, your voice filled with gratitude. "For understanding".

Jay smiled softly, his fingers kept tracing soothing circles on your arm. "Always", he replied. "I'm here for you, no matter what".

In the days that followed, Jay and you spent countless hours talking, sharing stories, and getting to know each other on a deeper level. His presence became a source of comfort and stability, grounding you in the midst of uncertainty.

With each conversation, you felt pieces of yourself falling back into place, like a puzzle slowly being reassembled. Jay's patience and understanding gave you the space to explore your feelings and rediscover the person you once were.

One day, feeling a newfound sense of confidence and belonging, you suggested visiting the team again. Jay readily agreed, eager to meet the people who had played such a significant role in your life.

After introducing Jay to the others, everyone told you about the latest events, gave you an update on Homelander, and told you what it was like in the executive suite at Vought. Despite the distance and time apart, the bond you shared with them remained as strong as ever.

As the evening stretched on, you found yourselves gathered at a cozy bar with Hughie, Annie and Jay. Annie told you about her temporary leading position at vought.

You listened with admiration as she described the challenges and triumphs of her new role, marveling at her resilience and determination. Despite the pressures she faced, Annie seemed to thrive in the leadership position.

Meanwhile, Jay struck up a conversation with Hughie, the two of them quickly hitting it off. They exchanged stories and shared laughs, bonding over their mutual interests and experiences. You watched with a smile as Jay's easygoing charm drew Hughie out of his shell, the two of them becoming fast friends.

After a while, Annie led you to the bar to get some new drinks, the lively chatter of Hughie and Jay faded into the background, leaving you alone with your thoughts. As you waited for the bartender to take your order, Annie leaned in, her voice low and conspiratorial.

"So, what's the deal with you and Jay?", she asked, a mischievous glint in her eye. "I have to say, I really like him. You've definitely hit a good one".

You smiled weakly, grateful for Annie's support but unable to shake the weight of your own uncertainty. "He's great", you admitted, your voice tinged with hesitation. "But… I'm still trying to figure things out".

Annie nodded in understanding, her expression sympathetic. "I get it", she said softly. "But just know that Jay really cares about you. And if anyone can help you through whatever you're going through, it's him".

You sighed, the weight of her words settling heavily on your shoulders. "I know", you murmured, a pang of guilt tugging at your heart. "I just wish things weren't so… complicated".

Annie let out a sigh, her frustration evident as she leaned in closer, her voice tinged with exasperation.

“You need to forget about Ben”, she insisted, her tone firm. “He’s not worth your time or your heartache. You have someone amazing right in front of you, someone who genuinely cares about you”.

You nodded, knowing deep down that Annie was right. But as much as you wanted to let go, the pull of your feelings for Ben remained stubbornly strong.

“I know”, you replied softly, your voice filled with resignation. “But it’s not that easy. Ben… he made me feel things no one else ever could, or ever will”.

Annie rolled her eyes, her disdain for Ben evident in the way her lips curled into a frown. “Yeah, well, he was also a huge dick most of the time”, she muttered under her breath.

You couldn’t help but chuckle weakly at her bluntness. “That’s true”, you admitted with a rueful smile. “But despite everything, there was still something about him…”.

Annie shook her head, her frustration evident as she reached out to squeeze your hand in a gesture of support. “But you deserve someone who treats you right”.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for the difficult conversation ahead. "I know Ben wasn't always ideal", you began, your voice tinged with emotion. "But he… he literally risked his life for me so many times… We, he, was special. We had something special".

"If there was really something special, he wouldn't have just left", she said bluntly, her words hitting you like a punch to the gut.

The truth in Annie's words cut deep, stirring up a whirlwind of conflicting emotions within you. You knew she was right, that Ben's departure had left a gaping hole in your heart that seemed impossible to fill. But despite the pain, a part of you couldn't let go of the memories, the moments of connection and intimacy that had once brought you so much joy.

Tears welled in your eyes as you struggled to find the words to respond."But… it's not that simple…".

Annie reached out to you, her touch gentle as she wiped away your tears. "I'm sorry", she said softly, her voice filled with empathy. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I just want you to be happy, that's all".

As you walked back to the table with Annie by your side, you couldn't shake the weight of her words echoing in your mind. With a heavy heart, you stole a glance at her, a silent plea for comfort and understanding.

"He didn't even say goodbye", you mumbled, the bitterness of the truth lingering on your tongue.

"He's just an asshole", she said, her tone leaving no room for argument.

"But he… had his reasons", you replied quietly, thinking about russia, though even you weren't entirely convinced by your own words.

Annie shook her head, her frustration evident as she linked her arm with yours. "Maybe", she conceded, her voice softening. "But that doesn't excuse the way he treated you. You deserve better than that".

In the apartment, Butcher, MM and Frenchie sat in tense silence, each lost in their own thoughts.

Frenchie shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his brow furrowed with worry. “I don’t like lying to (y/n)”, he muttered under his breath, his voice tinged with guilt.

Butcher let out a frustrated groan, his frustration palpable in the air. “If (y/n) knew we had captured Soldier Boy, she’d be on the next flight to free him”, he grumbled, his tone laced with bitterness.

MM glanced between his companions, his expression grave. “We can’t risk it”, he said firmly, his voice a quiet reminder of the stakes at hand.

Frenchie let out a frustrated grunt, his unease bubbling to the surface. "If that ever comes out, (y/n) will hate us all", he muttered.

Butcher's jaw tightened at the thought, his frustration boiling over into anger. "She won't find out", he snapped, his tone harsh and uncompromising. "No one is spilling the beans, understand?".

MM nodded in agreement, his expression solemn as he met Butcher's steely gaze. "We'll keep our mouths shut", he affirmed. "He wasn't good for her, Frenchie. He just used her".

But Frenchie shook his head adamantly, his brow furrowed with disagreement. "I don't think so", he interjected, his voice firm with conviction. "I think he really did love her".

Butcher scoffed at Frenchie's assertion, his skepticism evident in the way he narrowed his eyes. "Love? That's a load of rubbish", he retorted, his tone dismissive. "He's a bloody supe, Frenchie. They don't know the first thing about love".

Frenchie bristled at Butcher's words. "Clearly you didn't see the way he looked at her", he countered. "There was something real there, I'm telling you".

MM glanced between Butcher and Frenchie, a troubled expression crossing his features. "Maybe", he conceded reluctantly. "But even if he did love her, it doesn't change the fact that he's a liability now. We can't afford to have him jeopardize us".

Turning back towards Annie, you couldn't shake the nagging question that had been gnawing at the back of your mind. "But don't you think it's strange he didn't even say goodbye?", you asked, your voice tinged with uncertainty. "I mean, we were kinda friends, right?".

Annie raised a skeptical eyebrow, her expression incredulous. "Friends?", she echoed, her tone laced with disbelief. "You're for real, (y/n)?".

You flushed slightly, taken aback by Annie's reaction. "Well, maybe not friends exactly," you admitted sheepishly. "But we… we had something".

Until now, you hadn't told anyone how much had actually happened between you and Ben, even if everyone could already guess.

Annie let out a sigh, her frustration evident as she shook her head. "I don't know what you had with Ben", she replied, her tone softer now. "But whatever it was, it's over now. You deserve better than someone who would just up and leave without a word".

Despite your best efforts to move forward, being back with the team brought a flood of emotions rushing back, intensifying the ache of missing Ben. Every corner of the room seemed to whisper his name, every familiar face a bittersweet reminder of the bond you had shared.

You found yourself lost in memories, replaying moments spent with Ben in your mind like a broken record. His absence felt like a gaping hole in the fabric of your reality, a void that no amount of distraction could fill.

And as you navigated through the days, the longing for Ben weighed heavily on your heart, casting a shadow over even the most joyous moments. Despite the passage of time, the pain of his absence remained raw and unyielding.

