#a patchwork family series
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
joelmillerisapunk · 7 months ago
Text
Howdy Honey I. can't get you off my mind
series masterlist masterlist
wordcount: 6,709
summary: After a tumultuous fall from your horse that leaves you with a fractured wrist and bruised ribs, you find solace in the strong arms and gentle care of Joel Miller, the new ranch hand whose rugged exterior hides a tender heart.
warnings: mentions of falling, fracture, eventual smut, slowburn, age-gap, some fluff, two stubborn people falling in love, angst, from both your and Joel's pov
notes: First of all thank you to all of you for supporting the masterlist, I am absolutely blown away! I appreciate the heck out of you all so very much! <3 <3 Second thank you sm to @joelslegalwhre for screaming with me about all of this ily. Third I wrote this after my own experiences falling off a horse and being carried by a hot cowboy at work. K I'm gonna go panic, love you all bye. gif is by @tomshiddles divider by @saradika-graphics
Tumblr media
The sun is high and unforgiving, casting a golden hue over the sprawling acres of your family's ranch—a place where the West still feels wild and untamed. The ranch, nestled in a valley surrounded by rugged mountains, is a patchwork of green pastures, dotted with grazing cattle and horses. The main house, a sturdy two-story structure with a wraparound porch, stands proudly at the heart of the property, its whitewashed walls and red roof are like a beacon for the lost amidst the vast expanse of land. You can always find your way back home.
To the east lies the stables, a long, low building with enough room to house two dozen horses comfortably. Its wooden walls have weathered to a soft gray, and the scent of hay and horse is always present in the air. Just beyond the stables is the equipment barn, filled with tractors, balers, and all manner of tools necessary for maintaining the ranch. The sound of metal clanging against metal often echoes from within as ranch hands tend to repairs or prepare for the day's work. A little further out is the chicken coop, bustling with activity as hens peck at the ground and roosters crow their morning greetings.
On the southern end of the ranch, a series of fenced-in training pens are set up for breaking in new horses or for practicing roping skills. It's here that you often find the newly hired ranch hand, Joel Miller, expertly mending a section of split-rail fence or guiding a young colt through its paces with patience and skill honed over decades. 
You've grown up with the scent of hay and the sound of hooves on dirt, a life that's as much a part of you as the blood in your veins. Recently, your parents brought on a few new ranch hands, a decision driven not only by their advancing years and a growing wanderlust but also, you suspect, by a desire to ensure you're well looked after in their absence. It didn't seem to matter how many times you'd promised that you and [name] the very first and only other person hired to help around, could take care of the ranch -  they never let go of the fact you weren't five anymore. 
Today you find yourself working a little less hard because of Joel Miller, the new ranch hand that looks like he stepped straight out of a Western movie. You watch him from afar as you make your way to take your horse out, his muscles straining against his plaid shirt as he repairs a section of fencing. He moves with an easy grace despite his age and broad build. His salt-and-pepper hair peeks out from under his worn cowboy hat, and you can't help but feel a pull towards him, something beyond the usual respect for a seasoned hand.
The ranch is alive with activity as you prepare Daisy for her daily run. The horses in the nearby pasture lift their heads at your approach, their ears pricked with curiosity. Daisy nickers softly, her tail swishing in anticipation as you lead her out of her stall and toward the open pasture. As you trot along one of the well-worn trails, you pass by landmarks that tell stories of your family's history; there's an old rusted tractor from your grandfather's time, now half-buried in wildflowers; a grove where you used to play hide-and-seek with your siblings; and further on, an ancient stone marker placed by settlers who once claimed this land as their own. Each sight brings back memories that are as much a part of you as they are a part of this place. 
But today, these familiar sights are merely blurs in your peripheral vision as Daisy gallops across the landscape. The wind whips through your hair, and you feel a rush of adrenaline as the horse's muscles move powerfully beneath you. It's in these moments that you feel most at peace, in harmony with the natural world around you.
Suddenly, a sharp cry from Daisy breaks the rhythm of her gait. You pull sharply on the reins as a jackrabbit darts out from the underbrush, its sudden appearance startling her. In an instant, your peaceful ride turns to chaos. Daisy rears up, her eyes wide with fear, and you're thrown from the saddle, the world a blur of blue sky and golden earth. The impact is jarring, knocking the breath from your lungs as you hit the ground hard. Pain radiates from your side and arm. As you lie there, struggling to catch your breath, Daisy gallops away towards the safety of the stables, leaving you alone in a cloud of dust.
The sun beats down mercilessly upon you as waves of pain wash over your body. You try to move but find that even breathing is a challenge. You try to push yourself up, but a wave of nausea forces you back down. It's then that you hear the pounding of hooves approaching fast and boots hitting the ground. 
"Easy there, easy," a familiar voice drawls as strong hands gently roll you onto your back. Joel's face swims into view, his brow furrowed with concern. "Looks like ya had a bit of a tumble, darlin'. Can you tell me where it hurts?" His voice is deep and soothing, cutting through the haze of pain. You manage to point to your side, wincing as he carefully probes the area. "Just bruised, I reckon," he says after a moment, his touch is surprisingly gentle for such calloused hands. "Your arm too. We should get ya back to the house. Might have t'see the doctor."
Over my dead body, you think to yourself.
With surprising ease, Joel scoops you up into his arms, cradling you against his chest. You can't help but notice the warmth radiating from his body. It's an intimacy that makes your breath hitch in your throat—a sensation that has nothing to do with your injuries.
"Gave me quite the scare there darlin," Joel remarks as he carries you towards his waiting horse. His tone is light but there's an undercurrent of something else—affection? worry? "What were you thinkin’ taking Daisy out alone after that storm last night? These trails can be treacherous."
You want to argue that you're capable and don't need help, that it was just a routine ride and something spooked Daisy but arguing takes energy—energy that's currently in short supply thanks to the pain radiating from your side and shooting through your arm. Instead you murmur a weak apology. "Didn't think it’d be a problem."
Joel chuckles softly. "Well, I reckon that's part of the adventure, ain't it? Never quite knowing what the day's gonna bring." He adjusts his hold on you slightly, his grip firm yet careful. "But next time, maybe wait for someone to come with you. Safety in numbers and all that."
As he settles you onto his horse, he keeps a steady hand on your back, “you okay darlin?” He asks, making sure you're secure before you nod and he swings up behind you as gently as he can. The closeness is overwhelming; his body is a solid wall of heat at your back, and you can feel the muscles in his thighs as they grip the horse's flanks. It's a strange mix of vulnerability and safety, being so close to this man who just (weeks/days?) ago was a little more than a stranger.
The ride back to the ranch is a blur of sensations—the rhythmic sway of the horse beneath you, the scent of leather and sweat mingling with Joel's unique aroma of woodsmoke and something undeniably masculine. You find yourself leaning into him without thinking, seeking comfort in his strength.
"Almost there," Joel reassures you as the house comes into view. His breath is warm against your ear, sending an unexpected shiver down your spine. "We'll get some ice on those bruises and take a look at you."
Once at the ranch house, he carries you inside and sets you down gently on the living room couch crouching beside you to remove your boots. His fingers brush against your skin accidentally as he works them off one by one—a touch that sends sparks racing along your nerves despite yourself and despite any rational thought about how much older he is than you. You quickly blink them away.
"Ice pack," he commands firmly but kindly before disappearing into the kitchen. You hear the clinking of ice being scooped from the freezer. 
As Joel returns from the kitchen, the air in the room shifts subtly. He kneels beside you on the couch, his movements deliberate and gentle. "This might be a bit cold at first," he warns, his voice carrying a hint of gruffness that hadn't been there before.
You nod, bracing yourself for the shock of cold. But when he lifts the hem of your shirt to expose your bruised side, the brush of his fingers against the sensitive skin of your stomach sends an unexpected wave of heat coursing through you. It's a clinical touch, meant only to aid in your recovery, but the proximity of his hands to the curves of your body is not lost on you.
He places the makeshift ice pack against your side, the cold seeping your body. You can't help the sharp intake of breath as the icy chill envelops the tender area. Joel's eyes flick to yours, concern etched across his features.
"Sorry, darlin'," he murmurs, his gaze lingering on yours for a moment longer than necessary. "I know it's uncomfortable, but it'll help with the swelling."
You give him a small, reassuring smile, trying to convey that you understand—that you appreciate his attentiveness. As he holds the ice pack in place, his other hand comes to rest on your hip, a steady presence that seems to anchor you amidst the discomfort.
The room is silent save for the soft ticking of the grandfather clock and the occasional crackle of ice as it begins to melt against your skin. You can feel the heat of Joel's palm through the fabric of your jeans, and you find yourself acutely aware of every point of contact between you.
After a few minutes, he slowly lifts the ice pack away, his eyes scanning your side with a practiced eye. "How does it feel now?" he asks, his voice a low rumble that seems to resonate within you.
"A bit better," you admit, the pain having dulled to a manageable ache.
He nods, his attention still focused on your injury. With a gentle touch that belies his rugged exterior, he traces the edge of the bruise with his fingers, his touch feather-light yet firm. The sensation sends a shiver up your spine, and you find yourself holding your breath, waiting for his next move.
"You're gonna be sore for a few days," he says. "But I think you'll live."
As he withdraws his hand, you feel an odd sense of loss, as if the warmth of his touch had become a lifeline in the midst of your pain. You watch as he rises to his feet, his tall frame casting a shadow over you.
"Thank you, Joel," you manage to say, your voice barely above a whisper. The words feel inadequate, but they're all you have to offer in this moment.
The corners of Joel's mouth twitch into a small smile, and he gives a nod, turning back towards the kitchen 
While he's gone, you take the opportunity to study him from afar as he walks through the open room to the kitchen. There's an air of quiet strength about him, a sense of resilience. You find yourself wondering about his past—where he came from, what brought him here to your family's ranch. But those questions will have to wait for another time; right now, just talking and moving is enough of a challenge without adding an interrogation into the mix.
Joel returns with a glass of water and some painkillers. "Here," he says gently, helping you sit up enough to swallow the pills before lying back down against the cushions with a wince at the sharp pain in your side again.
“Rest up now," Joel instructs. “I'll take care of things around here for the rest of the day. You just focus on healin.”
You drift in and out of sleep on the couch and everytime you drift out you see Joel lingering around keeping watch over you like some kind old west guardian angel dressed in denim. 
As the day wanes and the shadows grow long across the hardwood floors, you stir from your uneasy slumber. The pain in your side is a dull roar now, thanks to the medication Joel provided. You blink slowly, your eyes adjusting to the dim light of the living room. The ranch is quiet, save for the occasional creak of the old house settling and the distant sound of Joel's voice as he talks to one of the horses in the stable.
Your heart flutters at the thought of him—his rugged features, his gentle touch, and those eyes that seem to see right through you. It's a dangerous path your thoughts are taking, but you can't help it. There's something about Joel that draws you in, despite the years between you.
The front door opens with a soft squeak, and Joel steps inside, his boots leaving a trail of dust on the floorboards. He looks weary but satisfied, his shirt damp with sweat from a hard day's work. His gaze finds you instantly, and a warm smile spreads across his face.
"You're awake," he observes needlessly as he approaches. "How're you feeling?"
"Sore," you admit with a small grimace as you try to sit up straighter on the couch. "But better than before." You didn't want to admit how bad your arm was actually killing you.
Joel nods in approval before disappearing into the kitchen again—a man of few words but many actions. He returns a bit later with a steaming mug in hand and offers it to you carefully so as not to spill any on your lap. 
"Chamomile tea," he explains gruffly when he sees your questioning look at what seems like an unusual choice for someone like him, someone who seems more accustomed to strong black coffee than herbal infusions. "It'll help with any lingering pain and help ya sleep." 
You take a tentative sip; making sure to grab the cup with your good hand it's sweetened just how you like it—a small detail that makes your chest tighten unexpectedly because it means he's been paying attention even when he didn’t have to be.  The warmth seeps into your hands as much as into your insides making everything feel less daunting all at once despite your injuries.
The evening settles in, casting a cozy glow over the living room. The ranch is quiet, the animals bedded down for the night, and the chores all done. Joel lingers, his presence a comforting constant in the otherwise empty house. He settles into the armchair across from you, the lines of his face softened by the dim light.
"You should eat somethin’," he suggests, already rising from his chair. "I'll fix ya up a plate."
Before you can protest, he's back in the kitchen, the clatter of dishes and the smell of food wafting through the air. You can't help but smile at his insistence. It's been a long time since anyone has taken care of you like this.
Joel returns with a tray balanced in one hand—a simple meal of soup and a sandwich, cut into manageable pieces. He sets it down on the coffee table, pulling it closer to you. "Eat up," he urges, his tone gentle but firm. "You need to keep your strength up."
As you eat, he watches you, his gaze never straying far. It's an odd sensation, being the focus of such intense attention, but you find yourself not minding it. There's a sense of security in his watchfulness, a feeling that you're not alone in this big house.
When you've finished eating, Joel takes the tray away, leaving you to sip your tea in peace. The painkillers are starting to wear off, and as you move to adjust your position on the couch, a sharp, stabbing pain shoots through your arm, causing you to yelp in surprise and discomfort.
Joel, who has been quietly cleaning up the remnants of dinner in the kitchen, is at your side in an instant. "What is it?" he asks, his voice laced with concern. "Did you move wrong?"
"It's my arm," you admit through gritted teeth, cradling the injured limb with your other hand. "I think I might have aggravated it."
With a nod, Joel gently takes your arm in his hands, his touch firm yet gentle. He probes the area with practiced ease, watching your face for any signs of pain. When he reaches a particular spot, you can't help but flinch, a hiss escaping your lips. “Shh, I know. Easy, easy," he soothes you like a wounded animal, before releasing your arm. His brow is furrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line. "I don't like the look of this. Could be broken, or at least badly sprained. We need to get you to a doctor first thing in the mornin’."
"I'm sure it's fine, Joel," you argue weakly, not wanting to cause a fuss. "It's probably just a bad bruise. I'll be okay after a good night's sleep."
But Joel is having none of it. "No, it ain't fine," he says firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You could be doin’ more damage by not getting it checked out. I'll drive you to the clinic myself in the morning. This ain’t up for debate."
You know that look on his face—it's the same one he wears when he's dealing with a stubborn horse or a difficult piece of machinery. There's no point in trying to dissuade him when he's made up his mind. And truthfully, the idea of having a professional assess your injuries is somewhat of a relief.
"Alright," you relent with a sigh, the fight draining out of you. "I'll go to the doctor in the morning."
Joel's expression softens, and he gives your good shoulder a gentle squeeze. "That's the smart choice, darlin'. We'll get you fixed up in no time."
As he moves away to finish tidying up the kitchen, you find yourself watching him, a mix of gratitude and something deeper swirling within you. Despite the pain and the uncertainty of your injuries, you can't help but feel a sense of safety and comfort with Joel around. You're taken from your thoughts when Joel comes back into the living room. "I should be gettin’ home," Joel says after a while, his voice low and reluctant. "But I'll be back first thing to check on you."
You nod, trying to hide your disappointment. The house feels too big, too empty to be without him in it. "I'll be okay, Joel," you assure him, trying not to worry him, though the words taste like a stale cigarette on your tongue. "Thank you for everything."
He gives you a long, searching look before nodding slowly. "Alright then," he says, rising from his chair. "You remember what I said about not pushin’ yourself too hard?"
"Yes," you reply with a small smile. "Rest and recovery."
"That's right," he affirms, pulling on his jacket. "And don't hesitate to call me if you need anything—no matter the time."
You watch as he heads for the door, his silhouette framed by the night outside. Just before he steps out into the darkness, he turns back to you, his eyes reflecting the soft light of the living room. "Goodnight darlin," he says, his voice carrying a hint of something unspoken.
"Goodnight, Joel," you whisper back, the words hanging in the air long after he's gone.
The house is silent once more, save for the ticking of the old grandfather clock in the corner. You finish your tea and carefully set the mug aside, the warmth of it still lingering on your lips. With a sigh, you settle back against the cushions, the pain in your side a dull reminder of the day's events.
As the night deepens, you find yourself reaching for your phone, your fingers typing out a message before you can second-guess yourself.
Hey. Just wanted to say thank you again for today. I'm okay, just wanted to say thanks. Hope you got home safe.
What you really meant was, “please come back I'm fucking scared being alone.”
You hit send before you can change your mind, the message disappearing into the ether. Minutes tick by with no response, and you chide yourself for expecting otherwise. Joel is probably already asleep, or at least on his way to getting some much-needed rest after the day he's had. But just as you're about to set your phone aside and try to get some sleep yourself, it vibrates in your hand, startling you. A notification lights up the screen—a new message from Joel.
Of course. That's what I'm here for. Got home just fine. How are the ribs? Any better with the meds?
You can't help but smile at the concern in his words, the gruff affection that seems to come so naturally to him. You reply, telling him about the tea and the meal, about how much better you feel with him looking out for you.
His response is quick, as if he's been waiting by his phone for your message. 
Glad to hear it. And remember, there's no rush to get back in the saddle if you're not feeling up to it. Everything will still be here when you're ready. Your health is the priority now. If there's anything I can do for you, just holler. I've got your chores covered. Take care of yourself and don't hesitate to reach out if you need anything or just want to talk about what happened.
You read his words over and over, each one a balm to the lingering ache in your side—and to the unexpected emptiness in your heart. With a contented sigh, you finally set your phone aside and close your eyes, the sound of the ranch at night lulling you into a peaceful sleep.
______________________________________________________________
The next morning, you're awakened by the sound of a vehicle pulling up outside. You rub the sleep from your eyes and glance at the clock—it's early, barely past dawn. With some effort, you manage to sit up and swing your legs over the edge of the couch, wincing at the stiffness in your muscles.
The front door opens, and Joel steps inside, his hands full of a large wicker basket. "Brought you some things," he announces, setting the basket down on the coffee table. Inside, you find an assortment of items—fresh fruit, a few paperback novels, a soft, hand-knitted blanket, and a small potted plant. "I figured you could use some company," he says, gesturing to the plant. "And the books are from my daughter's collection. She loves a good western—thought you might enjoy them."
