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yeyinde · 6 days ago

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PRAIRIE WOLF | hinterland

John Price x Reader

MASTERLIST. AO3. [PREV]

“So,” he drawls, eyes skirting down the length of your body before coming to a pointed stop on your midsection, belly hidden under a thick cable-knit sweater he gave to you to wear. “What's the plan?”

It takes you a minute to realise he's talking about the baby.

allusions to abuse. descriptions of injury. trauma.

The sound of rain pelting against glass rouses you from a threadlike sleep, one full of loose, spooling dreams and fractured memories.

(dirty, blood-drenched snow. a hole in your belly. the acrid burn of heated, melting metal in your nose. a grunt—

come on, Coyote, hold still—)

It hums there, even with your eyes open. Even as you blink into existence. Sitting on the edge; little clots, microcosms you can reach out and pop like bubbles. Hypnopompia. A strange place where dream and reality blur—surrealism in fatigue blue. Ghosts pulled into consciousness.

It's dark in the truck when you blink again, sluggishly mapping the features that stretch out before you, all shaded in black.

Through the windshield is a world of dark green. Thick, dense clouds gather above the angular tops of conifers and giant evergreens. Thunderclouds rumble overhead, groaning with the heavy rainfall that pours down over everything in a howling baptism.

Only the orange of the truck cuts colour through the thick deluge of blue-green and slate. Warmed by the heat of the engine. The cable-knit throw covers the red leather seats. It's as close to comfortable as you think you've ever been. Swaddled in a Levi's jacket tucked under your bare feet resting on the bench of the truck, hanging loosely over your shoulders. It smells of smoke—thick and dense, but sweeter, earthier than nicotine. Scorched pine and soot. Bonfires. Laced with sweat and oil and dirt—humus. Like the soil after a rain shower. A summer storm.

It smells good. You sink into it a little more—into this cosm that you know won't last. A blanket of succour, soft wool that tickles your nose and warms your cold hands. Chases away the tendrils of a grasping dream reaching for the edges of your periphery—all claws and teeth and misshapen memories.

Fractured bones. Burst blood vessels. A knot your belly—

The radio crackles as the truck drives down the winding highway, crooning something low and melodic through the static:

—stopped into a church I passed along the way—

The clock on the radio reads that it's just after seven. A jarring thought; the slow, sinking realization that everything happened in the span of hours. Ended only an hour ago. And now—

He's a wild animal you're not sure how to breathe around. A bear. His hand curls loosely over the steering wheel, the other braced on the ledge of the window, fingers tapping to the music spilling out, filling the cab.

He doesn't look over at you, but you get the feeling he knows you're awake. Watching him. Hunter. Hunted.

—well, I got down on my knees and I pretend to pray—

You thought you knew better. Come on, Coyote—

“Gonna stop and grab some burgers,” he grunts, a low growl barely an octave higher than the brassy singer on the radio. Softly spoken—or as soft as a man like him could manage—to not startle you. “Takeout. Tha’ alright with you?”

You're not sure what to make of it. Him, this. Being asked, maybe. That alright with you?

When you don't speak, he peels his eyes away from the road, glancing towards you. A brow raises. Waiting.

You shrug.

He grunts again. “Fine.”

His eyes slip down briefly to the metal name tag still pinned to the faded pink of your shirt, staring at the slanted words stamped into the enamel pin.

Taking them in. Their shape. Then:

“Why Coyote?”

Another shrug. It pulls at the hand-shaped, fist-sized ache in your shoulder blade. “It's what everyone calls me.”

“It's not your real name.”

“No.”

“Why do they call you Coyote, then?”

You think of a different weight on your shoulder. Heavy metal. Stale, warm beer and cigarette smoke coming in a puff of air over your cheek. Stay still for me, pretty girl. Gonna be in a world a’hurt if your squirmin’ makes me miss my shot—

A hand on your thigh. On your neck.

Hole in your belly. Blood on the snow.

“They just do,” you mumble around the crooning verse that swallows the tremble in your voice. “They always have.”

Come on, Coyote.

John brings to you a small, rustic-looking drive-thru with a menu that has less than ten items on it.

It's made of log and glass and smells of sizzling grease. There's a small parking lot to the left of the rectangular shack with a big moose's head on the front. All long antlers and a broad snout.

MOOSEHEAD the sign reads in faded, firetruck red. home of the moose burger.

When he said drive-thru, you assumed McDonald's. Burger King. Harvey's. The small shack nestled in front of a looming, slate-coloured mountain was not what you were expecting, and as he twists the wheel, navigating the winding path to the bright yellow menu behind a brown box, something shifts in your belly. A knot. Hunger, maybe.

You can't remember the last time you ate. Not good for the baby.

“What d’you want?”

You blink through the haze of rain, the thick plume of condensation that gathers at the bottom of the window, and read the boxy letters pressed into the lit board. HAMBURGER. CHEESEBURGER. MOOSEBURGER. FRIES. SOFT DRINKS. MILKSHAKES.

John rolls the window down. The heavy scent of wet, oil-slick pavement and rust fills the cab.

The speaker crackles. “Hi. What can I get you tonight?”

“Moose burger and fries,” he grunts. “Coke to drink.” A glance is sent your way. “And—?”

“Um. The same.”

“Make it two of those.”

“Sure thing, hun. Come ‘round the front. Your order will be ready. Total is twenty-two seventeen. Thank you.”

He doesn't roll the window back up. Mist sprays against your arm, glistening under the smear of neon lights glistening through the wet windshield. It's cool outside. The mountain air is clean. Crisp.

You've never been to this part of town before. To this town, you suppose. An hour out from the flat valley that made up the port city. The bay at your fingertips. Claws in your neck—

It's nice here. Green. Dark. Everything shifts, like it's on an angle. A slope. And you know it is with the towering mountain that looked like craggy chevron from the valley below pressed, imposing and massive, at your back. Your ears pop at the elevation, and breathing is both easier and heavier at the same time.

The air is thin here, but you're so far away from that city, from him, that it doesn't matter if you suffocate now because it'll be your choice and not—

His hands on your neck. Ever try to run away from me again, Coyote, and it'll be the last thing you ever fucking do—

The bag is wet when he presses it into your arm. Dropping it down on your arched legs when you don't take it from him quick enough. You startle. Blinking. He doesn't glance over, just slides your drink into the cupholder beside his, and after a moment, mind reeling because how much did you miss just—

Thinking.

You hurry to settle into place. Legs twitching, sliding out from their protective curl against your chest—

A hand on your covered ankle stops you. “Don't need to move,” he murmurs, glancing at you briefly. But not—

Not really. Not looking at you but out the window, you realise, the truck dipping down on an angle as he hovers near the exit, waiting for the thin line of cars to pass before he turns back onto the highway.

“Get comfy.” It's a suggestion. “Eat.” But that's a command.

Your inside twist at the sound of it. Military, you remember Elliot saying. You feel it acutely in your bones, still thrumming, pulse tripping over that growling demand. Eat.

Your body moves without thought. Obeying. Hands snaking out of the warmth cradled on the back of his Levi's jacket, one he must have thrown over you in your sleep, and peel back the rolled paper bag that smells of grease and meat. It's warm in the bag. You fish out the first burger and can barely close your hand around the thick of it, blinking slightly in startled awe at the size.

Moose burger. A fitting name, but you think of home, suddenly, painfully, and wonder if it's real moose. Feel the clench in your belly at the thought. Of moose steak drenched in fat, seared on the stove. Moose stew in the slow cooker, left to tenderise in the simmering broth.

“Ain't real moose.”

You wonder how he knew, and can't be sure if you like the fact that he did. Guessed right. Chiselled inside of your head. Read you like an open book. It makes your pulse thunder, a roaring in your ears that dulls the scattered thunderclaps from above.

“Oh,” you say, and feel the disappointment trickling in, thick in your throat. “Just the size, then?”

He hums, and reaches into the bag, rifling around for a handful of fries. “Yeah. Jus’ the size. Ever had it before?”

You think of then, of being tucked inside pants that don't fit. A shirt that's too loose. Feet in boots a size too big. All tattered and aged, worn down. Holes. Patches where the fabric was ripped and sewn back together. Jagged lines from an unpractised hand. Loose threads. Knots. The scent of cigarette smoke clinging to your skin. A plastic bag. A bruised apple that your teacher slipped you during the first recess. Leftovers.

Moose meat stew. Rabbit. Ew, Coyote's eating something weird again—

Thirteen and crouching behind a bush as your dad angles the gun over your head. Big boy, he whispers. Gonna be eatin’ good this winter. Look’it the size of ‘im.

The smell of duck fat sizzling in a pan. The crack of a beer can. Squeals of wood on slippery, cheap vinyl. Fried dough resting on the counter next to a tower of pop cans and an old Costco popcorn bottle filled with tabs. remind me t’send Robbie in the mornin’ to drop ‘em off. need the money for cigarettes.

Then:

Moose tonight. Go’an an’ get your sister.

It's mild. Like beef but better, you used to think. Less tangy. Less thick. Depends on the season, your dad would say. Best cut is when they're just on the end of their rut. When they're eating big. Getting nice and fat. Tastes better like that. A bull not in rut, a skinny one, ain't as good.

Moose is a strange meat. Prey animal, but it tastes nothing like a caribou or a deer. Rabbit. Not gamey, like a predator, either—like bear (braised black bear with gravy to make it tender; the fat stored away for later—another staple you think about). It's good. Different.

You miss it—even if the idea, the memories, that come with it make you feel scraped out and raw. Hollow. Empty.

Your tongue thickens. You don't think you can speak. Not right now. So you nod instead—this shallow, jerking thing. Too solemn. Too low. Chin to your chest.

John hums, and sinks the handful of fries into his mouth before he turns on the highway, one hand on the wheel. Knuckles raised. Marbled mountain peaks. Purple and red. Blotchy in the washed out glow of the dashboard. Swollen and painful looking but he doesn't even flinch when he grips the wheel, and the clotted scab peels, lifting off skin. Oozing thick, syrupy blood out from under the cracked shell.

He pulls back when it beads too much, wipes it on his shirt, careless and unbothered by the stain it leaves, and then puts his hand back on the wheel. Smeared ink black in the gloom.

That hand sunk into his—Sam’s—face. Caught on his sneer, knuckles tearing. Leaving blood between Sam's teeth. A split on his lip that made you think of the one—the ones—he left on yours. Tender and painful and swelling up in an instant. A pulsing throb, a heat.

Over and over again—

His hand rifles through the bag. “Eat,” he says again, low, muffled around the dangling end of a fry. “s’gonna go cold.”

It already is. Somewhat. A soggy, grease-soaked bun. Patty still warm. Dripping ketchup and mustard down the sides and onto the plastic wrapper. It's heavy. Thick. You bite the end flattened by the press of your thumbs, teeth sinking into the burger. Taste familiar on your tongue.

It's good, you suppose. Filling. You eat half before dropping it back onto the paper, reaching for the fries in the bag. Thick cut and crispy. Salted.

The truck smells of salt and grease, and when your stomach knots—too much food after too little for so long—you wrap the leftovers up and slip it back into the bag for later.

He doesn't say anything after that. His hand slides over the wheel as he turns up the winding road. Up, up. Deeper into the mountains where the air thins, and the trees thicken. An endless sprawl of darkness cut only by the muted gold glow of his headlights illuminating the wet, twisting pavement.

You sink into the silence. Feeling the heavy, warm weight of the half-eaten burger on your thighs. The stretch of leather beneath your ankle.

Heavy-lidded. Stuck in the sticky cobweb of fatigue and hyperarousal. Never really sleeping for more than a handful of hours at a time. Survival, you think. It's what the text in the pamphlet said, the one the lady shoved into your hands when you went to buy a pregnancy test from the store. It's not your fault: how to seek help for domestic abuse.

Her eyes were kind—like the paramedics. Oh, hun. It ain't your fault.

The problem is you don't think that's true.

He—Sam—was a good man before he met you, wasn't he?

But every so often, your gaze will slide towards his hand still curled around the steering wheel, knuckles split. Eyes suddenly heavy enough that you think you could fall asleep again.

His cabin is perched on the maw of a bay, accessible only by boat.

He seems hesitant as he unloads the luggage from his truck, throwing them into a sleek-looking fishing boat bobbing from where it's anchored in a dock. Wary. Watching you closely like he expects you to run.

And you know there should be trepidation. A strange man you've had less than a handful of conversations with, one who stuck his nose where it didn't belong, and is now herding you into a boat late at night.

Jarvis Inlet, he grunts. A place called Dark Cove. And then he looks at you, just stares, as if waiting for something. A fight, maybe. More questions. But you've slept in worse places, and the idea of being out of the rain as quickly as possible is more appealing than your potential doom.

You slide into the boat, hands curled into his jacket. He follows after a beat, unlatching the ties holding it to the dock, and steps inside, murmuring something when it shifts under his weight. Starts it up. He digs under his seat for a moment, rifling through a box, before grabbing something out and turning towards you. A blanket. He tosses it your way, grunting under his breath about keeping warm.

It's a short trip through the water. You spend most of it huddled under the blanket, hands squeezed between your thighs as he navigates around a massive, jutting rock with thick, dense conifers clustered along the sloping edges of the island.

You expected it to be higher up. Hidden in the mountains. But it sits at an arcing curve that cuts through the ocean. Tucked in the protective curl of his land is the still, ink blue waters of the bay before it bleeds into the sound.

Mainland is a craggy, green rock on the horizon. The ocean dips, dizzyingly vast and unfathomable, behind the jagged mass littered with the lights. A city in light polluted pointillism.

He pulls the boat up to a bigger one. A yacht. Sleek and white and bobbing in the waters. It's tethered to a dock out in the lake. A bridge connects it to the shore.

He reaches over when he cuts the engine, yanking on the makeshift hood you crafted from the loose throw until it covers more of your face. “Hold onto the railings when you walk. Gets slippery.”