And as you struggled to reconcile the past with the present, you couldn't shake the feeling that despite your best efforts, you were still trapped in a cycle of longing and loss.

———————————

A/N: I hope this chapter makes you feel a little better :D There's still so much planned guys, just wait. Please let me know what you think.🥰

Part 22

Taglist: @deangirl96, @thatgirljayy, @suckitands33, @deans-spinster-witch@mimaria420@kaz11283@uncle-eggy @jackles010378 @vxnilla-hxrddrugs @meowmeowyoongles @sarahgracej @zemosdarling228 @leila22rogers @mostlymarvelgirl @emily-winchester @blacknoirr @onlyangel-444 @seasonofthenerd @staple-your-mouth @artemys-ackles @selfdestructionandrhum @mystic-mara

#jensen ackles #soldier boy #soldier boy x female reader #soldier boy x reader #soldier boy x y/n #the boys #billy butcher

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fanficapologist · 1 month ago

Text

Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter One Hundred & Two

The bath sat in the center of the Queen’s private chamber, a massive, intricately carved tub of smooth metal. The low light from the hearth danced across its surface, casting flickering shadows along the edges of the water. Steam rose from the gently rippling surface, mixing with the dim warmth that radiated from the roaring fire nearby. The dark stone walls around her gave the room an imposing feel, but the glow from the hearth across the chamber softened the shadows.

Maera had dismissed her servants and ladies, craving solitude. The stone floor echoed with silence as the chambermaids had exited, leaving her completely alone. Aemara, her daughter, had been sent to the nursery for the night, along with Sȳndor, who would undoubtedly curl up near the crib, acting as her guardian. For once, there was no noise, no crying, no footsteps—just the soft crackling of the fire and the gentle rippling of the bath.

She didn’t bother with the oils and soaps laid out for her, nor did she make any effort to wash her hair or body just yet. Instead, she simply sat there, submerged in the warm water, her back leaning against the cool stone of the tub. Her arms rested along its edges, her head tilted slightly, eyes half-closed. It was one of the few moments she could simply breathe, without the weight of her crown or duties pressing on her shoulders.

Her fingers trailed absently across her stomach, her skin warmed both by the bath and the heat from the nearby hearth. It was a subconscious movement, her hand moving on its own accord, as her mind wandered to the news the Grand Maester had given her. She was pregnant again. Another life growing inside her. Another chance to fulfill the realm's expectations.

The realization still hadn’t fully settled in but she had time- six moons, if Vaegon’s estimation was correct. The thought gave her some comfort. Six moons to prepare herself, to process the whirlwind of emotions coursing through her. It certainly explained the small changes she had noticed: the subtle weight gain, her irritability. She was happy, of course, but the weight of it all pressed against her like the warm water surrounding her, as if she could just let it wash away her concerns.

The stillness of the moment was shattered when the doors to the chamber burst open. Maera jumped, water sloshing over the sides of the tub as Aemond stormed in, his face darkened with fury. His stride was purposeful, almost predatory, but he stopped in his tracks when his gaze landed on her in the bath. For a moment, silence stretched between them. His piercing gaze lingered, the tension between them thick and unfamiliar.

Maera furrowed her brow, feeling the weight of his stare as her arms instinctively crossed over her chest. What was he staring at? Did he notice something different about her? That couldn’t be—he had been with her only that morning, and nothing had changed. She scoffed inwardly at herself. His lingering gaze was likely for one reason, the same reason any other man would stare: her nudity. It had always drawn his attention, his hunger for her never truly sated, no matter how many times they’d lain together.

The Queen’s lips tightened as she observed him stride towards the bed, a pained look on his face. Another headache, no doubt. He’d been getting them more frequently, and his foul mood was likely exacerbating the pain. His expression was dark, his lips set in a hard line as he rubbed his temples. She could sense the storm of emotions swirling in him, his frustration palpable in the air. Whatever had set him off, it had clearly been something serious.

From the tub, Maera broke the heavy silence that hung between them. “I know something troubles you,” she said, her voice steady but softened by the steam and quiet of the room. A gruff hum came in response, and nothing more. Aemond’s back remained to her, his tall frame rigid with tension. She tried again, gentler this time. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

Aemond sighed deeply, the sound almost like a growl as his head tilted back towards the ceiling. His hand reached up to undo the strap of his leather eyepatch, revealing the harsh lines of strain on his face as he placed it aside. “The Red Kraken,” he finally muttered, his voice tight.

The Queen watched his back as he turned away, the muscles in his neck flexing with another hiss of discomfort. She heard the soft clink as he scooped the sapphire from his eye socket and placed it carefully into the bowl by the bedside. His profile, for a moment, was stripped bare of its usual sharpness, leaving only the empty socket exposed.

He undid his silver hair from its tie, letting it fall straight to his shoulders, pale like the moonlight. “He finally made his choice,” Aemond said, his voice filled with bitter distaste. “Rhaenyra.”

Maera frowned, her fingers tracing absent-minded patterns in the cooling water. She remembered Aemond’s frustration from years ago when he had first approached Lord Greyjoy at the start of the war, seeking his help. The Lord of the Iron Islands had been elusive and declined to offer support to either side of the conflict at that time. But now, it seemed the Red Kraken had finally chosen—against them.

She watched as Aemond continued to disrobe, his movements slow and deliberate, as if the action itself could ease the burden that weighed on him. He bent to unbuckle his boots, casting them aside with a rough toss. His long fingers then moved to undo the clasps of his dark doublet, shrugging it off his broad shoulders. The soft fabric of his white undershirt was the next to go, pulled over his head and thrown carelessly to the side, revealing the lean, toned lines of his body.

Finally, he unlaced his trousers, pulling them off along with his underclothes in a single motion, leaving them in a pile at the foot of the bed. His skin, bare and lit by the flickering candlelight, cast long shadows across the stone floor. His body was a mixture of elegant strength and hardened edges, his lithe frame a map of scars, both old and new.

Maera’s voice was gentle, though her question carried the weight of concern. “What does this mean?”

Aemond paused, humming with a mixture of frustration and calculation before he approached the tub. “It means the Red Kraken is taking advantage of the war, pirating and pillaging his way along the west coast,” he answered, his voice edged with anger. “He’s burning every ship that dares cross his path, looting and leaving nothing but ash in his wake.” His words, clipped and filled with disgust, echoed through the chamber.

A chill ran up the Queen’s spine at the gravity of the news. She recalled that the new overlord of the Westerlands was but a child, with his mother, Lady Johanna, acting as regent. But how could Lady Johanna—a lone woman burdened with the governance of her people—stand against the bloodthirsty pirates of the Ironborn? Men who had no honour, no loyalty. The thought gnawed at her, as did the realization of what this could mean for the Realm.

Before Maera could question him further, she watched as Aemond, his expression brooding, stepped into the metal tub, joining her. They faced each other for a long, quiet moment, the only sound in the room being the crackling hearth behind them, casting warm flickers of light across the stone walls. His violet eye—sharp, restless—lingered on hers before he looked away, the weight of his frustrations clear on his face.

Maera placed a hand atop his, pulling his attention back to her. She granted him a small, reassuring smile. “Turn around,” she gestured gently. Aemond looked puzzled, his brow knitting together in confusion. But when she raised her brow with insistence, he let out a resigned sigh and complied, turning around so he now sat between her legs, his back facing her.

She reached for the pail of water by the tub, tilting it to rinse his long, silver hair. The warmth of the water made his hair curl slightly at the ends as it soaked through. She then took a bar of soap, lathering it in her hands before she began to rub it into his scalp. Her fingers worked with care, digging her nails in ever so slightly to relieve the tension that knotted in his muscles.

Aemond let out a quiet sigh, his body relaxing under her touch. He leaned back, his head coming to rest against her chest, letting the warmth of the water and the comfort of her touch ease his worries for the moment. The tensions between them and the turmoil outside the chamber walls seemed to fade, if only briefly.