The revelation that Joel has a daughter is something that catches you off guard, a piece of him that he kept carefully tucked away, a piece you want to know more about. 
You're touched by the thoughtfulness of his gifts, each one carefully chosen to bring you comfort during your recovery. "Joel, this is... it's too much," you protest half-heartedly, even as you reach out to run your fingers over the soft wool of the blanket.
"Nonsense, darlin’," he replies with a dismissive wave of his hand. 
The way he calls you darlin’ brings heat to your cheeks, and you quickly look away, busying yourself with arranging the items in the basket. When you finally gather the courage to meet his gaze again, you find him watching you with a soft smile on his face and you assume he's forgotten about the doctor until he speaks up.
“Alright let's go.” Joel's stands up and holds a hand out to you. 
You look up at him and chuckle “It's fine Joel. It barely even hurts.”
The argument is brief but intense, with you stubbornly insisting that a trip to the clinic is unnecessary despite the pain in your arm. Joel, however, is just as adamant, his concern for your well-being overriding any protests you might have.
"I ain't gonna stand by and watch you suffer when there's somethin’ that can be done about it," he says firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Now, we can do this the easy way or the hard way."
You cross your arms defiantly, wincing as the movement sends a jolt of pain through your injured wrist. "And what's the hard way?" you challenge him, though there's a hint of amusement in your voice.
Without warning, Joel strides toward you, scooping you up into his arms before you can react. You let out a startled yelp as he hoists you over his shoulder with surprising ease, his strong hands holding you securely in place.
"Hey! Put me down!" You pound on his back with your good hand, your cheeks hot with embarrassment and indignation. But beneath the surface, there's an undeniable thrill at being so close to him—at feeling the muscles in his shoulders and back move beneath his shirt as he carries you effortlessly toward the front door.
"As soon as we get to the truck," he replies calmly, unfazed by your struggles. "We're going to see Dr. Simmons whether you like it or not."
You continue to squirm and protest as he carries you across the yard to where his truck is parked. The other ranch hands look on with barely concealed grins but wisely choose to keep their comments to themselves. They know better than to get between Joel Miller and something he's set his mind to.
With a gentleness that belies his gruff exterior, Joel sets you down on the passenger seat of the truck and buckles your seatbelt for you before closing the door and heading around to the driver's side. 
Joel.
He grips the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles white as he navigates the familiar dirt roads that lead away from the ranch. He can see you out of the corner of his eye, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the passing landscape. A vision of stubborn beauty, your jaw set in a way that makes his heart do things it hadn't done in years. He can feel the tension radiating off you—a mix of pain and frustration at being manhandled against your will. He can't blame you for being upset. If someone had picked him up and carried him off like a sack of feed, he'd be mad too. But when he saw you lying there in the dirt, hurt and vulnerable, something inside him shifted. It awakened a protective instinct that he thought had died along with Sarah.
Damn it, Joel, he chides himself. She's young enough to be your daughter. But the thought feels hollow, a weak defense against the pull he feels toward you. You’re strong, fiercely independent, and yet, there’s a vulnerability to you that calls to something deep within him, the need to care for someone - for you. He glances over at you again, taking in the delicate curve of your jaw, and the way your hair falls in waves around your shoulders, taking in the way the morning light plays across your features. You’re a sight to behold, all fire and spirit wrapped up in a package that is far too tempting for his peace of mind. Every time he looks at you, all logic seems to fly out the window. There's an undeniable connection between you, a spark that ignites whenever you're near each other. It's terrifying and exhilarating, you make him feel young again. 
He risks another glance in your direction, and his heart skips a beat when he finds you watching him with those big doe eyes of yours. Joel swallows hard, forcing himself to look away before his thoughts can wander any further down that dangerous path. He needs to focus on getting through this day without letting his guard down completely.
The clinic is just up ahead now, its whitewashed walls gleaming in the early morning sun. He pulls into the parking lot and kills the engine, turning to face you with a stern expression that belies the turmoil he feels inside.
"Ready?" he asks, though it's clear from his tone that it's more of a statement than a question. He's not going to let you talk your way out of this one—not when your health is at stake.
You nod reluctantly, your gaze fixed on the clinic entrance. You're nervous; he can see it in the way your fingers worry at the hem of your shirt, in the slight tremble of your chin. He wants to reach out and wrap you in his arms, to offer some semblance of comfort, but he holds back. It wouldn't be appropriate—not here, not now. Instead, he climbs out of the truck and comes around to open your door for you, offering a hand to help you down onto solid ground.
The interior of the clinic is cool and sterile-smelling—a stark contrast to the fresh air and open spaces of the ranch. Joel checks you in at the reception desk while you sink into one of the waiting room chairs, wincing as even that small movement sends a twinge of pain through your side and arm.  Joel takes a seat beside you in the waiting room, his hands clasped tightly between his knees. He can feel the tension emanating from you, a coiled spring ready to leap to action at the slightest provocation. He knows that look—it's the same one he's seen on injured animals over the years, a mix of fear and defiance. It tugs at something deep within him, a primal urge to protect those he cares about most.
He wants to say something to ease your discomfort, but words seem inadequate in the face of your pain. Instead, he reaches out tentatively, his hand hovering just above your knee before he gives in to the impulse and rests it there gently—a silent promise that he's not going anywhere.
You startle at his touch, your gaze flicking to his face in surprise. But as you meet his eyes, you see nothing but sincerity and concern reflected back at you. Slowly, deliberately, you place your own hand over his.
The waiting room is filled with the soft hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional rustle of magazines being flipped through by other patients. Joel's thumb traces idle patterns on your leg as you sit there together in silence.
"Joel," you say finally, breaking the silence that has settled between you. Your voice is quiet, but it cuts through the ambient noise like a knife. "I want to thank you - for everything."
He shakes his head dismissively, though there's a warmth in his eyes that wasn't there before. "No need for thanks," he replies gruffly. "I did what anyone else woulda done."
"No," you insist firmly, turning in your seat so that you're facing him fully now—ignoring the twinge of pain it elicits from your injuries. "Joel," you say again, your voice steady despite the pain you're clearly in. "I mean it. You've been... you've done so much for me. More than I could have asked for."
He opens his mouth to respond, to downplay his role in your care, but the words die on his lips as the nurse appears in the doorway, clipboard in hand. She calls out your name, scanning the room until her eyes land on the two of you.
Reluctantly, Joel withdraws his hand from your knee, the connection between you severed as you rise to follow the nurse. He stands as well, intending to accompany you, but the nurse shakes her head. "Just the patient for now, please," she says with a polite but firm smile.
You shoot him a reassuring look over your shoulder as you follow the nurse down the hallway, leaving Joel alone with his thoughts. He sinks back into his chair, his hands clasped tightly between his knees again as he waits for you to return.
The minutes tick by slowly, each second stretching into an eternity. Joel's mind races with worry and concern. He knows the ranch like the back of his hand, can handle any crisis that comes his way—but this is different. This is about you, and the thought of you in pain, of you being afraid, is more than he can bear.
He can't shake the image of you lying in the dust after being thrown from Daisy, the fear in your eyes when you realized you couldn't get up on your own. It had been years since he'd felt that kind of raw terror, the kind that gripped your heart and squeezed until you couldn't breathe. But in that moment, with you hurt and helpless, it all came flooding back. Joel had always prided himself on his strength, both physical and emotional. He'd had to be strong after Sarah passed, but with you, he felt something shift inside him—a crack in the armor he'd spent years building up around his heart. He cared about you, more than he should. It was a truth he couldn't ignore, no matter how hard he tried. You were young, vibrant, full of potential and promise. And he, well, he was just an old cowboy with more yesterdays than tomorrows. But when he looked at you, when he saw the fire in your eyes, he felt alive in a way he hadn't in years.
He’s pulled from his thoughts when he hears your name called again. He looks up to see the nurse beckoning him forward with a gentle smile.
"You can come back now," she says, her voice soft and reassuring. "She's asking for you."
Joel's heart skips a beat at her words. He rises quickly, his boots thudding against the linoleum floor as he follows the nurse through the maze of hallways to the examination room where you're waiting. His mind races with possibilities—none of them good. 
Why would they need me if everything was fine? Had something happened while you were back there? Was the injury worse than they initially thought?
The door to the examination room creaks open, and Joel steps inside, his eyes immediately going to you. You're sitting on the edge of the examination table, your face pale but composed. The relief that washes over him at seeing you unharmed is palpable; it leaves him momentarily lightheaded as he crosses the room to your side.
"What's goin on?" he asks urgently, his gaze flicking between you and the doctor who is standing nearby with a clipboard in hand. "Is everything alright?"
Dr. Simmons gives him a reassuring nod before turning his attention back to you. "I was just explaining to your friend here that it looks like she's got some bruised ribs and a fracture in her wrist," he says matter-of-factly as he jots something down on his clipboard. "We'll need to keep an eye on those ribs—make sure there's no internal bleeding or complications—but I think she'll be just fine with some rest and proper care.We gave her some pain medication before the x-ray. It may make her tired so she will need to be watched. No driving, etc. And she will need to come back in three weeks from now to get an updated x-ray of her wrist."
Joel lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding, relief flooding through him like a tidal wave crashing against jagged rocks. He reaches out instinctively, taking your good hand in his own as he listens intently while Dr. Simmons goes over your care instructions.
Once the doctor finishes his instructions and hands over the prescription, Joel helps you down from the examination table, his hand at the small of your back providing a steady, reassuring presence. "Let's get your meds and then getcha home," he says softly, guiding you out of the clinic and back to his truck.
The drive to the pharmacy is quiet, the air between you thick with unspoken thoughts and emotions. Joel keeps stealing glances at you, noting the way you're cradling your injured wrist against your chest, the way your breath hitches ever so slightly when the truck hits a bump in the road. He wants to say something, to offer some words of comfort, but he's never been good with this sort of thing. He's a man of action, not words.
At the pharmacy, Joel takes charge, handling the paperwork and payment while you sit quietly on a nearby bench. He can see the exhaustion etched into your features, the way your eyelids are starting to droop. He knows you're running on fumes, and the pain medication will likely knock you out soon.
He heads back to the ranch, the truck's engine humming softly beneath the weight of the silence that stretches between you. You're fading fast, the medication they gave you at the doctor taking its toll. He can see you struggling to keep your eyes open, your body swaying slightly with each turn of the vehicle.
Once he reaches the ranch house, he parks as close to the front door as possible and hurries around to your side of the truck. You're already half-asleep by the time he opens your door, your eyelids fluttering as you fight to stay awake. "Easy now," Joel murmurs, unbuckling your seatbelt and scooping you into his arms with a tenderness that surprises even himself. You let out a soft sigh as he carries you into the house, your head lolling against his chest. The trust you place in him is both humbling and terrifying and the sweet little noises coming from your mouth don't make any of this easier. 
He settles you onto the couch, propping pillows behind your back to keep you comfortable. You smile sleepily up at you, a smile that sends a jolt straight to his heart and many other places. "Stay with me?" You ask quietly. 
How could he possibly say no?
Joel nods, brushing a stray lock of hair away from your face, “‘course darlin, just gonna make you somethin to eat real quick.” Joel heads into the kitchen to prepare something for you to eat. An Eggo waffle seems like a safe bet—simple and comforting in its familiarity. He pops one into the toaster and waits impatiently for it to brown, his thoughts consumed by the woman lying on the couch.
Joel returns to the living room, the scent of warm waffles wafting through the air. He sets the plate down on the coffee table, along with a glass of water and the bottle of pain medication the pharmacist had given him. "Here you go, darlin'," he says softly, offering you a small smile. "Eat up, and then we'll get you settled in with a movie or somethin."
You nod, managing a weak smile in return as you reach for the waffle with your good hand. The simple act of eating seems to revive you somewhat, though Joel can tell you're still in a considerable amount of pain. He watches as you take a tentative bite, followed by a sip of water to wash it down.
"Thank you," you murmur between bites, your eyes meeting his in a silent exchange of gratitude and concern.
Joel nods, his throat tightening unexpectedly at the sincerity in your voice. "Anything for you," he replies gruffly, the words slipping out before he can stop them. He quickly clears his throat and changes the subject. "What do ya feel like watchin’? There's some old western tapes layin around or we could find somethin else.”
“Hmmm” You think about it for a moment before responding with a slight shrug of your shoulders—a movement that causes you to wince slightly, “I'm not picky. Whatever you want cowboy.” 
If only I could tell ya what I want darlin’
Tumblr media
Taglist: @mermaidgirl30 @maried01
733 notes · View notes
pixiishi · 1 month ago
Text
replied to a comment about this, but i want to share it as a post, too: god, i love the women of 300 fox way. they aren’t talked about enough.
here is a patchwork blanket of people who found each other, and built a home together; they are the people blue has grown up with and can always return to, no matter what. 300 fox way is family (both found, and by blood) in the truest sense—the very heart of this series—and not only that, but they are all women. women who are messy and beautiful and ugly and strange, who contrast and compliment each other, who are unapologetically themselves, to their best and worst. they raised blue into the girl she is, and it is this foundation, these bonds, this understanding that becomes increasingly important to blue as she leaves the nest, and adventures alongside the raven boys. two completely different worlds whose differences exemplify what makes each of them so valuable and vibrant, slowly blurring and blending into a pot of all the love blue holds for the people in her life, and the magic of the ley line running beneath their feet.
86 notes · View notes
helloliriels · 1 month ago
Text
Tumblr media
HELLOLIRIELS WRAPPED 2024
🎁 36 VIEWS OF LONDON :: a FTH gift for @thegildedbee
A patchwork image of John & Sherlock’s London, as seen through their eyes. This is Plot Without Plot (which I'm told is 'the good stuff'). 😎😋📸 Meant to be taken in bite-size chunks. It is a fully finished fic. I hope you enjoy!
💝 PRETTY in (a Frankly Alarming Shade of) PINK &
🎁 NEVER TRUST TO GENERAL IMPRESSIONS [COVER ART] :: two FTH gifts for @thetimemoves
a.k.a. Never Judge A Book By Its Cover (unless its cover is smexy) 😉 my second FTH gift for their gorgeous fic of the same title!!
Tumblr media
💌 THE REMEMBER ME MAN by helloliriels - (WIP) a continuation of Remember Me {Though Poppies Grow series} ongoing series
🎄 CHOOSE YOUR OWN JUMPER :: (WIP) Experiment at Baskerville. A new fanfic adventure awaits in this holiday special!
🐝 God Save the Queen :: Sussex & bees never looked so dangerous
🐝 Protect the Hive :: A beekeeper has two rules ...
🐝 You've Disturbed a Beekeeper ... :: There’s nothing that I or anyone else can do to stop it now …
💎 Liri's Treasure Chest :: Hoarding treasure from WoW like a dragon, and decided to start making art of my favourite pieces.
✍️ Better Luck Next Time :: (WIP) Mike had meant it in a kindly way ... but John was in no mood for platitudes.
🏆 New Achievement Unlocked! :: a series of bloggable cheevos.
🎭 MAY IS FOR LIMERICKS :: 20+ limericks full of johnlocked angst. Welcome to limerick hell. Inspired by Calaisreno's may prompts!
Found Fandom (Found Family)
Cardiac Arrest
Pining Idiots
Fitting In
Buried Deep
Open Carefully
Awkward
Operation Wedding
Lurid Ringtone
I (May) Have Miscalculated
Made You Look
Weather Together
Smooth Move
(That's Why He Stays)
Five Minutes
Dammit Sherlock
One Last Dance (Inamorato)
Idiot (Affectionate)
Red Pants (I Imagine They Sparkle)
Examine Me
The Dying Detective
C A L A I S R E N O
Forgiven?
✍️ One More Time (With Feeling) for @totallysilvergirl :: Sherlock gets help from another Doctor. A chance to change his answer and maybe even change his future?
✍️ Warm Open :: Siri ... play 'The Game is On' ...
✍️ Open Your Eyes :: FFF#249
🏆 HELLO AWARD SEASON 2024 :: Hey, if Oscar can do it ... we're gonna have a Wilde time!!!
🏆And the award goes to ... Arwamachine
🏆And the award goes to ... Salambo06
🏆And the award goes to ... Ceruleanmindpalace
Where do🏆awards come from?
🏆And the award goes to ... Silvergirl
🏆And the award goes to ... Barachiki
Where do 💧 awards come from?
🏆And the award goes to ... Chrys
🏆And the award goes to ... Floccinaucinihilipilificationa
When You're In 🌍 Fandom Spaces
📜 One Thousand and One (Words on the Tip of My Tongue) :: a poem. John is processing his grief.
✍️ A Johnlocker Walks into Heaven :: insane wish fulfillment
🎭 S4 Goes Wrong! :: The Goes Wrong Show takes over BBC's Sherlock for the 4th season with disastrous results!
Celebrating 167 Works & 375,000 words on AO3! 🎉
2023 | 2022 | 2021 | 2020 | HELLO POETRY | HELLO PODFICS
@johnlocky @chinike @rhasima @fluffbyday-smutbynight @totallysilvergirl @friday411 @ghostofnuggetspast @calaisreno @sarahthecoat @khorazir @iwlyanmw @raina-at @chriscalledmesweetie @7-percent @safedistancefrombeingsmart @kettykika78 @aquilea-of-the-lonely-mountain @whatnext2020 @londonlock @lisbeth-kk @meetinginsamarra @a-victorian-girl @naefelldaurk @impalaparkedat221b @dragonnan @loki-lock @gaylilsherlock @inevitably-johnlocked @elwinglyre @jobooksncoffee @amyreadsandstresses @jawnn-watson @holmesianlove @sgam76 @janetm74 @ninasnakie @peanitbear @safedistancefrombeingsmart @discordantwords @bluebellofbakerstreet @john-smiths-jawline @topsyturvy-turtely @gregorovitch-adler @lololollywrites @solarmama-plantsareneat @blogstandbygo @justanobsessedpan
90 notes · View notes
astheskycries · 17 days ago
Text
Twisted Games- Meetings
Tumblr media
Growing up with a hitman for a father, Andy Barber has never wanted to go near the mafia and used the money from the family to go to law school. When Steve Rogers offered him help after a hit on his family, he was more than happy to ensure no more unnecessary hits were made. As long as everyone is at arms’ length, he can keep them safe.
