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sh1-n0bu · 6 months ago

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♡︎ 𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙥𝙮 𝙮𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙝𝙪𝙨𝙗𝙖𝙣𝙙! ♡︎

characters: sub!yandere!AFAB!characters x dom!gn!reader

warnings: character uses he/him pronouns but has female genitalia/tcock (words such as pussy, vagina, cunt will be used), character is transmale, reader has you/your pronouns, cock/strap, yandere character, established relationship, protected sex, unprotected sex (don’t do that folks), breeding, creampie, belly bulge, mentions of pregnancy, mentions of death and light torture

notes: you can think of any character you want with this fic, i just had a wild thought during a car ride at my vacation. divider from @/cafekitsune

yandere! husband who has been in love with you since they first met you. what started out as a simple fascination developed into an unhealthy obsession until he finally got the courage to ask you out on an official date

yandere! husband who gets surprised when you accept his ask for a date, sheepishly smiling as you tell him that you found him pretty and had been building up the courage to do the same. who nearly fall into his knees right then and there with sheer nervousness yet also giddiness at your confession, finding the wobbly smile on your face endearing

yandere! husband who gradually built a stable relationship with you over time. there were moments where he thought of just drugging you up and stealing you away to keep you all to himself but he chastised himself for such thoughts when you have been nothing but loyal and honest. he thought of killing those annoying bitches and assholes who tried to hit on you or blatantly flirted with you in front of him, imagining cutting out their tongue and burning their eyes with scolding hot iron only to snap back to the present when your hand wound around his waist, introducing him as your lover excitedly

yandere! husband who got scared when you accidentally walked in while he was changing after a shower, terrified that you will leave him after having seen his top scars and cunt. who could hear his heartbeat in his own ears, rapidly beating like a frightened bird thrown into a cage while he waited your reaction. who try to apologize only to be cut off with your comforting words and accepting hug

yandere! husband who proposed to you first, getting on both of his knees as he presented you the ring in the box. who lets out a sweet laugh when you kneel down in return, showing your own ring that you bought for him

yandere! husband who definitely cried on your wedding, wiping away his tears silently as he turns his back to you, not wanting you to see him in such a weak and vulnerable state. turning back to you with the wet handkerchief still in his hand, who can feel the tears coming back once again as he sees your knowing look and comforting smile

yandere! husband who is happy with your married life. the new adventures of moving into a new house, decorating it to your liking and modifying your rooms being an exciting life for him. he loved the moments where you two put paint of each other’s faces instead of painting the walls, choosing the colors on complete random with an eeny, meeny, mini, mo game, dancing with you bare feet in the kitchen as you both wait for the water to boil for the cup ramen at midnight. he would want to hold your hand in his own, the wedding rings clicking against each other softly as he giggles

yandere! husband who wants to try for a baby after years into the marriage. it was a surprise to him how he managed to wait patiently for so long after your marriage. while he wanted desperately to get himself knocked up at the night of consummation of your marriage, he understood your wishes to wait until the perfect time. finally, he thinks it is the perfect timing, after years of protected sex and daydreams of feeling his cunt get filled, tells you of his plan

yandere! husband who purposefully poked a tiny hole into every condom there is at your home, who huffs a fake annoyed noise whenever the material tears as you try to put it around your strap. he may have a pout on his face and talk about trying it raw on the outside but on the inside he is fucking giddy. he wants to feel your cock constantly pushing into his wet pussy walls so bad and he couldn’t help but curse silently under his breath when you take out a lone condom that was thankfully reserved in the pockets of one of your pants

yandere! husband who suggests on riding you instead of taking it as usual. a sudden change in your usual sex life but you didn’t mind trying new things out. laying on your back, you watch and let out occasional groans and low moans as you see how his sweet pussy swallows you whole, the fat of his ass higgling every time he bounces himself on your strap, asking you to slap and squeeze it. which you do gladly, lightly slapping as the jiggling flesh, making your husband giggle

yandere! husband who gets annoyed as the feeling of the condom around your cock, skillfully bouncing himself until he ‘accidentally’ slips your strap out. he swears it was the amount of lube you used, grabbing your cock with his hand and tapping his dripping pussy with the tip. your husband who makes a show, wiggling his hips as he slides the tip inside and sinking down until he feels full again. not yet, he thinks to himself, knowing that you would get suspicious if he tries his plan too early on

yandere! husband who keeps ‘accidentally’ slipping your strap out of his gushing cunt, whining until his patience finally ends. the next time it slips out, his fingers pinch at the tip of the wet condom, pulling on the material with a pout and a mumbled “it’s in the way..” until it comes off with a lewd pop!

yandere! husband who disregards your frantic words of protection and taking a second for you to put on another one, turning around to face you now as he sinks down onto your strap with one move. the feeling of your own cock, without any annoying latex in the way making him cream around your fat cockhead instantly, a drawn out satisfied whine falling from his lips

yandere! husband who clenches around your strap on purpose every time he moves. his hands guiding yours to touch his chest, the top scars that healed beautifully and to squeeze and fondle his nipples “u-until i sta—anngh ah haagh mmgh♡︎! start to lactate, just like your sweet baby momma uungh♥︎!!” while his pretty pussy squeezes your strap like a vice, unwilling to let go or not even daring to think so. he wanted to feel your cum, hot seeds painting his walls white and making his legs shake

yandere! husband who silences your weak protests for a protection with a messy kiss. noses knocking together, tongue immediately pushing into your mouth and wanting to ‘connect’ with you on a deeper level. he wanted everything you have to offer and seeing the small trail of saliva left behind as you pulled back for a gasping breath made him giggle deliriously

yandere! husband who increases his pace when he hears you struggling to talk, words of cumming together coming out in a jumbled mess as he sits himself fully in your lap. pushing your pelvises together until no gap was between them, throwing his head back with a satisfied mewl when he finally feels it. that warmth he’s been craving so long, filling up his womb, mixing with his love juice as the excessive mixed cum drops down your strap

yandere! husband who gets pushed into his back, legs pushed up and over until his knees were beside his head. put into a mating press with your annoyed face staring down at him just made him clench around you, a drunk giggle of your name falling from his lips. he gladly spreads his weeping pussy open further, with you still inside him, letting you see the mess you two made

yandere! husband who drops his act entirely, wiggling his hips with heart shaped pupils as he asks you to breed him. cum inside him as many times as you want, he wants a baby with you, it’s about time you two take your relationship to the next level. “i’ll be a good baby momma… and you’re already a wonderful lover who would become a wonderful parent. come on [name], breed me full of your seeds♥︎”

yandere! husband who gets fucked thoroughly to his wish. crying out all sorts of filthy words every time your cock sinks back into his cunt. thin drools on his chin, old tear stains constantly being replaced by new ones as his pussy clenches around you for the nth time, forcing you to cum earlier than you usually does. overwhelming amount of your mixed cum wetting the bedsheets, your thighs and his own as well as his butt. not like he cared, he wanted to make sure he gets knocked up, that you get him knocked up as he creams around you again, creating an even thicker halo of white around your strap

yandere! husband who shows his filthier side, holding your head against his chest and asking you to suck on his nipples, who place your hand over his tcock, telling you to “s-stroke! my cock too ahh haagh♡︎ mgh n-not fair that mmuungh uunghk my cock is being left alone♡︎!”