Maera leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to Aemond's temple, her lips lingering against his skin before she asked, "And what will you do about it, my King?" Before he could answer, she felt him tense beneath her hands, his body preparing to rise from the tub. But with a firm press of her palms on his shoulders, she kept him grounded.

She couldn’t help but chuckle to herself. Though he was so much stronger than her—his body built for war and flight-he allowed her to hold him in place, giving her this small illusion of control.

Aemond tilted his head back, his sharp violet eye catching hers, the corner of his lips twitching ever so slightly. "I'm still contemplating," he admitted, his voice gravelly yet thoughtful. "Lord Bryndemere advised me to sleep on it before I decide anything." Maera's fingers moved gently through his hair, her nails scratching lightly against his scalp. He leaned further into her touch, his body relaxing once more as a quiet sigh escaped him, his head nuzzling into her bare chest for comfort.

For a moment, they sat in that silence, the fire crackling softly behind them. But then, Aemond sat up, turning to face her in the tub. His sharp features were bathed in the soft glow of the hearthlight, the flickering flames casting shadows along the planes of his face. He had the look of a warrior, but it was the weight of a king that hung in his gaze.

"On the one hand," he began, his voice measured and calm, "the Lannisters are our allies, and wealthy ones at that. They've supported our cause with coin and soldiers. But without an overlord, Lady Johanna is defenseless. Most of her army is away, fighting in our name, leaving her exposed to the Ironborn."

Maera nodded as he spoke, reaching for the soap nearby. She began to scrub her arms and legs, the familiar rhythm calming her as she listened. One of the things she admired most about her husband was how methodical he could be, even in the face of danger. His mind, when not clouded by anger, worked like a weapon-sharpened to a fine point. It was true his temper had often been his downfall, but, be it age, or the fact he was now a father, he was learning to wield his anger like a powerful sword.

The Queen felt a gentle tug as Aemond lifted her left leg onto his lap, her skin sliding slightly against his wet thighs. With a quick motion, he snatched the soap from her hand, a smirk playing on his lips. She rolled her green eyes in response, exhaling softly as he began to run the soap along her leg, working the lather into her skin. His touch, while firm, softened when he reached the scarred flesh on her upper thigh, his movements careful, almost reverent.

“And on the other hand?” she asked, her voice soft but direct, trying to pull him from his silent brooding.

Aemond continued his work, his fingers tracing the edges of her scars as if committing them to memory. He hummed, his voice vibrating through the quiet chamber before answering. “It’s difficult to send aid to the Lannisters. Cole is barely holding the Riverlands, and even then, only by a fraction. The Lannister troops are propping up that front.” He sighed, moving the soap higher on her leg. “If we withdraw forces from the Riverlands to aid the Westerlands, it could cripple the war effort.”

Maera’s gaze softened at his words, understanding the weight that pressed on his shoulders. Without a word, she reached forward, snatching the soap from his grasp. His eye flashed with amusement as she leaned into him, pressing the lathered bar against his broad chest, rubbing slow circles across the muscles beneath his skin. Bubbles formed and slipped down his torso as she grinned up at him mischievously.

“Remind me, husband,” she began, her voice carrying a teasing lilt, “what titles were bestowed upon you when you became King?”

Her husband scowled at her, clearly suspicious of her playful tone, but she merely tucked a silver strand of his hair behind his ear, her fingers lingering for a moment. “Go on,” she prodded, her grin widening. “It’s not a trick question.”

With a reluctant sigh, Aemond leaned back slightly in the tub, his features hardening for a moment as he recited, “I am Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.” He paused, as if realizing where she was leading him. “And Protector of the Realm,” he added, his voice quieting as he met her eyes.

The firelight flickered in the reflection of his single eye as he spoke, his gaze steady but far away as he weighed the choices in his mind. Maera watched him, her heart swelling with pride. Whatever decision he made, she knew it would not be one made in haste. He was learning, growing, becoming the king she always knew he could be.

Maera nodded, her hands still on him, and a knowing smile tugged at her lips. “There’s your answer,” she said simply.

The King hummed thoughtfully at Maera's words, his sharp gaze softening as his hand moved to stroke her cheek. His fingertips were gentle against her skin, and she felt the droplets of water dripping down from his palm onto her face, cool against the warmth of the bath. Maera instinctively leaned into his touch, closing her eyes for a moment, letting herself bask in the quiet connection between them.

When she opened her eyes, her voice was low, steady. "You needn't send boats or troops to deal with the Red Kraken," she whispered. She searched his face, her green eyes locking with his, as a smile began to curve her lips. "Nothing matches dragonfire," she added with a glint in her eyes. Reaching up, she twirled a lock of his damp silver hair between her fingers, the strands curling slightly from the water. "Either I, you, or Daeron could handle the pirates in a mere afternoon," she said, her voice filled with quiet confidence.

Aemond let out a low chuckle, his deep voice reverberating in the stone chamber. Without warning, he grabbed her wrist, his touch firm but playful, pulling her closer to him in the bath. His one good eye gleamed with mischief as he asked, "Why does it always seem like we're the ones cleaning up everyone else's messes?"

Mara giggled, her chest rising and falling with her laughter, and she let herself be pulled further into him. "Because that," she teased, "is what it means to rule."

His smirk faded into something more intense as he tugged her closer still, his grip sliding from her wrist to her waist. The distance between them closed in an instant, and his lips found hers. The kiss was firm at first, a meeting of lips that quickly deepened. His free hand cupped the back of her neck, fingers tangling in her wet hair as he pulled her even closer.

The Queen responded in kind, her fingers dancing across his chest, feeling the defined muscles beneath her fingertips as their mouths moved together. His kiss grew more fervent, more insistent, and she matched him, tilting her head to meet him fully.

Despite the heat of the moment, the instant Maera felt Aemond's hand slide up her plush thigh, inching ever closer to her centre, a gasp escaped her lips. Instinctively, she hopped backward, causing the water to splash and spill over the edge of the tub, cascading onto the cold stone floor below. Aemond immediately furrowed his brow, not in anger, but in concern, his one eye searching her face for an explanation.

Maera shook her head to herself, feeling foolish for her sudden reaction. "Forgive me," she murmured, her fingers nervously fiddling in her lap. Her mind raced back to the news she had received earlier that day—the news of her pregnancy. The thought still weighed heavily on her, filling her with an unfamiliar blend of excitement and anxiety. She wasn't ready to share the burden with Aemond yet. Not now. So instead, she sighed softly, saying, "It's been a trying day."

Aemond, ever perceptive, leaned forward and gently shushed her, offering a sad yet reassuring smile. His touch was tender as he gestured for her to turn away from him, a silent request to let the moment continue on her terms. Maera complied, turning so her back faced him, leaning into him with a deep sigh. She closed her eyes as she felt him begin to pour warm water down her shoulders, the gentle stream calming her as his lips brushed her cheek in a soft kiss. In a low whisper, he asked, "What's troubling you?"

Maera didn't reply right away. Her gaze drifted toward the roaring hearth across the chamber, its flickering light casting shadows on the stone walls. For a moment, she lost herself in the fire, her mind weighed down with thoughts of what lay ahead.

She felt Aemond's hand on her chin then, gently turning her face toward his. His gaze was intense, filled with a deep understanding. The look in his eye was one she knew all too well, a quiet promise of comfort.

"Would you allow me to ease your troubles?" he asked, his tone sultry and laced with warmth. “You needn’t do anything but relax.”

Despite the turmoil in her mind, Maera couldn't help but smile stubbornly at his offer. His persistence and devotion never ceased to tug at her heart. Hesitantly, she nodded, giving him silent permission. She knew that, if only for a moment, his touch might help her forget the weight of the day, and she let herself lean into the solace he offered.