I want to take the time to give a MASSIVE shout out to @stargazingfangirl18 , who not only read this over for me but also has listened to me ramble and brainstorm over this AU and gave me amazing advice. This series wouldn't exist without her ❤️ I hope you all enjoy! If your name is not tagged it means I physically can't tag you, but I will be redoing my Tags soon so please keep an eye out for that!
Masterlist Buy Me a Coffee
The sun sparkles over the water of the Harbor, starting to set over the horizon as I review the documents for the umpteenth time. Though the hours are long, it’s been well worth the investment. Taking out money from a waitressing job was a huge risk, especially for someone who can’t afford college or a car that ran without being patchworked together, but somehow I turned a small business worked in the little time between jobs into a booming construction company, expanding into design and even buying out several companies in the greater Boston area.
“Ma’am? Your appointment is here.”
Speaking of.
I relax back a bit as I watch the lawyer slip inside, my assistant nodding once before shutting the door behind her. In other circumstances he would be a welcome distraction- short but soft brown hair styled up, a full beard with just the slight hints of grey, and the most beautiful baby blues I’ve ever seen. Tall and well-built, it’s no wonder Andy Barber has the reputation he does.
“Good Afternoon,” He greets smoothly, relaxing in his chair as he grabs his file folder. “I’m assuming you’ve reviewed everything?”
“Of course,” I lock the computer and move to my own paper copy, lazily opening it with a finger. “You’re nothing if not thorough, Mr. Barber.”
He hums, a slight smirk on his lips. “Well, it’s part of the job. Mr. Rogers wanted to make sure everything was covered.”
Yes. That.
“I saw that,” I flip through to a specific section, humming once. “Unfortunately, I’m still not interested in selling.”
Mr. Barber raises an eyebrow, watching me carefully. “Mr. Rogers has offered an unusually high payout for this company. If it’s stability you’re concerned about, he’s clearly stated money is no object.”
“It’s no object for me either, the answer is no.” I let the file close with a little smack, relaxing against my chair. “Will that be all?”
Mr. Barber shifts to lean closer, toying with a pen. “On a personal level, I think you may want to reconsider. Mr. Rogers has hired me for all of his business dealings; I know how he works. He’ll wait as long as it takes to acquire the company.”
I mirror his movements, leaning closer and crossing my hands on the desk. “I’ve done my own research, Mr. Barber. I’m fully confident that I will not be signing any deal that hands my company over to him.”
He makes a noise, putting away the file and slowly rising to his feet. “I’ll inform Mr. Rogers of your response. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again shortly.”
I hum, watching him until the door shuts before sagging against the chair with a breath, glancing over at the clock and seeing how late it is. I turn to look out at the skyline again, biting my lips as I let my mind wander.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow we can plan for the next one.
“I assume it didn’t go as planned?” Steve muses, pouring a glass of bourbon as he watches Andy pace the floor of his private office. Though the leader of the group, the blonde looks innocent, almost angelic with his bright blue eyes and clean shaven appearance. He's a walking Greek god, a perfect covering for the horns holding up the halo.
“She turned the offer down. Again.” Andy fumes loosening his tie as he continues to pace, flipping through the file for the hundredth time.
“Is this the third time? Or second?” Steve leans against his desk, eyebrows raised as he looks over his drink, downing it in one swig.
“Third offer. Second refusal- no one ever refuses your deals.” Andy turns, unamused by Steve’s expression. “I even warned her you wanted to continue negotiations. She said money wasn’t an object and sent me packing.” He sighs, accepting the new glass Steve offers. “I told her I’d let you know and be in touch.”
Steve smirks, hiding it behind another drink. “See if you can find what she wants, come up with an agreement. Take her to one of our best restaurants.” He lets his shoulders relax, taking a moment to observe how ruffled the lawyer is. “I have to admit, this is refreshing.”
“Fuck off,” Andy mutters, finishing the glass. “I’ll get to work tomorrow.”
Steve hums, taking a slow drink. “I mean it. I haven’t seen you this animated in a while.”
Andy hums, rolling the ice in his glass. “I can’t get a read on her. It’s frustrating, you know how long I've worked on our offers being airtight? We’re more than generous when we buy out.”
“Well, it’s good for you. Something different.” Steve takes his friends’ empty glass, setting them aside. “I trust you to handle it. I’m not sparing any expenses, this would give us control over the other side of town. More leverage.”
Andy nods, glancing at his watch. “I’ll make it happen.”
“Andy?” Steve waits for the man to pause and look back, hand still on the handle. “Take her to that high rise restaurant.”
“I’m not taking her on a date.” Andy swiftly leaves, leaving a new voice to laugh from their place lounged on the sofa.
“You’re setting up the hard ass?” Lloyd muses, smirking over his drink as his rings gently tap against the glass. His loafers are shining in the light as he crosses his ankles, thick mustache doing nothing to hide his amusement. “You really think this is a good idea?”
Steve hums, moving back to his seat. “You’re complaining?”
“Fuck no.” Lloyd grins, continuing to spin his knife in his fingers, enjoying the way it glints from the lamp light. “Just determines whether I plant those cameras in his office.”
“No.” Steve focuses on his computer. “But send him my black card. I’ll cover his ‘dinner’.”
Tags: @janeyboo @mylittlefandomfanfictions @palaiasaurus64 @averyrogers83 @guera31 @soulmates8 @coffeebooksandfandom @sweater-daddiesdumbdork @pegasusdragontiger @mizzzpink @onetwo3000 @see-you-again-my-sun-and-stars @sleepylunarwolf @wheresmyplums @smoothdogsgirl @marvelouslyme96 @esoltis280 @jtargaryen18 @k-evans-writes @rainbowkisses31 @buchanansebba @katiew1973 @patzammit @time-for-a-lullaby @openup-yourmind
Twisted Games: @hangmanscoming
70 notes · View notes
faynthearted · 26 days ago
Text
god I love rediscovering half-finished tianshan fics/drafts that I started years ago and completely forgot about. it's like I'm reading someone else's work and it's fantastic! there's so many.
in case anyone is interested, so far I've found:
a WIP named "leverage" that seems to be about guan shan having to stay at the He estate for his own protection against whatever mess the He family has gotten into. I feel like someone might have requested this a long time ago and I forgot?
another WIP named "p.s." that's about tianshan being bitter exes and yet somehow guan shan finds himself housesitting for he tian while he travels for work because he tian has a dog that they adopted together that needs to be looked after and guan shan still cares about it -- and, clearly, about he tian too. I honestly still like this idea and the writing isn't too awful... hmm.
a VERY primitive draft of desecration, probably written when I was just beginning to brainstorm. it's crazy to see how much the story has evolved based on this flimsy WIP draft. I'm half-tempted to post it just for shits and giggles even though it's poorly written
another very short, primitive draft of desecration, written from zheng xi's perspective
a WIP named "smoke and mirrors" for a switched family background AU for tianshan. I actually got pretty far in writing this (~7k words) and I don't remember a single thing about it. veryyyy interesting. I kinda want to post this one too, or at least one scene that stands out
a WIP (unnamed) that seems to be about guan shan conning he tian at the train station for some money. I'm almost positive this was a tumblr request, but based on the date/time stamp of the draft's document, I'm not surprised I never finished it. life was crazy and miserable at the time
and while I'm here, I might as well mention the WIPs I do kinda remember but decided not to pursue in favor of desecration:
a WIP named "patchwork" set in historical China, wherein guan shan (a potter/artisan) has the ability to see and manipulate (i.e. tie and cut) red strings of fate. he's commissioned by the he family to participate in a traditional wedding ceremony for he cheng. of course, he tian takes an interest in him while he's there. the only issue is that guan shan cut his own red string when he was younger, an irreversible action -- and, for some reason, he tian's is cut too. weird, right? yeah. but he tian doesn't know this, and guan shan isn't planning on telling him anytime soon 😌
a WIP named "arsonist's lullaby" written from he cheng's POV throughout he tian's childhood. I'm not going to say much about this one since it might actually be written/posted one day as part of the terra firma series...
and finally, a WIP (unnamed) for an AU in which guan shan is a retired police dog trainer/handler (??) who now works at an auto shop. he adopted some of the dogs that either flunked out of the academy training or developed medical issues that required their retirement, and the dogs hang around the shop while he works. one day he tian shows up and asks if guan shan would be willing to do some off-the-books commission(?) work. the he family business has a drug/weapons problem, and they need the dogs' trained noses -- and their handler's experience -- to fix it. (I'm still obsessed with the idea of the dogs being fiercely protective of guan shan. he tian not only has to earn guan shan's trust, but the dogs' too)
I love the variability in all these AUs/ideas. I wish I could work on them all at once but that's frankly impossible. but I'll consider posting a few snippets if anyone is interested! (no promises about the quality of writing, though!)
60 notes · View notes
idontknowmyownmind · 10 months ago
Text
OG!Cale Fanfics Recommendation
COMPLETED
[og!Cale-centric] in accordance by pheenick 💝
[LCF] Love is gone by sleepycale 💝
[LCF] Are you saying Goodbye? by JadedMindscape
[og!AlCale] "Unexpected Meetings" - series by abralhugres
[og!AlCale] "dreams" - series by abralhugres
[og!AlCale] the root of the problem by abralhugres
His Majesty's Messenger by Aisha_mirai
A Man who had No Love by Justsamrandumbfujoshi
[og!Cale-centric] Forgive Dad by Verzy
[og!AlCale] Winter Affliction by abralhugres
[og!Cale-centric] the red means... [you belong to me] by Further_From_Humanity 💝
it's you by Milamimi
[og!AlCale] In another life by Verzy
[og!AlCale] don’t go where i can’t follow by shuangxuans 💝
[og!AlCale] a Lout and a Prince by abralhugres
[og!AlCale] the villainess gets revenge by abralhugres
[RokCale] feelings too strong to contain by abralhugres
[RokCale] Type of kisses by wifteria
[RokCale] Knock on the Coffin by esdegen 💝
[RokCale] Salvation & Sin by Luc_00 (Dawn_007)
[CJS x Heniroksoo] you drew stars around my scars (but now i’m bleeding) by todoloey
[og!AlCale] "Switched" - series by abralhugres
[og!Cale-centric] Nightmare in the Flesh by Verzy
Complicated by abralhugres
[Og!StarCale] Cry for me by wifteria 💝
[ROokCale] Why Cale Henituse can't leave the duchy by wifteria
[Og!AlCale] ( IF I AM THE SUN ) by AKingsAffection
[RokCale] the secrets we left under the distant sky by Luc_00 (Dawn_007)
[RokCale] You Are Mine by ThisIsVee 💝
ON-GOING
[LCF AlCale] Crown Prince's Rule Breaker by minamintsoo
[LCF x ORV] The Kimcom in Rowoon by Tsukki_yan 💝
[LCF x ORV] Crossing Paths by your_serialdreamer
One Bad End is Enough by AsterEfflores 💝
Can't an Old Man Die in Peace? by AsterEfflores
[og!Cale-centric] his brother's keeper by thursdays 💝
Cut Yourself On My Glass Plate by SkylerSkyhigh 💝
Open Your Eyes And Take A Look Around You. by VaraUser 💝
Reacting to Reading by Cortes01
Acquaint Fate by Unlucky_Cactus 💝
[LCF] Ancient Powers Hijack Cale's Body by mishamoonberry
[og!AlCale] Fuck our Problems by Verzy 💝
[og!AlCale] death is the only ending for the trash queen by abralhugres
[og!AlCale] crossed fates - series by abralhugres 💝
[og!AlCale] puppy love by abralhugres
[og!Cale-centric] Vermilion made of Cinnabar by PoisonousLana
[PolySoo x og!Cale] more is better ;D by abralhugres, small_mew 💝
[LCF x BNHA] BNHA react to TCF by KNX7
Hunter by Theta_Shi
[og!Cale-centric] OG!Cale receives a family by Verzy
The Silver Coin and The Pretty Rock by ThisIsVee 💝
This Time Around by ThisIsVee
everyone around him dies by abralhugres 💝
[og!ChoiCale] 그렇더라고요 (When You Love Someone) by mishamoonberry 💝
[og!AlCale] (what we lose in the fire) by AKingsAffection 💝
my world as i wish for by mishamoonberry 💝
Group Hug!!!! by squidballsinc
[RokCale] Damage control by Mir_Hope20 💝
Patchwork Soul by ThisIsVee 💝
Cale's Guide to Raising Your Yandere Brother by GingerVee (ThisIsVee), ThisIsVee 💝
End My Suffering Dear Duke! by Aceresa 💝
[RokCale] Everyone Deserves to be Loved by Loveable_Psychopath
[RokCale) Zenith of the Crimson Sun and the Obsidian Moon by Kimera20
I Reject The Maidens! by C0rr3ct 💝
[RokCale] Sleeping Partners (they really just sleep) by FollowerOfCaleism 💝
[RokCale] The Sun Proposed to the Moon by Nami_San18
Blood is Thicker than Wine by seasskies 💝
💝 The one I love the most ❤❤❤
This is my latest updated og!Cale fanfictions I've read
The one without [...] in front of its title means that the story /somehow/ involved both KRS and Cale
And, yes, I'm a hardcore og!AlCale and RokCale shipper
I do read some krs!Cale-centric fanfiction but when it come to LCF 'canon'-verse, I avoided E-rated and shippy ones and I don't usually bookmarked them
It's hard to find one to my liking because most M-rated and T-rated ones still with ships and s3xual content while there are few with those rates because of the theme or gore or language but most are not, so...
I like the light read ones, but most of the times I just want to read the heavy ones that without ships but those are so rare...
Idk whether you, @grumpywiltedlettuce, already read them or not but these are the one I like the most!!
Will updated if I found more!!
284 notes · View notes
Text
When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 5: Turn Off The Lights And Turn Off The Shyness]
Tumblr media
Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra’s wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother’s life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting…
Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, Otto being the worst (per usual), violence, serious injury, cryptic Helaena prophecies, alcoholism/addiction, references to sexual content including noncon (18+), dragons, demented flirting, a late-night surprise, Larys Strong returns. 😞
Series title is a lyric from: “7 Minutes In Heaven” by Fall Out Boy.
Chapter title is a lyric from: “Of All The Gin Joints In All The World” by Fall Out Boy.
Word count: 6.3k.
Link to chapter list: HERE.
Taglist (more in comments): @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauraneedstochill @not-a-glad-gladiator @daenysx @babyblue711 @arcielee @at-a-rax-ia @bhanclegane @jvpit3rs @padfooteyes @marvelescvpe @travelingmypassion @darkenchantress @yeahright0h @poohxlove @trifoliumviridi @bloodyflowerrr @fan-goddess @devynsficrecs @flowerpotmage @thelittleswanao3 @seabasscevans @hiraethrhapsody @libroparaiso @echos-muses @st-eve-barnes @chattylurker @lm-txles @vagharnaur @moonlightfoxx @storiumemporium @insabecs @heliosscribbles @beautifulsweetschaos @namelesslosers @partnerincrime0 @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @marbles-posts @imsolence @maidmerrymint @backyardfolklore @nimaharchive @anxiousdaemon @under-the-aspen-tree @amiraisgoingthruit @dd122004dd @randomdragonfires @jetblack4real @joliettes
Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰💜
The sun would burn him, but moonlight is kind. You’re on the balcony of Aegon’s bedchamber, two chairs, two cups of wine, another full pitcher on the table between you, a glass bottle of warm rose oil like amber, like gold, freckled with curled ruby petals. You’re dressed in your usual attire, simple designs and neutral colors, greys and creams and dusky pinks; tonight your gown is a flat, inky blue that matches the night sky. Aegon is wearing his unpretentious cotton trousers—stained with splotches of pomegranate juice, his recompense before you allowed him the wine—and a tiny braid in his shaggy, silver hair.
“I look like your house’s sigil,” Aegon says as he massages rose oil onto his forearms, his palms moving in large sloppy circles over a patchwork of scar tissue; you would do a better job, but he says he wants to learn how to care for his wounds on his own. His dragon ring—gold wings, jade eyes—gleams in the cool, ghostly moonshine. His words are teasing, but his tone is dark, troubled, weary. “Some red, some white. All ugly.”
You smile. You aren’t agreeing, just playing along. “Our motto is better than our flag.”
“I might have been inebriated during that lesson.”
“Perpetual Resurrection.”
Aegon looks at you, confounded. “Quite the mouthful.”
“Crabs molt throughout their lifetime. They crack their own skins open and climb out. If they get stuck, they die. If they get attacked before their new shell hardens, they die. But if they live…they’re a brand new version of themselves. Larger, wiser, more powerful.”
“Spiders,” Aegon says. “You’re trying to placate me with some rousing metaphor about what are essentially aquatic spiders.”
“They’re tasty too,” you say, grinning. “Especially when their shells are still soft. The cooks would serve them fried and us kids would sit around the table ripping the legs free and throwing them at each other.”
“What, you can eat the crab whole?!”
“Yes. Once the faces are cut off and the organs scooped out.”
He pretends to be repulsed by you. “Harrowing. Revolting. This is why Targaryens have always refused to breed with your kind.”
It’s funny, but it isn’t, because it’s a little too close to what you’re both thinking. Under the moonlight, you watch Aegon with the words caged behind your teeth: What do you want most? Who are you in your bones? Where would we be if the world wasn’t crashing down around us?
He slathers rose oil on his scarred right cheek—carelessly, distractedly—and accidentally pokes himself in the eye. “Ow.”
You ask: “Why do you want to do that yourself now?”
“To prove I can. To feel ever so slightly less like an invalid.” He takes a swig of his wine and gazes out over the nightscape ocean, stars in the sky, stars reflected on waves. “I am a study in irony. I spent my whole life waiting for it to be over. I poisoned myself, wasted years, resisted any semblance of usefulness. And now I finally have things I want to accomplish, I finally have reasons to live…and I’m trapped in the flesh of some pathetic, deformed, calamitously weak stranger.” He shakes his head, despondent, still not looking at you. “I can have a body that works. I can have a soul. But I can’t have both at the same time. It’s so fucking unfair.”