yandere! husband who lets out one last hoarse wail, the wetness of his cunt making you groan as your strap cums inside him for the nth time that night before collapsing on top of him. he had passed out, tired from the continuous pounding he received as he lay there peacefully with flushed red cheeks, tearstains and drools on his chin and cheeks while pretty bruises and lovebites cover his skin. the most notable bruises being the ones on his hips and thighs, making you grimace at the painful wound you saw. but hey, the small bulge in his belly from your excessive cum inside his womb made you happy. it definitely made him happy too

yandere! husband who occasionally regains consciousness during your aftercare for him. who groans and refuses to let you pull out for bath, straddling your lap inside the warm water filled bathtub. he couldn’t help but slur out a “noo… don’t pull out” as you push his pelvic away from yours, feeling the cum inside his pussy to drip down his legs

yandere! husband who now eagerly wait for the signs of pregnancy with a full boxes of pregnancy test at his side of the nightstand, who still poke secret holes into your condoms because when did he said he wanted only one baby with you?

⇨ characters i think fits: jing yuan, dan feng, yingxing, sunday, aventurine, argenti, dan heng il, gepard, sampo, luocha, caelus, luka, jiaoqui, itto, baizhu, ayato, thoma, childe, pantalone, dottore, kaeya, kaveh, lyney, neuvillette, sethos, heizou, venti, rubedo, aalto, xiangli yao, scar, yoriichi, haganezuka, douma, kaigaku, jyugo, uno, kiji, honey, trois, kenshirou yozakura, musashi, houzuki sanzou, ruka gojou, seitarou, tsukumo, mitsuru, sinbad, sharkkan, spartos, koumei, titus, muu alexius, sphintus, rafayel, mammon, asmodeus, mephistopheles, diavolo, belphegor, simeon, solomon, satan + anyone you like

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agreeeeeeeeeee · 1 month ago

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A Christmas Gift | G.W.

“That's what happens when you love someone,” George replied, smiling. “You want to protect them from anything that might hurt them, even if you know you can't.”

feat. George Weasley x fem!reader

SUMMARY: You go to Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes to pick out a Christmas gift for your ailing little brother, who adored the shop (and the twins) before he became too ill to go. You find a gift and so much more than you ever dreamed of.

CW: this is really emotional, i’m sorry, but i pinky promise that it has a happyish ending. fred is dead, grief, hurt/comfort, hospital visits, sick sibling/children, some swearing, but also some fun and lightheartedness, plenty of christmasy fluff, first kisses

AN: last Christmas fic of the season!

The early morning snow buffeted at your back as you stepped into Weasely Wizard Wheezes. The store had just opened, you saw someone turn the sign as you finished your breakfast at the Three Broomsticks, but you wanted to beat the holiday rush so you could really take your time.

The smell of cinnamon and woodsmoke, plastic toys and what could only be described as joy, welcomed you inside. An enormous Christmas tree hung upside down from the ceiling, decorated in orange, purple, and gold, with handmade ornaments over every branch and popcorn strings strewn around it. Every shelf was stocked and festively decorated, and soft Christmas music played from the speakers.

You stopped in the doorway, tears welling in your eyes. Your brother would love this. You had hoped that he’d be having a good day today, that maybe, by some miracle, he’d be well enough to come with you. But he’d spiked a fever late last night, and was going in for some imaging today to ensure he hadn’t caught pneumonia…again.

“Morning,” a voice called to you, and you looked up, hastily wiping tears on your sleeve. George Weasley, a man you’d never met but would recognize anywhere, was halfway down the spiral staircase, a cup of coffee in hand. He was dressed in the iconic pinstripe suit, his copper hair a little longer than the last time you’d seen him two years prior, not that he’d remember.

The only reason you remembered was because of your brothers obsession with the Weasley twins. He’d asked to have his hair cut and dyed orange that same afternoon.

More tears welled up, and you cursed yourself, turning away to hide your face. “I’m sorry,” you sniffled, trying to take a deep breath. “I promise I’m not insane.”

You heard him move the rest of the way down the stairs, then approach you, his tall frame taking him across the store in a few strides. He had a bright purple handkerchief in his hand, the triple W embroidered on the corner.

“That’s okay, we like a little insanity around here. What’s your name?” he asked, his voice soft.

“Y/n.” You accepted the handkerchief with a watery smile and dabbed your eyes.

“George. Are you alright, y/n?” he asked.

You sighed, twisting the fabric in your hands. “The holiday’s are just hard.”

He nodded, his jaw flexing, eyes averting from your face to the floor. “Yeah,” he said, his voice rougher than it had been a moment before. You noticed then the dark circles under his eyes, the air of heaviness around his shoulders. “Can I help you find something?” he asked, pivoting quickly.

“Yes, actually. I’m, uh, looking for a gift for my little brother. But he—it has to be something he can play with in bed. Nothing too loud or messy.” Your heart ached as you said it, knowing he would actually love something loud, messy, destructive, as little boys do, but such things weren’t allowed at St. Mungo’s.

George raised an eyebrow. “Strict parents?”

You shook your head, swallowing around the lump in your throat. “He’s in hospital,” you murmured, hating saying the words aloud.

George’s face fell. “Oh—Merlin, I’m really sorry.”

A flicker of understanding passed between you, your broken hearts beating at the same rhythm for a moment. You knew about the death of his twin, Fred, everyone did, and now he knew your pain as well. That knowledge weaved an invisible string of connection between you, forged in empathy.

“We can absolutely find something for him,” George said, his voice painfully sincere. He offered you his arm and you accepted, needing a bit of steadiness. “What kind of things does he like?”

You started to walk through the store, looking around the towering shelves, at a bit of a loss. “Well, he loves Whizz-bangs, and your Pyrotechtrix.”

George smiled, chuckling to himself. “Fun, but not exactly suitable for a hospital.”

“Exactly. But honestly, anything you recommended, he’d absolutely adore, so long as I told him you recommended it.”

“Oh yeah?” George raised an eyebrow, glancing down at you.

Saints, he’s handsome.

“Yeah, he’s a big fan. He used to beg us to stop in every time we came to Diagon Alley so he could watch your demonstrations.”

George’s smile widened, a flush creeping up his neck. “Well, ah, that’s really—” he scratched the back of his head, clearly flustered by the revelation. “That’s very kind,” he managed with a breathy chuckle.

The door jingled as another customer came in and you tensed, George’s eye flicking towards the new customer, then back down to you.

You moved to slip your arm from his. “I can look around, you go ahead—”

“Oi, Ron!” George shouted, a hand cupped around his mouth, his arm tightening around yours so you stayed put.

“What? I’m sorting inventory!” Ron Weasley shouted back, appearing from the back of the store with arms full of boxes. His eyes quickly scanned over you, your joined arms, then back to George, who was nodding his head towards the door. “Welcome to Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes!” Ron turned greeted the customer, dropping the boxes where he stood.