The King began by washing her hair, his skilled fingers massaging Maera's scalp with practiced tenderness. He applied just the right amount of pressure, working the soap into her brown and silver curls, creating soft, fragrant bubbles that quickly filled the air around them. Maera sighed as the warm bathwater cascaded over her head, rinsing away the suds in soothing waves.

Next, Aemond's hands moved to her shoulders, applying soap with gentle caresses. His touch was deliberate, slow, and reverent, tracing the lines of her soft white skin. Maera closed her eyes, letting out a soft breath as his hands slid down her arms, washing away the day's tension. His touch soon worked its way to her chest, his fingers tracing the curves of her rounded flesh. He squeezed gently, teasingly, causing her breath to catch in her throat. She bit back a moan, fully aware of the way her body responded to him, the slight tingling in her breasts as her milk began to leak.

“Fuck,” a growl was heard behind her. The Queen knew Aemond noticed it too, and from the way his eye lingered on her, it was clear he enjoyed the sight.

All the while, he peppered kisses along the side of her face and neck, starting with barely-there touches. His lips grazed her skin, sending ripples of goosebumps down her arms. Each gentle kiss felt like a spark, awakening something deep inside her. But as his caresses continued, his kisses became more intense, wetter and rougher. He pressed his mouth to her skin with an urgency that sent shivers down her spine. His breath, hot and ragged, brushed against her ear, the sound alone sending a wave of excitement through her.

With each touch, each kiss, Maera felt her pulse quicken, her body responding to the slow burn of desire igniting between them. Her husband’s lips brushed against her skin as he cooed softly, his tone carrying a hint of mockery. “Forgive me, sweet wife,” he murmured, his voice dripping with faux sympathy. “Here I am, complaining of my troubles, when you have been suffering in silence.”

His hand moved with a deliberate slowness, slipping lower beneath the water. Maera squirmed against him, her breaths growing quicker, anticipation tightening in her chest. His fingers glided down her stomach, and just as the heat of desire began to coil tighter within her, his hand dipped between her legs. She gasped, her body tensing at the sudden and intimate touch.

Aemond’s low chuckle reverberated through the quiet room, his tongue trailing a wet stripe up the side of her neck. His hot breath tickled her ear as he whispered, voice low and sultry, “Shall I take your pain away, my queen?”

Maera’s breath hitched, her heart pounding as she eagerly nodded, her cheeks flushing with heat. A soft, needy moan escaped her lips as Aemond’s fingers expertly found her clit, rubbing slow, deliberate circles that sent waves of pleasure rippling through her. Her body arched into his touch, surrendering to the sensation as she let herself drown in the closeness of the moment, the warmth of the bath, and the burning intensity of his touch.

The King’s fingers pressed more firmly, working their magic as the pleasure within Maera surged like a rising tide. She gasped, her breaths coming in short, sharp bursts, barely able to keep up with the sensations coursing through her body. Instinctively, her hand shot up, tangling in her husband's long silver hair. Her nails dug into his scalp just enough to elicit a low groan from deep within his chest.

With a surge of desperate need, Maera pulled him forward, crashing their lips together in a messy, fervent kiss. Their teeth clashed, tongues tangling with a primal hunger as the water around them sloshed wildly. She writhed in his arms, her body arching back against him as waves of pleasure built higher and higher.

Her backside ground against him, and she felt the undeniable hardness of his manhood pressing into her lower back. The sensation only fueled her further, her body aching for him, completely lost in the overwhelming pleasure and the closeness of their shared desire.

Breaking the kiss with a gasp, Maera let her head fall back against his shoulder as she cried out in ecstasy. She felt his fingers slide deep inside her, finding that perfect spot with a practiced ease, and the Queen's body responded instantly, trembling with the intensity of it. His fingers pumped in and out of her, his thumb never ceasing its slow, maddening circles around her most sensitive bundle of nerves. The overwhelming pleasure consumed her, pushing her closer and closer to the edge, the sensation almost too much to bear.

"Aemond," she whined, her voice breathless and needy.

"I know," he murmured against her ear, his voice soft but laced with satisfaction. "Do you want to finish, sweet wife?"

"Yes. Pl-please," she begged, her words tumbling out in a rush, as if her very life depended on it. She was on the precipice, her body teetering on the edge of release, the tension inside her wound so tightly she thought she might snap.

"Then finish," Aemond commanded, his voice dark and soothing.

At his words, Maera groaned, her body giving in completely. Her release hit her like a tidal wave, a shattering rush of pleasure that left her breathless. She bucked against his hand, riding the waves of her climax as they crashed over her, each surge of pleasure more intense than the last. She felt herself unravel, every thought and worry fading away until she was left completely spent, her body limp and trembling in his arms.

As her breathing slowly steadied, Aemond withdrew his hand from the water, his fingers leaving her with a lingering sense of warmth and satisfaction. He pressed gentle kisses to her neck and cheek, his lips soft and tender, a contrast to the passion that had consumed them moments before. For a while, they sat there in the quiet, their bodies still entwined, the only sound in the chamber the crackling hearth and the distant crash of waves against the shore.

“Is the source reliable?”

“I am quite certain, Your Grace.”

The Queen hurried through the dim corridors of the castle, her black and green skirts rustling with each swift step. The echoes of her soft-soled shoes tapped against the cold stone floors as she weaved through the familiar halls. Her breath came quicker, not from exertion, but from the urgency with which she moved. The morning light, filtered through narrow windows, bathed the path ahead in a golden hue, though her thoughts were already in the council chamber.

Aemond had let her sleep in, stating she should rest up after their passionate indulgences of the previous night. She had risen a few hours after he had left, feeling the weight of her pregnancy as she made her way to the nursery to feed Aemara. The black dragon, Sȳndor, curled protectively near the cradle, while Aemara’s coos filled the room with warmth as she was held by mother. But the Queen’s maternal routine had been cut short when a servant, breathless and flustered, appeared at the nursery door, stammering that the King had summoned her with urgency.

Now, as she approached the great doors to the Small Council chamber, Maera could already hear the hum of conversation through the thick wood. The council members’ voices were loud, resonant, and authoritative, filled with the gravity of whatever matters they were deliberating. She paused for a fleeting moment, smoothing her skirts and collecting herself before stepping forward.

When she entered, all conversation ceased abruptly. The heavy wooden doors creaked open, and the council members, dressed in their elaborate robes of station, rose from their seats in unison, their eyes falling on her as she quickly made her way inside.

Reaching his side, Maera curtsied to her husband at the head of the table, her green eyes locking briefly with his one sharp violet one. Aemond, seated in his usual place, nodded at her in acknowledgment, the smallest hint of warmth flickering in his gaze before it was replaced by the steely mask of kingship. The gesture, brief but familiar, brought a flicker of comfort to Maera, and she moved swiftly to her seat beside him.

As she sat, so too did the members of the council, the scraping of chairs against the floor momentarily the only sound in the chamber. The room settled into a tense stillness as Maera smoothed her skirts once more, her mind already beginning to sift through the possibilities of what had demanded her urgent presence.

The Queen took a moment to scan the faces of the councilmen seated around the table, their expressions betraying far more than the quiet tension of the room.

Lord Bryndemere Tarth, the balding and sturdy Master of Ships, was practically beaming. His large hands were folded in front of him, but the twinkle in his eyes suggested he was eager for the meeting to continue. Beside him, Lord Lyonel, the Master of Coin, looked equally delighted, his Hightower features softened by a rare smile. Even Lord Larys Strong, the Master of Whispers, usually so composed and unsettling, appeared genuinely elated. His thin lips twisted into a crooked grin as his pale eyes glinted with mischief.

Maera’s gaze shifted cautiously from one man to the next. Something was amiss, and she could feel it. She turned her head toward Ser Alfred Broome, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. The sight of his broad smile only deepened her suspicion. Everyone seemed in unnaturally high spirits for such a meeting.

“What have I missed?” Maera asked, her voice carefully measured. Her gaze drifted from Ser Alfred back to Lord Bryndemere and Lord Lyonel, noting the excitement brimming just beneath the surface.