John turns away after, hefting your meagre luggage on one shoulder as he pulls the tarp over the boat, shielding it from the rain. You step back onto the dock, back nudging the pristine boat behind you.

The world is awash in shadows. Dark, jagged peaks. Crooked trees drooping in the downpour. Ink black. An abyss that yawns out for an unfathomable stretch before kissing the dark mass of a mountain cutting out from the sprawling pool.

You've heard people say before that places like this can swallow you whole. Slip beneath the waves, turn behind a tree, and no one will ever see you again. But you've always found that sentiment to be wrong.

Cities are where you disappear. Indifferent places made of concrete and money. No one cares if you go missing, but out here—

You think this land spit you back out.

“Come on,” he grunts, sliding beside you. His hand is heavy on your waist. Urging. “This way.”

You follow, clinging to the firm hold he has on your back as you wobble along the slick bridge to the rocky embankment just up ahead.

The bridge continues even on land, sloping up in a set of stairs before coming to a stop on a small cliff above the beach.

You turn back towards the mainland when John stops, hand rifling through his pocket for the keys.

The distance, the knowledge that this mass you stand on—all soft, wet moss; peat soil—is so far away from that place that it clumps, black and jagged and imposing, against the shoreline is calming. In shades. Small increments, like the loosening of your shoulders. The ache there, too. The breath in your lungs comes a little easier when you stare down at the mainland, at the stretch of blue between it and you. The little thread in the distance that ties it together.

He nudges you quietly with the muted clearing of his throat. Not touching you, but—

Hovering. In sight. On the edge of your periphery. Making his presence known.

You're not sure what to make of it.

What to make of any of this.

His chin jerks towards the cabin bracket between a dense thicket of trees. “C’mon. Let's get you outta the rain.”

His cabin is modest in size.

The entrance is on a deck overlooking the bay. All open. Big, ceiling-to-floor windows. French doors. It's framed in thick cured timber. Logs stained a warm, honeyed brown.

Inside is simple in design, too.

The kitchen is to the left. A living room to the right. Straight across is a loft with a staircase angled into the kitchen. A small, dark hallway rolls out from beneath the balcony and leads to two bedrooms, the laundry room, and the bathroom.

The living room is cosy. An old, worn couch is pushed against the vaulted window overlooking the deck. A chair tucked beside it. Against the right wall is a hearth next to another big, open window angled into the forest.

A coffee table sits in front, cluttered with stacks of books—carpentry, woodwork—and pieces of wood. Blocks shaved down into the idea of an object. Incipient creations. A knife lays overtop. Pens, markers scattered around.

Along the log walls—all the same warm honey-coloured—are trophies. A moose head. Antlers. Books line the shelves. Newspaper rests in a thick stack by the armchair.

The kitchen is tucked into a nook, hidden behind an island. The same rustic brown as everything else, save for the faded, yellow refrigerator and the off-white stove.

Where a dining table might sit, is a workbench. Tools. A saw. It spills over the surface.

It's lived in, you know, but something about it feels detached. Cluttered madness, but—

Not really.

Everything, even in this disordered chaos, has a place. From the scattered markers to the books on the walls. It all fits some unseen cohesion even if you thought his house would have been neater. Military.

There's a blanket on the couch that catches your eye. The design—the pattern. Achingly familiar.

“Loft or bedroom?”

You tear your gaze away from it, swallowing down the acrid longing that surges in your throat. “What?”

He jerks his chin towards the balcony. “Wanna sleep up there or in the spare bedroom?”

“Don’t you sleep up there?”

“No. Used to. S’more of an office now.”

There's a guest house to the left of the cabin. A bachelor with the kitchen running into the bedroom. The washroom closed off. But it's not finished, he says, something frissoning over his expression. Knotting between his brows. Something about the look on his face screams don't ask because he'll never tell.

You glance away. It's not in you to pry. To care. Whatever secrets he keeps are his and his alone. Just like yours. Why Coyote—

The only other choice is the spare bedroom tucked inside the dark hallway beside his. Close. Barely an arm's length away—

“Loft.”

He nods like he expected it. Jerks his chin again towards the back, holding your duffle bag out for you to take.

“Showers through there. Go get warmed up. And I'll heat up some stew.”

The bag dangles on the width of his hand, swaying from the momentum. This ugly, tattered black backpack—

“I don't—I didn't bring any clean clothes—” it's embarassing to admit now that inside your meagre bag is nothing but four hundred dollars and an old, tattered blanket. A sweater. Dirty, bloodstained pants. Everything else is with—

With Sam.

The plan had been to cash your last cheque, and go back to the motel. Grab the rest. A stupid decision in hindsight.

There's a tick in his jaw. A terse set to his shoulders. He lowers the bag, letting it fall to the floor, collapsing in on itself. Empty.

“Nevermind,” you say, slipping the wet blanket from your shoulders, letting it pool in your arms. “I can just wear this—”

His eyes rive over the crumpled, wet uniform shirt. Faded pink—bubblegum, you think; with chocolate brown trim—and stained with grease. Coffee.

Another tick. His brow furrows. Knots. Anger slashing over his face, rucking three, jagged lines through his forehead.

“No. I'll bring you somethin’ to wear. Somethin’ warm. Gets cold out here. Go.” Another jerk of his chin. A command.

He does that a lot, you realise, shivering at the bite inside the cabin, the chill ghosting over your damp skin as he turns away from you, walking deeper into the house. Towards his bedroom. The broad expanse of his back bigger than anything you'd ever seen—

All height, and heft. Soft in the middle, but thickened with muscles. And with it, he commands. All biting, unignorable demands. Do this, eat. Go. Get warm.

You're used to it, you think. Being told what to do. How to act. Marionette on strings. All you're good for.

Sam used to say the reason you made him hit you so much is because you never listen. Gotta box you around the ears a bit, just for you to even pay attention to me, Coyote. It's not my fault, baby, you make me do it—

But there's something about his commands that sink beyond noise. Reaching into the slick, pulsing gyri, and sending off his own current of obeyance. Innate. Unconscious. He says eat and you find yourself taking a bite of a burger you didn't think you even wanted. Weren't hungry for. Chewing. Swallowing. Another bite. Chew. Swallow. Again. Again. Again. Utters watch your step and your eyes drop to the slick ground, carefully treading the planks.

Get warm. Go shower. You drop the blanket on the back of the chair, covering up the other one, and walk towards the bathroom. Thoughtless. Head silent. Empty and still. Quiet for the first time since you were thirteen—

It's because you're tired, you think. Exhausted.

That's all.

But when you finally sink into the bed—lumpy and thick and perfect—sleep evades you. Skirts just out of reach until you're staring up at the log ceiling, thinking about nothing. Everything.

Sam. Blood on the pavement. The split in his knuckles. Grease. Burgers. Come on, Coyote—

The knot in your stomach—

Your hand goes there. Slips under the thick cable knit sweater he gave you to sleep in, the boxers that fit like loose shorts, and curls around your lower belly. Flat and empty because this thing inside of you isn't even really there. Small, the book said. Tiny. A speck.

A life-changing, mind-melting thing.

You—

A mother.

The thought is soaked in the rotten, fetid sludge of the past. Of your own mother with her dark hair and her hard eyes. Her strange moods. Don't touch me, Coyote. I don't wanna be touched right now, fuck. Can't you ever listen? Mercurial. How come you never hug me? Actin’ like I ain't your mom an’ shit. Shifting. Evolving. Changing shape depending on who she was with at the time—

Unravelling at the seams ever since your dad died. You look like your dad, Coyote. It makes me fuckin’ sick—

You can't think about it. Won't.

So you don't. Swallow it down. Cotton in your ears. Noise in the back of your head.

Memories on your skin. Ghosts in your veins.

Come on, Coyote.

You'd be a terrible mother, you think, and peel your hand away, knotting it into a fist by your side until your nails sink into skin.

There's something a little grounding about the pain this time.

You stare up at the ceiling all night until the sun rises, golden and warm, and spills in through the vaulted window.

Below you, you hear John stir. Rising.

You follow his lead.

He does odd jobs, he says.

Carpentry. Woodwork. Makes things that people want. That they need. Most of it gets sold in town—patio chairs, kayaks for the tourists—or by the few locals in the bay who need things made. Repairs, too. Easy fixes.

Most of it is on backlog, but he'll get the occasional phone call asking for something to be done.

And that's where you come in.

The loft has a small space made up of a makeshift office. A phone. A ledger. Papers. Pens. It's pushed up against the railing of the balcony, right across from the top of the stairs.

All you really have to do is answer when people call, take their information, and find out what they want him to build. He doesn't do cabins, he grunts. Say no. Always.

Everything else goes into the ledger for him to look at later.

“Don't worry,” he rumbles, scratching at the thick curls beneath his chin. “Most of the orders come from Elliot. You'll just be fielding local work. Kayaks, mostly.”

And he's not wrong. The first week, you get all of a single phone call—a woman down in Osoyoos who wants a kayak. Her information is penned into the thick, waterlogged ledger next to the other names. Contact information. He'll get back to you soon, you say, but John just grunts when you tell him about the woman.

Its mostly just—

Laying around. Organising the mess in the loft. The boxes he shrugs at, and tells you to put them in the closet along with whatever else is clogging the upstairs. Forgotten remnants he seems disinterested in going through.

Or watching him.

John fills space as easily as breathing. Makes noises. Commands. The order he's working on is spread out over the deck, and spills into the cabin. Little saws on the workbench. Tools. He wanders in and out with purpose, grabbing things, using them, putting them back. Silent as he works.

He's a mystery. An enigma. Seems unbothered by you being here, sinking your fingers into his things. He adjusts in that strange, quiet way of his. Makes dinner for two as if he'd been doing it the whole time. Leaves clean towels in the bathroom. Runs into town and comes back with clothes—from Savannah, he grunts out, thrusting the bag in your direction; Elliot's wife, said she'd be about your size—and pads, tampons, that he shoves under the bathroom sink. An extra toothbrush. Shampoo that isn't five-in-one and smells of honey and oats.

But it's not seamless.

Sometimes, you think he forgets. Walks in—caked in sawdust and covered in sweat—and peels his shirt up, baring his thick, hairy damp chest without a second thought, scrubbing his face, his neck, with the bottom of his stained shirt. Or rips it off. Comes in drenched in sweat, and reaches behind himself, one hand curling into the fabric against his nape, and pulls—

Broad, slick skin. All covered in a dense layer of fur.

Bearish.

Remembers himself only when you make a noise. A huff. Silent laughter because this whole thing is a little unreal—

He doesn't apologise, though. Just shrugs. Reaches for a face cloth he keeps slung around the back of the couch and pats himself dry.

Dinner is quiet, too. Sombre. He leaves food out for you, but eats between work. Often outside, reclining on the patio chair on the deck. Pours himself a glass of whiskey. Has a cigar. Inhales his food before you've even put together a plate, and then the saw starts up again. Back to work.

It's tense. The atmosphere is thick. It feels like you're dancing around each other, trying to make room in a space too small for even just himself.

You stay upstairs most of the time. Staring out at the sprawl of glinting blue. The jagged green.

The bay is prettier in the daylight when the sun is high in the sky casting a golden yellow arch across the veridian world around you. Still. Silent.

The city was loud. Cars on the pavement. Horns. Chatter. Noise. People. An endless spill, a cacophony of life. Sirens. Motors. Barking commands.

Sam's condo downtown was never quiet. Too close to the harbour—foghorns, the roar of ships entering the port. Television playing something he was interested in at the time. The radio on. The sounds he made spilling out—fuck, Coyote. Can't you do anything right?

Noise, noise, noise—

More coffee. When's my breakfast comin’ out. Hey, cutie, what time you done work at?

You should really leave him, Coyote, because what the fuck? Have you seen your eye? It looks worse with makeup, come on, girl, you're fuck up our tips!

And now—

The saw. Scrape of a knife on wood. A grunt. Fuck. A loon in the distance. A splash. Watch your step on the deck, Coyote. Got shit everywhere. The lap of the sea against the rocks. The rustle of the trees in the breeze. Makin’ stew tonight. Want some? The ringing of the telephone. Etta James crooning on the radio. The knock of the metal boats against the dock. Grab yourself a beer if you want. Only got that or whiskey. Help yourself. The soft shlick of the fridge peeling open. The hum. Clink of a bottle on glass. The hiss when you open it. A saw. A splash. Rain on glass. The thunk of his boots across the deck. The soft thud of a door.

Anyone call? A grunt. The rip of laces as he peels his boots off. You shake your head, reaching for a bun. No. A sigh. Good.

Most of the noise is in your head.

Memories. Malformed dreams dancing in the recesses of your mind.

Crack of a twig. Hands on your throat. Come on, Coyote—

Inescapable.

Inevitable.

And that's what it all is, isn't it?

He stares at you, too. Sometimes you catch him watching in that careful, measured way of his. The same look on his face as before, in the diner—anger: what happened to you; wariness: whatever it is, don't bring it over here—but morphing. Shifting. Dropping from the curve of your neck tucked under the fold of a pink collar, bruises melting seamlessly into your skin, to the roll of his sweater over your midsection. Pausing there, like he's expecting to see something more than the curl of cream yarn woven together.

It makes you a little sick. Like that time when he and the paramedic hovered. You hate them both, you thought. Felt. An acid burn in your chest. Go away, stop staring. Stop gawking. Leave!

The woman in the drugstore. Oh, you poor thing. Pushing an unwanted pamphlet into your hands. Don't worry, hun, it'll get better.

People look at you and see what they wanted to see. Unwrapping you until they found the hurt below. A reason for their sympathy.

Because girls like you aren't deserving of pity unless you're all broken up. Shallow graves and forgotten names. A box collecting dust.

They looked for the marks, the bruises, and sighed with relief when they found them. Oh, you poor thing.