You chuckled, leaning a bit closer to George, grateful that he didn’t abandon you.

“You’re my first priority today,” he murmured to you, close enough that you could smell his amber cologne, and you felt your anxiety unspool for the first time in weeks. For this one thing, this small, Christmas gift hunt, you weren’t alone.

You spent the rest of the morning with George, wandering through aisle after aisle as he talked you through every product you showed an interest in. At first, he seemed reluctant to talk about products with stories tied to Fred, like prodding a sore wound, but eventually he was telling story after story, grinning and laughing at the memories of their countless antics.

He encouraged you to share about your brother as well, and by the end, you were both in stitches from laughing, cheeks sore and eyes watery with tears. It warmed your heart to see him light up at the his brother’s memory, to see the love between them still very much burning, and soothed a bit of your fear.

No matter what happened, the love and the memories would remain.

You finally settled on an Aviatomobile and a few muggle magic tricks, nothing explosive, sticky, or illness-causing. George carried the items to the counter, setting them gently on surface, but hesitated when he reached for the register.

He turned, grabbing a gift box from beneath the counter. Carefully, he wrapped each item in branded tissue paper and nestled them into the box, then rearranged them once, then twice, before finally placing the lid and tying an orange bow around it. Then, he grabbed one of the paper ornaments from the counter, where kids could write little messages or drawings to hang on the gravity-defying Christmas tree, and scribbled something on it before securing it to the bow.

“There we go,” he said, pushing it towards you with a sheepish smile.

You reached for you wallet. “How much do I—”

He shook his head, waving you off. “It’s on me. Least I can do for an avid supporter.”

Tears burned behind your eyes again, caught off guard by his generosity. “George, I can’t—”

“Please, just—let me do this for your brother.” George’s eyes held yours, soft around the corners. “It’s what Fred would do.”

You nodded, unable to speak through the lump in your throat.

“Would you want to, uh, maybe get a drink later? Or coffee?” He asked, rubbing the back of his neck, freckled cheeks flushing pink.

You smiled, your heart flipping in your chest. “I’d love to. We could get ice cream at Fortescue's?” You offered.

He smiled back. “Perfect. 7 o’clock?”

“Perfect,” you repeated, fighting a nervous giggle. “I’ll see you later, then.” You hefted the box in your arms and waved goodbye, hurrying out before you said anything embarrassing, or melted into a puddle of goo on the floor.

Halfway down the street, you finally glanced at the paper ornament George attached to the gift.

Sorry, mate. No explosive’s. Sister’s orders. But I’ve got a stash in the back waiting for you when you’re ready. Merry Christmas. - GW

You were fizzing with excitement as you approached the ice cream shop, a soft flurry of snowflakes dancing int the twinkle lights strew across Diagon Alley. Vendors were at every corner, selling steaming beverages, candied nuts, and fried dough. Shoppers wandered from glowing door to glowing door, bundled in thick coats and arms laden with bags. A choir sang Christmas carols on the steps of Gringotts, toads wearing Santa hats cradled in their arms, and you paused to listen while they sang “Carol of the Bells”, trying to collect your scattered mind.

You hadn’t stopped thinking about George for a moment, so wound up that you started getting ready three hours early for a simple ice cream date. You couldn’t remember the last time you felt so giddy, so hopeful.

“I like this song,” a familiar voice murmured in your ear and you looked up, finding George standing beside you watching the carolers, the lights reflecting in his brown eyes. He was dressed in a brown wool coat with a Gryffindor scarf around his neck, a white, cable knit sweater and jeans underneath, patches on the knees.

“Me too,” you replied, biting your lips to stop the grin threatening to rise. “How was your day?”

“Chaos. I left Ron to deal with the stragglers. We were supposed to close around six…” he trailed off, his eyes catching on a group of wizards. You followed his eye, and were appalled to find them muttering and pointing at him. And when you looked around, you noticed several groups were doing the same.

Instinctively, you moved closer to him, as if you could shield him somehow.

His fingers twined with yours, warm and calloused. “It’s alright,” he said, turning you to face him. “M’used to it.”

“It’s not alright,” you said, raising your voice and directing a pointed glare at the noisy folks. “It’s rude!”

He chuckled, tugging you away from the carolers. “Easy, love. It doesn’t bother me much anymore. Don’t give them any of your attention.”

You sighed, falling into step beside him, hands still clasped together. “I’m sorry they treat you like that,” you said, glaring daggers at anyone that even glanced in his direction while you walked towards Fortescue's.

“It was worse when we first reopened the shop.” His thumb swiped back and forth across yours, soothing the irritation itching under your skin. “They would come in just to get a look at me. Like my grief was some kind of spectator sport.”

“I can’t imagine having that kind of loss broadcast to the entire world,” you said, glancing at a newspaper stand plastered in the Daily Prophet.

“It’s inhumane,” he replied, stopping in front of the ice cream shop. “But, I’m grateful for it too.”

You raised an eyebrow, facing him in the warm glow of the window.

“Everyone knows how amazing he was,” he murmured, his voice thickening with emotion. He looked down at your joined hands, playing with your fingers. “He’s a hero.”

You squeezed his hand, prompting him to look up at you. “So are you, George," you said, inflecting as much sincerity as you could into your voice. "Y’know, I was there that day, when you and Fred left Hogwarts?”

His eyes widened. “You were?”

You nodded. “I was two years under you, we wouldn’t have crossed paths,” you said, trying to assuage the needless guilt that crossed his face. “But I’ll never forget that moment, watching you guys reclaim the magic that makes Hogwarts, well, Hogwarts. You inspired all of us left behind.”

He gave you a sad smile, his eyes shiny with unshed tears, and brought your knuckles to his lips, brushing a kiss across them. “Thank you for telling me that,” he whispered. “You didn’t get burned, did you?” He asked, worry suddenly creasing his brow.

You giggled. “No, no. No one was hurt besides Umbridge's ego.”

He exhaled, flashing a relieved smile. “Okay, good. Because that would have been a terrible first impression.” He opened the door to the ice cream shop, gesturing for you to step inside.

“My first impression was when you turned Ms. Norris purple during the Halloween feast,” you said, stepping past him and into line, the smell of waffle cones and caramel wafting over you.

George barked a laugh, his head falling back with the force of it, and you smiled. “Better, I suppose.”

“It’s not like I made a great first impression on you, weeping like a sap as soon as I stepped into your store,” you joked, too busy gazing up at his smiling face to notice the line move forward without you.

He shook his head, still chuckling. “No, it was a perfect first impression.”

You ordered your bowls of ice cream, Peppermint Marshmallow Mayhem for George and Gingerbread Dreams for you, and sat at a corner booth by the window, talking about nothing in particular for awhile while you ate.

“So, how’s your brother doing today? You mentioned he had some imaging this afternoon?” George asked, genuine concern creasing his brow.

“He’s doing well, actually. No pneumonia, by Godric’s grace, and his fever broke this afternoon. Still not sure what caused it, but hopefully nothing of concern,” you answered, you heart lifting at his relieved smile.