“I like you exactly as you are. Body and soul.”
“Everything I own, everything I’m given…” He stares down at his palms, open and empty. “It is destroyed, gets killed, goes mad. I ruin causes. I ruin people. I couldn’t do that to you.”
“I think I’m going to be ruined either way. I’d rather you be the one responsible.”
“Angel,” he says, low and serious. And now his gaze comes back to meet yours. “Who are you supposed to marry?”
You don’t want to tell him. You don’t want it to be true. Your voice is a whisper, almost lost in the night wind. “Cregan Stark.”
His eyes shoot wide, not just startled but terrified. “Stark?!”
You nod miserably. “My father took me and my sisters to Winterfell as part of a trade mission. Cregan decided he wanted me. I never encouraged it, I never desired it, I swear I didn’t—”
“No, I believe you,” Aegon says. He swallows a gulp of wine noisily, his hand shaking. “You were right. I can’t touch him. I can’t stop it. Not unless I win.”
“You don’t want the Iron Throne,” you tell Aegon, already knowing it’s true.
He snorts, a harsh derisive sound. “Who would?”
“Lots of people, I think. But not you or Rhaenyra.”
This intrigues him. “She doesn’t want it either?”
“Not from what I’ve seen and heard. Or, at least, she didn’t until Luke was killed. It changed her. I’m still not convinced she wants to be the queen, but she wants vengeance. And absolute power is a sure path to it.” And so the suffering continues, it goes around and around like a wheel, it is a debt that is never satisfied but only spread like plague.
“I don’t understand why Aemond did that,” Aegon says. His words are hushed, like he’s never spoken them to anyone but you and never will. “When he returned from Storm’s End, I held a feast for him. I had to, someone had to, someone had to pretend it was a victory instead of a murder. But it didn’t make any sense. Arrax was an inconvenience, not a threat. Luke was far more valuable as a hostage than a corpse. Aemond has always been the disciplined brother, the strategic one. I won’t claim to be clever. But I can’t find any strategy in what happened there.”
“Aemond has a temper. He is haunted, I believe. He is not above reckless fury.”
“No, evidently not.” Aegon sighs and rakes his fingers through his hair; again, his dragon ring glints under the moonlight, silver reflected off gold. “I’ll try to win,” he says. “For my family. For you.” Then he smirks, a grim attempt at humor. “Though I pity Cregan Stark for the paradise I will deprive him of.”
You do not return Aegon’s smile. “Don’t have too much pity for him. I have no expertise and I’m scared to death of it. I’d probably end up hiding under his bed, gripping the legs for dear life. He’d have to drag me out and tie me down.”
Aegon is alarmed; his storm-blue eyes are now focused, seeking. He is aware that he has wandered into a quagmire. He treads carefully. “When you say no expertise, you mean…none at all?”
“None.”
“But what about all of those anatomically-correct cock illustrations in your medical books?”
Another joke you can’t bring yourself to laugh at. You drink your wine to stop your lips from quivering, smooth the silk of your gown with a trembling hand. You see it no matter where you look: the pool of red on Theodora’s bedsheets, the dawning and inescapable realization on her face. This is her life now. This will always be her life.
Aegon says gently: “You have no expectation of pleasure.”
“It seems…inherently violent. For the woman. Even if it isn’t meant to be. Being overpowered, being invaded. The man decides when and how it happens. The woman endures.”
Aegon stares at you—biting his full lower lip, deeply somber—but doesn’t speak. He gives you the impression of someone with so many thoughts swimming around in his skull he is struggling to choose just one.
You smile dimly. “I’m sorry. I’ve made you sad.”
“I’m, um…” Aegon pauses to collect himself; he drains his wine cup and sets it back on the table. He is uncharacteristically cautious, like he thinks one unwise word will break the spell of whatever exists between you, this temptation, this need. “I’m saddened by the fact that you think of it that way. Because it doesn’t have to be…distasteful. Frightening. Coerced. It shouldn’t be, in fact.”
“I suppose I’ll find out if the Blacks win this war and Cregan Stark comes to claim me.”
Again, Aegon is exceptionally circumspect. “You’ve never wanted any man?”
“No. Never. Not in that way. Until…” You look at him, willing him to understand. I want you, but I’m so goddamn afraid to. I’m afraid of this world, I’m afraid there’s no hope left in it.
Slowly, Aegon smiles, soft and warm. And without any grasping, animalistic greed, he reaches over to rest a palm on your thigh, night-dark silk draped over skin that doesn’t flinch away from him, doesn’t even have to fight the instinct to. You place a hand on his. Your fingertips trace the gold wings of the green-eyed dragon ring he never takes off. And it is sealed like a covenant under the stars, this allegiance that neither of you could begin to explain to anyone else.
Footsteps are coming through Aegon’s bedchamber, heavy and purposeful. Otto Hightower appears in the balcony doorway. He fills the space like storm clouds flood a clear sky, like blood saturates linen. “You’re getting fat,” he tells Aegon gruffly.
“You’re getting ever more wrinkly and close to the afterlife.”
Otto glances to where Aegon’s hand still rests on your thigh and snaps: “If you’re well enough for that, perhaps you would deign to join us in the council chamber. You could shock everyone by actually acting like a king.”
Then he’s gone, taking those last echoes of the moment with him.
~~~~~~~~~~
“They know she’s here,” Larys Strong says. His audience is gathered around the table: Otto, Criston, Daeron, Grand Maester Orwyle, Tyland Lannister, Jasper Wylde, the knights of the Kingsguard, Aegon slumped way down in his seat and you beside him feeling his forehead worriedly for fever. Because Aegon and Daeron are in attendance, the council chamber is one chair short. Aemond has elected to be the person to stand; he lurks, severe and silent, in a corner of the room half-lit by torchlight. Daeron is dressed in a vibrant teal, Aegon in black; Aemond wears green, dark and brooding like envy.
Criston Cole asks: “How is that possible?”
Otto sighs irritably, rubbing his forehead. “We have spies. I’m sure Rhaenyra does as well.”
“Someone apparently glimpsed the prince regent…um…” Larys searches for the diplomatic word. “Escorting her through the streets of King’s Landing.”
“Dragging is what he did,” Aegon says, glaring at Aemond. “Abducting. Attacking. Imprisoning.” Aemond, arms crossed over his chest, studies his boots and pretends not to have heard him.
Larys continues: “The Blacks don’t believe that she is here of her own volition.”
Otto’s eyes narrow. “What, they think we’ve detained her as some sort of…healer? Hostage?”
“No, my lord,” Larys says, hesitantly, awkwardly. “They don’t imagine the king’s motivations to be that honorable.”
Otto is losing his patience. “Meaning?”
Larys toys with his restless, rodentlike hands. “They think she is being…violated.”
A stilted, scandalized hush falls over the table. “Good,” Aegon says, invoking gasps and gapes. “If Green supporters believe her to be my captive, they won’t harm her. And if the Blacks think she is being held here against her will, she would be safe with them as well. No matter who wins, she is not in danger.”
“That is hardly beneficial for your own reputation, Your Grace,” Tyland Lannister says.
Aegon grins beneath cold eyes; he shows his teeth like a wolf, like a dragon. “Was my reputation so pristine to begin with, Lord Lannister?”
“No, perhaps not,” Tyland mumbles. Still, he should not have said it aloud. Otto huffs another sigh and rolls his eyes.
“So you intend to keep a Celtigar daughter in your service?” Otto says to Aegon.
“I have no doubts concerning her loyalty.”
Larys adds: “My lord, I must say, I cannot see a tactical advantage in her saving the king’s life if she retains any loyalty to Rhaenyra’s cause.”
“Then why save him at all? Why bother? He was lying there half-dead, soon to be properly dead, and she brought him back practically singlehandedly. Why?”
“Mercy,” Aemond says quietly from the corner, and everyone turns to look at him. “Many people have none of it. She perhaps has too much. And now they have grown…” He gestures vaguely, perhaps bashfully. “Attached to each other.”
Jasper Wylde is dismayed. “But the king has a wife.”
Daeron snickers. “Yes, and that has always proved to be such a deterrent in the past.”
“Daeron,” Aegon cautions mildly.
The youngest Targaryen brother obediently sobers and shows the palms of his hands in contrition. “My apologies.” He hides his face with a slurp of his wine cup.
“And what about Cregan Stark?!” Otto exclaims. “You’d encourage his outrage, his Northerner savagery? Seven hells, he thinks you’re spending your days raping his betrothed, do you imagine that will not invoke fiercer wrath, put all of us at greater risk?!”
“Lord Stark was never a reachable ally to our cause, in my estimation,” Larys says calmly.
“That’s not the point, Larys! The point is—!”
“I can offer you something in return for the heightened danger you have assumed,” you interrupt, and these men stare at you as if suddenly remembering that you are here in the room with them, not a phantom or a myth or a cautionary tale but someone real. Aegon glances over, one eyebrow raised on his drawn, perspiring face. He doesn’t know what you’re going to say either.
Otto peers menacingly across the table. “What could you possibly have to barter with? The king is well enough now. He will live with or without you.”
“I have information. I know the workings of Rhaenyra’s council in the leadup to Rook’s Rest.”
“You attended her council meetings?”
“No, but I spent evenings with my father and brothers as they discussed them.”
Otto sits back in his chair, pondering you. After a moment, he nods. “Go on then.”
“I want one concession before I reveal what I know.”
“Besides being permitted indefinite room and board in the Red Keep, which you are in no way entitled to?”
“Not negotiable,” Aegon says.
Otto chuckles, humorless, incredulous, shaking his head. “Fucking insane. Alright. What is it you want, girl?”
“If any member of House Celtigar is taken captive, I want them to be given the opportunity to swear fealty to King Aegon and receive a full pardon for their sins. If they refuse, they are to go to the Night’s Watch, not the scaffold.”
“That’s your price? That’s it?”
“Yes.”
Otto is amused. “Nothing for you? No gold, no land?”
“No.” The prospect hadn’t even occurred to you.
“Not very self-serving. So unlike a Celtigar.” Otto grins, not kindly at all. “Your terms are accepted.”
You begin. “The Greens possess great wealth, now split for safekeeping between Oldtown, Casterly Rock, and the Iron Bank of Braavos. But Rhaenyra’s funds are far more finite. My father has enriched her coffers in part with taxes placed upon houses of the Crownlands. You are always seeking new allies, people you can turn from her side to yours, Corlys Velaryon, the Dragonseeds. Thus far, you have been unsuccessful.” Otto frowns, but he is listening. “I know there are families who have compelling grievances concerning my father’s taxes. Families who have become disenchanted with Rhaenyra’s leadership…or lack thereof, they might say. Rosby, Stokeworth, Cave, Langward, Bourney, Boggs, Hardy, Chyttering. Probably others as well now. They occupy a tactically significant position, being so near to Dragonstone and Driftmark. And I believe if you wrote to them, they would answer.”
“I’ll send ravens,” Otto says. He marvels at you, like a puzzlingly strange creature, a luminescent fang-toothed fish from the depths of the ocean, a direwolf from beyond the Wall. “You don’t want your side to win this war?”
“I want the killing to stop. For both sides.”
“Well, you won’t get that. The bitch will never surrender. That hope died with little Luke Strong.” Otto glowers bitterly at where Aemond stands in the shadowy corner, but he addresses you. “That is your impression as well? She was entertaining the possibility of a truce before he died at Storm’s End?”
You steal a glimpse of Aemond, and you are struck by an unexpected stab of sympathy for him, compassion that feels like a betrayal of your knowledge of the torture he had planned for you. But what is there to say but the truth? “Rhaenyra was considering it very seriously. She and Daemon quarreled over the subject.”
“Of course they did.” Otto looks at Criston, then back to Aemond. “When are you leaving?”
“Soon,” Criston answers for the prince regent. “Very soon.”
“Not soon enough,” Otto spits like venom, and everyone else averts their eyes.
“My lord,” Larys intercedes. “There is one more matter to discuss, and I believe it will be of great interest to His Grace the king.”
Aegon is struggling to concentrate. He blinks groggily at the Master of Whisperers, his brow creased with pain. You smooth his damp, white-blond hair back from his face, threading his braid through your fingertips; you refill his wine cup and give it to him. When Aegon lifts it to his lips, his hands shake so badly he spills scarlet beads like blood down his chin. He wipes them away with his sleeve. Grand Maester Orwyle offers him a small glass bottle of milk of the poppy, but Aegon refuses it.
“Is he alright?” Daeron mutters to you.
“He’s fine. He’s tired, that’s all.”
“Waste no time, Lord Larys,” Aegon says. “I fear Grandsire’s ire has exhausted me. He’s more ferocious than a dragon. We should find a saddle that fits, perhaps Criston could ride him to the Riverlands.”
“Keep guzzling wine, I’m sure that will improve your condition,” Otto bites back.
Larys continues: “It concerns Rook’s Rest.”
Now he has everyone’s attention. “What about Rook’s Rest?” Aegon says. Instinctively, he’s begun twisting the golden dragon ring on his left hand.
“I received word one hour ago that the Blacks have retaken it.”
“What?!” Otto shouts; the rest of the table is in uproar. Criston stands and goes to conspire with Aemond in the corner of the council chamber, urgent indecipherable whispers.
“Sunfyre,” Aegon says frantically. “I have to go to him, I have to get him out—”
“He is already gone, Your Grace,” Larys replies.
“Gone…?”
“Lord Walys Mooton went down to the beach to slay the dragon once his men had taken the castle. He was burned alive.”
“Perfect,” Daeron says, beaming radiantly.
“Lord Mooton’s men fled for their lives, and when they returned, Sunfyre had disappeared. He could not be found anywhere in the vicinity of Rook’s Rest. Moreover, his footprints in the sand stopped abruptly. Which means he must have departed—”
“Into the water…?” Tyland Lannister says, perplexed.
“No,” Larys corrects him. “Into the sky.”
“Sunfyre is flying again?” Aegon asks, his face childlike, astonished.
“That’s impossible,” Criston says. “His wing was broken, I saw it.”
Larys drums his fingers on the tabletop. “I cannot conceive of any other explanation.”
“Then he’ll find me.” Aegon smiles. Sweat snakes down his temples; his face is white, bloodless, barren like the moon. “When Sunfyre is ready, he’ll find me and we’ll be together again.”
“Oh, thank the gods,” Otto exhales. “The Old, the New, that ghastly Drowned one…” He waves a hand at you. “And do you have any to add, Lady Celtigar? Some crab deity your traitorous people worship?”
“I regret to disappoint you, my lord. To my knowledge we have none.”
“Three useable dragons,” Otto says, mostly to himself. “Three is good. With three, we have a chance. And if I can recruit Vermithor or Silverwing…”
“I should go with you when you and Criston march north,” Daeron tells Aemond.
“No,” Aemond returns immediately.
“If you’re going after Daemon, you could use me,” Daeron insists. “Tessarion and I can help.”
“You are needed in the Reach with Lord Ormund Hightower.”
“You just want him all to yourself,” Daeron realizes, exasperated. “You want to be able to say that you were the person to neutralize the Blacks’ greatest asset, that you won the war—!”
Criston says: “He’s not going on some suicide mission chasing Daemon and Caraxes all over the Riverlands. He’s staying with me and the army. He’s using Vhagar logically, responsibly. Right, Aemond?”
“Of course,” Aemond answers, entirely toneless.
Otto whirls to Aegon. “And when will you be able to fight again? Soon, I hope. Surely the culmination of your existence is not one single instance of utility before lapsing back into being some drunken, idiot degenerate.”
In reply, Aegon moans and crumples to the floor. Grand Maester Orwyle and the men of the Kingsguard rush to him, but Criston gets there first; when you cannot rouse the king, Criston throws him over one shoulder—increasingly difficult with each pound Aegon gains, softness and health that you consider a great victory—and ferries him back to bed. As you follow after them, you hesitate in the doorway of the council chamber. Now that Criston is gone, Otto has crossed the room and pinned Aemond to the wall. His large hands, heavy with rings, are pressed to Aemond’s chest; his face is snarling, wicked, callous.
“You have to fix this. You have to end it.”
“I know,” Aemond replies softly.
“Everything that’s happened is your fault.”
“I know,” Aemond says again, then rips free from Otto’s grasp and flees the room.
~~~~~~~~~~
Two days later, Criston leads his army out of the city. They will meet reinforcements on the road between the capital and the Riverlands. There is infantry on foot and cavalry on horses; above them in a blue sky cluttered with vast, cottony clouds are Aemond and Vhagar. As they head north, Daeron and Tessarion fly south towards the Reach to rejoin Ormund Hightower and his men. In Winterfell, Cregan Stark is receiving word of where (and with whom) his betrothed currently resides. At Harrenhal, Daemon and Nettles are kindling rumors like dry wood in a fire. On Dragonstone, Rhaenyra is nursing her rage and paranoia like a hungry child, like a wounded man who has milk of the poppy poured down his throat. And you remain static here in King’s Landing, anchored, steadfast, something immoveable like the ocean or the shore it meets.
You can see Aegon’s bedchamber windows from the beach. You keep glancing up at them, though you know he won’t be there; the sunlight is too harsh today, the potential damage to his skin too great. In a month, he may be able to venture outside as he used to. In two or three, he might be able to fight again. He might be able to kill more than just one errant Norcross boy who dared to touch you.
“Helaena wouldn’t come down to join us?” you ask Autumn. You’re walking with her in the surf, the hems of your held aloft so the froth of the waves can wash over your ankles. Perhaps ten yards away and out of earshot, Alicent is kneeling in the sand and playing with Jaehaera and Maelor. They are her great comfort now; they are not the only purpose she has left, but they are the kindest. Their tiny hands are preoccupied with building a sandcastle and adorning it with seashells, pebbles, shards of driftwood, strings of seaweed like green ribbons. You’ve started to notice how much Jaehaera resembles Aegon, his murky blue eyes and his high cheekbones and his gentleness that no one else seems to recognize. You’ve started to see him everywhere you look.