It's petty, and you hate yourself for it. Just a little bit. But you know how far sympathy will go before it dries up and oh, you poor thing becomes well, you kinda deserved it.

You're not special in this regard. All of your friends had similar stories growing up but what always set them apart is that people would have looked into that room, seen a grown man with his hand on their thigh, a sixteen-year-old child, and thought oh, your poor thing.

When it happened to you, their lips curled in disgust. Stay away from my husband, you slut—

Because at the end of the day, it's always your fault for looking the way you do.

("Like you want it," he grunts into your ear, spiteful and ugly, fingers digging in because they can.)

You figure it's only a matter of time John, too, stops finding reasons for his pity.

His charity.

Because, really—

"What makes you so special, Coyote?"

A pretty face. Split thighs.

The only thing you're good for is being on your knees—

Come on, Coyote. You should know this already.

But the dance continues.

He leaves in the mornings. Goes on runs. You haven't gathered the courage yet to go farther than the deck, too worried about the call of the forest. The sprawling blue. Of sinking into evergreen and sleeping forever—

John doesn't seem to mind your reclusiveness. Only a matter of time. He brings back books when he leaves the island. Little things for you to occupy yourself with. You never ask, won't. The fewer favours you owe, the more of yourself you can keep when the good Samaritan act has run dry.

You don't say thank you. It wasn't your choice to begin with. You clean up after yourself, but that's it. A guest in his house. Nothing more, nothing less.

You do your job, even though it's obvious it was a joke.

No one calls besides the woman in Osoyoos and Elliot—

Something that shouldn't have surprised you as much as it had. Military dogs, he once said as you poured him another cup of coffee. We tend to mingle.

But hearing his voice is a cruel relief. The only exception to the rule has ever been Elliot, a man who seemed to adopt an uncle stance when it came to you.

Kin, he'd said, and laughed when you scoffed. We're practically cousins.

“Might stop by soon. See how you're holdin’ up.”

“Don't bother. I'm fine.”

“Well, maybe I'll come bother Price. He loves it when I visit.”

“I'll pass on the message.”

“No, don't do that,” he laughs, loud and free. It tickles your ear. “He'll call the dock and tell ‘em not to rent me a boat.”

“Should take it as a sign, then. That John—Price doesn't wanna be around you.”

“Ah, cruel girl. You wound me.”

“You don't wanna get hurt, then stop calling.”

“Gotta check in on ya. You get into all kinda trouble when I’m not around.”

It makes you tense. Belly knotting. “No one asked you to do that, Elliot. I didn't ask you to.”

“You're a lot like Price, you know. Both of you…you don't like askin’ for help even if you need it.” He breathes into a line. A heavy sigh.

Elliot is a good man, you know. The best. But—

“I'm fine, Elliot.”

You tend to hurt people like that.

“You're a good kid,” he says instead. “Just—be gentle with him, huh? Been through a lot.”

“He's six foot and like, three hundred pounds. How much damage could I really do?”

More’in you think, is what he says after a long pause, low and solemn; voice full of things you can't unravel. Unwrap. And you scoff in response because what does he know? Huh, Elliot? Be so serious, ta.

A man like John—Price—could rip you apart before you even put a scratch on him.

“Not everyone hurts with their hands, Coyote.”

John's been through a lot. Please remember that.

Something has to break, you think.

And you can feel it, too. This thickness in the air. In the coil of his shoulders. The line between his brow. Anger, inward. The heavy, measured way he stares as he dances around you. Moving in circles. A clumsy routine built on mutual avoidance.

It's I didn't ask for help and don't bring that over here merging into a whitewater confluence. A narrow channel where one must go under first in order to fit.

You're tired of it being you, but you don't think a man like Price has ever backed down from anything in his life.

Stalemate, maybe.

Or—

It cracks after dinner when he lingers. Hovering in the kitchen as you slip down the stairs in search of something to fill the chasm in your belly. The thing growing—

He meets you there, shoulders tense. His head is bowed between them, hung low as he looks over the plans spread out on his workbench. You make to skirt around him, but he looks up when you get close. Pins you in place with his stare.

It takes you a minute to realise he's talking about the baby.

“Adoption,” you force out, squeezed between the ache of the past chiselling inside rotted marrow and the shape of your future; a hole in your belly. Blood on the snow.

You were always meant to die, you think. Snuffed under the heel of a boot or at the end of a shotgun—the how never mattered much over the spread of a carcass on the ground. Inevitable, maybe. Just like—

Just like your mother.

But at least this way, this little thing leaching off of you, an unwanted seedling, will grow. Might have a chance to be different. Escape the generational trauma that plagues your lineage—an inherited curse. Inescapable. Maybe it'll be different. Better.

“I think—adoption might be best. Maybe.”

He says nothing, just stares in that strange, measured way of his. But then—

Why would he? It's not his kid. Not his choice.

It seems to dawn on him all the same. His jaw clenches tight, bruised knuckles peaking as he curls his fingers into a fist.

Something fractures over his expression. Gaze turning inward. Shuttered. Haunted by ghosts older than you, maybe. But he's good at shaking them off. Putting them away.

He catches your stare, eyes following it down to his bloodied knuckles, and his mouth pulls into a taut, absent smile. He knocks them on the wood once, twice. Leaves a drop of blood smeared on the grain.

“Alright,” it's strained, pinched. “If that's what you want.”

It is. It's an unfathomable kindness you wish your mother graced onto you. It—it—will understand. Eventually. With time. Once they realise the only thing in their future was sleeping in the back seat of a car while you worked odd jobs—waitress, stripper, labourer in a factory—and barely having enough money to scrape together to get a happy meal, they'll come to thank you for this choice.

You nod instead, and his lips twitch again in that mockery of a smile. Something shatters. Breaks.

There are more ways to hurt, Coyote, than with teeth and claws.

He peels away after a beat, muttering something under his breath about an order. A kayak the neighbours ordered.

You don't watch him leave. You're too busy staring at the smear of blood left behind, the smear he didn't seem to notice.

for those wondering what John's cabin looks like. Jervis Inlet is just perfect for this little fic.

#captain john price x reader #john price x reader #price x reader #fic: prairie wolf #i hate picking names for people/ocs but i also have plans so the exbf couldn't be a nameless entity 😮‍💨#cod mw2 #cod x reader #john price #captain john price #price/reader #price x you #captain price #cod price

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prettycutebunny · 2 years ago

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Aemond …….. oh sweet summer child. You and daemon do make a fine couple that I will say 😬

Smoke, Fire and Ash

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence, death, forced marriage, and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Masterlist

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.

Note: Did I buy a silver white lace front wig so I can parade around my house like a Targaryen? Yes. Was it the best purchase I've ever made? Also yes. Have absolutely loved the theories and messages and memes you have all sent through, still cackling at the divorce rock! Enjoy <3

Chapter 62: A good day

Returning to your shared chambers, you found Aemond had returned at long last. And not a single greeting or word was spent on you. He was leant over the table as he wrote quietly upon some parchment. A large tome lay open in front of him, and he did not turn his head to greet you as you entered, too enraptured by his quill.

You watched his long, slender fingers dragging the quill across the page, ink drawing neatly beneath it. You shut the door behind you softly and moved slowly across the room, craning your head to see what he was writing.

“Enjoying yourself?” Aemond drawled, not taking his eye away from the page.

You had no care to start an argument, nor the fire to snip back at him.

Today had been a good day.

You straightened your back as you moved away from your creeping and towards the window, perching upon the ledge to look out at the setting sun, watching the sky turn a soft purple.

A purple that reminded you of Helaena’s eyes.

She seemed to be everywhere with you today.

“I saw a beetle today.” You thoughtlessly spoke, not bothering to see if Aemond was listening.

He was.

He had lifted his head from the parchment and brought his gaze to you.

“It was the brightest green you would ever see, and beneath its wings, it had these pearly ones that shimmered.” You reminisced, smiling.

“Helaena had one, exactly the same, land on her during the union celebrations. And today, one came to land with me.” Your voice got quieter the more you spoke.

This was the most you had said in some time.

The most you had said that wasn’t a quip or a snarl, a sneer or demand. Instead it was simply an observation. The most simple of observations at that. A beetle, that was all it was, a small green beetle, and yet that tiny little bug would have never known the change it had brought to you.

“Helaena would have liked it.” Aemond’s voice carried across the chambers to you gently.

You smiled as you looked out at the water.

“She would have.”

Unbeknownst to you, Aemond watched as you smiled out at the water and could not help but feel a twinge in his chest as he thought of his sister. She was too pure for a world filled with such cruelty, and so it had become too much for her to bear. He was gladdened, in some ways, that she would not be there to witness the horrors of today. To have witnessed his cruelty fester inside of him. To bear the brunt of Aegon’s rising drunkenness, and their mothers disregard.

At least Helaena could no longer feel pain and was now at peace.

“The sky looks like her eyes.” You whispered, and Aemond stood, pushing the chair back slowly as he placed his quill in its holder.

You listened, without fear, as he walked towards you, standing at your side as he looked out at the ocean. The sky was a light purple, the colour of fresh lavender or blooming wisteria in the spring. The sun lowered behind the horizon, and the soft purple began to deepen.

“It does.” Aemond commented, as he looked out at the water beside you.

It was strange to have Aemond agree.

The fire between the both of you had calmed, and the embers had settled, and instead you were able to find peace in the space. Neither of you bickered, nor argued, snipped, nor snapped as you watched the sun set, and the sky darken into a deep blue.

Aemond moved himself away from the window as the last of the evenings light had left, and nightfall had settled over the realm. You watched as he moved to tidy the table, collecting the parchment and quill to place it on a side table amongst the decanter of wine.

You walked across the room as he moved back to collect the ink pot to place it with the others. Your eyes looked down at the tome that lay open on the table, skimming over the first line of the page that was open.

‘Weirwoods that had stood for two hundred generations were cut down to provide rafters and beams in the construction of Harrenhal.’

Weirwoods were the tree that you sat beneath. The Godswood was what you had grown to call it, though you knew the small courtyard where it sat was the true Godswood. A place for those who followed the Old Gods to pray.

But why were all those trees cut down?

Would that not bring about bad luck?

You knew that Harrenhal was said to be haunted or cursed, and as you read the page and thought of all those sacred trees being cut and placed inside of the old castle, it came as no surprise that perhaps the castle of Harrenhal truly was cursed.

‘King Harren soon came to know that thick walls and high towers are small use against dragons, for dragons fly. Aegon the First flew down on the mighty Balerion and-‘

Aemond pulled the tome towards him and away from you as he closed it to place it on the side table with the others. He poured himself a goblet of wine, and then one for you, walking back over to hand it to you. You took the wine and sipped, looking at him as you fell into a comfortable quiet before the maids came to deliver your supper.

You both ate together, not speaking, yet not arguing, with no tension between the two of you. It seemed that his days away had cooled his anger and spite, and your days alone had helped to cool yours. It was a civil meal, and you felt little urge to destroy the peace of the day.

However, the peace between the both of you did little for the pain that ebbed within. A cramp crawled through your lower stomach, causing you to tense in pain and wriggle in your chair. You hid a grunt under the guise of clearing your throat, but it sounded more like a wince. Aemond’s eye lifted away from his plate and landed on your face as you grimaced, your cramps building as you continued to sit.

“Whats wrong?” He asked, the tiniest hint of concern in his voice.

You met his eye across the table and shook your head almost in embarrassment. You looked back down at your plate as you answered him.

“I have my… blood.”

Aemond hummed, and you felt a blush crawl across your cheeks.

“Is there anything that you need for your…” He trailed off.

“No, I am quite alright. I was just... not expecting it, is all.”

I was not expecting to be spared from a child.

I was not expecting to be free for another day.

I was not expecting to feel elation at the sight of my own blood.

Aemond's eye continued to watch you in scrutiny.

“Sometimes... Peppermint tea can help.” You added.

Perhaps he could have some sent to the chambers.

“Do you need milk of the poppy?”

You wanted to laugh, but held it in to not offend him.

“No, I am fine... Thank you.”

Aemond nodded and resumed his eating, and you continued with yours, trying to hold still in your chair as the pain intensified. How long had it been since you had last bled?

Aemond’s eye was caught by your movement, and suddenly stood from his chair, moving across the room to speak to the knight at the door. When he returned to the table and sat back down, he watched you closely.

“I have sent for some tea.”

You did not expect that.

Why had he sent for the tea?

Your lips parted in shock and you stumbled over your thoughts on what to say, instead settling on a small thank you, before resuming back to your meal. By the time you had finished eating, the maids had arrived to your chambers, tea in hand and helped to ready you for bed. They helped to undress you, and brushed your hair from your braids as you sat, and sipped on your peppermint tea.

The tea sat warmly in your stomach, spreading comfort throughout your body, and soon you found that your cramps had grown duller. It gave you a comforting feeling too, it reminded you of your time with your mother back on Dragonstone.

A small, yet beautiful comfort.

By the time the maids had finished with the room, removing your plates and tidying the space, you had finished your tea and they had taken the empty cup and pot with them. You thanked them softly as they left, and they had bowed their heads to you.

You missed Saria and Aella.

Aemond already lay in bed, tucked beneath the sheets before you joined him. You crawled into the space beside him, and curled up on your side facing the wall. It was strange to have him back, it almost felt normal. But you still had this nagging anger and spite, nipping at the back of your head, which you pushed back down into the murky depths within you.

You had a good day today, and you weren't going to taint it.

You even felt a little bit more like yourself.

Was this progress?

Aemond blew out the candles around you and a soft darkness fell across the room. You felt him shift in the bed behind you as he moved. You let your eyes close and felt yourself slowly relax as the both of you stilled in the bed.

Aemond shifted again, his body coming closer to yours as heat radiated off of his chest and onto your back. He was always so warm. Your breath caught in your throat as you felt him touch a shy hand to your shoulder before slowly trailing it down your arm, goosebumps rising in its wake, until his hand settled on the flesh of your hip.