“Good, I’m really glad to hear that. Now, let me try your ice cream.” He waggled his spoon and you laughed, sliding it towards him. He took the tiniest spoonful, flipping it over to lick it off, and your cheeks warmed at the way his tongue caressed the curve of the spoon.

You knew you were caught when he smirked around the utensil, but he let it slide.

“Here, try mine.” He dug a spoonful out of his bowl, holding it out for you to take a bite with a borderline sinful look in his eye.

“George Weasley,” you teased, shaking your head. “You are such a flirt.”

“Can you blame me? I’m sitting across from my dream woman,” he replied, grinning.

Now your cheeks were really warming, and you leaned forward to take a small bite off the edge of his spoon. Sugary peppermint and creamy marshmallow coated your tongue, and you moaned.

“Good?” he asked, raising a brow.

“Delicious,” you giggled, watching as he ate the rest of the spoonful, and wondered how it would taste on his tongue.

After ice cream, you continued wandering around Diagon Alley, peeking in all the shop windows and sipping warm butter beer, until your noses were pink from the chill, your hair full of glittering snow.

You stopped outside of his shop, the sign flipped to ‘closed’ and only a few lights on inside along with the exterior holiday decor, presumably left on for George.

“I have a confession to make,” he said, stepping a little closer to you.

Your heart pounded in your chest, a thrill of excitement pulsing through you. “What?” You asked, picking invisible lint of his lapel just to have something to do with your hands.

“I’ve been wanting to kiss you since I saw you watching the carolers,” he murmured, sliding his glove off and reaching out to cradle your face, his touch gentle, giving you every opportunity to pull away.

You leaned your head into his large palm, gazing up at him, freckled, flushed, and starry-eyed. You’d never seen someone look at you with adoration before, and it made your soul sing.

Instead of saying anything, you rose onto your toes and pressed your lips to his, a quick, airy peck. But when you went to move back, his hand held you in place, lips just barely touching.

“Again,” he breathed, his other hand coming around to rest on your lower back. “Please?”

You gave the tiniest nod, feeling like your heart might burst out of your chest, and his lips connected with yours again in a slow, languid kiss, the taste of ice cream and butter beer and him making your head go a little fuzzy, your right foot popping up behind you as you leaned into his embrace.

His tongue caressed the seam of your mouth, but he didn’t push further, just a small tease before winding the kiss down until it ended the way it started, with a few barely-there pecks in reluctant departure.

You sighed against him, lowering back onto flat feet, and he smiled, drawing you into his chest for hug. You slipped you arms under his coat, feeling the softness of his sweater and the warmth of his body envelop you.

“Thank you for this,” you murmured. “I really, really needed it.”

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his arms tight around your body. “So did I. Can we do it again tomorrow? Breakfast? Sunrise picnic?”

You chuckled, tilting your chin up to rest on his sternum. “Breakfast sounds great.”

George beamed, dropping a warm kiss to the frozen tip of your nose. “I’ll pick you up at nine?”

“It’s a date.” You stole one last kiss before slipping away, practically skipping.

You and George saw each other every day for the next week, whether it was to wander around Diagon Alley, looking at the lights and festivities, or grabbing a quick cup of tea between busy shifts. Neither of you could stand being apart for more than a few hours at a time.

Tonight, George invited you to his flat for dinner and muggle Christmas films, and you were dressed in the ugliest Christmas sweater you could find. With a timid hand, you knocked on his door.

It opened under you fist, revealing George on the other side, wearing a maroon sweater with a giant ‘G’ on the front of it and a sauce splattered apron.

“Hey, love.” He tugged you inside, pressing an eager kiss to your lips before ushering you down the hall, his deft fingers unraveling your scarf from your neck and peeling the coat from your shoulders. You laughed at his haste, spinning and hopping as he removed your boots. He stopped only when he finally saw your sweater. “Oh, darling. You look ravishing.” His hands fell to your waist and he pulled you into his chest, a mischievous grin on his face. “Very fashion forward.”

“Thank you, baby,” you giggled, wrapping your arms around his neck. You hadn’t called him that before, but it just rolled right off your tongue, natural as breathing.

He loosed a pleased hum, leaning forward to capture your lips in another, slower kiss. “Like hearin’ you call me baby,” he mumbled against your mouth.

The oven beeped loudly, startling you both.

“Hungry?” He asked with a shy smile.

“Starved.”

He showed you to the dining room, a round table with a vase of flowers at the center, candles strewn on every surface. He pulled a chair out for you and you sat, accepting a kiss on the cheek before he dashed back into the kitchen.

You looked around, having been too caught up in his frantic greeting to take in the space. The rest of the flat was sparsely decorated, purely functional, besides a sagging bookshelf in the living room, and a few photos along the hallway. Not a Christmas decoration was in sight.

George returned with two glasses of wine, the bottle tucked under his arm. “Here we go, a little Pinot Noir for my gorgeous girl.” He set the glasses down then finally sat down in his chair.

“Thank you, baby,” you teased, and he smirked, withdrawing his wand from his apron and waving it towards the kitchen. A moment later, a giant bowl full of pasta, a basket of bread, a salad bowl, and two plates came hovering out of the kitchen, arranging themselves neatly on the table.

“Bon appetite.” He raised his wine glass, a shy little smile on his face, and you raised yours to cheers, so charmed you could cry.

Two hours later, you were curled up on George’s couch, half enjoying Home Alone, half enjoying the feel of each other’s skin under your sweaters, the rich taste of wine on each other’s tongues.

“How come you haven't decorated for Christmas?” You mumbled between languid pecks, his soft lips moving to trail over your jaw.

“Didn't much feel like celebrating this year,” he replied, kissing down your neck, his tongue tracing your pulse.

“And yet here we are, watching corny holiday films,” you chuckled and felt him smile against your neck.

“Things changed.” He lifted his head, capturing your lips in a heavy, open-mouthed kiss that made your blood warm, your heart beat a little quicker in your chest.

Suddenly, something slammed against the window, a frantic scrabbling against glass that had George springing up like something electrocuted him.

“Errol?” George moved toward the window. “No, what the fuck—”

“Oh my god, what are you doing here?!” You cried, jumping up and throwing open the window. Your family owl flew in, landing on the back of the couch. Fear pumped through you and you snatched the letter from his beak, rougher than the poor bird deserved in your panic.

“What is it?” George rested his hands on your hips as you tore it open.

The words on the card made your heart stop.

Mungo’s now, Mum

“George,” you whimpered, sagging against him as terror rocked through you.

He took the letter from your hand and skimmed it. “Go get your coat on, I’ll take you.”

“I—” You were frozen, darkness pulsing at the edges of your vision.

His hands came up to hold your face, shaking you gently. “Honey, we have to go. I’m going to be right here with you, okay? We’re going together. But we have to move now.”

You nodded, clawing through the sludge of fear and clinging to the thread of stability he offered. He helped you into your coat and shooed the owl out, not even bothering to lock up before he was ushering you into his chest.