“Why is everyone so cheerful?” she pressed, her tone edged with curiosity. She kept her back straight and her expression unreadable, though the energy in the room made her uneasy.

Lord Bryndemere was the first to speak, clearly eager to relay the news. He sat up straighter and began in his typical booming voice, “Your Grace, we received word via raven. Your ships, the fleet of Morne, and the Velaryon fleet have come to blows in the Narrow Sea.”

Maera’s brow furrowed, her mind racing at the mention of her ships. “Over cargo?” she asked, her tone skeptical. The fleets clashing in the Narrow Sea wasn’t particularly unusual, but the loss of ships was always a cause for concern.

Lord Bryndemere nodded. “Yes, my Queen, arriving from Essos. Many of your ships were destroyed,” he said, his excitement barely contained. “And a few of the Velaryon ships were also sunk.”

Maera’s lips twisted into a scoff, her disbelief clear as she leaned back in her seat. “That doesn’t seem like good news, Lord Bryndemere,” she replied bluntly, crossing her arms. The loss of ships was no cause for celebration, especially not in times as dire as these. She could hear Ser Alfred Broome chuckling softly beside her. He shook his head, amusement playing across his weathered features.

“That’s not the part that has us all smiling, Your Grace,” Ser Alfred said, his voice rich with mirth.

Curious now, Maera tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing as she waited for the explanation. There was more to this story, something she hadn’t yet been told. She could feel the anticipation building in the room, as if the councilmen were all on the verge of revealing a long-awaited surprise.

Lord Larys rose slowly from his seat, leaning heavily on his cane, his ever-watchful eyes locked onto the Queen with an unsettling smile playing on his thin lips. Maera instinctively straightened in her chair, suppressing the unease that slithered down her spine at his gaze. He was always deliberate in his actions, and even now, his movements felt like part of a larger game.

“Lord Corlys hid news of the attack from Rhaenyra, Your Grace.” The Master of Whispers eyes gleamed with satisfaction as if relishing the thought of such a betrayal. Maera felt a chill. Lord Corlys had always been the staunchest ally of Rhaenyra, going to great lengths to acknowledge her sons by Harwin Strong as his own blood, despite the obvious truth of their parentage. His loyalty to the Blacks was unquestionable—or so it had seemed.

Beside Lord Larys, Grand Maester Vaegon, always measured and solemn, gave a small nod of confirmation. “Indeed,” he said, his voice calm but his words troubling. “It has been whispered among the Black court that Rhaenyra is slowly losing her grip on her council. Factions are forming, and trust is beginning to fray.”

Maera furrowed her brow, the pieces not quite falling into place. Corlys Velaryon had always acted in Rhaenyra’s best interest. What could have driven him to conceal such an important event from her now? And what exactly was it that had everyone here so pleased?

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Aemond clearing his throat. His sharp eye glanced toward her before he spoke, his voice carrying the weight of bitter knowledge. “The old whore has grown more paranoid since the betrayal of the Dragonseeds. She sees threats everywhere, even in those she once trusted. Corlys keeping this from her has only heightened her suspicion.” He leaned forward, his elbow resting on the table as if contemplating just how far his sister had fallen.

Maera’s gaze softened, slowly beginning to understand the true gravity of the situation. Rhaenyra’s grip on power was slipping, her paranoia pushing her oldest and most loyal allies to make questionable choices, ones that might spell disaster for the Blacks.

Ser Alfred Broome, who had been quietly watching the exchange, now chimed in. “Rhaenyra’s distrust has grown so deeply that she called for the arrest of the Dragonseeds who remain loyal to her, out of fear of further betrayal.” His tone was grim, though there was a dark satisfaction in his words.

Lord Lyonel Hightower leaned forward then, adding the final piece to the puzzle. “Lord Corlys warned one of these Dragonseeds before he could be captured. The bastard fled before he could be seized, but not before Rhaenyra discovered what Corlys had done.”

The Master of Ships, leaned forward, his voice steady but carrying a note of grim satisfaction. “Lord Corlys Velaryon has been arrested for treason against Rhaenyra. His secret actions, though well-meaning in his own mind, have cost him dearly. House Velaryon… most of it, anyway, has abandoned her cause entirely. They refuse to support a Queen who imprisons their lord.”

A silence hung heavy in the room as Maera processed the weight of the revelation. The implications were staggering. For so long, Corlys Velaryon had been one of Rhaenyra’s greatest strengths, a lord with power, ships, and the legacy of Driftmark at his back. Now, Rhaenyra’s grip on him had shattered. Worse still, House Velaryon was falling away from her, leaving her without a naval presence, isolated and vulnerable. This fracture could be the final blow that turns the tide of the war.

Chatter quickly broke out among the council. They spoke eagerly, voices overlapping as they debated their next steps. Bryndemere suggested they move quickly to coax the remnants of House Velaryon to their side. Lyonel agreed, stating that the influence of Driftmark could tip the scales in their favor, especially with their naval power. Ser Alfred Broome, ever practical, raised the idea of approaching the other Dragonseeds, the ones Rhaenyra had begun to hunt down out of paranoia. If they could offer these bastards protection, they could rally them against their former Queen, turning her own dragons against her.

Yet as the conversation swirled around her, Maera remained silent, her mind focused not on the tactics, but on the satisfaction that simmered within her. She had once tried to bridge the gap between them, to approach Rhaenyra with compassion, but her attempts had been met with coldness. Now, Rhaenyra’s paranoia and inability to hold her alliances was bringing her downfall. It was a justice of sorts, and Maera couldn’t help but consider the irony of it all. Rhaenyra, who had once seemed unshakable, was now floundering, caught in the web of her own mistrust.

Her eyes flickered toward her husband. Aemond sat at the head of the table, the weight of the Conqueror’s crown resting on his brow, his expression carefully measured, though Maera knew him too well to miss the glint of satisfaction in his violet eye. He, too, saw the advantage this shift brought, the unraveling of Rhaenyra’s court. As Maera’s fingers gently squeezed his hand, Aemond’s gaze shifted to her, softening in a rare moment of warmth. He gave her a brief but genuine smile, and in that fleeting moment, they shared a silent understanding.

Wine was soon brought to the table, the dark liquid poured generously into the cups of the lords and council members upon the order of one of the more enthusiastic lords. The servants moved swiftly and silently, filling their goblets as the chatter grew lively. For a brief moment, the air lightened, and the Small Council indulged in the luxury of wine and a rare sense of celebration. A sense of victory, however small, hung in the room.

Maera, seated beside Aemond, accepted her own cup, watching as Lord Bryndemere, the Master of Ships, chuckled heartily from his seat. He leaned forward, his face flushed with wine and excitement, and declared, “At this rate, we may not even need to invade at all!” His words were met with a mixture of amusement and shock.

The King’s sharp eye turned towards Bryndemere, shooting him a stern, warning look. The message was clear—such careless optimism was not to be voiced so lightly. Lord Bryndemere quickly backtracked, his earlier confidence faltering under the King’s cold gaze. “Of course, Your Grace,” he said hastily, raising his cup in acknowledgment. “We should plan for it… naturally. But, ah, it may well be that the people of King’s Landing will oust the Black Queen themselves before we even arrive. Her own subjects could turn on her, weary of her rule.”

Maera couldn’t help but smile at the thought. The idea of no invasion, of avoiding yet another brutal battle, was a hopeful one. Countless lives spared, bloodshed avoided. It was a dream she often harbored, despite the brutal reality of the war they waged. The thought that perhaps, just perhaps, peace might come without further blood might be naive, but it filled her heart with quiet joy nonetheless.