His long fingers rubbed the chemise over your skin as he softly caressed you, each passing moment making his movements bolder.

Do not react.

He only becomes crueller when you react.

Soft lips pressed themselves to the skin of your shoulder, Aemond's fingers dancing along the curve of your hip. A familiar warmth spread through your body as his hand slowly crawled across your front, fingers pulling the length of the chemise up.

You grasped his wrist gently to stop him, your voice cracking as you spoke.

“I have my blood, Aemond.” You whispered, hoping it would prevent his ministrations.

His lips pressed against your shoulder again as he hummed into your skin, his hand breaking free of your grip as they continued their task of revealing your core to him.

“Blood would not deter me.” He hummed.

And it didn’t.

“Please, stop.” You begged, hoping your voice would convince him, but it hadn’t.

He pushed against your grip on his wrist, and you wriggled in his hold trying to move away from him.

"Tepagon isse.” Give in, Aemond growled.

Your heart jumped in your chest, and your grip on his wrist faltered.

Let him have his way.

Let him do as he wished.

Do not let him ruin your good day.

Endure it.

Aemond’s hand moved back towards the chemise, breaking free of your grip to grasp the thin material and pull it up your thighs. He pulled it over the soft curve of your hip, as his fingers moved down between your thighs. Aemond pressed another kiss to your shoulder, and you had to force yourself to breathe.

Endure it.

This was your fate.

There was no running from this.

His long fingers came to skirt around the flesh of your thighs, running gently up and down them as he brushed your skin reverently. You squirmed beneath him as he continued to tease you.

Why fight it?

It would only make it worse.

You had to endure.

Aemond’s fingers came to gently rub through the tuft of hair on your mound, tickling the skin before he moved a single finger to glide between your folds. You were already wet from your blood, and you cringed at the thought of the mess it would make. He rubbed between your folds up and down, your blood making you far more sensitive than you usually would be. You breathed jaggedly as he pressed against your bundle of nerves, swirling his finger as he mouthed against your shoulder, shiver rolling up your spine.

It was so tender.

So full of love.

And it made your stomach do flips.

Was this what it could have been?

What should have been?

Aemond continued to swirl his finger around your bud, drawing soft pants from your lips as your hips bucked backwards into his lap. With a large hand, Aemond grasped your shoulder and rolled you so that your back was flat against the mattress. He leant over you, his hair falling around your face as he watched you writhe beneath him, his finger not slowing. He leant forward and placed a kiss to the corner of your lips, watching as you sighed when his finger pushed through your folds and into your heat. It was so sensitive, the pleasure was overwhelming.

Endure it.

There was no painful intrusion, no stinging or tearing, only the pleasurable stretch that it gave as he pushed into your welcoming folds, coming to brush against the soft spongey patch within. He found it quickly, and easily, as though he had memorised where it was, and soon began to rub against it. Your chest rose off of the bed as you whined, as Aemond moved to press his lips against yours finally.

Endure.

You let him kiss you, and you kissed him back, chasing his lips. Today was a good day. You were not going to let him ruin it. You pushed down your disgust and shame, and let your body guide you through it.

Endure.

He sped up his finger within, moving to slide in a second finger, guided by both your slick and your blood. He began to draw his hand in and out of you, palm brushing against your bud as you quietly moaned into his mouth. The coppery smell of your blood lingered in the air, and any lingering pain from your cramps disappeared to be replaced by the pleasure he brought you.

Aemond was being tender.

Kind.

Sweet, even.

It was about your pleasure and not his.

His attention was solely on you.

You could pretend this was normal. You could pretend that this was real love. You could pretend that nothing had happened. And you would. You would pretend, and let him have his way with you, and you would bask in the glow of pleasure he brought you, and the peace your submission gave.

Endure and enjoy.

Aemond's lips were so soft against yours, his tongue swiping to gain entrance into your mouth, softly licking into you as your hands gripped the sheets below, desperate to ground yourself from the steadily rising pleasure.

The coil within wound itself tighter, and tighter, as his fingers moved through your folds, his lips parting from yours so he could turn his eye to watch his hand disappearing into your heat.

A long groan fell from his parted lips as he watched your slick folds pulling him in, mouth opening as he sighed a heavy breath. You dared to let yourself look down, watching as his fingers plunged into your heat, coated in your blood.

You had thought that the sight would have made you ill, that the image of your blood upon him in your most intimate area again would bring back memories of your wedding, but it didn’t. Instead a wave of arousal burnt though you, and you threw your head back, hips chasing after his hand as he rapidly brought you to your peak.

“So good. You’re doing so good for me.” Aemond purred, watching your face scrunch up as you tried to hold in your noises, “Let go for me, let me see you.” His fingers pulled out and moved up to your bud, rubbing fast circles around it, drawing almost painful pleasure from you.

“Oh…fuck.” You gasped, back arching off of the bed as the coil within you snapped.

Blinding white hot pleasure coursed through your veins as he brought you to your peak.

Your core fluttered as you came, Aemond’s fingers swiftly dipping back into your heat as he prolonged your release, thrusting his fingers in and out of you with speed, the chambers filled with the lewd sounds of your wetness.

"Sȳz zaldrītsos.” Good, He murmured coming to press his lips against you, his fingers overstimulating you as you writhed beneath him, desperate to get away.

“Arlī.” Again, Aemond purred, thrusting his fingers into you faster.

Your eyes shot open, finding Aemond looking down at you, pupil blown wide as he breathed heavily, fingers fucking into your heat. Your hand came to grip his wrist, trying to slow him or have him remove them as you felt your second release building quicker than the first, and painfully.

“Kostilus, Aemond. Kostan daor.” Please Aemond, I can’t, You whined softly, pleading him with your eyes, hips trying to pull away from him.

“Kesā.”

You will.

His fingers pulled out to rub against your pearl, and the coil snapped again. Your release was pulled out of you so quickly you cried out, eyes scrunching shut as he ripped each and every wave of pleasure from you. Your hips jerked and twitched beneath him, until finally his hand slowed, fingers moving to rub through your folds as you came down, a small tear leaking from the corner of your eye and down to the pillow.

Your mind was hazy, and your body felt heavy, eyes staying shut as you slumped below him against the bed. He had pulled the life from you, body twitching with after pulses.

Aemond let out a breathy chuckle beside you, pulling his hand free of the mess between your thighs. His lips came to press the side of your face where the tear had escaped, capturing it with a gentle kiss.

The bed moved and the weight of his arm and hand left your body. The Prince pulled his slickened fingers up to his lips, licking your release and blood from the digits as he hummed. You could hear the sound of his tongue lapping at the wetness from above, and you kept your eyes shut.

Your core strummed from overstimulation. You felt like you were floating and sinking all at once. It was the most powerful release you had ever had.

Would it always feel this good?

“Gevie.” Beautiful, He whispered, eye still on your tired form.

Aemond's hand came to brush the hair away from your face, fingers tickling the skin. You huffed beneath him.

“Īlē vēttan syt nyke.” You were made for me.

Your eyes were too tired to open, and Aemond was content to stay looking down at you. He made no move to lay atop of you, nor did he move to touch you again. Instead, your husband let his fingers come to trail around your thighs softly, causing you to twitch from the tickling sensation.

You had done it.

You had endured it.

And you were okay.

You were safe.

But was it really enduring it if you enjoyed it?

Would he always be this gentle if you let him have you?

Sleep began to pull you down as you laid in the bed, your two releases having completely sucked any, and all energy from you. You just wished to rest. And Aemond let you. Though his fingers still trailed around your thighs, never quite returning to your centre, whilst he leant on an elbow looking down at you.

You were sure you looked a mess, covered in your own slick and blood, hair messy and tussled from writhing in the bed, and yet Aemond continued to coo praise at you, and slowly you drifted away to sleep. His voice still whispering out into the chambers as he watched you.

“Iksi lanta hen keskydoso,” We are two of the same, "Vējes ondoso se Jaes.” Fated by the Gods, His voice became further and further away as you drifted to sleep.

“Ziry ūndan ziry, zaldristos.” She saw it, little dragon.

“Lanta rōvēgrie zaldrīzes perzyssy, hēnkirī hae mēre. Spool hen kasta, spool hen zōbrie. Iā rōvēgrie ropagon naejot letagon lanta hubon. Vējes naejot zālagon hēnkirī.”

Two great dragon flames, together as one.

Spool of green, spool of black.

A great fall to tie two threads.

Fated to burn together.

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

Tag List:

@izzicle @ej-shitchats @may-machin @alegria1580 @witchy-jadda @videovampire @inkdelicious @queteimporta39 @virtualsweetsqueen @fo-cus @auratiqs @feyres-fireheart @queenofshinigamis @asoiafwh8re @teasandcrumpets @shesjustanothergeek @grungegrrrl@queenofsarcazm @marihoneywk @curlszx88 @virgogaia @loser-keiji @asoiafwh8re @whore-of-many-hot-men @vipervixxen @theonewiththeimaginaryboyfriends @watercolorskyy @lavendervisions @mazmack666 @chokefrog @orangejump-suit @nik2blog @serrhaewinin @ohemgeewhat @winxschester @cryptidsrcool @drinking-tea-and-be-obsessed @celestedonut @bloodyvelvet777 @iamapersonthatsalive @av-sos @yentroucnagol @sanzu-s @opheliaas-stuff @bellameshipper @maviee @persephonerinyes @neytiri-09 @ensnaredinwonderland @xbluegracex @sotragedynut @nattieot7 @shesawaywiththefairies-blog @coffedraven @prettycutebunny @celestedonut @the-jess-life @ssulfurr @out-of-life @madislayyy @crazylokonugget @cicaspair418 @katwmk @relminnie @milovart @teagrex @visenyaverse @bellameshipper @toodlesxcuddles @tempt-ress @dontmindmereading7 @qyburnsghost @55gyi53vtnquwziq5 @notnormalthings-blog @maidmerrymint @qyburnsghost @madislayyy

Bold is who I cannot tag!

#I did NOT expect that #I always thought spool of green to spool of black meant aemond #nope it’s the battle of the eye #rip

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hotdrinks · 2 years ago

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[ID: A full-body drawing of Jon and Martin from the Magnus Archives kissing in a supply closet. Jon is a thin tall Indian man with long, dark curly hair. Martin is a fat white man with short hair and glasses who is slightly shorter than Jon. The drawing is rendered in murky green colors, with highlights in yellow. Martin leaned back against a shelf, tilting back under his weight, causing items on the shelf to fall backward. Jon is pressing Martin into the shelf, holding Martin's face in one hand and holding on to the shelf to keep it from falling with the other. Martin clutches Jon's shirt, and holds the back of his head. They are illuminated from above by a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling.

The supply closet is cramped and dirty and filled with many items on shelves. Items include cleaning supplies, boxes, and crumpled paper. Strings of black magnetic tape hang from various shelves and from the ceiling. A mop hangs on one wall near a bucket labeled "MOP WATER (HAUNTED)." There is a CO2 fire extinguisher on the ground, close to a tape recorder, with spools of magnetic tape unfurling from inside. There are two jars labeled "???" on different shelves. One of the jars appears to have eyeballs floating in murky water, while the other has a vague bulbous shape inside that could be a large worm or an organ of some kind. Two ghostly faces are hidden in the drawing, one under a shelf and one in a box. End Image ID]

KISS A MAN IN A HAUNTED CLOSET (still technically kinda in time for @jonmartinweek :3 office romance prompt)

#jonmartin #jmart #tma #the magnus archives #my art #i wanted to do so many jmart week prompts but alas #i just did the one

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littleacebee · 4 months ago

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I finally did it! So here is my silly little contribution to Fiction Podcast Zine Event!

ID in alt texts and under the cut (I did try my best with them)

[ID: Photo of the front page of a zine. On the top of the page there is text in big pink letters: „What to do while listening to a podcast”. Below is smaller text in purple and black: „LittleAceBee’s helpful fun guide”. Below is there is doodle of a bee wearing purple headphones. Next to it, in blue spicy cloud, there is a text: „with illustrations”.

Page 3. In the middle of the page there is big colourful text: „Make art & craft”. Above it, on the left there is drawing of cross stich project with „Podcast tim” written on it and there is text reading „cross stitching!” below it. Next to it, on the right is drawing of thread spool and needles. There is text above it reading „sewing!”. The furthest on the right there is a drawing of a painting on an easel with text „painting!” below it. Below the big text, on the left there is a drawing of hand drawing a drawing of two stick figures, one is signed „podcast blorbo”, the other one „me”. There is text saying „drawing!” above it. On the right of it there is a drawing of half knitted scarf and ball of yarn. Above it is text saying „knitting!”.

Page 2. On the top of the page is big dark blue text: „Clean”. Below it are to drawing of two girls wearing purple headphones. One on the left is holding feather duster and dusting a drawer. One on the right is mopping the floor.On bottom part of the page is bus window with a word „commute” written on it in cloudy font. On the right of the text is standing a girl in purple headphones.

Page 4. On the top half of the page there is drawing of a path in woods and girl with purple headphones walking on it. Below it there is green text: „Take a walk”. On the bottom half of the page there is drawing of a pink computer. On its screen there are three text posts: „Emotional liveblogging”, „hxkboayzmjkl” and „oh my god…”.

Page 5. On the top of the page, on the left there is a drawing of a person with short hair and there is a cloud with big word „talk” written in it. On the right there is a girl knitting a scarf with unimpressed expression on her face. Next to her lays a phone. Below is similar scene but instead of person with short hair there is a skeleton in their place and from girls eyes there are two lasers pointing at the skeleton. Further below there is word “talk” crossed out. On the bottom part of the page there is drawing of chopping board with knife rested on its corner. On the board there are pieces of vegetables spelling “cook”. Next to the board there is a phone and its screen there’s logo with big P and text “podcast”.