“Hold onto me,” he ordered, and you did, and suddenly the world was sucked away, a dizzying, horrible tornado of space, and then it spit you back out on the front steps of St. Mungo’s.

“Holy shit,” you gagged, clutching onto George and he held you upright.

“Sorry, love. Never apparated before?” He asked, rubbing your back.

You shook your head.

“Y/n!”

George stiffened, his hands tightening on you, and you looked up.

“Mum!” You cried, rushing to her.

“Oh, hun. I’m sorry to frighten you, he’s okay. Just a scare. I’m so sorry, darling,” she cried, clinging to you.

“Sh, no, it’s alright. I should be here,” you soothed, squeezing your eyes shut to stop the tears from falling. “What happened?”

“He couldn’t breathe, his lungs—pneumonia again,” your mom hiccuped, wiping at her cheeks. “Who’s that?” She asked, looking over your shoulder.

George was were you had left him, hands stuffed in his pockets, his eyes bouncing from you and your mom to the strangers mingling on the sidewalk. You could tell his hackles were raised, some protective instinct roused when he’d been startled by the owl.

You waved him over. “Mum, this is George Weasley. George, this is my mum.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” George said, offering her a hand and a shy smile.

She clutched his hand hard and you both winced. “I-you-Weasley—The George Weasley?” She gasped.

“Just George is fine,” he said with a nervous chuckle.

“Oh my, I just can't believe—”

“Mum, can we go see him now?” You interrupted, anxious to see that he was well yourself. “I promise you'll have a proper introduction later.”

“Yes, of course. This way.” She released George and grabbed your hand, pulling you towards the hospital.

George hesitated, until you reached your hand out to him. He immediately threaded your fingers together, falling into step with your frantic mother.

A few moments later, you rushed into your brother's room, finding him upright and smiling, some new tubes in his little nose, but all together looking well.

“Mum, I said to leave her alone!” He argued, crossing his arms over his reindeer pj's.

“Hush you,” you scolded lightly, wrapping him up in a hug and kissing his forehead, noting his lingering fever. “How are you feeling, darling?” You asked, pulling back to hold his face.

“M'okay. They let me have some ice lollies earlier!” He chirped, sticking out his neon blue tongue.

You grinned. “I see, that's excellent.”

He opened his mouth to say something else, but then you saw his eyes widen, mouth falling open in shock. You turned to see what he was looking at and realized it was George, who was loitering in the doorway.

“Is that—” your brother started, and George looked up. “Wizard—Wizard Wheezes!”

George’s solemn expression shattered into a wide smile as he stepped into the room, his energy shifting instantly. “Hello, mate! I’m George. Heard your not feeling so good?” George reached out to shake his little hand, and he took it, his fingers dwarfed by George's palm.

“No, no. I'm fine!” Your brother replied, shock melting into excitement. “What are you doing here?”

George glanced down at you. “Your sister has been telling me all about you, and how strong you've been lately,” he said, crouching down beside the bed. “She loves you a lot, y’know?”

You stepped out of the way, tears starting to burn behind your eyes. Your mother slipped her hand into yours, watching the interaction with a hand pressed to her mouth.

“I know, but she worries too much,” your brother answered, and George burst out laughing.

“That's what happens when you love someone,” George replied, smiling. “You want to protect them from anything that might hurt them, even if you know you can't.”

“I’m big like you, I don't need protecting!” He argued.

George nodded, pressing a hand to his chest apologetically. “I can tell. But that doesn't mean they don't want to try anyways. And big guys like us have to protect them in return, yeah?”

Your brother nodded, puffing up his chest. “I'll never let anything happen to my sister. I promise!”

You blew him a kiss, and George gave him a high five.

“That's my buddy. Now, let's see if I've got anything special for heroes like you.” George fished around in his pocket, making dramatic faces while he rummaged in what you thought was an empty pocket.

But then he withdrew what appeared to be a toy airplane that would in no way, shape, or form fit in that pocket without magic. Your brothers face lit up when George threw it in the air and it started to fly, ducking and whizzing around the room.

“Hm, that wasn't what I was looking for,” George said with a dramatic frown, and you giggled. He glanced over his shoulder at you, breaking his frown to smirk at your reaction, and started fishing around in his pockets again.

He pulled out a bouncing ball, then a rubber chicken, a set of chattering teeth, a stuffed teddy bear. Item after item came out of his pockets until your brothers bed was covered in toys and gag items, and a dozen nurses were watching in amazement from the hallway. You and your mom were fighting through silent tears, your heart so big you felt it might explode out of your chest.

Most importantly, your brother was ecstatic, playing with this and that and chattering away at George about the different products and teaching him how to do magic tricks George himself had invented.

But half an hour later, your brother’s nurse came in to administer some of his medication and get him ready for bed. He tried to protest, but his new best friend, George, managed to talk him into not only compliance, but eager acceptance of his medicine.

You stole George away into the now quiet hall, Christmas lights illuminating the dark corridor, and threw your arms around his shoulders, burying your face into his neck, needing to feel him close, to ground you through the onslaught of emotions.

He wrapped his arms around you, his head turning to kiss your temple. “Need some air?” He murmured, and you shook your head no.

“Just need you,” you whispered, holding him tighter.

He let you cry into his shoulder, rubbing soothing circles onto your back and murmuring reassurances into your hair. When you'd exhausted yourself, you pulled back and he reached up to hold your face, wiping your tears with his thumbs.

“Thank you for doing that,” you sniffled, sliding your hands down his chest, his sweater soft beneath your palms.

“It was my pleasure, love,” he replied, looking you in the eye. “You—him—this, I needed this. Needed you,” he breathed, voice tightening. “I forgot why we did it all, what all the sacrifices were for, and you reminded me. He reminded me.”

You rose on your toes to press a kiss to his lips, not knowing how else to express how you were feeling that wasn't, well, insanely soon.

He kissed you back, passionate enough to steal your breath, but released you when the door to your brother's room opened.

“Darling—oh, I'm sorry. Darling, would you like to come get a cup of coffee with me?” Your mother asked, clearly fighting a grin at discovering you.

“Sure, mum,” you exhaled, reluctantly stepping away from George. “You okay for a minute?”

“Absolutely, I'll keep an eye on him.” He pressed a kiss to your knuckles before releasing you to your mother, a soft smile on his face.

When you returned twenty minutes later, you found George stretched out in the arm chair pulled up right next to your brother’s bed, Rudolph on the television.

“—Fred managed to get the deer into the kitchen with some carrots and loaf of banana bread, and kept him distracted while I tied bells and ornaments—mom’s favorite’s, of course—to it’s antlers.”

Your brother was giggling, curled up with the stuffed bear George conjured earlier, his eyes heavy as he fought to stay awake to hear the story.

“But then we ran out of banana bread and Fred tried to give it some cookies, but by then the deer had discovered the Christmas tree in the corner, with the popcorn strings and cranberries and salt dough ornaments, y’know? So the deer started eating the bloody Christmas tree and we cannot get it out of the house now. It’s found the best sodding snack on earth. So by the time my mom get’s home, half the tree is gone, there’s shi—dirt all over the house, dishes are broken, holes in the walls—”

“What did she do?” Your mom asked, laughing. “I would have sent you out to live with the deer and it’s family.”