Autumn shrugs, her face apologetic. Her hair is more than just copper in the afternoon daylight; it is fire, it is blood. “I really tried. You know how she is.”
“I’ll visit her afterwards.”
“She unnerves me,” Autumn says, stroking her round belly and shuddering. She earns her keep here by helping to look after Helaena, Jaehaera, and Maelor. Aegon treats Autumn the same way he treats his wife and children, which is to say he generally ignores her; on the rare occasion he is subjected to her presence for more than a fleeting moment, he becomes uneasy, irritable. Autumn does not appear to be offended. She says this is the best job she’s ever had. “She’s always muttering the strangest things. Caterpillars and crabs and dragons and only the gods know what else. Yesterday she told me not to dance with the half-year queen. What the fuck does that mean?”
“Helaena’s a bit different,” you admit.
“She’s inbred, that’s what she is. I can’t imagine what those kids are going to grow up to be like. A brother and sister for parents? It’s a wonder they don’t have feathers or tails.” Autumn taps the swell of her belly. “At least this one—if it’s a Targaryen after all—has had its bloodline thoroughly diluted.”
You watch her standing there in the fiery late-afternoon light, this body that has comforted, consoled, satisfied, suffered, known so many men. “What does it feel like?” you ask quietly.
“What? Being with child?”
“No, the…um…the act that led to it.”
“Oh, yes.” Autumn stretches with her hands on the small of her back and smiles vaguely, nostalgically. “That’s the strange thing. It can feel like heaven or hell or nothing at all. If the man knows what he’s doing, and cares enough to try, he can make it better for you.”
“Better how?”
She furrows her brow, shoots you a skeptical sideways glance. She is aware that you are inexperienced, but the extent of your blind spots continuously shock her. It occurs to you that perhaps naivety is a privilege; some cannot recall a time before they were acquainted with truths of the world that others consider forbidden. “You know. He’ll use his hands or his mouth to get you ready. Or better yet, both at once.”
“Ready,” you repeat, not understanding.
“Well, you see…” Autumn takes a moment to decide how best to explain. “Men change when they are aroused, yes? Women do the same. It takes longer, and it is not always so obvious. But it is vital. The more ready you are, the more comfortably he will fit inside you.”
“And what if he doesn’t get you ready? If he doesn’t have the skill, or he doesn’t believe it’s necessary, or he doesn’t even know that’s something women require?” Or he just wants to hurt you. He just wants to watch you bleed like something he goes into the woods to kill and gut and devour.
Autumn smirks cynically. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“The sizes involved. Some men are bigger than others, and women have different dimensions as well. Couples can be well-matched or not. Sometimes it isn’t too bad. Sometimes it feels like you’re being ripped apart. And that doesn’t necessarily stop after the first time either.”
“And you can’t say no.”
“You can say no all you want. But he doesn’t have to listen.”
You peer out over Blackwater Bay, sunbeams flashing on wave crests and gulls swooping in the reddening sky. But you don’t really see it. What you see are fingerprints of dirt or ash on your thighs, snow in your hair, books laden with dust, fur coats and evergreen trees, rust-stains of blood on bedsheets.
“I’ve heard that Lord Stark is a very large man,” Autumn nudges. She knows, everyone knows.
“He’s massive,” you say forlornly. “He’s taller than Aemond and twice as broad.”
“The king isn’t so big,” she says, pretending that the thought has just popped into her mind, as if she hasn’t noticed the way you and Aegon look at each other, speak to each other, find excuses to touch each other.
“No,” you agree in a whisper.
“And he’s not a brute. I can’t fairly speak to his skill, I never had him anywhere close to sober. But he has no appetite for women’s pain. That’s a valuable gem in a man, it’s like stumbling across a ruby or a pearl.”
You nod; but you don’t want to think about Autumn lying with Aegon. You don’t want to think about the child they might share. In a world so dark, it seems cruel to begrudge people creating life where none existed before. But when you picture Aegon touching someone else, that darkness seeps in through your skin like rain soaks the earth and can’t find its way out. “We’re going to the library together tomorrow, aren’t we?”
Autumn groans. “Did I agree to that? I don’t believe I did.”
She did not, this is true; you badgered, she deflected. “You’ll enjoy it.”
“I am illiterate.”
“I told you. I’ll teach you how to read.”
“Why would I want to stare at ink marks in a book all day when I could be outside in the sunshine listening to the ocean and herding inbred little freaks like sheep?”
“Because books can take you anywhere,” you say.
“I like where I am. I’ve never seen anyplace better.”
“Okay, Autumn,” you concede, smiling. “I’ll ask again tomorrow. Hopefully you’ll change your mind.”
“Say hello to Helaena for me,” she says, meandering back towards Alicent and the children. Her footprints in the sand are erased when the gurgling waves roll over them. “Maybe one of those fancy books can help you translate lunacy into the Common Tongue.”
Upstairs in her bedchamber, Helaena is standing in front of an open window. It doesn’t offer a view of the ocean; it is positioned over a courtyard of sandstone and chatting courtiers. Helaena does not seem to hear them. She gazes out into the sunset, celestial rage on her impassive face.
“He’s leaving soon,” she says, not turning to look at you.
“Who, Helaena? Aemond? He left days ago. He’s already gone, he’s on his way to the Riverlands. But he’ll be back soon.” You don’t know if that’s true—it probably isn’t, in fact—but you’re certain that Helaena misses him. Her children do too; he is more of a father to them than Aegon has ever been, not in body but in soul.
She only repeats: “He’s leaving soon.”
“Helaena, what—?”
“He’ll leave you. Then you’ll leave him. He’ll make you.”
At last, and very slowly, she revolves like the stripe of shadow across a sundial. In her cupped palms is a butterfly, shimmering gold wings and spiderlike black legs. It takes flight, flutters aimlessly through the vermillion air, escapes out the open window.
~~~~~~~~~~
A peculiar twist of fate: his palm on your forehead, his whispers through your hair. Now he is the one who has stolen into your bed when the moon and stars hang high in the darkness outside. There is a noise somewhere beyond him, disembodied and hazy, that reminds you of torrential rain: omnipresent, thunderous.
“Angel,” Aegon is saying. “Wake up. Please wake up. I have to go.”
Go? Go where? You murmur, still half-asleep: “You can’t leave.” He isn’t strong enough yet. He can’t fight, he can’t run.
“I have to. They’re here.”
“Who…?”
The answer comes from the sounds that you are only now awake enough to understand: screaming, pounding boots, slamming doors, the ravenous crackling of fire, the shrieking of dragons. You have learned all of their unearthly voices. That’s not Vhagar or Tessarion or Sunfyre or Dreamfyre… It flashes by your windows, a comet of gold and flames.
You bolt out of bed. “Rhaenyra—?!”
“Rhaenyra, Syrax, Daemon, Caraxes.”
Daemon shouldn’t be here. He should be losing battles to Aemond and Criston. “But he’s at Harrenhal!”
“Not anymore.” Aegon takes your hand and pulls you out into the hallway, the hem of your nightgown billowing around your legs, his short silver hair flying behind him. There are servants and guards rushing by you, weeping, shouting, searching for places to hide. Grand Maester Orwyle ambles towards the rookery to send out ravens. Several rooms away, you can hear Helaena wailing and Autumn trying to soothe her. Larys Strong intercepts Aegon and gives him a hooded cloak; Aegon yanks it over his bare, mutilated chest, whimpering as the rapid movement strains the red-and-ivory disarray of scar tissue that used to be his skin. “You have everything?” he asks Larys hoarsely. You notice now that the Master of Whisperers has a satchel slung over one shoulder.
“Yes, Your Grace. Milk of the poppy, rose oil, the crown.”
“Wine?”
Larys produces a bottle. Aegon gulps down half of it, then passes the rest to you. You hesitate before finishing the wine, red like the sigil of House Celtigar, like fire, like blood. “They are closing all roads out of the city,” Larys tells Aegon, speaking swiftly. “King’s Landing will be taken. We will surrender. We cannot fight a dragon, let alone two.”
“Aemond and Criston—?”
“Daemon must have outflanked them.”
Aegon grabs your hand again and does not let go as he trails Larys through corridors and down claustrophobically tight spiral staircases. “The roads are blocked,” Aegon explains to you breathlessly. “But there are secret passageways beneath the castle. I know them. Larys knows them. Daemon probably knows them too, but he has other places to be.”
And through a window of a staircase, you see him: Caraxes spiraled around the apex of the Tower of the Hand, screaming fire into the sky before descending the length of the tower towards the hoards of hysterical courtiers fleeing below, his claws jostling loose bricks that rain down on them.
The bottom of the stairwell opens up into a large, dusty, dirt-floored chamber with stone tunnels leading in every direction like spokes of a wheel. Alicent is there, sobbing wildly, and so is Otto. Otto is telling Jaehaera that she must be a brave little girl and go with Sir Willis Fell. Alicent is giving Maelor over to Sir Rickard Thorne, your once-alleged-kinfolk. The child is panicked and crying, flushed face and white hair. Aegon glances at the scene and then keeps moving, towing you along with him.
“Princess Jaehaera will go to Storm’s End,” Larys says. “Prince Maelor will go to Oldtown. They face execution if they stay. We must risk smuggling them out of the city.”
“What about Aegon?” you ask as the three of you hasten into a corridor thick with cobwebs and illuminated by torchlight. The stone ceiling is arched and perhaps seven feet tall; faintly, you can still hear the muffled turmoil of King’s Landing falling to Rhaenyra and Daemon.
“I’m going Dragonstone.” And it does not elude you that he didn’t say we. “If Rhaenyra is here, that likely means Dragonstone is vacant. I will go to the Crownlands families that you believe to be willing to betray her and beg them for support. I will take Dragonstone and prepare a counterassault from there. Hopefully Sunfyre will find me. Hopefully I’m not killed on the way.”
“Okay,” you say. “I’m going too.”
“You’re staying in King’s Landing.”
“No.” You stop dead, wrenching your hand out of Aegon’s. “No, what if you get hurt, or sick, or what if you get really bad again—?!”
“Listen!” he shouts with dire intensity, his eyes wide and pleading in the torchlight. “I can’t protect you. I can’t even protect myself. There could be bandits on the road, there could be Black soldiers, there could be animals, there could be fucking anything. I can’t take you with me. I don’t know if I’ll be able to get to Dragonstone. But I know if I stay here Rhaenyra will murder me. I don’t have a choice. I have one option, and it’s not good. But you’ll be safe in King’s Landing.”
“Aegon, no—”
“The Blacks don’t think you’re here by choice. They think I’ve imprisoned you. Tell them that’s what happened and they will welcome you back. Your family will protect you.”
“Aegon, please don’t—”
His palm on your cheek, his braid coming unraveled in his hair. “You will wait out the war with them. And when it’s over I’ll find you.” Tears glistening in his eyes, his voice going soft and tender. “If I’m still alive, I’ll find you. I swear to all the gods I will.”
He’s leaving. He’s really leaving. “What can I do?” you ask, your words strangled; your throat is burning, your eyes wet. “What can I do to help you?”
And you expect him to say things you already know: Don’t tell anyone where I’ve gone. Don’t tell anyone what you’ve heard in the Greens’ council meetings. Instead, Aegon grins as he says: “Try to get one of your three superfluous sisters to seduce Cregan Stark.”
You laugh, the sound echoing off ancient, filthy stones.
“My mother and Otto are waiting for you. You will be with them when they are taken to Rhaenyra. They are high-ranking prisoners of war, they will be spared the brutality of the Black soldiers and so will you. They will corroborate that you were my captive.”
“I understand.”
“I have to go now,” Aegon says like an apology, swiping tears from your face with his thumbs. He breaks away from you and follows Larys Strong down the tunnel. They are shadows under the torchlight, cloaks and whispers.
“Aegon,” you call after him, and he stops. I never told you what I wanted. I never told you what I feel for you. “What if I never see you again?”
You don’t know what you want him to do or say. There’s nothing that could make this right. But he soars back to you, takes you roughly and desperately, buries his hands in your hair and kisses you deeply, tasting like wine and heat and the smoke filling the world outside. He means for it to be quick, but he can’t stop. His tongue darts between your lips, his hips press to yours, you arch into him wanting more, infinitely more.
What was I so afraid of? you think dizzily. How could I be afraid of anything with him?
“Your Grace,” Larys appeals regretfully. “Please. We don’t have much time.”
Aegon twists off his dragon ring—gold wings, jade eyes—and slips it onto your left hand. And you’re still staring down at it, mystified, as Aegon disentangles himself from you and vanishes into the darkness.
463 notes · View notes
midnight-shadow-cafe · 2 months ago
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media
The Knight and the Princess
Pairing:Eddie Munson x Reader
AU: Knight Eddie x Princess reader
Warnings: There is fighting in here, Eddie and the Princess flirting (I can’t think of anything else)
Authors Note: I hope you enjoy, I need Eddie so bad rn- I’m on my knees for this man fr fr
Word Count: 3k
Masterlist
MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+
The kingdom of Avarath rarely saw tournaments of this magnitude. This year, the royal family had issued a unique challenge: the winner would earn not just glory but the title of the Princess’s champion. The kingdom’s best knights, nobles, and warriors flocked to the castle, ready to prove their worth.
Eddie Munson, however, was an outlier. A knight in name but not in rank, he was a scrappy underdog who had fought tooth and nail to get here. His armor, mismatched and dented, was salvaged over years of work. His sword had a chipped edge, though it was reliable enough to see him through battle. To him, this wasn’t about fame or riches.
It was about you.
Tumblr media
The sun was high in the sky as the tournament field buzzed with activity. The air carried the metallic tang of swords clashing, the earthy scent of trampled grass, and the occasional waft of roasted meats from the vendor stalls. You sat on the royal dais, your seat elevated to provide a clear view of the matches below. Around you, noblemen and courtiers murmured their opinions on the day’s competitors, but your attention was fixed on the next challenger being announced.
“Sir Edward Munson of Avarath!”
Your eyes scanned the field as a lanky figure emerged from the competitors’ tent. Unlike the polished knights before him, Eddie’s appearance was unconventional. His armor was a patchwork of different styles and metals, dented in places and scuffed in others. His dark curls peeked out from beneath his helmet, and there was an almost mischievous energy to the way he carried himself.
Beside you, one of the courtiers scoffed. “A commoner. How quaint.”
You ignored the comment, leaning forward slightly as Eddie approached the center of the ring. His opponent, Sir Alaric, was everything Eddie was not—broad-shouldered, gleaming in freshly polished plate armor, and exuding the kind of arrogance that came from noble birth.
The horn sounded, signaling the start of the match.
At first, the fight seemed one-sided. Alaric charged forward, swinging his heavy sword in a series of powerful strikes. Eddie dodged, his movements quick and deliberate, as though he were playing a game of cat and mouse. Where Alaric relied on brute strength, Eddie fought with agility and precision, exploiting his opponent’s predictable rhythm.
You watched, transfixed, as Eddie darted out of the way of a particularly heavy swing, spinning behind Alaric and landing a sharp blow to the back of his armor. The crowd gasped, then erupted into cheers as Alaric stumbled.
“That’s unexpected,” you murmured, a smile tugging at your lips.
Eddie’s unorthodox style was unlike anything you’d seen before. He used his smaller frame to his advantage, weaving around Alaric’s cumbersome movements and striking at opportune moments. Despite the disparity in their armor and weaponry, Eddie was winning—not through force, but through sheer wit and strategy.
When he finally disarmed Alaric with a deft twist of his sword, the crowd exploded into applause. Alaric fell to his knees, panting and glaring at Eddie, who stood over him with an almost sheepish grin.
Eddie extended a hand to his fallen opponent, helping him to his feet. The gesture earned a few chuckles from the crowd and, to your surprise, a faint smile from Alaric himself.
As Eddie turned to leave the field, his gaze flickered upward, and for the briefest moment, your eyes met. You saw the spark of surprise in his expression, followed by something softer, more vulnerable. He quickly averted his gaze, bowing deeply toward the dais before walking back to his corner.
“Interesting,” you said aloud, drawing curious glances from those around you.
“What is?” asked one of the noblewomen seated nearby.
You shook your head, smiling faintly. “Nothing. Just… unexpected talent.”
As the next match was announced, you found your thoughts drifting back to Eddie Munson and the cleverness with which he’d fought. Later that evening, as the courtiers discussed their favorite knights over dinner, you instructed your attendant to deliver a note to him.
Tumblr media
The tournament had ended for the day, leaving behind an eerie quiet over the once-bustling grounds. The sky was painted in hues of orange and pink as the sun dipped lower on the horizon. You had dismissed your attendants for the evening, longing for solitude and a reprieve from the endless chatter of the court. Your steps led you to the castle’s gardens, where blooming flowers filled the air with their fragrance.
As you rounded a corner near the training grounds, you spotted Eddie Munson. He was seated beneath a sprawling oak tree, the shadows of its branches dancing across his battered armor, which he had set aside beside him. In his lap rested a well-worn sketchbook, the corners frayed from use, and in his hand, a piece of charcoal hovered over the page.
You paused, observing him for a moment. His brow was furrowed in concentration, his fingers smudged with charcoal. The way he tilted his head as he studied his work made you smile. For someone who fought with such ferocity, there was an unexpected gentleness in the way he handled the page.
The crunch of gravel underfoot gave you away, and Eddie’s head shot up, his dark eyes wide with surprise. He scrambled to stand, nearly dropping his sketchbook in the process.
“Your Highness,” he stammered, bowing awkwardly. His wild curls bobbed as he dipped low, and a nervous grin tugged at the corners of his lips. “I—uh—wasn’t expecting company.”
You chuckled softly, motioning for him to sit. “Please, don’t let me disturb you.”
Eddie hesitated, glancing at the guards who stood a respectful distance away, before settling back onto the ground. You lowered yourself to the grass across from him, smoothing your gown as you sat.
“Do you always sketch after a fight?” you asked, curiosity evident in your tone.
Eddie shrugged, his fingers tightening around the charcoal. “It helps me unwind, I guess. Clears my head after all the chaos.”
Your gaze drifted to the sketchbook. “May I see?”
He hesitated, biting his lower lip as though debating whether to say yes. Finally, with a resigned sigh, he handed it over.