Page 6. On the top half of the page there is a drawing of a girl eating. Above her is big green text: „eat”. Next to her on a table there is phone with P on its screen. From the phone there is speech bubble and inside there is text: „choose episode carefully or you might hear the grossest thing ever”. On the bottom half of the page there is vertical written word „play”. Overlapping with its „a” there is „game” written. On the left of the text there are scattered ten colourful puzzle pieces. On the top right there are cards laid down for solitaire. Below there is computer with little house on its screen.

Page 7. On the top half of the page there is drawing of face of girl in purple headphones. She has horrified expression and tears streaming down her face. The background is dark. Above her is simple text: „stare into the void and cry*”. Below her is another text: „remember to cry quietly to still be able to hear the podcast”. On the bottom half of the page there is a drawing of a girl in purple headphones. She is watering flowers spelling a word “gardening”. Above there is flying bee.

Page 8. On the top of a page there is purple text saying: “I hope my helpful fun guide was helpful.”. Below in big pink letters there is a text saying: “thank for reading!”. On the bottom of the page there is small text saying: “#fiction podcast zine event”]

#that was fun!#it was supposed to take 20 minutes and involve stick figures but things got a lot out of hand #fiction podcast zine festival #fiction podcast zine event

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jasperthehatchet · 1 year ago

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I upgraded my altiods tin sewing kit! (More details are in the image ID)

I added more needles, safety pins, thread, and a sharp pair of thread scissors just small enough to fit inside the tin. There's usually two needle threaders in here but one is in use atm. And there's enough stuff inside to fit perfectly so that the lid can close all the way and nothing slides around so that's nice

I am gonna post my little altiods tin emergency chronic pain/migraine kit within the next few days as well so keep an eye out for that if you're intrested

[ID: various pictures of a metal altoids tin, about 3.5 inches by 2 inches, with sewing supplies inside. A little bag of silver safety pins, varying colors of thread on 5 small spools, more colors of thread wrapped around two small rolls of paper and inside a small plastic bag, a folded piece of paper measuring tape, a small pair of orange thread scissors, a needle threader, and some buttons inside a little bag. There are varying sizes and types of sewing needles that are stuck in a small rectangular piece of green felt that fits on top of everything inside the tin. It has sharps, darning needles, embroidery needles and one curved needle.

The colors of thread included are: light pink, a muted rusty orange, white, a few shades of light brown and off white all wrapped around one piece of rolled paper. The other paper rool has more vibrant saturated colors including red, blue, yellow, dark green, and orange. The little bag had extra recycled pieces of thread i salvaged from other projects that are long enough to still be used. And the colors on the 5 small spools are black, dark mossy warm green, dark brown, light brown and white. End ID]

#solarpunk #solarpunk diy #solarpunk aesthetic #punk #punk diy #sustainability #recycling #upcycling #hopepunk #ecopunk #diy #hand sewing #sewing #hatchet makes stuff

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apiswitchcraft · 5 months ago

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altars for greek heroes

ACHILLES: hero of the Trojan war, son of nereid Thetis

Colors: gold/bronze, red for Trojan War. blue, white for his mother Thetis

Offerings: yarrow, gold/silver, shells, gull feathers, olive, laurel, gemstones

Crystals: aquamarine, sodalite, jaspers (red, yellow, ocean especially)

*to honor Achilles you must also honor Patroclus*

PATROCLUS: hero of the Trojan war, son of Argonaut Menoetius

Colors: gold/bronze, red for war. purple for royal birth

Offerings: incense/fire, oil, olive, laurel, gemstones, gold/silver

Crystals: agates (moss, tree especially), amethyst, lepidolite, rose quartz, citrine

ADONIS: lover of Aphrodite, became god of rebirth and beauty

Colors: pink, purple, red for beauty and association with Aphrodite

Offerings: fast growing plants (lettuce, fennel, barley, wheat), anemone and other flowers, dead plants, cake, honey

Crystals: flower agate, rose quartz, amethyst, rutilated quartz, jaspers (specifically rainforest or other green ones)

ARIADNE: helped Theseus to defeat the Minotaur, later married Dionysus and became goddess of labyrinths

Colors: gold for noble birth. purple for association with Dionysus

Offerings: grapes, puzzle toys, spools of thread or fabric art, wine, herbal tea, saffron

Crystals: grape agate, celestite, star jasper, pyrite, amethyst, scolectite, selenite

ASCLEPIUS: god of healing, son of Apollo

Colors: yellow, white for association with Apollo. red, pink, orange for healing

Offerings: snake skin, clay/bronze humanoid figurines, cypress, pine, olive trees, medicinal herbs

Crystals: quartz, rhodonite, amethyst, fluorite, selenite, citrine

ATALANTA: one of the Argonauts, devotee of Artemis, killed the Calydonian boar

Colors: brown, green for the hunt. white, blue, grey for association with Artemis

Offerings: pork, boar hide, apples, laurel, forgeables, lion/bear imagery

Crystals: jaspers, moss/tree agate, petrified wood, amethyst, rose quartz, selenite

CASTOR AND POLLUX: Pollux was a son of Zeus who shared his immortality Castor, they were turned into the Gemini constellation, saviors of seafarers

Colors: purple for noble birth. white and grey for association with zeus. black for the night sky

Offerings: shells, laurel, olive, meat, wine, two things conjoined (like two cherries or two grapes on a vine)

Crystals: star and ocean jaspers, sodalite, aquamarine, obsidian, hematite

HERAKLES: went mad and killed his wife and kids, did 12 labors as penance, god of strength and heroes

Colors: red, gold for strength and heroes

Offerings: hellebore, olive, laurel, meat, alcohol, yarrow

Crystals: bloodstone, carnelian, garnet, red jasper, smokey quartz, pyrite

HYACINTHUS: Spartan prince and lover of Apollo, became god of vegetation

Colors: pink, yellow, green for vegetation. yellow/gold for association with apollo

Offerings: iris (they were called hyacinths by the Greeks) and other flowers, grain, yarrow, clove

Crystals: tree/moss/flower agate, jaspers (especially bumblebee), citrine, carnelian, pyrite, honey calcite, amber

ODYSSEUS: clever hero of Homer's "The Odyssey," favored by Athena

Colors: gold, purple for royal status. grey, white for wisdom

Offerings: owl feathers, shells, boat imagery, poetry/speeches, laurel, olive, cypress

Crystals: jaspers, obsidian, quartz, aquamarine, turquoise, sodalite, bloodstone

ORION: lover of Artemis, was turned into a constellation after death. Sirius is his dog and Scorpius the scorpion that slayed him

Colors: black, white for night. brown, green for the hunt

Offerings: forageables, apples, hides/leather, mugwort, cypress, moon shaped items

Crystals: star jasper, bloodstone, selenite, celestite, howlite

ORPHEUS: son of Apollo, famed musician and poet of the Argonauts, travelled to Haides to try to save his wife Eurydice

Colors: yellow, gold, white for Apollo. black for the Underworld

Offerings: music (especially lyre), poetry, hymns, honey, laurel, wine, meats

Crystals: aventurine, obsidian, black tourmaline, smokey quartz, selenite, yellow jasper, honey calcite

PERSEUS: son of Zeus, slayer of Medusa, has a constellation

Colors: gold and red for hero status. white, grey, blue for association with Zeus

Offerings: meat, laurel, snake shed, alcohol, fruit, honey, milk (to honor his mother Danae)

Crystals: jaspers (red, star especially), bloodstone, serpentine, quartz, obsidian

THESEUS: slayer of the Minotaur, united Attica, completed six trials for the entrances to the Underworld that he passed on the way to Athens

Colors: blues for ocean, being a son of Poseidon (in some stories)

Offerings: ship imagery, meat, olive, yarrow, gold

Crystals: pyrite, sodalite, lapis lazuli, coral, blue aventurine, aquamarine

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alicentofhightower · 5 months ago

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the dragon and the crab

pairing: aegon targaryen x fem!celtigar!reader

synopsis: boys seem to catch your eye more, as of late. you wonder if that’s the reason why you’re helping this drunken fool of a prince.

includes: drunk aegon, he’s actually not that bad here. so sorry if this is ooc this is my first time writing a oneshot for him!

WC: 1.5k

a/n: this was written with ty tennant’s aegon in mind because it’s set during laena velaryon’s funeral, but you can envision tgc’s aegon too i don’t really care. i did not proofread this so im sorry for any mistakes, i literally just wrote this on my phone in bed because i miss aegon and im bored. i might write a part 2 idk

The first time Aegon sees you, he cannot help but wonder why you take such a liking to Helaena.

Laena Velaryon’s funeral had been an uneventful one. A bore, to be honest, but his mother would smack him if he’d ever voiced that thought aloud. He’d never known the noblewoman well. Honestly, his mind was more preoccupied with the looming thought of his upcoming wedding.

It was tradition for Targaryens to be married to relative. They’d practiced it for hundreds of years, long before the doom of Old Valyria. His mother had always seemed so intent on practicing the customs of her Andal forbears, and Aegon wished she’d been the same for his marriage.

Deep down, he knew why Helaena would be his wife. It was to keep her close to Alicent. If she’d been wed to some fat lord in the Riverlands, or a foolish one from the Reach, it would make no difference; there was no real confirmation that she’d ever be kept safe. His mother would not have another Aemma be made of her only daughter.

“We have nothing in common,” Aegon complained, constantly having to brush his silver waves away from his face. The wind from the beach was relentless.

He stood off to the side next to Aemond, away from where you yourself sat next to the Princess. She seemed to speak in riddles, with the way she mumbled of ‘spools of green and black’, but you did not mind. You could tell she was of a sweet nature.

Helaena handed you another shell to hold, her fingertips tracing the texture of it. “She’s our sister,” interjected Aemond.

Everything about Aegon was improper. The way he could not seem to let go of his cup of wine for even a minute, the way his eyes wandered towards the skittish maids, even down to his posture; hunched and lazy. “You marry her, then,” The elder prince said, his fingers loose around his chalice. If he wasn’t careful, he’d probably drop it, make a fool of himself as he always had.

“I would perform my duty. If mother had only betrothed us.” Aemond did not speak out of genuine desire for his sister, only his yearning to be the firstborn son. To be given the duties of his unwilling brother.

“If only,” He scoffed.

His blue eyes traveled to where you were, listening closely to every word of his weird soon-to-be wife. Aegon did not pay much attention to his Old Valyrian lessons, much less his history, but even he could recognize which house you were from by the dress you wore; ivory and scarlet, the colors of House Celtigar.

Your house was a Valyrian one itself, though far less proud than the one of his own or the Velaryons. You wore a veil of mourning to honor the late Lady Laena, but he could see the earrings you adorned beneath it; crabs, closely resembling your sigil.

You could not hear what the young princes spoke of, but your eyes had averted over to them occasionally, though most of your attention was paid to Aegon. His face was scrunched together as he studied you, trying to figure out why you’d ever willingly be in the company of Helaena. Mayhaps you were just as off-putting as she was.

Blooming into womanhood, you could not help but take notice of boys your age; Aegon himself was quite handsome, though lustful and foolish, and your mother had personally warned you to stay away from him on the way to Driftmark. It only made you want to talk to him more.

Soon enough, Aegon made his way over to another servant, grabbing the pitcher on the platter she held and pouring himself more Arbor gold… away from where you were. You wondered if that’d be the last you saw of him.

It wasn’t.

Sleep had escaped you. Taking a stroll outside was far more appealing than tossing and turning in your bed, so you’d wrapped your robe around your nightgown and snuck out of your chambers.

You almost gasped when you saw him. There he was, at the end of the stairs, drunk and hiccuping with his eyes closed. He sat against the stone of the railing, head drooping and hands still grasping his goblet tightly.

“My Prince?”

No response.

Descending down the steps, you poked his hunched shoulder. He did not even start. It took a harsh shake of his forearm to wake him, and Aegon threw his head back when he did, smacking it against the marble behind him.

Aegon’s pale hand flew to cradle the back of his skull. He hissed, features squeezing together as he let out a sharp breath. It reeked of wine, and he appeared to be startled that he hadn’t been smacked yet. “Grandsire?” He asked, eyes still scrunched shut.

“No,” You said softly. “It’s just me, my Prince.”

His eyelids shot open. It took a moment for him to recognize you. “Why are you out here? Shouldn’t you be abed?”

Gods, maybe your lady mother was right about avoiding him. He’d already begun to irritate you, and you’d been speaking to him for less than a minute. “Shouldn’t you?”

His head lolled to the side, falling to rest on his shoulder. “What will you do? Tattle on me to my mother? I’ve already been scolded today,” He grumbled, his words slightly slurred.

Really, you should just leave this fool of a prince alone, act like this never happened, and climb back into bed. You won’t. It’s normal for men of his age to indulge in their vices, but some part of you tells you that this is wrong; that he shouldn’t be out here in the cold night, slumped into a mess of his own limbs. You feel bad.

Boldly, you reach forward again, grasping his wrist. “Come on,” You say to Aegon, your tone softer. “I’ll help you back to your chambers.”

“I’m too tired.”

He yelps when you yank him up, stumbling forward, his hands scrambling to grab your shoulders to keep him upright. “You should not treat a Prince so roughly.” Despite his words, Aegon allows you to wrap an arm about his shoulders, guiding him forward.

His eyes are wide as he looks down at you, seemingly trying to figure out why you’d pour this much time into someone you don’t even know. There’s a flush becoming all the more apparent on his face, and unbeknownst to you, it’s not because of the wine.

You’re sure there will be a scandal made out of this. An unmarried young noble-lady taking King Viserys’s firstborn son, drunk, back to his chambers during the hour of the owl? Certainly the maids will begin to whisper false tales of your relationship with the Prince, and your father will reprimand you on the ship back to Claw Isle. He might have you married even sooner to dispel them. You cannot find it in yourself to care.

“This way,” You whisper, walking towards where the innermost hall is, where the royal chambers are. Aegon’s steps are uneven and irregular. If you’d not been holding him, he’d probably have fallen twice already.