George grinned. “We ate nothing but carrots and banana bread for a week. Even for Christmas dinner. It was torture,” he chuckled, turning back to your brother, only to find him sound asleep. “That boring, huh?” He joked, rising from the chair so your mom could take it. But instead, she pulled him in for a hug, surprising him.

“Thank you for doing this, and I’m so sorry about your brother. But I know he’d be so proud of you today,” she murmured, and you saw George’s eyes well, his jaw flexing as he tried to fight it. Your mom pulled back, pressing a kiss to his cheek, then smoothing away her lipstick with her thumb. “You’re a wonderful, wonderful man, George Weasley. And I’m so glad you’re here.”

He nodded, a tear streaking down his face. “Thank you, ma’am. That’s very k-kind.”

Your mother passed him to you, his hand gripping your tightly as he fought to keep his composure. “Goodnight, mum. I’ll see you in the morning?”

Your mother nodded, waving you away while she kissed your brothers cheek.

You led George out of the room and down the hall, finding an empty room to slip into. As soon as the door closed behind you, he sank to his knees, great, heaving sobs wracking his body. You lowered yourself to the ground with him, pulling his head into your shoulder and rocking him back and forth, his tears soaking through your sweater and shaking your whole body.

“I miss him,” George gasped like he was in pain, his grip almost bruising around your body.

“I know, baby. I know you do,” you said into his hair, holding his head against your chest. Your own tears began to spill then, for him, for you, for your family, and his, and you clung to one another as the overwhelming grief took it’s pound of flesh.

Slowly, he began to settle, breathing labored, but his tears subsiding. He lifted his head, looking at you through tear-brightened eyes, his lashes dark and spiked with moisture. You leaned forward, kissing away the droplets on his cheeks and jaw, until you felt him start to smile.

“I-it’s been so long since I—” he cleared his throat, reaching up to cup your face, wiping away your tears with his thumb. “I was numb for awhile, so long I sort of forgot what anything else felt like. I meant what I said earlier, you reminded me of what I’d lost, but in the best way.” Tears welled up again, but he smiled through them. “He would have been so fucking jealous that I got you. But Merlin, he would have loved you so much.”

You huffed a laugh, lower lip trembling as your heart soared. “George,” was all you could manage, and he leaned forward to kiss you, rising onto his knees and pulling into into his chest.

Then, that wild spinning sensation enveloped you again, and in a blink you were back on his couch, exactly as you were before, the credits to the movie rolling on the screen, your glasses of wine exactly where you left them.

“Stay with me tonight,” he asked, trailing kisses down your neck as you reoriented yourself. “Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve, we could spend it together.” He lifted his head to look you in the eyes, and you nodded eagerly.

“Yeah,” you said, laughing as he rained kisses over your face. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Thank you so much for reading!

I hope you have the most wonderful holiday season and start of the new year <3

#george weasley #george weasley x y/n #george weasley x reader #george weasley fanfiction #weasley twins fanfiction #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter fandom #harry potter #hp fandom #hp fanfic #george weasley x you #weasley twins #fred and george #fred and george weasley #george weasley imagine #george weasley oneshot #george weasley drabble

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solxamber · 2 months ago

Text

Romance Clichés with: Riddle Rosehearts

Cliché: The Grand Romantic Gesture

Others: Leona ; Azul ; Vil ; Kalim ; Idia ; Jamil

The moment you decided to court Riddle Rosehearts, you knew you had to bring your A-game. And by A-game, you meant memorizing all 810 laws of the Queen of Hearts.

Did anyone ask you to? No.

Did anyone want you to? Probably not.

But that didn’t matter. What mattered was Riddle noticing you.

The first rule you put into practice was Rule 178: "When presenting flowers, they must be in groups of three, six, or nine." So, naturally, you showed up at Heartslabyul one day holding a perfectly arranged bouquet of nine red roses.

"For you," you said, holding them out with a bow that lingered precisely three seconds, no more, no less (Rule 12).

Riddle blinked, his face shifting from neutral to the faintest pink. “You— You’re following the rules?”

“Of course,” you replied smoothly. “I wouldn’t dare present flowers improperly to the Heartslabyul Dorm Leader.”

Cater whistled from somewhere behind him. Trey raised a brow. Riddle, meanwhile, looked like he might short-circuit.

“W-Well, good,” he managed, clutching the roses like they were something sacred. “It’s refreshing to see someone with proper manners.”

You grinned, internally high-fiving yourself. Step one: complete.

You’d researched extensively for your next move. Rule 47: “A surprise tea party must include the guest bringing their own cup and saucer.”

When Riddle called an impromptu tea party, you arrived armed with not only a cup and saucer but a tiny tray of perfectly portioned sweets, arranged in compliance with Rule 290: “Desserts served at tea parties must be bite-sized and arranged symmetrically.”

The silence as you set them on the table was deafening.

Trey looked mildly impressed. Cater snapped a picture. Riddle, on the other hand, stared at you like you’d just recited Shakespeare in iambic pentameter while juggling teacups.

“You…” He cleared his throat. “You’ve been studying the rules?”

“Of course,” you said, taking your seat and stirring your tea exactly three times counterclockwise (Rule 723). “It’s only proper.”

“I—Yes, well—” His ears turned bright red as he took a bite of one of your desserts. “You’ve done well,” he muttered, almost too quietly to hear.

You didn’t miss the way his gaze lingered on you for the rest of the tea party.

By the time you hit Rule 810—“A declaration of admiration must be made with precision, sincerity, and a token of affection”—Riddle was this close to losing it.

You didn’t plan to deploy it that day. You were just practicing it in your head when you ran into him at the rose garden. He was inspecting the flowers, his brows furrowed in that way that somehow made him even cuter.

“Rule 810,” you blurted out before you could stop yourself.

Riddle turned to you, confused. “What?”

Crap. No turning back now.

You cleared your throat, stepping closer. “Rule 810 states that a declaration of admiration must be precise, sincere, and accompanied by a token of affection.” You pulled a small, hand-embroidered handkerchief from your pocket. It was decorated with roses and a tiny “R” stitched in the corner.

You held it out to him, your hands only trembling slightly. “I… I’ve memorized all the rules because I wanted to court you properly. Because I admire you. And because—well—because I love you.”

Riddle’s mouth opened, then closed. His face turned such a bright shade of red that you worried he might actually faint.

“You—” His voice cracked, and he quickly cleared his throat. “You… love me?”

“Yes,” you said, letting out a nervous laugh. “Honestly, after memorizing 810 rules for you, I don’t think I could possibly love anyone else.”

Riddle stared at you, his gloved hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. For a moment, you thought he might actually explode. Then, all at once, he stepped forward, took the handkerchief, and pressed it to his chest like it was something priceless.

“I—” He took a shaky breath. “You’re absolutely ridiculous.”

You blinked. “I—what?”