However, the sudden, sharp banging of a cane on the stone floor cut through the chatter like a blade. The sound echoed through the chamber, and all eyes turned toward the source—Lord Larys Strong, his cane resting heavily on the floor as he cleared his throat. His sneer was unmistakable as he eyed Lord Bryndemere, his lips curling with disdain. “Be that as it may,” Larys drawled, his tone dripping with condescension, “there is still one thing that keeps the people with her.”

A pause hung in the air as all listened to the man known for his cunning. Larys’s eyes gleamed as he added, “The succession.” His voice was low, but it carried the weight of undeniable truth.

The room fell into a tense silence, the earlier celebratory mood evaporating like mist under the sun. The reminder of Rhaenyra’s strength—her sons—hung heavy in the air, casting a shadow over the optimism that had filled the chamber moments before. The unspoken truth was clear: as long as Rhaenyra had her sons, her claim held weight. It was an anchor for those still loyal to the Black Queen, no matter how fractured her court had become.

Lord Lyonel Hightower was the first to break the uneasy quiet. His voice rang out with conviction, a tone he often used when reminding the council of the Green’s own strengths. “His Grace, King Aemond, has his successor,” Lord Lyonel declared, nodding towards Aemond. “Prince Daeron.”

For a moment, the room seemed to settle, but the calm was quickly shattered by a derisive scoff from the corner of the room, where the Master of Whispers, Lord Larys Strong, leaned forward on his cane, eyes glinting with malice.

“And yet,” Larys drawled, “the young Prince has been wed for years… and still no son. No heir of his own.” The words were like venom, seeping into the minds of the council. The implication was clear, and it hung heavily in the air.

Maera’s pulse quickened. She felt the weight of Larys’s pointed words settle over her like a heavy cloak. Though he hadn’t said it outright, everyone in the room knew the true target of his comment—her. The Queen had given Aemond a daughter, Aemara, a sweet, beautiful girl. But not a son. And in a world like theirs, where lineage and sons were the pillars of power, her perceived failure was a weakness in the eyes of many.

A part of Maera couldn’t deny that Larys was right, cruel as his words were. The Greens would appear vulnerable if they failed to secure a strong line of Targaryen male heirs. The war they fought now was for their family’s future, for the right to rule for generations to come. Without heirs, their cause would crumble like sand in a storm.

Larys continued, his voice slippery and full of knowing malice. “Rhaenyra, on the other hand, has three sons. Two of whom the realm still believes to be alive.”

Aemond’s jaw clenched, his one eye flashing with anger. “Her heir is a bastard,” he snapped, his voice sharp and dangerous. He would not let the insult against his wife stand uncontested.

But Larys was unperturbed by the King’s fury, as if Aemond’s rage was little more than an expected part of their dance. “Perhaps,” he replied coolly, “but that has not stopped the people from acknowledging him as their future king. Blood may tell the truth, but perception rules the realm. And as it stands, the people still see Joffrey as Rhaenyra’s legitimate heir, bastard or not.”

The tension in the room crackled, and though Aemond’s defense of her was swift and fierce, Larys’s words gnawed at her mind. She could feel the eyes of the council upon her, the weight of her duty pressing down even more than before. Sons… it always came down to sons.

As Larys Strong’s smirk curled across his face, Maera felt her temper flare. The smug, mocking expression ignited a storm within her, her fury simmering just beneath the surface. Her hands clenched into tight fists, the fabric of her green and black skirts twisting in her grasp as she struggled to maintain her composure. But when Larys, with his usual air of condescension, brazenly declared, “And since our King is without an heir…” the last of her patience snapped.

The sound of Maera’s fists slamming down onto the table rang out through the chamber like a thunderclap. The force of it startled the council, their conversation halting immediately, leaving only the sharp echo reverberating against the stone walls. Silence enveloped the room. All eyes turned to the Queen, her presence commanding as she slowly, yet gracefully, rose from her seat.

Her green eyes blazed with fury as she leveled a cold, stern gaze at Larys. “The King,” she began, her voice steady and sharp, “has his heir, my Lord.”

A ripple of confusion swept through the room. The councilmen exchanged bewildered glances, muttering amongst themselves, their faces a mixture of surprise and disbelief. Aemond, too, remained still, his attention focused entirely on his wife, his eye narrowing slightly in curiosity.

And then, with a measured calm that belied the storm of emotions within her, Maera revealed the truth that had been weighing on her heart. “And he resides within me,” she declared, her voice clear and firm, a sharp contrast to the soft murmurs that had filled the room moments before.

Gasps erupted from the councilmen, shock flashing across their faces. One by one, they scrambled to their feet, bowing deeply in respect. The air in the room changed, the energy of doubt and uncertainty now replaced with awe and reverence. They had been hungering for news of an heir, a Targaryen son who would solidify their cause—and now it seemed that the answer to their prayers was already on the horizon.

The Queen, standing tall amidst the chaos, allowed herself a moment of satisfaction as she felt the weight of their gazes. But her focus remained on Aemond. Slowly, she turned her head towards him, her eyes meeting his. For a moment, time seemed to stretch, and she saw the shock flicker across his usually stoic face. His single violet eye, wide with disbelief, held hers in a silent exchange.

She reached for his arm, gently pulling his hand toward her. She rested it on her stomach, her touch tender but firm. “I found out yesterday,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, meant only for him.

Aemond’s gaze softened as he looked down at her, his hand splayed across her abdomen. His usually composed expression shifted as the weight of her words sank in. His eye flicked toward the rest of the room, searching for confirmation. When he found Grand Maester Vaegon, the older man gave a small nod, accompanied by a knowing smile, verifying the Queen’s news.

Aemond let out a breathless laugh, more of a gasp, full of astonishment and joy. Stepping forward, he cupped the back of Maera’s head, pressing a firm kiss to her forehead, his lips lingering there in a rare moment of vulnerability. When he pulled back, his violet eye gleamed with pride as he turned to address the council.

“The Queen is carrying our future,” he announced, his voice ringing with authority. The councilmen, still buzzing from the earlier revelation, murmured in agreement, nodding their heads. Maera caught Lord Larys shifting uncomfortably, his smirk wiped away, his gaze averted. She couldn’t help but smirk herself, savoring the moment. He stood like a dog with his tail between his legs, silenced for now.

Once the councilmen returned to their seats, Aemond remained standing, his regal presence filling the room. “We must use this time,” he declared, his tone sharpening, “to take full advantage of Rhaenyra’s weakness. Her allies can be swayed, and her paranoia will drive her to ruin. If we are patient, she will undo herself in the Capital.”

Maera nodded in agreement, her eyes meeting her husband’s. His smile returned, not just for her, but for the future they now shared. “By the time our son is born,” Aemond continued, his voice filled with certainty, “the Iron Throne will be his to claim.”

Notes: ok so now we’re moving onto part three and the final part of the series! Can’t believe we’re nearly there! There’s a time skip of about 4 months when we begin chapter 103 🖤

Tags: @0eessirk8 @magicseahorse @blue-serendipity @abecerra611 @saltedcaramelpretzel @marvelescvpe @watercolorskyy @shesjustanothergeek @thelastemzy @kckt88 @darylandbethfanforever9 @kaitieskidmore97

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

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stagkingswife · 2 months ago

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Hello! I have been a long time without practicing witchcraft, so I am a bit rusty. I’ve been wanting to do some Otherworld journeying, and I was wondering if you’d feel comfortable sharing how you usually go about doing that? Do you enter a trance, and if so how do you go about doing it? Are you with spirits the whole time, or are you ever alone? If I’m prying too much, please feel free to tell me to get lost!

I do go into a trance as part of my traveling process, but I'll be honest, I don't know if my method will work for anyone else. I use the pain of my CRPS as a focus, like some people use drums or mantras. I spend most of my time trying to block out my pain, but when I'm trancing I let it wash over me until it's all that I'm aware of. I dive down deep into it until I come out the other side of the maelstrom in the Otherworlds. I understand that this method is not for everyone, but outside of getting into the trance I have some more tips and methods at the links below:

Hedgecrossing with Stag

Traveling Tips

Spirit Meeting Recording - The first part of this guided meditation is basically an audio version of the first link.