He’s even more beautiful under the torchlight. Soft cheekbones and plush lips, he’s the very image of his mother, though he certainly does not act like it. Your lips almost part at the feeling of his nose nudging against your cheek, though you attempt to ignore it.

He’s drunk, you tell yourself. Pay no mind to him.

The knights on patrol raise their brows at the sight of you when you make your way past them. An awkward position you’re in. Both his and your arm are wrapped around the other’s shoulders, and his knees are bent so he can be at the level of your face. He’s not even looking forward to where you’re trying to go, his eyes analyzing the look on your face.

He was so talkative when you woke him. You wonder why he’s gone quiet, but reason it to be that he’s exhausted. “What’s your name, again?” He sputters.

He nods rapidly when you tell him it, as if he’ll remember it on the morrow.

Finally, you make it to his room; even the doors to it are grand and tall, befitting one of his status. Yours are farther away from his, in the corridors practically across the keep. It’ll be a long walk back.

You find you don’t know what to say. “…Well, good night, my Prince,” You say softly, letting go of him to let him stand by himself. He wobbles.

Aegon turns to leave, but whips his head around before his pale hand can grasp the handle of the door, his eyes darting around the features of your face. He wants to remember you, it seems.

“You won’t stay?” He can barely pronounce the words correctly, let alone stand up, choosing to lean on the door behind him to keep his balance. Somehow, it’s both endearing and pathetic.

Your cheeks flush at the mere idea of following him into his bedchamber. What was he thinking?

“No, my Prince. It’s best I leave you be.”

Aegon nods solemnly at that, tongue running over his slightly chapped lips. He bows his head in thought, then raises it again, a peculiar glint in his eye that you cannot decipher.

“….’s Aegon. Just Aegon,” He says, quiet, like it’s a secret only the two of you know.

“Good night, Aegon.”

#hotd x reader #house of the dragon x reader #team green x reader #aegon ii targaryen x you #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon the usurper x reader #aegon the elder x reader #hotd fluff #aegon ii targaryen fluff #house of the dragon fluff #the greens x reader

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violetumbrellalover · 7 months ago

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~ Hand turns loom; spool of green, spool of black; dragons of flesh weaving dragons of thread. ~

Queen Helaena Targaryen 🐛

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blxkstar · 6 months ago

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POV: You're in House of the Dragon

The only thing that could tear down the House of the Dragon was itself

I made a playlist for House of the Dragon. Please check it out!

If the world of men is to survive, a Targaryen must be seated on the Iron Throne

Hands turn loom, spool of green, spool of black, dragons of flesh, weaving dragons of thread…

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iccarian · 3 months ago

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tag drop, muse edition

🜸⋆ ༽ 𝒆ven⠀stars⠀burn⠀out. ˒ ⠀𝒂nakin 𝒔kywalker.

🜸⋆ ༽ 𝒐ur⠀hearts⠀were⠀never⠀one. ˒ ⠀𝒂licent 𝒉ightower.

🜸⋆ ༽ 𝒘asteland‚⠀baby. ˒ ⠀𝒂riah 𝒌iran.

🜸⋆ ༽ 𝒕he⠀distance⠀never⠀made⠀a⠀difference⠀to⠀me. ˒ ⠀𝒂eris 𝒉eronmark.

🜸⋆ ༽ 𝒊⠀am⠀become⠀death. ˒ ⠀𝒄larke 𝒈riffin.

🜸⋆ ༽ 𝒊⠀caused⠀an⠀avalanche. ˒ ⠀𝒅aisy 𝒋ohnson.

🜸⋆ ༽ 𝒘e⠀do⠀bones‚⠀motherfucker⠀.ᐟ ˒ ⠀𝒈ideon 𝒏av.

🜸⋆ ༽ 𝒔pool⠀of⠀green‚⠀spool⠀of⠀black. ˒ ⠀𝒉elaena 𝒕argaryen.

🜸⋆ ༽ 𝒘hy⠀not⠀try⠀all⠀three? ˒ ⠀𝒉ope 𝒎ikaelson.

🜸⋆ ༽ 𝒄hild⠀of⠀the⠀god⠀eater. ˒ ⠀𝒊mogen 𝒕emult.

🜸⋆ ༽ 𝒚our⠀awful⠀heart⠀to⠀song. ˒ ⠀𝒌atniss 𝒆verdeen.

🜸⋆ ༽ 𝒉ail⠀to⠀the⠀tempest. ˒ ⠀𝒌eyleth of the 𝒂ir 𝒂shari.

🜸⋆ ༽ 𝒈od‚⠀i⠀never⠀felt⠀young. ˒ ⠀𝒎arlais 𝒔awyer.

🜸⋆ ༽ 𝒊⠀learned⠀the⠀voices⠀died⠀with⠀me. ˒ ⠀𝒎ercymorn.

🜸⋆ ༽ 𝒓edheads⠀do⠀it⠀better. ˒ ⠀𝒏icole 𝒉aught.

🜸⋆ ༽ 𝒑ink⠀for⠀goths. ˒ ⠀𝒐pal 𝒕wice-𝒄rowned.

🜸⋆ ༽ 𝒘hat⠀belongs⠀to⠀the⠀sea⠀will⠀always⠀return. ˒ ⠀𝒑ercy 𝒋ackson.

🜸⋆ ༽ 𝒉oney‚⠀don’t⠀feed⠀me‚⠀i⠀will⠀come⠀back. ˒ ⠀𝒔cylla.

🜸⋆ ༽ 𝒔he‚⠀chaser⠀of⠀the⠀moon. ˒ ⠀𝒔hin 𝒉ati.

🜸⋆ ༽ 𝒇ar⠀off‚⠀full⠀of⠀sorrow‚⠀centuries⠀old. ˒ ⠀𝒔usan 𝒑evensie.

🜸⋆ ༽ 𝒕he⠀flesh⠀calmly⠀going⠀cold. ˒ ⠀𝒗espera 𝒈rimaldi.🜸⋆ ༽ 𝒄razy⠀chick⠀with⠀a⠀gun⠀.ᐟ ˒ ⠀𝒘ynonna 𝒆arp.

#🜸⋆ ༽ 𝒆ven⠀stars⠀burn⠀out. ˒ ⠀𝒂nakin 𝒔kywalker.#🜸⋆ ༽ 𝒐ur⠀hearts⠀were⠀never⠀one. ˒ ⠀𝒂licent 𝒉ightower.#🜸⋆ ༽ 𝒘asteland‚⠀baby. ˒ ⠀𝒂riah 𝒌iran.#🜸⋆ ༽ 𝒕he⠀distance⠀never⠀made⠀a⠀difference⠀to⠀me. ˒ ⠀𝒂eris 𝒉eronmark.#🜸⋆ ༽ 𝒊⠀am⠀become⠀death. ˒ ⠀𝒄larke 𝒈riffin.#🜸⋆ ༽ 𝒊⠀caused⠀an⠀avalanche. ˒ ⠀𝒅aisy 𝒋ohnson.#🜸⋆ ༽ 𝒘e⠀do⠀bones‚⠀motherfucker⠀.ᐟ ˒ ⠀𝒈ideon 𝒏av.#🜸⋆ ༽ 𝒔pool⠀of⠀green‚⠀spool⠀of⠀black. ˒ ⠀𝒉elaena 𝒕argaryen.#🜸⋆ ༽ 𝒘hy⠀not⠀try⠀all⠀three? ˒ ⠀𝒉ope 𝒎ikaelson.#🜸⋆ ༽ 𝒄hild⠀of⠀the⠀god⠀eater. ˒ ⠀𝒊mogen 𝒕emult.#🜸⋆ ༽ 𝒚our⠀awful⠀heart⠀to⠀song. ˒ ⠀𝒌atniss 𝒆verdeen.#🜸⋆ ༽ 𝒉ail⠀to⠀the⠀tempest. ˒ ⠀𝒌eyleth of the 𝒂ir 𝒂shari.#🜸⋆ ༽ 𝒈od‚⠀i⠀never⠀felt⠀young. ˒ ⠀𝒎arlais 𝒔awyer.#🜸⋆ ༽ 𝒊⠀learned⠀the⠀voices⠀died⠀with⠀me. ˒ ⠀𝒎ercymorn.#🜸⋆ ༽ 𝒓edheads⠀do⠀it⠀better. ˒ ⠀𝒏icole 𝒉aught.#🜸⋆ ༽ 𝒑ink⠀for⠀goths. ˒ ⠀𝒐pal 𝒕wice-𝒄rowned.#🜸⋆ ༽ 𝒘hat⠀belongs⠀to⠀the⠀sea⠀will⠀always⠀return. ˒ ⠀𝒑ercy 𝒋ackson.#🜸⋆ ༽ 𝒉oney‚⠀don’t⠀feed⠀me‚⠀i⠀will⠀come⠀back. ˒ ⠀𝒔cylla.#🜸⋆ ༽ 𝒔he‚⠀chaser⠀of⠀the⠀moon. ˒ ⠀𝒔hin 𝒉ati.#🜸⋆ ༽ 𝒇ar⠀off‚⠀full⠀of⠀sorrow‚⠀centuries⠀old. ˒ ⠀𝒔usan 𝒑evensie.#🜸⋆ ༽ 𝒕he⠀flesh⠀calmly⠀going⠀cold. ˒ ⠀𝒗espera 𝒈rimaldi.#🜸⋆ ༽ 𝒄razy⠀chick⠀with⠀a⠀gun⠀.ᐟ ˒ ⠀𝒘ynonna 𝒆arp.

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naffeclipse · 11 months ago

Note

What if Eclipse from AP was a naga? And this took place in the deep jungle of the amazon, where photographer y/n is trying to take pictures of the wildlife?

I'm vibrating at the speed of sound over this ask while also nudging my naga au

Naga Eclipse from AP would have the tail of a Green Anaconda, with an olive green scaly color dotted with black, framed by burning-like flares of orange along the length of his slithery body. He's also decorated with orange-yellow striping on either side of his long, slipper form. His upper half is scaley with a lithe deadliness to his musculature and decorated by frills surrounding his head with brighter orange-yellow colors, almost hypnotic in their gradient hues. One eye is deep emerald green, and one is midnight blue.

Lucky you—you're out on a once-in-a-lifetime expedition to explore a jungle closed off to the public, funded by Fazco, and occupied by two researchers who will be your bunkmates for the next few weeks. You're itching to take photos of the large river, including swamps, marshes and streams, and whatever wildlife is out there.

The few locals you did meet before you left to hike the rest of the way to what would be your new, isolated home warned you of a dangerous snake—a large, mythical beast. You take note of the local folklore. You understand the truth is hidden in there somewhere, and you are well aware of the dangers and diseases you could be met with in such a harsh environment, but you're determined.

It doesn't take long for you to feel eyes watching you when you first venture out by yourself. You take beautiful pictures of freshwater fish, big and beautiful, unlike any you have ever seen. Of course, you have hundreds of snapshots of the local flora, the trees, the floating meadows, the thick vines that drape each branch and hang thickly about the ground. You almost forget that you eerily don't feel alone.

But you swear something moves in the water—the ripples stop as soon as you look. The stillness is suddenly stiff, lifeless. Even the birds have stopped chirping.

You lower your camera and carefully put it away. A trickle of fear slips into your heart. You turn away from the river's edge only to be met by a low hiss and a creature, unlike anything you witnessed in your travels, spooling itself neatly out of the water, blocking your path to the base. An incredible creature with long arms and a great, serpentine tail that seems to stretch for yards and yards. You can hardly breathe in his presence—he's otherworldly with his frills and scales and fangs.

His eyes contain a mesmerizing shine as if staring into a fire as it burns or watching the ocean as it laps up against the beach, drawing your attention, demanding you don't look away. You couldn't anyway. Half-frozen, you struggle to keep from collapsing. He beckons with a sharp talon. He hisses softly for you to come closer, mouse. He wants to see you. You try to beg no without revealing how terribly you tremble. He doesn't let you go. He insists. His eyes flash with an allure. You almost step close when he murmurs that you need to be good.

But then your sense of survival kicks adrenaline into your heart, and you turn to run—

He strikes faster than your eyes can follow. Two loops of his green and orange tail surrounded you in an instant. You're dragged to the ground, your arms pinned under his mass, and the back of your head cradled by his large palm as powerful muscles squeeze you in the slightest—a gentle rebuke for thinking you could get away. You're hyper-aware of the terrifying bulk of muscles as you lie trapped in his coils. One strong twist and your eyes could pop out of your skull, and every bone protecting your heart and lungs would crumble to shards. You gasp. An urge to kick your legs and struggle erupts in your panic; a sinking feeling tells you it would only make things worse.

He coos over you, hissing and humming in an ancient song of the jungle you have no name for. When you whimper, he shushes you and strokes your cheek. He tells you how lovely you'll be. When you talk back to him, somehow finding your tongue amid your horror, you find out his name. Eclipse. He moves you more upright, resting you on his tail so you're not petrified by how vulnerable you feel lying down, but he never loosens his scaly bindings. He hovers over you. You gaze into his stunning frills of yellow-orange and wonder how a being like him came to exist. He studies you as you study him. He grins at how you shiver when he traces your collarbone with a sharp fingertip.

You remind yourself that you can still breathe. He hasn't crushed you—yet—but you don't like how wide his smile is. Sometimes, his jaw stretches a little too long as if dislocating from his skull, ready to devour you. His eyes gleam with a ravenousness as scales twist around you, holding you close enough to smell the slick green water he had been in and deep musk.

He tells you that he'll see you again very soon—away from other humans, lest you bring him a fine gift for a meal. You can only flex your fingers, silently pleading in your heart that he won't unhook his jaw and eat you alive.

Then, he unravels himself from your limbs. But before he lets you go entirely, he leans in close, his serpentine tongue flickering close to your neck and by your hair, tasting the air around you as you muster all your strength to not scream. He inhales deeply, pleased, before he murmurs, "Sweet mouse. You are mine. Say it."