“Who memorizes 810 rules for someone?” he said, his voice rising slightly. “You’re—You’re maddening! Impossible! Utterly—” He cut himself off, taking another breath before meeting your gaze.

“…And yet, I can’t imagine anyone else doing something so utterly… thoughtful.”

You felt your heart leap into your throat as his expression softened. “You’ve done all this for me,” he continued, his voice quieter now. “And I… I’d be a fool not to accept such a heartfelt gesture.”

“So… is that a yes?” you asked, trying (and failing) not to grin.

Riddle’s blush deepened, but he nodded. “Yes.”

And then, to your utter shock, he stepped closer, reaching for your hand. “But I hope you realize,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips, “that now I’ll expect you to uphold all the rules of the Queen of Hearts from now on.”

You laughed, your heart feeling lighter than it had in weeks. “I wouldn’t dream of doing otherwise.”

Masterlist

#twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #twst #riddle rosehearts x reader #riddle x reader #riddle rosehearts #riddle #riddle x you #twst fluff #fluff

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ice-cream-writes-stuff · 4 months ago

Text

The Nightmare Before Christmas Lost in The Book: Over The Spiral Hill

{1} {2}

Being stuck in a strange book was not what you expected, now you had to worry about your fellow Ramshackle doormates! You hoped they would be fine, without Yuu or you. You glanced at Yuu and Grim, the two students happily looking over the strange pumpkin patch.

You look away only for a moment, hoping to see what was over the garden wall. Instead what caught your interest was the odd scarecrow hidden in the shadows. Raising a brow, you walk closer, hoping the moonlight would shine on the object.

“(Y/N)! Look at this one!”

You pause, you turn attention back on Grim as you see the little furball try to pick it up.

You sigh, feeling the wind play with ends of your clothes, about to walk over to the two. An idea forms in your mind!

Kneeling down, you notice the scarecrow seemed much closer than before. Gently picking up the smallest fruit, the unmoving straw body was MUCH closer now!

You tilt your head, eyes shining with curiosity. You notice the sign above its head, “Halloween… Town.”

Reading aloud, you turn away, a sweet laugh leaving you, flustered as you hold the autumn fruit closer. “I… Hope you don’t mind.” You say to the scarecrow, “I promise to return it.”

Turning away, you carefully walk through the pumpkin patch towards your companions. Letting out a cough to grab their attention, you hold the pumpkin as if it were a skull.

“To be.. Or Not! To be.. Such is the question..!” You quote, expecting a laugh. Instead, Grim frowns in confusion. “To be what? A pumpkin?” He questions.

“No. It’s Shaksphere? Yuu, please tell me you know!” The Prefect shrugs, tapping their chin thoughtfully. “It sounds familiar…”

Going back to the scarecrow, you lean up against the wooden pool. Fluttering your lashes dreamily, letting out an over-dramatic sigh, “My bounty is as boundless as the sea, My love as deep; the more I give to thee, The more I have, for both are infinite.” You state, raising the object close to your lips, as they pucker.

Yuu huffs, about to retrieve the fruit as Grim lays on their shoulder.

“I still don’t get it! But whoever this shake-ysphera guy is, sure is dramatic.”

“Well, that line was Juliets… From Romeo and Juliet…” You murmur as you chuckle at Yuu snatching the pumpkin away, placing it next to its brethren on the soil. “Rome and Jule?”

“No… Okay let me explain.”

Heading to the other side of the scarecrow, you say another quote. “A pair of star-crossed lovers take their life; Whose misadventured piteous overthrows. Do with their death bury their parents’ strife.”

“Hmm… Henchman, do you get it?” Grim questions the other magicless human. They nodded thoughtfully, the wind tussling their hair.

“Kinda like... Christmas and Halloween, two opposites and can’t collide.” Yuu states proudly like they figured out the code!

“Oh so like that made-up holiday you created during winter!” Grim states, pointing a paw at you.

“IT’S NOT-How is that even-?” You groan, moving away from the protector of the patch. You try to explain, or direct the conversation elsewhere.

A glove-like hand grasps your own, as an unfamiliar laugh rings behind you, Yuu and Grim gape in fear while you freeze. A young man with a grin steps into your view, his grip like a spider's web, strong yet delicate when holding your palm.

“I greet you with a kiss, for this wonderful encounter..~!”

“Gino! What am I to do with these!?” Foulworth asks his companion, holding the box of decorations in worry. “(Y/N) and Yuu instructed us before, but this not as simple as I hoped.”

The fox-beastman grumbled, poking at a strange velvet hat with a cotton ball placed on top. Mixed in with the other Halloween items placed inside the brown box.

Rollo scoffed from his seat, hiding his sour words into his silken handkerchief. Watching the two fumble with green and purple tinsel as the ghosts aid them.

[Ya’ll, I’m head over heels for mister Skele-boi over hear. He’s voiced by one of my all-time va’s. So I’m just in awe! I’ve been squealing all day about him! I might, possibly write for this event if anyone is interested. Let me know!]

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housetargaryenloyalist · 6 months ago

Text

From a seed grows

Chapter I: Thyme

Pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x reader

Synopsis: To claim a dragon one must be prepared to give up their life, yet this is the one thing you never wished to give up.

Wordcount: 3.5K

Warnings: implications of death, mentions of death, but really light nothing graphic.

Author's note: It's done, the first chapter! Fun little fact: every chapter will be named after a plant/flower that represents an emotion/theme of one of the characters :) I put a lot of thought into this story, the chapter names, and the character so I hope you will feel that as you read.

One last thing, a huge thank you to @madame-fear for showing interest into the story which prompted me to continue working on it! I adore her and her work, you should check out her blog!

English is not my first language, apologies for any mistakes.

Happy reading <3

‎⋆ ˚｡⋆୨ ♡Masterlist♡ ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

Blood dripped from your hands, the dagger clattering to the floor. The sound echoed through the dark, empty alleyway and reverberated in your head. Soft, sharp gasps left you as you staggered backwards, your legs struggling to keep you standing as you buckled to the ground.

“What have I done?” your voice whispered to the night, your hands gripped the stone of the street as you struggled to regain your breath. You couldn’t stay here; staying here meant getting caught, getting caught meant being punished, and the punishment would most likely be death.

A life for a life.

You looked around you, hoping you were concealed enough that you wouldn’t be recognized. The only light was a single street lantern at the entry to the alley and the moon. You knew you had very few options: leave the city, leave and hope you’ll never be found out, be found out and flogged, tortured, flayed, or hanged. None of them sounded particularly great, but one sounded the best.

You crawled to where you had dropped the dagger, knowing you couldn’t leave it behind, no matter how rusty or stained it was. You took out an old handkerchief you always carried and wiped the blood off the blade, before stuffing the dagger in its holder. You sat there for a moment, trying to regain your breath before forcing yourself upwards and onwards. You prayed as you walked towards your home, prayed for forgiveness, prayed for mercy, prayed for help.

Prayed to all the Gods you knew of, old and new, to grant you safe passage out of the city. You passed people and shops, pleasure houses and closed homes, you passed by your life, your dreams and hopes. All to be left behind.