Once I'm in the Otherworlds I actually do spend a lot of time alone. I have certain responsibilities and duties in the Otherworlds. Those sometimes means walking the boundaries of the regions or domains I am responsible for by myself, or wandering around those domains checking in on Things or Folks. Usually once I'm done with these "chores" I'll have a political or social visit to make, and that's when I'll spend more time around spirits. Or if I don't have visits to make I'll spend time with Oisin or one of the other Forgotten Ones.

#witchcraft #otherworld #ask stag stuff #astral

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lilyrachelcassidy · 6 months ago

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Can I requests a Felix Catton imagine where the reader is staying in saltburn for the summer and one night it starts raining with thunder and she wakes up in the middle of the night scared and goes to his bedroom and asks him if she could sleep with him, also at that they could be seeing each other romantically but without labeling what they have

AN: yes! absolutely! Hope u enjoy.

WC: 850 words

Warnings: none

———————————

Saltburn was one of the most picturesque places you had ever been to or — dare you say — had ever seen. At nights, however, it could turn into a somewhat frightening semblance as the high ceilings or the sinister lighting provoked a feeling of too much scrutiny for your liking; it felt as though the watchful eyes of the abiding ancestors followed your every move, every breath, and you simply couldn’t shake off of that premonition. Quite obviously, the thunderstorm would only add up to the ambience of terror in your head, hence one night when you were spending your time in Saltburn, it just so happened that the thunderbolt awoke you with its jarring noise.

And you were seriously freaking out.

Freaking out to the point where you laid there wide awake in the middle of the night in your separate allocated room, tightly wrapped up in duvet, praying and being a prey to stormy conditions playing out outside. You couldn’t even glance in the direction of the displayed maelstrom outside, too blood-curdling of an image it was, but your audial senses didn’t fail to make you painstakingly alert — the branches were clearly knocking on the surface of the window glass, the hefty rain threatening to trespass the safety of your room at any given moment, and the gale blowing as though purposefully trying to snatch your peacefulness away from you.

Your mind began to wander places: the ancestors’ inquiring eyes, the lurking dangers of darkness, the harsh whistles of wind, the persistent knocking on the window, the creaking door…

Your lungs all of the sudden forgot how to take up the much needed air, your limbs itching with anxiety, eyes filming over, and the rush of adrenaline teeing off. Your head, totally out of nowhere, began flitting through one hundred different sceneries of how barbarically this night could possibly end; you clutched the duvet closer to your chest, trying to suppress the sudden urge to just die right now and here but to no avail.

Just breathe, breathe…

No . It’s too much, too much…

As your thoughts drifted, so did your feet and you eventually found yourself standing before the heavy oak doors of the room abutting your room and you pushed them before even registering what you were doing.

“Fel?”

“Huh?” A sleepy voice drew from the bed. Had you more self-awareness or social decency, you would have probably left him there and then, sleeping soundly; but you were already so jittery, up to the point of obscene ludicrousness, that you clearly weren’t going to give up now.

“Fel.” This time it was more drawn and louder.

“Lovie.” It seemed to have woken him up a tad as his head slightly lifted from the pillow and his languid eyes quirked up in your direction. God, he was so cute with those tousled hair right now… Would it be barmy to stare at him ‘till the end of the thunderstorm? “Is everything alright?”

“I’m scared.”

That was all you needed to say; Felix knew you well enough and long enough to know instinctually what you meant by those words. “C’mere.”

He scooted over to make more room for you, and then patted the side of the bed as a double emphasis for you to come over. Obligingly, you did, quickly trotting with your bare feet over the cold floor panels of the room, the striking sounds of thunder from the outside still being registered in the back of your head. Once you settled in the appointed place, partially heated with Felix’s body, Felix draped his arm over your figure, positioning you in the small spoon position, and hauled you closer to him in a protective manner. His breath was tickling the back of your neck and the faint signs of stubble were scraping against your arm.

“Better?”

You deliberated for a moment. “Better.”

He then planted a soft kiss behind your ear which made you almost whimper. He was intoxicating, really, with that sandalwood scent lingering on him and those protective arms enveloping your frame; apparently, an exceptional distraction from your frayed nerves, for you felt your breath coming back to its normal rate and the constriction within your chest loosening gradually.

“I’m sorry I woke you up,” you muttered, wondering if he was still awake or had already fallen back to the previously interrupted slumber. “I didn’t want to burden you but… you know, I just hate thunderstorms, I couldn’t…”

Your voice trailed off, tears welling up. Your felt utterly stupid for getting emotional over something so trifling. Felix swept his thumb over your cheek in a soothing motion.

So he was very much not asleep as he stayed here, striving to calm you down.

“You’re with me now. And you will always safe with me, okay?” was all he said, voice laced with assuredness.

You believed him, of course you did.

A small sniffle was followed by a small smile.“Okay.”

In a trice, thunderstorm actually turned out to be a background noise. And you were very much safe. With Felix.

#felix catton x reader #felix catton #felix x reader #saltburn #saltburn 2023 #bestfriend!felix x reader #felix catton imagine #felix catton x y/n #felix catton x you #Jacob Elordi #jacob elordi x reader

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lets-try-some-writing · 6 months ago

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Smokescreen angst where he missed Alpha Trion >:).

Coming right up anon! Yall really like seeing my boy Smokey go though The Horrors don't you? Maybe I need to right a horror one shot with him since I've done Bee.

You know what? Imma link this to the previous Smokey angst. Lets make an AU for it. Previous part here.

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The night was longer on Earth. At least, it felt long to Smokescreen when he stood guard.

He hadn't actually been ordered to stand guard, but Smokescreen had taken the job upon himself after arriving on the world of dust and dirt he now found himself walking. Waiting in position was familiar, and comforting. Especially since late at night, he often got the chance to perform his familiar duty of shadowing the Archivist.

"Smokescreen." The Archivist regarded him simply. Smokescreen took that as his cue to join him in his walk to the console. The dim light of the device was soothing in the quiet atmosphere of the base, especially as the Archivist stepped up to his place and sighed. It was deep and tired, the Archivist's vents long worn from millennia of functionality. Smokescreen smiled at the familiarity, especially as the Archivist began to type with speed reserved for those raised within the halls of Iacon's most prestigious institute.

He would have loved to mingle with the Archivist and his fellows back during the golden age. Sure, it had it's problems, but it was a time of learning and change. It was a time and a world he never had the chance to know. In a way, he envied the Archivist for having had the opportunity to live an arguably normal life before the war began in earnest.

He settled himself a few feet away from the console to watch the Archivist and ensure nothing happened to him during his work. His fans slowed and he stood with his arms hung loosely by his side. Before his change of scenery, the Archivist would normally assign him a datapad to read.

He had no such luxuries in his new station.

Still, in the quiet it was easy to forget and imagine that shelves filled with datapads surrounded him as he watched the Archivist work. The tapping of digits on the console, the faint green glow of the device, and the periodical tick of a file completed were all easy for Smokescreen to lose himself in as he stood at attention.

Time passed, and as it did, he found himself longing to request permission to go read something from the fiction section. Conquests and old wars. Heroes and Primes long dead. He always loved those stories. Maybe if he asked kindly, the Archivist would let him wander off for a bit. He looked busy, and his features were largely obscured due to the way the light hit him. Surely he wouldn't notice if Smokescreen fell into a good story for a while. The night was long, and a datapad would keep his tired optics from shuttering until he was released from his watch.

"Hey, Trion, could I read something in the historical section for a bit? It's hard to stay awake standing around like this." He rubbed around his optics, hoping the touch would force his vision to focus. Through blurred optics, the Archivist's plating shone a familiar purple. But as the Archivist turned from his work in confusion and began to approach, Smokescreen saw for the first time that night just who he was looking at.