You don't understand, but you echo his command, and when he taps your chin once in what might have been a loving gesture, you force your jelly legs to solidify before you run and run, all the way back to base. You slam the door to your room behind you. You touch your ribs, your arms, still caught in the heavy sensation of his loops as if he were upon you right now.

The stories are true—there is a giant snake in this jungle, and he wants you. You're afraid to discover if Eclipse's intrigue with you is only an exotic way to satisfy his hunger.

#i'm not normal about nagas #this is great because in the naga au with sun and moon #eclipse isn't a naga so this gives me my fix of naga eclipse #just augh #love these monsters #anyways he's gonna squeeze you and love you and you are just so lucky he finds you adorable he could just eat you up (not really but ya kno #he has plans for lovely little you #he's going to show you so many cool creatures like pink river dolphins and big big BIG floating meadows and the best brightest birds!#he's also gonna try to get you to eat vermits and promise that he'll protect you when you get sluggish after eating #and you have to explain that your metabolism is very different from his but then you get to see him sluggish and sleepy after he eats #(whoops that means extra long cuddles for you and boy does he like to take long naps and wrap you up tight so you don't go anywhere)#apex polarity #<<< just tagging for the same characterization of Orclipse and photographer y/n #but i am calling this:#blackwater lure #naga!eclipse #photographer!reader #naff writing #the serpent den

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sweetbonniebel · 5 months ago

Text

Jaes's hen jēdar

God's of the sky

Nine

Daemon x reader, Rhaenyra x reader (platonic), Qoren Martell x reader

Synopsis: Driftmark happens, Aegon takes a stance and the divide only grows bigger.

Masterlist <-previous , next->

minors mdni

118 AC Pentos

"Aunt y/n!" Baela and Rhaena ran towards you, wide smiles on their faces. You grinned seeing the twin girls and their parents.

"It is so good to see you sweet girls. How much you've grown! You'll be taller than your father soon." You jested ruffling the locks of their silver hair.

Laena and Daemon approached you arm in arm, their benefactor some Pentoshi lord greeted you as well offering you sanctuary in his home.

"Laena my sweet cousin." You whispered kissing the cheek of the curly haired woman. "Brother."

"Sister." Daemon replied pressing a kiss to your temple and hugging you against his chest.

Laughs and jokes were shared during the dinner held by the prince of the city. You smiled as you joined your family after such a long time apart.

...

You and Aegon mounted your dragons and flew to Driftmark. Tears escaped your eyes, the wind blew them away. Your bonded dragon screeched sensing your pain.

"Dracarys Vermithor!" You shouted letting your emotions get the best of you. Your steed expelled a breath of gold fire flying right through it. The heat of his flames brought you necessary comfort.

"Cousin." You whispered hugging Rhaenys, her black veil covered her tear stained cheeks. She has lost her only daughter after years of being apart. Her grandchildren Rhaena and Baela obediently stood behind her, you kneeled next to the two girls.

"I'm so sorry." You whispered hugging the two of them, your fingers tangled in their silver hair. Rhaena sniffled as she hugged your body.

Laena's casket has been placed on the edge of a cliff overlooking the salty sea. The Velaryon soldiers tied the knots to ensure it's safe passing.

"We join today at the Seat of the Sea to commit the Lady Laena of House Velaryon to the eternal waters, the dominion of the Merling King where He will guard her for all the days to come." Vaemond recited the funeral speech. You watched Laena's casket with tears in your eyes. Baela hugged your side, your arm protectively wrapped around the young girl.

"As she sets to sea for her final voyage, the Lady Laena leaves two true-born daughter on the shore." Your brows furrowed as Vaemond stared at Daemon who seemingly did not care that his wife has just passed. "Though their mother will not return from her voyage, they will remain bound together in blood. Salt courses through Velaryon blood." His gaze turned to Rhaenyra and her sons. "Our runs thick. Ours runs true. And ours must never thin." Daemon chuckled.

He chuckled

Anger coursed through your veins. The people present stared with disdain at him.

"My gentle niece. May the winds be as strong as your back, your seas as calm as your spirit, as your nets be as full as your heart. From the sea we came. To the sea we shall return." Laenor's eyes were empty as he started as his sister's casket was lowered onto the depths of the sea. Dragons circled drift mark as a royal funeral was held.

You sat next to Helaena as she played with a spider, her wavy silver locks blew freely in the wind.

"Hands turns loom, spool of green, spool of black; dragons of flesh weaving dragons of thread." She said those words as if in a trance, you smiled in sympathy. No one noticed her gift, the gift that saved house Targaryen from the doom.

"You have a gift sweet girl." You whispered caressing her hair, her brother watched as you comforted their "lunatic" sister.

"Aemond." You said greeting your nephew. "You have grown."

"Hello aunt." Aemond answered ever the proper boy.

"Are you excited for your engagement?" You asked curiously, remembering the news that Aemond and Helaena will marry once they turn sixteen.

"I would rather have a dragon." He responded gruffly "Everyone else has one but I don't."

"Rhaena also doesn't have a dragon... Did you know that Gaemon the glorious didn't have a dragon until the age of two and twenty? So by my count you still have some time." You tried to console your nephew.

"You claimed a dragon at eight! One of the greatest beasts!" He raised his voice.

"Some things take time, Aemond. Dragons are not like horses, you cannot just jump onto it's back and ride. The bond we share with dragons is deep and magical, it's as if our souls are connected." You explained, trying to lit the teenagers sour mood.

"Does that mean I will be dragon less?" Aemond asked voice breaking slightly.

"You are a Targaryen, Aemond. It is your birthright to bond with a dragon, and you will do that. There are no dragons to be claimed but there are eggs."

"I don't want an egg! I want a dragon! A full grown dragon!." He shouted and stomped away.

Everything was tense and awkward, the little boy you one played with was gone. Viserys was under the influence of his wife and her father, he was restored as hand after Lords Lyonel tragic passing that you knew was no accident.

"Sister" Daemon whispered approaching you as you stared at the endless salty sea stretching before you.

"Brother" You answered not looking at him, the stunt he pulled before still itched you. "Have you no shame?" You asked not bearing to look at the man.

"I have protected our niece's honour." He answered simply.

"You are impossible, your wife has just died." You accused.

"She has died along time ago, the moment I have taken her from Westeros." He whispered "I should have listened to her, returned to Drimftmark before it was too late." He said bitterly. You sighed deeply.

"It is painful, isn't it?." You whispered placing your palm on his his back.

"I could never be in more pain then she was." Daemon muttered, taking your palm in his large hand.

"The God's are cruel, even ours." Bitter truth left your lips "You should tend to your daughters." You said leaving Daemon alone.

...

Your chambers were prepared by the maids of house Velaryon. Dried tears stained your cheeks.

"Aunt y/n?" A small voice whispered from the other side of your chambers.

"Yes?" You answered the door, Baela and Rhaena stood together. "What is it?"

"We... Could we stay with you?" Baela the braver of the twins asked, you nodded silently and let them into your chambers. The girls climbed into your bed as you laid between them.

"Could you tell us stories of our mother?" Rhaena asked leaning on your lap.

"Since the beginning your mother was a fiery young girl. She had inherited the beauty of your grandmother without the dark hair and the bold, adventurous spirit from your grandfather. She was brave and kind. I saw as she became one with her giant beast as if it were nothing, a true dragon rider. " You smiled at the memory of you two flying together over King's Landing. "One time, Lord Jason Lannister tried to 'impress' her by listing the amount of gold he could offer her as his wife. It was rather stupid since the Velaryon's were richer than the Lannisters, she said and I remember it clear as day. Are you willing to make the same bribe to Vhagar to reside on the giant rock you call home, Lord Jason? The man paled with fear and didn't bother your mother ever again."

The girls chuckled.

"Do you think that Vhagar will accept me?" Rhaena asked.

"Vhagar is old and tired, when Balerion was her age he laid in his cavern all day, eating what was given him. I do not think that Vhagar will be able to match your delicate nature." You mumbled a bit un-sure.

"Vhagar was my mother's dragon, I am excepted to claim her." Rhaena muttered leaning on your shoulder, Baela nodded.

"Who excepts that?" You questioned curious.

"Father." Baela answered for her sister, you chuckled at the irony.

"If your father followed this rule he would be the one to claim Vhagar or Meleys. They were his parent's dragons and yet he claimed Caraxes our uncles mount, your grandfathers."

"Really?" Baela and Rhaena exclaimed at the same time.

"I think that Silverwing would be better suited for you, Rhaena. If you wish I can take you back to Dorne with me so you can claim her."

The Velaryon girl visibly brightened up, she nodded furiously.

"Please, aunt y/n!" She exclaimed.

"If your father or grandmother agrees I see no reason not to."

"But what of Vhagar?" Baela murmured.

"She will spend the rest of her days, without bothersome humans." You jested and the twins lightly chuckled. "Now my little dragons go back to your chambers."

The two girls scurried to their own chambers, you saw that their mood has been improved slightly.

...

You were restless and could not sleep, you deciding that visiting Vermithor was the best course of action. Castle Driftmark was a dull thing, even more than Dragonstone.

The beach however was empty, only the sound of waves delicately crashing against the cliffs was heard. You wondered if Vermithor has ever been to Driftmark before. The sound of footsteps snapped you out of your thoughts. You glanced in the direction of the noise, the familiar straight silver hair made you sigh.

"Aemond!" You called startling the boy, he slowly turned around, you beconed him over and he obliged. "You were sneaking off to claim Vhagar." You stated and he paled slightly. "No need to lie to me."

"Yes, aunt." He admitted and lowered his head "But I only did it because I have no other choice!"

"No choice? Do you know how dangerous it is to approach Vhagar?" You sighed deeply, not wishing to startle your nephew.

"I-..." He started but the words died down in his throat "Without a dragon I'm worthless."

"Aemond, you are not worthless." You kneeled infant of the boy, taking his face into your hands. "Who makes you think that?" You demanded.

"Father... He never pays attention to me, I doubt he even knows my name." Tears threatened to spill from his violet orbs. "And he only paid attention to Helaena after she claimed Dreamfyre. What kind of a Targaryen am I without a dragon?!"

"Your father should be the last person the speak of claiming dragons." You stated and Aemond looked up at you.

"He rode Balerion."

"Once." You added "He rode Balerion once, and then he died. He never formed a bond with him, he couldn't have. Therefore he has no right to talk."

A small smile made it's way onto Aemond's thin lips.

"I think that there is a dragon waiting for you." You mumbled caressing his straight silver hair.

"What dragon?"

"Perhaps you should go with Rhaenyra to dragonstone, there is Grey Ghost and Sheepstealer. But I think Grey Ghost is most like you."

"Most like me?"

"Timid, hidden in the shadows, observing from afar. You know I was a lot like you when I was your age... Nobody cared for me after Grandfather died, I had no parents and Rhaenyra was the only thing on Viserys's mind. When my brother was in King's Landing which was not often he made an effort to be there for me, but it is not the same as a parents love is suppose." You got carried away slightly, burdening a child with your problems. "I'm sorry Aemond, I shouldn't have said that."

"I- It is all right... thank you, aunt."

"Talk to Rhaenyra of returning with her to Dragonstone."

"Could you... Could you come with me? I know you are well aquainted with dragons, and perhaps if you wished, you could help me."

You smiled fondly at his unsure rambling.

"I would be delighted, Aemond. We can even go tomorrow." You offered and he nodded his head. "Now go back to your chambers, it is late and you need all the strength you can muster."

The thin boy nodded and ran off to the castle, you felt as if a great heaviness was lifted from your chest allowing you to breathe.

...

You missed your children. You thought while eating breakfast alone. Aegon was probably in his temporary chambers sleeping or reminiscing with his siblings.

"y/n" You heard your name, you raised your gaze from the mutton pie, and fruit that were placed on your plate.

"Daemon." You mumbled continuing eating, he took a seat in front of you and ordered a servant to bring him breakfast. They placed a steaming bowl of porridge with fruit, different hams and cheeses and a slice of the same pie you ate.

"You do not seem sad... Did you love her, or married her to spite our brother?" You asked glancing at the hardened features of your brother.

"...I did love her." He whispered avoiding your gaze and digging into the food on his plate. "Is this what you felt when you lost Qoren?" His question surprised you, not once has he addressed your husband by name.

"I was miserable when he died." You admitted "But I had to stay strong, for my children for the kingdom." Daemon hummed drinking the honey mead. "...I was happy with him, he loved me and our children with ever fibre of his being. How can a man seem so strong only to wither slowly at the hands of a disease?" You questioned rhetorically.

Tears began to form in your eyes as you remembered the years you spent with Qoren. The wet tears dropped on your dress, but you quickly wiped them and took a swing of the watered down wine.

"I'm sorry your happiness was taken from you." Your brother said tenderly, which was unlikely for him. "If I could give you the happiness you long for I would." Daemon muttered, placing his palm over yours.

"My children are the source of my happiness now." You declared "As should your daughters be, they are mourning the death of their mother, Daemon. You should be there for them, the other day they came crying to me, asking me to tell stories of their mother. Then Rhaena said that you told her to claim Vhagar, she is but a child!" You raised your voice "I offered to take her with me to Dorne so she could claim Silverwing."

"Silverwing, yes..." He questioned, passively accepting your anger.

"Yes, Daemon. With your permission of course." You added, the anger simmering in your insides.

"You took great care of them."

"Someone has to." You snipped, narrowing eyes at Daemon "I don't think that the good father characteristic passed onto you or Viserys."

Daemon chuckled and nodded.

"Im afraid not, no. But you dear sister... if I worshiped the seven I would say you are the embodiment of the mother." His backhanded flattery made the anger slowly die out. "Baela and Rhaena spoke of your talk, I already agreed. You helped them greatly... They need a mother."