The pages were filled with sketches—knights locked in battle, the castle’s towering spires, and fleeting glimpses of the crowd. Each drawing was rough but brimming with life and emotion. One sketch, in particular, caught your eye. It was of the royal dais, with a faint outline of a figure seated at its center. Though unfinished, it was unmistakably you.
“This is remarkable,” you said, your voice soft as you traced the lines with your gaze.
Eddie’s cheeks flushed. “It’s nothing fancy. Just some scribbles.”
You looked up, meeting his eyes. “It’s more than that. You’ve captured the heart of the moment. It’s a gift, Eddie.”
The sound of his name on your lips seemed to startle him. He cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks. That means a lot, coming from you.”
You handed the sketchbook back to him, your fingers brushing briefly against his. “Have you ever painted?”
He tilted his head, intrigued by the question. “Once or twice. Why?”
“I’d like you to paint something for me,” you said, a playful smile gracing your lips. “If you win the tournament, of course.”
Eddie’s eyebrows shot up. “You want me to paint? What?”
“Something that shows me how you see the world,” you replied simply.
For a moment, he was silent, his expression unreadable. Then, a slow, crooked smile spread across his face. “Alright, Your Highness. If I win, I’ll paint you something. But only if you promise to tell me if it’s terrible.”
You laughed, the sound light and genuine. “Deal.”
As the last rays of sunlight disappeared, painting the sky in twilight blues, you realized how natural it felt to sit here with Eddie, sharing quiet moments amidst the chaos of the tournament. For the first time in days, you felt at ease.
And for Eddie, the Princess was no longer an unattainable figure on a pedestal. You were real, tangible, and more captivating than he had ever imagined.
Tumblr media
The sun burned high above the tournament grounds, the sky a vibrant blue streaked with faint wisps of white clouds. The crowd’s energy was electric, a sea of nobles, commoners, and courtiers packed into the stands. This was the moment everyone had been waiting for: the final match.
The announcer’s voice boomed across the grounds, silencing the chatter. “For the honor of being named the Princess’s champion, Sir Edward Munson of Avarath will face Sir Gareth of Highmoor!”
The crowd erupted into cheers as Sir Gareth strode onto the field. A towering figure clad in gleaming steel, Gareth carried himself with the confidence of someone who had never known defeat. His crimson cloak flowed dramatically behind him, and his massive broadsword reflected the sunlight, blinding anyone who dared look too long.
Eddie Munson followed shortly after, his armor a stark contrast to Gareth’s pristine regalia. Mismatched and battered, it told the story of a knight who fought his way to this stage, piece by piece, against the odds. His expression was focused, determined, though the faintest hint of a smirk played on his lips as he surveyed the crowd. He turned briefly to glance at the royal dais. Your gaze met his, and you offered the smallest nod of encouragement.
The horn sounded, signaling the start of the match.
Gareth wasted no time, charging forward with the force of a battering ram. His broadsword came down in a wide arc, aiming to end the fight quickly. Eddie barely managed to sidestep, the ground shaking beneath Gareth’s strike.
The crowd gasped as Eddie spun out of reach, his lighter frame giving him the speed to evade Gareth’s relentless blows. He countered with swift strikes, his sword aiming for the gaps in Gareth’s armor. Each clash of metal against metal sent vibrations through the air, the sound echoing across the field.
“Fight like a real knight, boy!” Gareth taunted, his deep voice carrying over the din of the crowd.
Eddie grinned, dodging another swing. “Sorry, I left my shiny armor at home.”
The quip earned a few chuckles from the audience, but Gareth’s expression darkened. He lunged forward, attempting to overpower Eddie with sheer force. For a moment, it seemed as though Gareth’s strength might win out; Eddie staggered under the weight of Gareth’s blows, his footing faltering.
From the dais, you leaned forward in your seat, gripping the edge of your throne. Your heart raced with every near miss, every clash of swords.
Eddie recovered quickly, using Gareth’s momentum against him. With a quick sidestep and a twist of his blade, Eddie struck Gareth’s shoulder, the blow leaving a visible dent in the polished steel. Gareth stumbled, growling in frustration.
The match became a test of endurance. Sweat dripped down Eddie’s brow as he dodged another crushing strike, his movements becoming more deliberate as the fight wore on. Gareth’s heavy swings slowed, his breathing labored under the weight of his armor.
Eddie saw his opening.
As Gareth raised his sword for another powerful strike, Eddie lunged forward, using his smaller blade to hook the broadsword and twist it from Gareth’s grasp. The larger knight staggered back, stunned, as his weapon clattered to the ground.
The crowd erupted in cheers, the sound deafening.
Eddie didn’t stop there. He stepped forward, his sword leveled at Gareth’s chest. For a moment, time seemed to freeze. Gareth glared at him, his pride wounded, but he raised his hands in surrender.
The match was over. Eddie Munson was victorious.
Tumblr media
Eddie fell to one knee, his chest heaving as he planted his sword into the ground for support. His dark curls clung to his damp face, and his mismatched armor was scuffed and battered. Despite his exhaustion, a triumphant grin spread across his lips.
The announcer’s voice rang out once more. “The Princess’s champion: Sir Edward Munson of Avarath!”
The crowd roared, chanting Eddie’s name as he pushed himself to his feet.
You descended the steps from the royal dais, your gown flowing like water behind you. The noise of the crowd dimmed as all eyes turned to you.
Eddie’s grin faltered as you approached, replaced by an almost nervous expression. He dropped his gaze, lowering himself onto one knee in a gesture of respect. “Your Highness.”
You stopped before him, your voice steady despite the warmth rising in your chest. “Sir Munson, you have proven yourself worthy of this honor. You fought bravely and with great skill.”
Eddie glanced up, his dark eyes meeting yours. “Does this mean I get to paint for you?” he asked, his lips twitching into a smirk despite his exhaustion.
The question caught you off guard, and a laugh escaped your lips, ringing clear above the murmurs of the crowd.
“Yes,” you said, smiling warmly. “You’ve earned it.”
Tumblr media
The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden glow over the castle gardens. The late afternoon light filtered through the trees, dappling the ground with patches of warm light and cool shadow. A gentle breeze stirred the leaves, carrying the soft scents of blooming flowers. It was the perfect day, you had decided, for Eddie to begin the painting he had promised after his victory.
You had chosen a secluded corner of the garden for the session—a place far from the prying eyes of the court. Eddie was already there when you arrived, setting up his makeshift easel and unpacking a small satchel filled with paints and brushes. His back was turned to you, his movements careful and precise as he mixed pigments on a wooden palette.
He looked different without his armor. Clad in a loose linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and simple breeches tucked into scuffed boots, Eddie seemed more at ease, though his fingers betrayed his nervousness as they fidgeted with the palette knife.
When he noticed your approach, he straightened and turned, a smile spreading across his face. “Your Highness,” he said with a dramatic bow, his curls falling into his eyes. “Ready to be immortalized in paint?”
You laughed softly, smoothing your gown as you sat on the low stone bench he had set up for you. “As ready as I’ll ever be. But are you sure you’re up to the task?”
His grin widened, his confidence bubbling to the surface. “Doubt me already? You wound me, Princess.”
With a flourish, he gestured for you to sit however you liked. After some playful back-and-forth about whether you should appear regal or casual, you decided on something in between—sitting on the bench with one leg crossed over the other, your hands resting lightly in your lap.
Eddie stepped back, squinting at you like a true artist sizing up his subject. “Perfect,” he said after a moment, his tone softer.
Then, he got to work.
Tumblr media
At first, there was a comfortable silence as Eddie focused on his task. The only sounds were the occasional chirping of birds and the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze. You watched him work, captivated by the intensity in his expression. His dark brows furrowed in concentration, and his tongue peeked out slightly as he dragged the brush across the canvas.
The tension in his shoulders eased as he fell into the rhythm of painting, and he began to hum a tune under his breath—a melody you didn’t recognize but found yourself liking.
“What are you humming?” you asked, breaking the silence.
Eddie glanced up, his brush pausing mid-stroke. “Oh, just something I made up. Helps me focus.”
You smiled, tilting your head. “I didn’t know knights were also musicians.”
“Knights?” he scoffed, dipping his brush into a vivid blue pigment. “I’m barely a knight. I’m just a guy who happens to be good with a sword—and, apparently, a paintbrush.”
“You’re far more than that,” you said softly, your gaze steady. “You’ve shown courage, skill, and heart. That’s what makes you worthy.”
The compliment caught him off guard. His hand faltered slightly, leaving a streak of paint on the canvas that made him grimace. “Careful, Your Highness. Keep saying things like that, and I’ll start thinking I belong here.”
“You do,” you said firmly.
Eddie’s eyes flicked up to meet yours, and for a moment, the air between you seemed to still. There was something vulnerable in his expression, as though he wasn’t used to being seen—truly seen.
Tumblr media
The hours slipped by as he painted, the canvas gradually coming to life. As the sun dipped lower, Eddie stood back, rubbing his chin with a smudge of green paint as he surveyed his work.
“Well?” you prompted, rising from your seat and stepping closer. “Do I get to see it?”
Eddie hesitated, shielding the canvas with his body. “It’s not finished yet,” he warned.
“I’ll take my chances,” you teased, peeking around him.
The painting took your breath away.
Eddie had captured not just your likeness but something deeper. The warmth of the light, the softness of your posture, and the spark in your eyes—all of it was there. The background was a swirl of vibrant colors, blending the golden glow of the sun with the lush greens of the garden. It wasn’t just a portrait; it was a celebration of the moment, alive with energy and emotion.
“It’s beautiful,” you whispered, your voice almost reverent.
Eddie’s cheeks turned pink, and he scratched the back of his neck. “It’s not perfect. I still need to work on the details.”
“It’s perfect,” you insisted, turning to him with a smile.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The fading sunlight bathed you both in a soft, golden light, and the world seemed to shrink until it was just the two of you, standing together before the canvas.
“Thank you, Eddie,” you said finally, your voice filled with genuine warmth.
He grinned, his usual bravado returning. “Don’t thank me yet, Princess. You haven’t seen the one I’m painting for myself.”
“Oh?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. “And what’s that one of?”
Eddie leaned in slightly, his voice low and teasing. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
You laughed, the sound echoing through the garden as the first stars began to appear in the darkening sky.
Tumblr media
Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting. -Midnight💜
57 notes · View notes
anyca786 · 3 months ago
Text
"I WON'T LET ANYTHING HAPPEN TO YOU OR OUR CHILD"
Daemon Targaryen x sister/aunt!Targaryen x Rhaenyra Targaryen
WARNINGS: canon typical incest/targcest (brother & sister &niece) poly relationship, family drama, fluff, mention of pregnancy.
Series
Tumblr media
The wind whipped through Daenys' hair as she soared through the sky, Nyx's powerful wings carrying her towards King's Landing. The world below was a patchwork quilt of greens and blues, the vast expanse of ocean contrasting with the lush forests.
Nyx's roars echoed through the sky, a unique sound that set her apart from other dragons. Daenys smiled, recalling all playful rivalry between Nyx and her husband's dragon, Caraxes, and her wife's young dragon, Syrax, their unique roars often echoing across the skies of Dragonstone.
As she neared the city, she could feel the anticipation growing within her. She wondered how her brother, Viserys, would react to her return. Would he be angry, or would he finally forgive her for marrying Daemon and Rhaenyra?
She landed Nyx in the dragon pit, the great beast settling with a contented sigh. Daenys dismounted, patting Nyx and bidding her goodbye.
As she walked in, the palace was abuzz with activity, the scent of food and wine filling the air. The court lined with people, preparing to celebrate the wedding of the King's firstborn male.
As she entered the throne room, the guards announced her arrival. "Princess Daenys Targaryen has arrived!"
A rush of emotions flooded through her as she stepped into the familiar halls, but soon disappointment takes over as she finds the throne empty. Where is Viserys?
"Princess", Otto Hightower called from behind, startling Daenys. She turned to face him, a forced smile playing or her lips.
"Otto," she acknowledged, "Where is my lovely brother?" she asked.
"His Grace was not feeling well this morning, Princess," Otto replied, his tone somber. Daenys' heart sank. She remembered the last time she saw Viserys, he had looked frail.
"Where is he? I want to see him," she insisted.
'Come, I'Il take you to his chamber," Otto offered
As they walked down the hallway, Otto attempted to make small talk. "You still look delightful, Princess. Its a shame you displayed such poor judgment in choosing partners," he remarked bitterly.
Daenys rolled her eyes, "Some people prefer passion, which you're not familiar with, over politics," she retorted.
When they reached Viserys chamber, he was sitting up in bed, his face pale and gaunt.
"Vis," Daenys called softly.
Viserys raised his head, a weak smile gracing his lips. "Sister," he greeted her. "You came," he said, his voice barely a whisper.
Daenys walked over to him, cupping his face gently. "Of course I did," she replied, her voice filled with concern.
"What happened?" she asked, her eyes scanning his face.
Viserys chuckled weakly. "Don't worry, sister, I'm just getting old."
"Don't be ridiculous, you're not old yet," she protested.
Viserys chuckled again, "Come, sit with me," his gaze filled with love.
'Your Grace," Otto interrupted, "The wedding starts soon,".
"I'Il be there with my sister," Viserys replied. "You are dismissed, Otto"
Once Otto left, Viserys turned back to Daenys. "You haven't aged a day. In fact, you look more youthful," he commented.
Daenys laughed.
"How is Daemon and Rhaenyra?" Viserys asked.
"They're doing well, brother," she replied, biting her lip nervously. "Are you upset with me?" she asked softly.
"Yes," Viserys admitted.
Daenys's face fell but he continued, "I was upset at first, but then I realised that they both need you," he said, "only you can keep Daemon and Rhaenyra grounded"
"They are indeed, both very stubborn," Daenys complained.
"Well, it is in the blood," Viserys smiled at her.
Suddenly, the doors swung open, revealing Alicent, dressed in a stunning gown, ready for her firstborn's wedding. Her expression shifted from surprise to a forced smile as she saw Daenys.
"Husband," Alicent greeted Viserys, then turned to Daenys. "Princess, It's a joy to see you."
Daenys remembered their last encounter. A flicker of resentment passed through her as she replied, "Alicent, Good to see you too." She unconsciously touched the scar on her neck, a reminder of the near-fatal attack.
Alicent noticed and as if guilty awkwardly said, "Everything is prepared," to Viserys.
A groan escaped his mouth due to pain, Viserys, with Daenys's assistance, rose from the bed and began to walk towards the throne room.
As they walked, Daenys couldn't help but notice the toll the recent events had taken on Viserys. She watched as his once vibrant spirit seemed dimmed, his body frail. She have always looked up to him, more like her father figure and it pains her seeing him like this.
🥀
The wedding was a grand, a spectacle of wealth and power.
Yet, amidst the festivities, a sense of unease hung in the air. Aegon seemed disinterested and least bothered, his gaze often drifting off into the distance, eyes disturbingly preying over other girls. Helaena, on the other hand, radiated an ethereal beauty, her innocence a contrast to the political intrigue that surrounded her.
Daenys, wandering through the hall for food, found herself drawn to the unusual food combinations again. This time, she selected a dish of salted fish and added fermented sweet plums on it.
"Looks gross," a voice sneered from behind her.
Daenys turned to see Aemond, Viserys's younger son.
"Smells delicious to me," she retorted, her gaze unwavering. She found a secluded table and sat down, her legs already feeling weary.
Aemond followed her, a smirk playing on his lips. "You know, I've always admired you," he said. "Father used to tell us stories of your childhood, how you were his favorite, the most rebellious, brave, and beautiful. And how my uncle was always so protective of you."
"I've also always envied you in a way," he confessed.
"I'm sure Viserys loves all his children equally, and holds love for them more than he does for me," Daenys replied, trying to comfort him.
"He's not the same anymore," Aemond said, his voice filled with bitterness. "Not after his precious Rhaenyra cut him off."
Daenys remained silent, knowing the truth behind his words. Viserys did have a soft corner for Rhaenyra, his only child with Aemma, the love of his life.
"Why did you blame it on Aegon that day?" she asked, putting down her plate and changing the matter of conversation.
Aemond hesitated.
"I didn't want to get humiliated in front of you."
Daenys's heart softened. "If you had owned up to your mistake, I would have respected you more," she said.
"But it was no mistake! ," Aemond argued. "Rhaenyra's sons are not trueborn."
"Rhaenyra is the heir, and her sons have just as much Targaryen blood as you," Daenys countered.
"But she's a woman," Aemond insisted.
"And?" Daenys replied, her voice sharp.
"No woman ever s-"
Daenys sighed, "Enough, boy. You're giving me a headache," she said, her patience wearing thin.
Aemond hung his head.
Daenys sighed, feeling a surge of pity, "Do you want to fly out?" she proposed, also wanting to see Vhagar, her Laena's beloved companion.
Aemond's face lit up. "If you insist, I'd race you with but know that I'd win," he boasted.
"We'll see about that," Daenys challenged, a playful glint in her eye.
🥀
Daenys doubled over, vomiting for the fourth time. Daemon's face hardened as he watched her suffer. "They have poisoned her," he muttered, his voice low and dangerous.
Rhaenyra rushed to her side, gently rubbing her back. "Are you alright, my love?" she asked, concern etched on her face.
"I think it's just the salted fish with fermented sweet plums," Daenys managed to say, wiping her mouth with a cloth Rhaenyra offered. Daemon cringed internally at the thought of such a bizarre combination.
"Daemon wouldn't admit it, but we've missed you," Rhaenyra confessed, her voice soft.
"I was only gone for a day," Daenys chuckled, trying to lighten the mood.
"Too long," Daemon muttered under his breath.
Suddenly, Daenys felt a wave of dizziness. "I need to sit," she gasped, her vision blurring.
Rhaenyra called for a maester, her voice filled with worry. Before the maester could arrive, Daemon scooped Daenys into his arms, her face pale and carried her to bed.
When the maester examined Daenys, gently running his hand over her stomach. His brow furrowed. "The Princess is with child," he announced.