The Archivist turned Prime. Red and blue bound together in firm plating designed for war and conflict. Bright blue optics that shared the same wisdom as the Archivist Smokescreen was used to serving. Powerful arms and long thin digits perfectly sculpted for handling delicate data.

This Archivist was not Alpha Trion.

"I'm sorry! I got confused for a minute..." He trailed off as those optics met his. The Prime said nothing for a moment. It was a suffocating silence as both of them seemed to stew in the maelstrom of memory that came from their respective times in the Iaconian Archives.

They came from different eras, but they shared one thing in common.

Alpha Trion.

Sweet Primus, he hadn't realized just how much he missed the quiet of the Archives or the thoughtful mumbles of the Master Archivist.

"There is no shame in missing one who you hold dear." Optimus spoke slowly, almost as if he was forcing his voice to remain steady.

"I too miss my master." The Prime vented deeply, and for a moment, Smokescreen saw a younger mech. Optimus seemed so very pained in the dim light of the console. His optics were wider and more emotive. His field was clamped close like all Iaconians, at least according to the records. Even his posture seemed softer, lacking the air of the firm commander long used to death and destruction.

He looked like a simple data clerk.

For a moment, his expression mimicked Smokescreen's.

"He taught me a lot... I miss hearing him ramble on about everything under Luna 1." He found himself opening up as Optimus's field crept around his own, pulling him in. Before he knew it, his frame moved of its own accord until he was only a foot or two away from the towering Prime.

"Alpha Trion was fond of the old tales. I spent many long nights reading accounts from the last generation to have lived before the Quintessons arrived." Optimus stared at the console as his optics cycled wide. He seemed lost in memory as he smiled softly.

"My master was not pleased to see me engrossed in something other than my work." The Prime's digits hovered over the console keyboard, almost in a contemplative manner. Smokescreen found his field opening on instinct. He couldn't help but the sense of companionship that flared in his spark as he watched the mighty Prime speak so freely to him.

"I get that. Trion caught me with my face stuck in a novel all the time." He admitted his own guilt with a quiet laugh. Optimus raised an optical ridge in surprise, but he otherwise remained unreactive. His field rippled in comforting waves, washing Smokescreen's worries away as the Prime questioned him.

"You read novels?"

"Yeah, uh, I like historical fiction." He rubbed the back of his neck guard guiltily.

"Primes, heroes, great champions and all that. I don't think Trion approved of my choice of literature." He fiddled with his digits, unable to meet Optimus's optics. All those vorns in the Archive, wasted reading silly novels. He really should have taken more care back then. But he wouldn't have traded the passing moments he shared with Alpha Trion for anything.

"He never stopped me reading while I was supposed to be on watch, but he did snatch my novel and give me more suitable material a lot." He remembered vividly the way the Master Archivist would sigh and take away the novel he was reading when on duty. Generally speaking, what he was given in return didn't peak his interest. But whatever he read, he remembered. Maybe because the Master Archivist tended to stare daggers at him when he was caught trying to reach for a novel after being caught.

It was a fond memory for him. He didn't expect Optimus to laugh so boldly as he processed what Smokescreen had said.

"That sounds like my master." The Prime smiled wide, and Smokescreen could see the sincerity in his optics as he did so. It stunned him to see such emotion on the normally stoic Prime.

"I cannot count the number of times he shut down the datanet in my sector when he caught me speaking to Megatronus. He always told me that my actions were dangerous and that strangers should not be trusted." Optimus's laughter died off as he reminisced. Smokescreen could hardly comprehend the very idea of Optimus being young and chatting with strangers on the datanet like it was the greatest sin a mech could commit. And yet as he looked at Optimus, he could imagine the Archivist looking around warily before frantically swapping tabs to send a swift message.

He could just as easily imagine Alpha Trion appearing out of the blue to press the power button. Smokescreen had been on the receiving end of such treatment before. Yet another experience they shared.

"He cared deeply for each of his students." Optimus's voice was soft, wistful. Smokescreen's spark panged in loss. Optimus really was the perfect student. He could imagine how much Alpha Trion cared for the Prime. Sure, he'd done some things in his youth, but he was wise, powerful, and more knowledgeable than half the Autobots combined. How could he not be Alpha Trion's favorite?

"I bet he really cared about you. After all, you did become Prime." His tone was more bitter than anticipated. He was going to apologize, but a firm servo on his shoulder stopped him before he could.

"Do not sell yourself short, Smokescreen. I can tell my master cared for you as well." A smile greeted him, and Smokescreen remained stunned as the Prime leaned down to mostly match his height.

"The ease in which you carry yourself, the knowledge you possess, and the fondness in your tone tells me that he treated you kindly." The Prime's field wrapped around him warmly, like a hug from the gentlest of giants. Tears gathered in his optics against his will as the Prime met his gaze with understanding.

"Our master did not offer his affection easily." His venting hitched as he registered Optimus's words. The Prime brought him in for a hug as sobs overcame him. To know that Alpha Trion cared? It eased an ache he didn't know he suffered from.

He missed the Master Archivist. He missed the quiet moments they shared and the reprimands he received for slacking off. He regretted being unable to save him, for both his and Optimus's sake.

By the time he calmed, Optimus had been humming a soft tune for a while. It felt familiar, likely from the Archive. He appreciated it.

"I still carry a few novels in my hab. If you would like them, I will give them to you." The offer came gently as Optimus pulled away. He Prime kept his servo on Smokescreen's shoulder, guiding him toward the hallway leading back to the team's habs. Smokescreen could break away if he wished, but the offer was there, and he found himself eager to follow the Prime as Optimus edged in the direction of the hall.

"You read novels too?" He could hardly believe it, and yet based on what he now knew about the Prime, it seemed in character for him to indulge in stories rather than documents cycle in and cycle out. Every mech needed a chance to unwind, even Primes.

"You are not the first student that Alpha Trion had to steal unregistered reading material from." Optimus smiled again, and this time, Smokescreen smiled with him as he followed the Prime dutifully. Their fields mingled in a companionable way and he relished in the joy of being with a fellow student of Alpha Trion, no matter how great the age difference.

"I have a small collection of works I saved from the datanet before it fell apart. One of my favorite series is amongst my small collection." Optimus's voice was filled with joy as he walked the halls, Smokescreen at his right side taking long strides to keep up.

"What's it called?" He asked, eagerness filling his field. How long had it been since he'd read a novel? He was sure that it had been a few centuries at least, even if most of that time was spent in stasis.

"Sunburst, Explorer of Crystal City." The Prime seemed truly excited to share his work as he entered his hab and pulled a box out from under his berth. Smokescreen hovered around, watching as the box was placed on the hard surface and its contents revealed. There were at least a dozen scuffed up datapads all arranged in alphabetical order just like Alpha Trion always preferred his work to be organized.

"Historical fiction?" He guessed hopefully. Optimus smiled knowingly as he pulled out what Smokescreen could only assume was the first datapad in the series.

"Yes. It is written from the perspective of a scientist attempting to find old relics within the abandoned city of the Primes. It is quite a fascinating read. I think you may enjoy it." The datapad was pressed into his waiting servos, and Smokescreen did not hesitate to smile as widely as he could. His spark flared in joy at the familiar surface of the datapad, and he didn't feel at all awkward when Optimus pulled him out a chair to sit on.

Optimus felt more like a friend as they sat together, Optimus on his berth and Smokescreen on a chair, both reading novels written in an age without war. There was probably work they could both be doing, but as the night continued on, neither of them made to move. They were content.

And just for a little while, Smokescreen was happy to pretend he was back in the Archive, resting and relaxing with a friend while he waited for Alpha Trion to come snatch his datapad away.

#transformers #maccadam #transformers prime #optimus prime #smokescreen #alpha trion #slight angst #just two students of alpha trion bonding #an older archivist with the younger #enjoying their shared culture together

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