"Daemon..." You sighed knowing where he was heading. "Laena's body is barely cold and you talk of marrying again?!"

"Not immediately!" He countered "I just... you lost your husband, I lost my wife and-"

"And what? You'll take me to Dragonstone and wed me in the tradition of our house?"

"If you'll agree." He stated.

You held affection for Daemon, despite the horrid things he did throughout his life. He was still the only person who saw you, for you. Actively trying throughout your upbringing, whenever he was present.

"I promise you will be happy. We will fly on dragon back like we used to so many years ago..." Your brother pleaded.

"If Viserys gives his blessings I will become your wife.." You answered, Daemon stared at your features. Silent agreement and happiness etched on his sharp features.

...

"Aemond?" You questioned entering his chambers, he sat by the window consumed by a book that rested atop his lap. He tore his gaze away from the pages and glanced in your direction. "Are you ready?"

He nodded and the two of you walked to where Vermithor was resting, you fixed the black leather gloves on your fingers. The bronze fury bellowed as he saw you approaching.

"This is my nephew, Aemond. We will help him claim a dragon." You said nuzzling your face in his warm scales. You helped Aemond climb onto the saddle, and then strapped him in. You patted Vermithor's scales and without a command he leaped into the air, his claws dipping into the salty water before climbing into the sky, high above the clouds.

"How does it feel?" You asked Aemond, that sat in front of you.

"It feels... like I belong." He answered.

Vermithor landed near the hills of dragonmont, startling the dragon keepers there. You slid off of his bronze wing and helped your nephew do the same.

"Can you smell any dragons, old boy?" You questioned placing your palm on his horns. He chirped and let out a screech, turning towards the misty mountains. You left your dragon and headed in the direction the bronze fury pointed in.

"It is very on brand for him to hide in the mist." You said to Aemond as he walked next to you. "Hiding from the small folk... or Cannibal."

He stayed silent as if deep in thought. You observed his reactions.

"Can you feel him Aemond?"

"Her." He stated and moved ahead, slowly disappearing into the mist. You stayed behind letting Aemond do what he thought was right, and by the looks of it he might claim a dragon today.

A chirp and then a screech, orange light spread among the mist. And yet you didn't feel worried. You could hear Aemond's faint voice, High Valyrian rolling off his tongue. At the speed of lightning, Grey Ghost flew right out of the mist, leaving a trail behind him. Aemond's green cloak flowing in the wind, as he soared in the sky.

...

Moons passed after Laena's death, Daemon stayed with his daughters at Driftmark. You on the other hand returned to Dorne with Aegon much earlier, you missed your children and longed to see them.

Daemon stood before the doors to his daughters room. Despite being dressed in leather armor, Dark Sister strapped at his side he felt nervous. Nervous to face his nine year old daughters. He knocked on the door and entered.

"Father." Baela noticed and bowed her head slightly, Rhaena ran and hug his legs.

"Father can I please go to aunt y/n?" She asked, her violet eyes brimming with tears.

"Soon Rhaena, I promise." He answered caressing her long silver hair. "I- I" He stuttered "What do you think of your aunt?"

"She is nice." Rhaena muttered.

"Aunt y/n gives the greatest gifts. The dresses she makes are beautiful." Baela added.

"She was great friends with your mother." The Targaryen Prince said. "Would you be opposed if you saw her more often?"

"No, I don't think so." Baela the braver of the twins answered for her sister.

"I know you are young, and there are thing you need to know. Despite being a princess your aunt has lost protection when her husband died. I offered that I would protect her from now on." He tried to explain.

"Protect how?" Rhaena meekly asked.

"...By marrying her." Baela answered for him, understanding the situation better.

"Yes." He confirmed. "You are young, you need a mother figure. And you would get to meet your cousins better."

"Whatever you wish father." The twins answered.

"I know this is difficult and I do not except you to understand, but just know I love you two deeply. And wish what is best for you."

They nodded and leaned into his touch when he wrapped his arms around them.

...

"Prince Daemon, Your Grace." Ser Harrold announced opening the doors to the king's chambers. Viserys laid in his bed covered in blankets.

"Brother." Daemon said bowing his head and approaching his grace.

"Daemon..." Viserys wheezed staring at his brother. "I am so glad too see you, it has been too long."

"We have seen each other a few moons back, is your memory so bad you do not remember?." Daemon jested. "Viserys I have a favour to ask of you."

"A favour?" Viserys asked curiously "Whatever do you need?"

"I wish to marry y/n." He admitted, a pregnant silence fell upon the room. Only the crackling of the fire was heard.

"And what does y/n say of this union?" The elder brother asked, thinking of the girl he though of as a daughter.

"She has agreed on the condition that you agree and bless our marriage." Daemon responded.

"She is too good for you, Daemon." Viserys wheezed staring at his brother. "But if it is her wish to marry you I shall give you my blessing."

"Thank you, your grace."

...

A raven arrived from King's Landing, the grand maester of Sunspear handed you the letter. You saw the royal seal of your brother and broke it curiously.

My dear sister,

Word has reached my ears that you wish to marry Daemon. I know how distraught you were when your first husband passed away, if you deem Daemon worthy of becoming your second husband I give you my blessing. I know you make no mistakes in your judgment so I trust your decision and hope that your marriage with our brother will be as happy as your first one.

In return for your endless support and upholding our traditions. I shall give Daemon and you land so your future children will have an inheritance. The Stepstones have been won by Daemon, and are now a part of the seven Kingdoms. But without a strong presence to command the island they have fallen into disarray. If you wish it the Stepstones will become your land you may do as you wish with them. Your children will inherit the seat after you pass and as a royal decree, they will be titled as princes and princesses of the realm. The sacrifices you have made helped the realm greatly, you have brought Dorne into the seven kingdoms, secured wards from the lords of Westeros and aided the royal coffers. I will be forever in debt to you my dear sister.

You read the letter, tears flowed from your green irises staining the parchment. It felt as if he was saying goodbye to you.

"Mother?" Nymor asked seeing the tears that flowed freely.

"Yes my sweet?" You asked

"Why are you sad?" He asked and you smiled, picking him up and placing him in your lap. He was now five and very bright.

"I am happy my dear child." Your sons silver hair shined in the sun.

"Then why are you crying?"

"Sometimes when we're happy we cry." You explained "Your uncle and I will marry."

"Uncle Daemon?" He asked curiously and you nodded.

"He will become my husband." You said caressing your sons silver locks.

"Like father was?"

"Just like father was..."

"Will I have more siblings? I do not want to be the youngest Darren, Ivor and Tyla treat me like a baby!" Nymor complained and you chuckled.

"You will always be my baby." You said kissing his chubby cheek, he giggled.

...

"Maron!" You stopped your brother in law as he strolled with his wife through the gardens your late husband built for you.

"y/n, what is it that you need?" He asked walking up to you with his wife the Lady Qyria.

"I will need your help governing Dorne in my son's steed." You announced.

"I am honoured y/n but what has happened?" He asked confused.

"Daemon and I will marry, His Grace the King gave us Stepstones to govern. I will not be able to be in two places at once, that is why I need your help." You explained

"Will you be leaving Dorne?" Qyria asked.

"I do not want to, but my attention will be divided between Dorne and the Stepstones. For the time being Daemon will stay on Driftmark." You answered strolling with the couple through the water gardens.

"Let us know if you ever need help taming the Stepstones, it is a disputed land. Keeping peace will be difficult." Maron offered, you thanked your brother in law.

"Bloodstone will become to heart of the islands. I believe it will be quite expensive to raise castles there but the payoff will be large. The islands are very strategically placed, any voyages will have to pass through the Stepstones." It was true, that is why your brother and the Velaryons fought in the Stepstones for so long. But now instead of war, the islands will be conquered through alliances.

"What of Darren and Nymor?" You brother in law asked.

"I will take them whenever it is possible, but Sunspear is their home. They will be raised here, as is befitting for Dornish Princes."

"As you wish princess." The slender man answered.

...

Dragonstone

Half of the court of KIng's Landing sailed for Dragonstone to witness the wedding of Prince Daemon and Princess y/n. You were happy to see your family during a happier occasion. Aegon was less thrilled to see his father and mother.

"Aegon." You approached your nephew as he sulked in his chambers.

"Oh, aunt." The boy muttered raising his thin eyebrows at you.

"Sunfyre has been snippy all week." You answered sitting next to Aegon on his bed. He shrugged his shoulders. "What is wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong."

"Oh sweet boy, you're not as good at hiding emotions as you think you are. What is bothering you?" The prince sighed and sit up on the bed leaning against your shoulder.

"Nothing escapes you does it?" He whispered, you caressed his long wavy hair.

"I have known you since you were born, Aegon. I have raised you for over eight years. I know when something is bothering you."

"Why is it so easy for you to act like my mother when Alicent can't be bothered?" You were surprised to hear Aegon call his mother by her name. Tears welled up in his violet eyes.

"I don't know sweet boy." You muttered.

"You are more of a mother to me than she could ever be." He cried clinging to you.

"Shh..." You comforted him.

"And father doesn't care for me! He only cares for Rhaenyra! She is his golden child while I am cast into the shadows!"

"My brother is not a good father, that is true." You muttered "It is not fair to you or your siblings."

"I only ever wished for him to be proud of me, but that will never happen will it?" He asked, his violet eyes reddened by tears.

"I will always be proud of you. I have seen you grow to a fine prince, a great dragon rider and cousin and I love you like I love my own children."

"I love you too, mom." Aegon whispered, you kissed the crown of his head.

...

"Blood of two, joined as one. Ghostly flame and song of shadows. Two hearts as embers forged in fourteen fires. A future promised in glass. The stars stand witness, the vow spoken through time of darkness and light." Viserys recited as he stood at the foot of Dragonmont.

You stood in front of Daemon dressed in Valyrian robes, holding a dragon glass knife as did your brother. You pressed the blade against your palm, causing blood to trickle. You pressed your finger in the blood and drew the symbol of fire on your brothers forehead. He drew the symbol of blood on your own.

"In the eyes of fourteen flames we are now joined, one soul, one body one heart." You and Daemon recited, two goblets of heated wine mixed with blood were handed to you. You took a swing of the drink and passed the cup to the servants.

Daemon pressed his palm against your cheek and pressed his lips against yours, you leaned into him and deepened the kiss. Vermithor and Caraxes roared circling the ceremony and breathed dragon fire.

...

The maids helped you take off the heavy headpiece that rested atop your brow. Annora unlaced the beige and red robes sliding it off your body. Soon you were left only in your linen nightgown, you hair free of any braids.

Once the maids left your brother entered our chambers, his body covered by a dark red robe.

"y/n" He approached you.

"Daemon." You answered, leaning into his embrace. "It seems you have finally gotten what you wanted after all those years."

"It appears that the god's have blessed me in some sort of way." He answered running his fingers through your hair. "Tell me you did not wish for this."

"At some point where I was young, after grandsire told me of his and grandmothers love story."

Silence befallen the chamber, shallow breaths occasionally broke the silence. Daemon kissed your neck and slowly made it's way to your lips. A breathy moan escaped you as his hands trailed down your body.

"My sweet wife." He murmured untying the nightgown and letting it drop to the floor leaving you naked.

You rolled your eyes and pressed your lips against his silencing him. He groaned and let you guide him to the bed, you laid on the comfortable mattress and Daemon crawled atop you. You could feel his cock press against your leg, you moved your hand down to wrap your fingers around him. Squeezing and pumping a few times.

"Enough teasing." Daemon groaned throwing his head back, he pressed his warm palm over yours and moved his dick so the head pressed against your entrance.

"Daemon..." You moaned at the unfamiliar intrusion. His dick felt different than your husband's, maybe a bit shorter but thicker.

"Soon, sweet girl." He whispered above your ear pressing a kiss against your temple, and slowly pushed in. Inch by inch until his pelvis pressed against your clit.

"Ah..!" You moaned breathily as he bottomed out, he slowly pulled out and pressed himself in one go.

"Will you give me a child?" Daemonn groaned above you "You looked so alluring pregnant."

"Daemon..." You moaned in response "Please!"

Your body moved with his hard thrusts, his chest pressed against your breasts squeezing them with his weight.

"Yes? I'll breed you well, then." Your husband moaned, as you squeezed around him.

You squeezed Daemon's shoulder, bringing his attention to your face.

"Hmm?" He murmured

"I wanna... on top." Daemon smirked and obeyed, pulling out laying comfortably on the bed awaiting your next move.

You straddled his hips, his cock pressed between your thighs. You sheathed his cock in your warm walls.

"Move, please." The rogue prince moaned under you, pressing his hips upwards for some friction.

"I didn't take my husband for a beggar." You teased refusing to move your hips. "I quite like it."

"Careful, sister." He groaned menacingly, putting his hands on your waist.

"It's fun to see you like this, moaning under me."

Daemon muttered something under his breath, and jutted his hips upwards. You chuckled and began to move your hips, bringing the coil in your belly closer to snapping.

"Close!" You squeaked, pressing your palms against Daemon's toned abdomen.

After a few hard thrusts your husband spilled inside, his warm seed brought your over the edge. Panting you clutched onto his shoulder, collapsing on his chest. Daemon chuckled, and wrapped his arms around your naked back.

"You did good, my love." He whispered pressing a kiss to your silver hair.

The funureal of Laena Velaryon and the conflict that arose on Driftmark only separated the Greens and Blacks. After a year Princess y/n and Daemon married and begun construction of castle Blackfyre. During the builidng of the castle many villages arose on the shore of Bloodstone and Grey Gallows. Now that the island was free of pirates trade erupted. The Ports build there rivalled Oldtown and Lannisport. Princess y/n used dragonfire to make the fort impenetrable and quick to build. After three years most of the castle Blackfyre was build. At the foot of the Volcano Dragonbone a dragonpit was built. - From the dragon bringer by the feather and quill of Grand Maester Roland.

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