Daenys's eyes widened in shock. She couldn't believe it. Fear and uncertainty washed over her. "I can't be a mother, Daemon," she whispered, her voice trembling. "What if... what if I..."
Daemon sat beside her, his hand gently stroking her hair. "Nothing will happen to you," he assured her. "I won't allow it."
"I'm afraid," Daenys confessed.
Rhaenyra took Daenys' hand. "I won't let anything happen to you or our child," she vowed, highlighting our.
"But I'm not ready," Daenys protested. "What if I cannot be a good mother."
"You'll be the best mother, my love," Rhaenyra insisted. "You already are so kind to my sons and Daemon's daughters."
Daenys sighed this was all too much for her, a part of her always wanted to be a mother, to carry Daemon's child in her womb. A child out of love, a Targaryen child. Maybe a daughter with Daemon's temper or a son with her subtle kindness.
Daemon leaned down and kissed her forehead. "Rest now," he said. "We'll talk about this later."
He stood up and placed a loving hand on Rhaenyra's swollen belly, "You too" he said.
Then, he left the room, his heart a mixture of joy as well as worry.
Rhaenyra turned to Daenys,
"Lay with me, Nyra," Daenys offered.
Rhaenyra nodded and climbed into bed beside her. She smiled and snuggled closer to her, and as for Daenys, a sense of peace washed over her.
Tumblr media
A/N: Boring filler chapter. Not my best :(( Having a writer's block :(
Gimme suggestions in the request box😔
80 notes · View notes
lulublack90 · 4 months ago
Text
Prompt 30 - Rely
@rosekillermicrofic September 30, word count 739
NSFW
Final part, everyone. Just wanted to say thank you so much to everyone who has read this little series over the last few months, I enjoyed writing it so much. I will be putting it up on Ao3 all together if anyone wants to read it all through again. Thank you all again for reading. Love you. Lulu xxx
Previous part First Jegulus part
Evan didn’t even give him a chance to get his shoes off before he was slamming him against the closed door and devouring his mouth.
“You. Bed. Now!” Evan growled at him between kisses. Barty obeyed entirely. 
The leather cuffs were already attached to the bed. He wondered when Evan had done that because those were the special ones. Normally, they had the soft ones attached all the time. It must have been right before they left because they definitely hadn’t been there when he’d got changed. 
He quickly stripped out of his clothes, tossed them in the corner out of the way and got onto the bed. Evan straddled him, reaching above him and quickly securing the hard leather cuffs around Barty’s wrists. He tugged at the cuffs, a bolt of pleasure shot right to Barty’s cock, making him tug again. Evan moved down Barty’s body, biting marks into his skin as he went, all the way down to his ankles, where he looped the matching ankle cuffs up from under the bed. Barty gasped, Evan wasn’t messing around; he’d come to play, and Barty couldn’t be more ready. 
Finished restraining Barty, Evan went over to the bottom drawer of their dresser and pulled it open. He took out the toys he wanted and returned to the bed, laying them out neatly between Barty’s stretched legs. 
His cock was fully erect at this point, just seeing Evan’s blown pupils had him nearly cuming. Evan noticed and teasingly slowly pushed the cock ring down Barty’s engorged cock. Barty flung his head back and moaned as the ring bit into his skin, the near orgasm fading away. Evan must want him to last awhile if he’d put that on. Barty tried to calm his racing heart, but then Evan opened the bottle of lube, and he was yanking at his bonds, needing to be touched immediately. “Tut, tut, darling. You know the rules. Patience or nothing happens,” Evan chided. Barty huffed like a spoilt brat but spent a moment collecting himself. “Good boy,” Evan crooned and slipped a lube-covered finger inside him. 
Barty let his thoughts wander, trying to take his mind off the insanely good feeling of Evan’s fingers deep inside him. He thought of Regulus and how happy that spiky little git was with his sunshine boyfriend. He still found it insane that he and Sirius were now almost friends, and that boyfriend of his, damn, he was something else. Barty’s cock twitched, and he quickly turned his thoughts to James’s parents and how, after barely meeting them for five minutes, they’d dragged them into their patchwork family, and Barty absolutely loved it. Plus, he got that shiny van out of it, not that it was a dealbreaker or anything. He couldn’t wait to go out in it again. And to think none of this would have happened, including Regulus finally getting out of that damn house, if Regulus hadn't thrown his apple core at James before falling out of a tree—
“Barty!” Evan snapped. 
“Huh? Oh, sorry, I was miles away,” Barty admitted sheepishly. 
“Am I boring you?” Evan asked, a brow arching upwards.
“No, no, the opposite, actually, I was trying not to cum, sorry,” Evan snorted. 
“Alright, I’ll forgive you,” He said, leaning forward and kissing Barty, nipping his bottom lip hard. The second Barty gasped, Evan removed his fingers and pushed himself inside. Barty let out a truly dirty moan. He and Evan just fit together so well. He looked up at the man he loved with all his heart as he began to move in and out of him and felt his chest bursting with adoration. 
“Marry me,” He blurted out as Evan thrust back into him. Evan stilled. 
“What?!” He asked, shock covering his face. 
“Evan, will you marry me?” Barty repeated, lifting himself off the bed as much as his restraints would let him. Evan’s eyes widened as his breath hitched. 
“Yes. Yes, Barty Crouch, I will marry you,” Evan sobbed as tears fell from his eyes. He reached up and released the cuffs around Barty’s wrists, and Barty wrapped his arms around him. Holding him against his chest. The one person he could always rely on. His Evan. 
“I love you,” He murmured. 
“I love you too,” Evan said, wiping the tears from his eyes. 
The sex turned into something softer, unhurried as they made love long into the night.   
64 notes · View notes
that-one-ostrich-friend · 1 month ago
Text
Delicate Part VII
sirius black x reader - delicate part vii
word count: 2k
link to part viii
summary: this is part vii of a sirius black x ravenclaw!reader series. a slow burn romance with platonic remus x reader and maybe some flirtatious remus x reader if you squint a lot lol
warnings: y/n is from ravenclaw (not sure if that’s even a needed warning) so sorry if that’s not your house
a/n: wow. preparing for finals is a bitch
Tumblr media
     The Potters’ house was as warm and inviting as Y/n had imagined, filled with the scent of pine and the faint aroma of something delicious wafting from the kitchen. Y/n followed Lily through the hallways, taking in the cozy décor and the magical family photos that waved from their frames.
     “This is us,” Lily said, opening the door to a guest room. The space was snug, with two single beds dressed in soft, patchwork quilts. A window looked out onto the snow-covered garden, and a faint scent of lavender lingered in the air.
     Y/n placed her bag down by one of the beds. “It’s lovely.”
     “Better than James’s room, I’ll tell you that much,” Lily said with a laugh, sitting on the edge of her bed. “The boys are already turning it into a disaster zone. Four of them crammed into one room? Chaos.”
     Y/n smiled as she hung her cloak on a nearby hook. “Aren’t they using the extra mattresses?”
     “They brought them in, but I doubt they’ll bother. Honestly, they’ll probably end up all squished together on James’s bed. It’s happened before.”
     Y/n chuckled at the mental image. “That sounds about right.” She hesitated before picking up the scarf draped across her bed. “I should return this to Remus. He was kind to lend it to me.”
     Lily stood, brushing off her skirt. “I’ll show you where James’s room is. Come on, it’s right down the hall.”
     The hallway was quiet except for the faint murmur of voices coming from behind a partially closed door. Lily gestured toward the bathroom as they passed. “That’s the loo. Fair warning, if Sirius gets there first, we’ll be waiting forever. He has this whole hair routine he refuses to skip.”
     Y/n laughed softly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
     Lily knocked lightly on the door to James’s room before pushing it open. Inside, the scene was just as chaotic as she’d described. James lounged on his bed, gesturing animatedly as he told a story. Peter sat cross-legged on one of the extra mattresses, snorting with laughter. Remus leaned against the wall, his arms crossed, chiming in with occasional quips that made Peter laugh even harder.
     And then there was Sirius. He was sprawled on the bed beside James, one arm propped behind his head. For the first time all day, he looked genuinely relaxed, a lazy grin spread across his face.
     “Look who finally decided to join us,” James announced, his hazel eyes lighting up as he spotted Lily and Y/n.
    “Did you two get lost?” Sirius teased, his gray eyes flicking to Y/n briefly before returning to Lily.
     “Very funny,” Lily said, rolling her eyes. “We’re perfectly capable of finding our way around.”
     “Not sure about that,” James said with a smirk. “Y/n’s a Ravenclaw, after all. They’re not known for their sense of direction.”
     “That’s Hufflepuffs, you git,” Remus said, giving James a playful shove.
     “Same difference!” James shot back, grinning.
     Y/n stepped closer, holding out the scarf to Remus. “Here. Thank you for lending it to me. It’s saved me more than once now.”
     Remus took it with a warm smile. “No problem. But you know you didn’t have to bring it back tonight.”
     “I couldn’t just keep it,” Y/n said, smiling back. “What kind of friend would I be if I stole your scarf?”
     “A warm one,” Remus replied dryly.
    James leaned forward with a sly grin. “Careful, Y/n. Remus lending you his scarf? That’s practically a marriage proposal in some cultures.”
     “Oh, shut it,” Remus said, throwing the scarf at James, who ducked it with exaggerated flair.
     Y/n blushed, but Lily cut in smoothly, perching on the edge of James’s bed. “Don’t mind him. He says the same thing every time I borrow his stuff.”
     “And every time, it’s true!” James declared, puffing out his chest dramatically.
     Lily groaned, sitting on the edge of James’s bed. “James, you are ridiculous.”
     “And yet,” Sirius drawled, “you still put up with him.”
     “I have no idea why,” Lily said with mock exasperation, shooting James a fond look that made him grin.
     Sirius smirked from his spot on the bed. “If you two start bickering, I’m locking the door and leaving the rest of us in peace.”
     “You wouldn’t dare,” Lily shot back.
     “Try me,” Sirius said, but his grin betrayed his teasing tone.
     The banter continued, with Y/n quickly swept into the easy camaraderie. She found herself laughing at James’s antics, rolling her eyes at Sirius’s sarcastic comments, and smiling at Remus’s dry humor. The familiar warmth of friendship settled over her, and for a moment, she felt entirely at ease.
     Eventually, Mrs. Potter’s voice rang out from downstairs. “Dinner’s ready, everyone!”
     “Finally!” Peter exclaimed, jumping to his feet. “I’m starving.”
     “You’re always starving,” Remus said, following him toward the door.
     As they all filed downstairs, the smell of roasted meat and freshly baked bread grew stronger. The dining table was set with platters of food, a roaring fire crackling in the nearby hearth.
     Y/n took a seat between Lily and Peter, with Sirius across from her. The chatter and laughter continued as everyone dug in, and Y/n couldn’t help but smile as she listened to James recount yet another story.
     Sirius seemed more at ease now, his laughter genuine and his sharp comments softened by the warm atmosphere. Every so often, Y/n caught him glancing at her, but he never held her gaze for long.
     By the time dinner was finished, Y/n felt lighter than she had in weeks. 
━━━━━━━•✧°•°𓅦°•°✧•━━━━━━━
     The house had quieted for the night, the fire in the hearth downstairs crackling softly as Y/n and Lily settled into their beds. The room was dark except for the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the window, casting silver beams across the patchwork quilts.
     Y/n turned onto her side, her eyelids heavy. The day’s events played through her mind—Lily’s cheerful welcome, the banter in James’s room, Sirius’s fleeting smiles. She was on the edge of sleep when the door suddenly burst open, light flooding the room.
     “Lily! Y/n!” James’s voice was far too loud for the late hour, his grin wide as he waved an arm toward the hallway. “You have to come outside! It’s snowing—no, it’s dumping snow! Perfect snowball fight conditions!”
     Lily groaned, sitting up and shielding her eyes from the light. “James, it’s the middle of the night! Are you mad?”
     “Yes,” James replied without hesitation, stepping further into the room. “Come on, it’ll be fun. Everyone’s coming!”
     Y/n propped herself up on one elbow, her voice muffled with sleep. “It’s freezing out there.”
     “Not if you know warming charms,” James countered. “Please, don’t make me beg.”
     Lily sighed, pushing her covers aside. “Fine, fine. But if I get sick, I’m blaming you.”
     James beamed. “Fair trade.”
     Y/n shook her head, a small smile tugging at her lips despite herself. “Give me a minute.”
━━━━━━━•✧°•°𓅦°•°✧•━━━━━━━
     Bundled up against the cold and with warming spells cast on their coats and scarves, the six of them tramped out into the Potters’ garden. The snow blanketed the ground in a pristine white sheet, glittering under the moonlight. James wasted no time diving headfirst into a pile of snow, laughing as he flung a handful at Sirius, who dodged it easily.
     “Is that all you’ve got, Prongs?” Sirius taunted, grabbing his own snowball.
      Chaos quickly ensued, with snow flying in every direction. Peter shrieked as Lily hit him square in the back, and Remus retaliated by pelting Lily and Y/n with quick, precise shots.
     Y/n crouched behind a bush for cover, laughing as she formed a snowball. Just as she was about to launch it, Sirius appeared beside her, crouching low with a grin.
     “You’re not bad at this,” he said, brushing snow off his gloves.
     Y/n glanced at him, the cold air turning her cheeks pink. “And you’re surprisingly good at dodging. I would’ve thought you’d be hit at least once by now.”
     Sirius chuckled, his breath clouding in the frosty air. “I’m not about to let James get the better of me. He’d never let me live it down.”
     Y/n rolled her eyes but smiled. “So it’s all about pride, then?”
     “Always,” Sirius said, his grin widening.
     Before he could say more, Y/n launched her snowball at him with a mischievous glint in her eye. It hit him square in the face, the snow exploding across his features in a puff of white.
     For a split second, Sirius froze, brushing the snow off his face while Y/n dissolved into laughter. “Oh, you’re in for it now,” he said with mock menace, dropping his snowball and lunging toward her.
     “Sirius, wait!” she managed to squeal, but it was too late. He tackled her to the ground gently, sending them both into the snow with a soft thud.
     Y/n was laughing uncontrollably, her cheeks flushed from the cold and their sudden tumble. Sirius loomed over her, his grin as wide as ever, bits of snow clinging to his dark hair. “That,” he said, shaking his head, “was a bold move, Ravenclaw.”
     “Bold enough to work,” Y/n replied between breaths, still laughing.
     Sirius smirked. “Not for long.” He grabbed a handful of snow and lightly dropped it on top of her head, laughing at her half-hearted protest.
     “You’re impossible,” Y/n said, pushing at his shoulder as she sat up, brushing snow out of her hair.
     “Better than predictable,” Sirius shot back, sitting beside her in the snow. For a moment, they sat in companionable silence, the sounds of the others shouting and laughing in the distance.
     Eventually, Sirius nudged her with his elbow. “Truce?”
     Y/n raised an eyebrow, smiling. “For now.”
     “Good,” Sirius said, pulling himself to his feet and offering her a hand. As he helped her up, Y/n swore his touch lingered just a second longer than necessary.
     Before she could think too much about it, Remus’s voice rang out. “Oi, Sirius, Y/n! Are you two forming an alliance back there or what?”
     “Never!” Sirius called back, quickly brushing himself off. “I work alone!”
     “Then stop hiding!” James added, a snowball sailing dangerously close to Sirius’s head.
     Y/n smiled to herself, brushing the snow from her coat, as Sirius rejoined the chaos.
     As the snowball fight wound down, everyone was breathless from laughter, their faces flushed from the cold. James clapped a hand on Y/n's shoulder, congratulating her for her impeccable aim, while the rest of the group filed back inside.
     Y/n lingered at the doorstep for a moment, the warm glow of the house beckoning her inside, but her eyes instinctively found Sirius. He was the last to enter, pausing in the doorway to look at her. A playful glint in his eyes was accompanied by a half-smile that she could never quite decipher.
     Her hand brushed against his as she stepped past him, an electric jolt shooting through her despite the lightness of the touch. She didn’t pull away immediately, as she might have done in the past. There was something about this moment, the easy camaraderie with the group, the lingering warmth from the snowball fight... it was all so different than the tension she had carried with her before, the unspoken distance that had once felt so immense between her and Sirius.
     Y/n stood by the door, brushing off the last traces of snow from her coat as the warmth of the house enveloped her. Sirius, just behind her, did the same, his boots tapping softly on the wooden floor.
     “Well,” he said, breaking the silence, “that was fun. Almost as good as my Quidditch moves.”
     Y/n couldn’t help but laugh. “You’ve got a very high opinion of yourself, don’t you?”
     Sirius smirked, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer than usual. “It’s deserved,” he said with a playful shrug. “Anyway, goodnight, Y/n.”
     "Goodnight, Sirius." Her voice was soft, and she watched him as he turned toward the stairs. He paused at the bottom step, looking back over his shoulder.
     He grinned, then turned and disappeared upstairs, leaving Y/n standing by the door for just a moment longer. The soft click of his footsteps fading was oddly comforting, and she exhaled slowly, feeling the quiet settle in around her.
46 notes · View notes
bloodywickedvamp · 2 years ago
Text
Two's Company - What The Hell Is Six?
Tumblr media
Poly!Lost Boys x GN Reader x Michael
Series Masterlist
Summary: Reader is dating Michael Emerson and they're fed up with his uncharacteristic behavior towards his family and them since moving to Santa Carla. They decided to finally confront Michael on the boardwalk with an audience of 4 in attendance.
Word Count: 1.5K
Warnings: angst, heated argument (?) more so the reader just yelling, maybe a little gaslighting if you look hard, cursing
Hi! This is my first fic so any notes or critiques on how I can improve my writing or any notes at all are greatly appreciated. Hope you enjoy! This may or may not turn into a multi-part fic. I have a bigger idea for it but we'll see if i have it in me to do it lol. Also, let me know if I missed any warnings and i'll be sure to add them.
Dividers: @saradika & @firefly-graphics
Tumblr media
Michael Fucking Emerson...
The man I love more than anything has become someone I don't even want to know.
After moving to Santa Carla from Phoenix he changed so drastically I still can't seem to wrap my head around it. We've been together for a few years now and I became so close to his mom and brother that it felt natural to accept when he offered for me to come with them and stay for the summer once the time came for the move.
After his first few nights on the boardwalk is when I noticed the shift. He went off on his own as I was hanging with Sam or Lucy and wouldn't come home till the very early hours of the morning. He was rude and snippy to the questioning from his mom. Harsh and mean to Sam, more so than the typical sibling bickering and teasing that they engaged in. He'd keep his distance from me, like he could barely stand to be around me at all and completely blow me off any time I tried to talk or spend time together. It's only gotten worse and I'm at my wits end with it.
After having a tearful heart to heart with Lucy about his 180 in behavior I decided to take matters into my own hands whether he likes it or not.
I start my journey to the place that I've begun to despise, associating it with the 'new Michael'.
Tumblr media
Finally, I spot my elusive brunette exactly where I thought he'd be, on the boardwalk but to my surprise he's also surrounded by a group of intimidating looking bikers. Two rowdy blondes, one with an impressively long curly haired mullet and an eye catching custom patchwork jacket adorned his somewhat smaller, muscular stature. The other untamed boy, with wild hair to match and a dark fishnet top that leaves almost nothing to the imagination, is nearly bouncing around the others with glee at whatever they're discussing. Next I notice a tall, dark, and handsome brunette to their right who takes the cake at revealing outfits with the lack of shirt and wide open leather jacket. With the slightest of smiles he's leaning against presumably his own motorcycle observing the rest of his group and the crowd at large. Lastly, to the right of the brunette and the left of Michael, there's a bleach blonde mullet you couldn't miss for miles a top the most intimidating looking one, wearing a too-stuffy seeming trench coat for this Santa Carla summer heat.
In a normal circumstance I would have slight hesitation to approach the group alone so boldly, as I find myself doing now, but I couldn't care less who's around. At this moment the only person to be feared on the boardwalk is me. I'm on mission for some answers and god help the poor soul who fucks with me right now.
As I take my final few strides towards my boyfriend they all notice me. The four unknown boys go quiet as they take me in curiously, a determined walk, pissed off expression, heavy breathing, and clenched fists.
"Michael fucking Emerson!" I erupted, jabbing my finger in his chest, coming face to face with the wide eyed boy.
"Hey baby-" He tried cautiously.
"Oh good you actually do remember you have a partner"
"Look I know you're upset and rightfully so but-"
I hold my hand up to silence whatever bullshit was about to spill from his mouth. "No no no, I'm still talking and you're listening." He nods his head slowly, afraid to set me off even more, if that's possible. I hear rather than see snickers to my right from the others.
"I don't know what's been going on with you and why you've been treating everyone in your life like shit but I'm sick and tired of it and I want answers. Now." The words spill heatedly from my lips as my anger intensifies from the inevitable release pent up over the past few weeks. Michaels mouth opens whether in shock or to interject, I don't know but I cut him off before I can find out.
"It's one thing the way you've been treating me - and trust me we'll get to that" I accentuate with a pointed finger in the air and back down after. "but it's a whole other thing with Lucy and Sam. You barely talk to or see Sam anymore and he's devastated, you're his best friend and he misses you. Your mother does absolutely everything she can for you and Sam. She upended her entire life in Phoenix to give you both a fresh start - since the move you've done nothing but push her away every time she tries to talk. That woman is the sweetest person on this planet and I'll be damned if you think I'm going to let you walk all over her anymore." Huffing at the end of my tirade.
If Michael's eyes got any wider they would've popped out of his head. Maybe the middle of the boardwalk wasn't the best place to do this but I couldn't contain it anymore. The nice approach hasn't worked and he needed a good telling off.
"You're right, everything you're saying is right but maybe we could do this more privately" Michael offered while trying to gently grab my upper arm to pull me somewhere else. With a worried look in his eyes he glanced at the boys then back at me pleadingly.
"Oh I'm sorry, am I embarrassing you in front of your new friends? Who I've never met or heard anything about by the way." I argued back while also taking the time to look them over, up close now.
They all seem to be enjoying themselves watching Michael's berating. Smirks and giggles passing amongst the group as they share knowing glances between them and at me, like they're having a secret conversation only the leather clad bikers can understand.
Piercing blue eyes land on me as bleach-boy flirted "You're a fiery little thing aren't you? I can't believe it's taking this long for us to meet, Michael, how come you didn't introduce us sooner?" He jabbed, finally tearing his eyes away from mine towards the conflicted brunette in front of me.
"You know why David." Michael states matter of factly. His grip on my arm tightening ever so slightly, voice husky with something primal I've never heard from him before.
"Can't imagine why you'd want to hide a babe like this away, it just doesn't seem fair." The tallest blonde beamed at me starry eyed and grinning cheerfully. He moved closer to reach out and stroke my hair quicker than I could register, taking in a small almost imperceptible inhale from me if I wasn't paying close attention. Releasing a contented sigh before I was pulled back towards Michael.
"Don't touch them, don't even think about it." he sneered.
"Come on Mike, we aren't going to hurt 'em. Right Paul?"
"Right on Marko." Paul jested as Marko playfully elbowed him.
What the fuck is happening and who the hell are these guys? Jumping into the one-sided argument between me and my boyfriend to start flirting? Are they his friends? Last time I checked friends don't hit on their friends' significant others, especially right in front of them so shamelessly.
"You never mentioned you were dating someone." The other brunette tacked on to the conversation speaking for the first time. Giving me a once over with those alluring brown eyes, hungrily.
I stared daggers back at the boy holding me in a tight grip, ripping my arm away to mock "Wow, why am I not surprised." I desperately try to steal my emotions to keep the hurt and betrayal from coming to the forefront.
"You don't understand and I don't even know how to explain but you have to believe me it's for your own good." Michael again pleads for my compassion. It's too late for that.
"Of course I don't understand you don't tell me anything anymore! You blow me off, ignore me, and I assume these four are the reason for your revamp in personality." I fumed, gesturing to the group. Chuckles are heard again, at the end of my outburst.
"Are you cheating?" I suddenly asked
"What no-" Michael sputtered in surprise.
"Did you meet someone else?"
"No of course no-"
"Did you do something that could hurt Sam, Lucy, or I?"
"NO babe-"
"Then I don't see what could be so bad that you feel the need to push us all away and act like this. The only reason I'm still standing here putting up with this is because I deserve an explanation and I promised Lucy I'd get answers out of you. So start talking." I sassed.
With a defeated sigh he raised his hands in surrender "Okay Okay, walk with me to the beach and i'll explain everything to you, alone." Emphasizing his final word with a sneer towards David. David only found that amusing as he quirked an eyebrow and took out the cigarette resting behind his ear placing it between his lips and lighting it. He inhaled and blew out a cloud of smoke stating "You sure about that Michael? You're already on edge, we wouldn't want you to lose control and hurt our doll now would we?"
Our? I barely had time to register or retort back at the presumptuous claim before Michael grabbed my hand and stormed off to the beach, steam basically pouring out of his ears.
Tumblr media
To be continued...
I feel alright about this so far. Again it's my first ever fic post so you know...it is what it is. :)
🖤 Taglist 🖤
@britany1997
981 notes · View notes
liketwoswansinbalance · 7 months ago
Text
On the Subject of "All-Kinds-of-Fur:"
Link to the original Brothers Grimm fairy tale for reference. It's basically a variant of "Cinderella."
Also, if I have the inspiration for it, this could become part of a series, set during the peaceful days before the prequel events. Thus, if anyone would like to send in a request for the School Master brothers' reactions to a classic fairy tale or an SGE one, however obscure it may be, I might write it!
[Rhian enters the tower chamber looking distressed while Rafal is grading fourth-year students' theses on treachery, taboos, and the natural lines of family, that, when wrongly crossed, drive people insane and disrupt the fragile human psyche.
For an example of this so-called phenomenon (stolen from the plot of Hamlet), imagine a scenario as follows: a wife marries her husband's brother after her husband dies. While they may not be blood relations, this scenario is still off and rather strange, even if modern times could make more allowances for such a thing to occur and be socially-acceptable.]
Rhian: My fourth-year Class Captain had to run away whilst on her questing assignment!
Rafal: [absently, without looking up from the papers, slashing through lines in bloodred ink] Mm, shame. [He sips his tea.]
Rhian: [tries to smile but it looks uneasy and he begins to pace with anxiety.] No! It's... good... I suppose. [He cringes.] If she hadn't run into the Woods last night, she would've had to marry her father!
Rafal: [spits out his tea.] Who's her father? Not one of my graduates, surely. Even my curriculum standards rise above that, that rot.
Rhian: No, it's not one of yours. Simply some brazen king. I just... I wish I could do something. She was one of my best students. [He sighs dejectedly.] But I doubt the Pen will tolerate an intervention. We just have to let her tale play out.
Rafal: Well, is it worth working yourself up over? She got away. Maybe it's you who's too invested in your students’ lives. They can fend for themselves, you know... well, probably. Actually, some Evergirls can be dimwitted. [He pauses.] How about this?: you always have the option of throwing her a lovely funeral.
Rhian: Oh, forget it. I don’t expect you to understand. [He throws up his arms, flustered, and exits the room.]
[Rafal observes that his brother still looks rather sad. In fact, Rhian grows more worried with each passing day as the Storian writes of the poor girl's travails as a forlorn scullery maid in hiding.]
[Several months later, three days and three nights after each night of the ball and banquet in the Evergirl's fairy tale:]
Rhian: [elatedly, swelling with hope] Rafal! Rafal! Have you heard? My Class Captain might live to see her Happily Ever After! The young king is going to save her! She’s danced with him three nights in a row and he would take no other partner. Though, each night, she slips away and conceals herself in that hideous, asymmetrical coat. You've seen the Pen's illustrations, haven't you? And last night, she wore a dress that glistened like the stars! I just knew the Beautification Practice While Impoverished classroom simulations would pay off! I knew it! It's the sheer magic of what a little soap and water can achieve!
Rafal: [not listening to Rhian's enthusiastic raving] Uh-huh.
Rhian: [finally looks at Rafal more closely after his lackluster response.] Say, Rafal? Where did that patchwork blanket come from? Is it new? I feel like I’ve seen it before. Somewhere... [he muses.]
Rafal: [shrugs without looking up from his book.] Nowhere. You’re not still… sad about that tale, are you? It’s old news. And the Storian's been still about that tale for a good few hours. Maybe it'll be scrapped, storybook and all.
Rhian: [grits his teeth in frustration] Yes. I know. You weren't listening.
Rafal: [expressionlessly] Wasn't I? Regardless, Happily Ever Afters don't concern me.
Rhian: [tongue-tied, attempting to come up with a fitting retort] An-and, you need a good douse of soap and water too. You've got... soot and—is that walnut oil all over your hands?
Rafal: [rolls his eyes.]
[The next day:]
[Rhian devours the completed tale in one sitting and notices a discrepancy he assumes is a continuity error by the Storian: the vagabond princess disguised in the role of a scullery maid returned to her little cubbyhole below stairs to find that her coat, which she’d left in the shadows, had disappeared, seemingly stolen.
Perhaps, a creature of the night had made off with it, desperate to reclaim its skin.
Or perhaps, there had been an intervention.
Thus, the princess was forced to show her true, shining self to the king’s men hunting her down. In her gown, that gleamed like the stars, much like a bride's.
And Rhian has a feeling he knows why this Ending came to be.]
[A week later:]
Rhian: [enters, humming about wedding bells to himself.]
Rafal: You look well. Did something go right?
Rhian: Yes! Something nice came in the post today, brother. My former student and the young, foreign king have invited us to their wedding. And look! Even you got an invitation, too. [He laughs to himself and makes a face of mock fright, lowering his voice and gnarling his hands into claws.] Whooo, they probably didn't want the Evil brother to curse them during a christening someday, so you'll probably get a golden plate and sweetmeats to spare at the wedding feast in order to "appease" you.
Rafal: [glares at him.]
Rhian: [drops the act.] Ahem. Anyway, we’ve got to pack for spring in Altazarra. Bring some non-black, festive clothes, if you have any. Oh, and bring a less ugly coat than that scruffy old blanket, will you?
Rafal: I’m not attending. I don’t like inane balls or sentimental Ever Afters, but have fun.
Rhian: Are you sure about that?
Rafal: Positively.
Rhian: [holds up an illustration of the princess' cubbyhole from the tale he’s been scrutinizing for the last few days.] Then what’s this shadow the Storian’s inked in darker than the rest? It looks quite a lot like a human form.
Rafal: Trick of the light. Just be glad Evil didn’t prevail this time, and call it a day. My side will win next time to be sure.
Rhian: [smirks knowingly] I guess I owe my peace of mind and sanity to a thief then.
Rafal: [deadpans] Run along, Ever. Pip-pip. You've got a wedding to attend, have you not?
73 notes · View notes
maledictusfotum · 2 months ago
Note
Heya I saw you like Severitus too 😁😁
(I noticed it after your amazing little Fanart of Obscured and it's so beautiful and sad at the same time 🥺😭😭 do you have others favorite chapters of this fanfic?)
But I'm curious 👀
Have you a favorite Severitus fanfics list 👀 ?
first off, thank you <3 I love Obscured all the way through, my all time favorite chapters would be chapters 18 and 19 respectively and chapter 5 though mainly for the hurt/comfort, drama, angst and just brilliant writing I am glad you asked about my severitus favorites because I have a comprehensive list of all my favorite Severitus fics and have had them lined up for my weekly rereads and now I get to share them...this is my moment this is not a "oh this fic is on this number because its better than the others" because to me, most of these fics are as good as the other and each deserve their own respect for good writing and storylines :) there's no real organization to this it just is so lets get down to it 1. Like None Other series-this series always makes it onto the Severitus fic recs but im adding it too because I adore it sm. mainly for the magic lore and Harry growth and generally just some good fucking Severitus and ofc im a stickler for Draco being thrown into that dynamic as well so. yes, lovely series 2. A Patchwork Family-there is no universe where this fic doesn't make it to this list, the Severitus, the childhood trauma, the ptsd healing, the emotional hurt/comfort...I enjoy the first one immensely and am so so so hyped for the sequel and just from the first chapter im even more ecstatic bc now we incorporate MORE trauma and yes I could yap forever about this 3. Obscured-do I have to even explain why this is on here. you have no idea how much this fic inspired my hyper fixation on Obscurials...no, I had not watched Fantastic Beasts before reading this fic, but I definitely did after and I woke everyone up screaming every time Credence made an appearance...the ADHD is strong in me. anyway this fic's writing is so damn good its like eating a hot meal or a full night of sleep its so satisfying for me personally, and the author is also a Six of Crows fan and I can glean the inspiration and when have I ever been denied the joys of Grishaverse writing. NEVER 4. Digging for Bones-okay so this fic??? its dark. its sometimes a bit TOO dark, but I enjoy it nonetheless, its always gotten quite a few tears from me...AND it includes magic lore, so I obviously was all over that. the Severitus is good, this whole fic radiates rainy day vibes and is just generally nice despite the morose energy 5. O Mine Enemy-this was one of my first glimpses into Severitus and...it's just lovely. a lovely fic, a lovely time all around, I enjoy it immensely every time I read it, the hurt/comfort is amazing and the Severitus is delicious here. the writing style is super satisfying to me and its just a good time all around (I had to split this in two bc my computer is being odd)
45 notes · View notes
clownboy-yeehonk · 1 year ago
Text
AND ANOTHER THING
Murtagh spends like 200 pages being said lonely and disenfranchised from humans elves and dwarves due to some war crimes (he didn't mean it! Couldn't help it! Enslaved against his will! But he still carries guilt and everyone blames him anyway!)
But then he earns the loyalty and support of werecats, a race that's powerful and cool but sorta on the fringes, and becomes blood Brothers with an urgal (Uvek Windtalker, absolute GOAT), a race that's pretty much universally despised and mistrusted by most of alagaesia for the front half of the series.
Like yes yes yes give me the most patchwork random assortment of a found family for my blorbo. I want dinner at Naduada's table with urgals and werecats and dragons and a random child with an enchanted fork and taste for blood. It's perfect.
Also I want someone to give Uvek a dragon if eragon said urgals could be riders 👏 GIVE 👏 UVEK👏 DRAGONNNN👏👏👏👏
312 notes · View notes
dellalyra · 2 years ago
Text
Family Formation Masterlist
Satoru and Y/N make a jigsaw family together. 18+ MDNI Ao3
series headcanons and extras
series drabbles
Tumblr media
An anthology, some from their high school days through raising the Fushiguro's and every other stray Gojo brings home.
Tumblr media
Part One Your boyfriend turns up at your doorstep, with two kids, one looking uncannily like the man who killed him. Part Two The first years take a shopping trip, and Megumi calls you mom. Satoru is a little shit, but the best dad. Part Three The Gojo's share a soft, warm moment with Yuuji after an unexpected midnight run in.
Part Four A special moment follows you and Satoru going full protective parents on the kids Principal.
Part Five Before her first date, Tsumiki asks how you and Satoru got together - but, she’ll have to hear the ahem, abridged PG-13 version of the story.
Part Six Megumi comes home for the weekend, and he needs some Mom advice.
Part Seven The newest addition to the patchwork family arrives, and is welcomed with open arms.
Part Eight
Yuuta joins the family, and the events of JJK0 are explored.
Part Nine
Satoru discovers the extent of readers cursed technique.
Part Ten
The school’s exchange event endangers your family, but it’s okay, mom and dad are here to help.
Part Eleven
Deja vu visits you when your son loses his best friend.
Part Twelve
He’s home. He’s here. Maybe, you can mend the shattered pieces of your lives.
Part Thirteen
Megumi asks you about the strange unknown man he fought in Shibuya.
Part Fourteen
Shibuya
Part Fifteen
Y/N has the flu.
Part Sixteen
The kids love Uncle Nanamin.
Part Seventeen
The journey to bring Akio Gojo into the world.
Part Eighteen
SOCIAL MEDIA PROFILES The Originals (The High School Years) The Kids (Current Era)
REQUESTS OPEN FOR THIS SERIES! <3
Also send in questions or asks for headcanons on the series I love that stuff <33333
635 notes · View notes