A moment later you were at the humble shack you called home, or at least your home was one of the rooms within the shack. Fleabottom wasn’t known for having particularly good real estate, but you and all the others made do. You went to your room, unlocking the shabby door that had seen too many beatings to really be considered safe and entered your little haven.

It was by all accounts small and in an abysmal shape, mold decorated the bleak walls alongside various other stains whom you did not wish to identify. Your bed was on the left side of the room, with a clear view of the door (just in case) and your small, very small, dresser was in front of it.

You dug through the room searching for a bag of any kind, when you found it you filled it with anything that could be considered even remotely valuable. It may have been little, but it should allow you to buy a one-way trip on a ship. The destination mattered little, as long as it wasn’t King's Landing.

As you ruffled through the top drawer of the dresser you stumbled upon what felt like a button. In all your years of owning it, you had never once felt this weird object hidden amidst your possessions. Curiosity beguiled you to push it and a latch opened on the top of the dresser, revealing a small hidden compartment.

Although curiosity had won the first battle, you were unsure if you wanted it to win this one. Alas, you had dipped a toe in the water and the waves were now too strong to get out. A hidden compartment was no novelty, many stories started with the protagonist finding an object of great significance in such a place and then embarking on an earth-changing adventure to save all of mankind.

You, however, felt like quite the opposite of such, even when your fingers felt an object hidden in the dark, hidden place. You almost laughed at the absurdity of this day, perhaps the Gods above were in a jesting mood. Slowly, carefully, you pulled the strange object from its hiding place, and soon you were face to face with something you had never seen before.

It looked to be a necklace, a simple silver chain with a simple pendant, it looked much like the necklaces you saw people wear around Flea Bottom. There was truly nothing notable about it, except for maybe the seven-pointed star of the Seven decorating the front and the small engraving on the back.

An engraving that had faded badly, presumably from the necklace having been worn a lot. It could only be seen when held at a certain angle, with ample light to decipher the words: Naejot issa byka zaldrīzes.

You rolled the words over your tongue, trying your hardest to grasp whatever language it was. It sounded oddly familiar, as if it were something from a dream, a memory unclear and nearly forgotten but now resurfacing. Whatever the words may mean, you presumed them to be words the previous owner must have cherished when taking into account how faded they were.

As you looked at the words more closely you noticed small initials beneath them, your eyes lit up slightly. This necklace must have been a gift. The initials were vague, two letters common enough they could belong to anyone.

A.T.

An odd feeling washed over you as you imagined what must have happened to the owner of this beautiful piece, how it ended up hidden in a dirty old dresser, in a shabby room in an even shabbier house. You did not have much time left to waste pondering the necklace’s history, dawn was creeping up into the sky, you could see small streaks of early morning light on the horizon.

In a hurry you put the necklace around your neck and hid it under your simple clothes. You braided your hair, in a quick manner, so it would not hinder you as you hurried through the maze of Flea Bottom.

You arrived at the harbor quickly through some risky but effective shortcuts, nearly avoiding a drunken brawl. At last you had made it to what would hopefully lead you to safety, or close to it. Sailors were moving around you carrying various sizes of knapsacks and their fellow sailors who had partaken too much in cheap ale. Dockworkers were starting their morning shifts as they moved to unload the various ships laying in their docks.

They carried crates filled with the finest fabrics, with spices you could not pronounce nor taste for they would surely cost more than you’d ever be able to afford. Your eyes wandered around to find someone you could approach and soon enough you spotted a young man with silvery blond hair and shabby clothes moving towards one of the ships. As you looked to see where he was going, you noticed some others moving towards the same ship. All sporting that same silvery blond hair.

You jogged towards the man who was surprised to see you approach him, “excuse me,” you smiled at him as he came to a halt, a silent invitation for you to continue, “where is that ship headed?”

The man furrowed his eyebrows at you, as if you just asked the most idiotic thing known to man. “To Dragonstone,” was all he said before he took off, increasing the speed in his step, almost as if to deter you from following.

You pondered to yourself for a moment, as you watched more silvery blondes approach the ship. There had been rumors, for there are always rumors in Flea Bottom, about the Black Queen looking for Targaryen bastards. Anyone with either silvery blond hair, lilac eyes, or both or even neither was urged to come to Dragonstone for an opportunity to bond with a dragon. Perhaps it was more than a rumor as you saw more and more people board the ship.

It was foolish, really, truly, well and wholly foolish, you thought to yourself as you stood in front of Dragonstone, the holdfast large and formidable. Guards escorted the large group to a small courtyard, as you looked through the crowd most of them had silvery blond hair, some light, others dark. There were a few on the other hand who had come with brown hair, red hair, or even black.

All had come to stand before the Black Queen, to serve her cause by potentially claiming a Targaryen dragon. On your journey, the people had been speaking of nothing else but the dragons, their size, their coloring, their behavior.

Much regarding the opinions of dragons had changed after the Greens paraded Meleys’ head around King’s Landing for all to see. There used to hang an air of unspoken devotion to dragons, they were to be feared, regaled, and not opposed, unless one wished for imminent death.

They were gods flying high above men, and the people who rode them were their only link to humanity. Now the smallfolk knew dragons were mortal, killable, vulnerable, and that the very house who rode them also killed them, paraded them, and unlike the small folk, did not worship them.

People whispered of killing dragons, where before those words were said in bouts of drunken foolishness, they were now said with drunken confidence. The people were hungry, and the dragons were potential food. Food for the stomach of starving men, ailing peasants, and also food to fuel a rebellion.

So now, for one of these dragonriders to actively seek out Targaryen bastards and lure them with a possibility of becoming equals, many could not resist. Not even you. You knew the dangers involved in claiming such a phenomenal beast, knew it most likely meant your death if you truly tried to claim a dragon. You also knew that you were now away from King’s Landing, in what could possibly be the only place safe for no one would dare attack this stronghold with all the dragons that lay within.

A guard came up to you as you were letting your eyes wander, his Kingsguard uniform reflecting the sun caught your attention, “Hoods down,” he commanded as he reached over to pull it down himself.

Before you could stop him, you could already feel the wind tussling your braid and tickling your ear. Now, with your hood down and hair a mess, you were just like all the others.

A silver-haired bastard.

A dragonseed.

What a cruel fate you had.

Not long after, a young man strolled up to a platform in the courtyard, silence befell the crowd as they realized who he was.

Clad in the dark red and black of the Targaryens, his hands crossed on top of the pommel of his sword, brown curls whirling around his face.

Jacaerys Velaryon, heir to the Iron Throne, daughter to Rhaenyra Targaryen, and he was a beautiful, beautiful man. He addressed the crowds, warning them of the danger, thanking them for their arrival, yet it all felt weirdly aggressive. There was no thankfulness or appreciation to be found in his tone, his brows furrowed and his lips downturned.

You heard a man behind you whisper that he was just a coddled princeling and another chuckled in response, you looked behind you briefly hoping that a stare would silence them. As you looked up back to the prince, you noticed him looking in your very direction. It almost felt as though he was looking directly at you, into your own eyes.

Others who had the same notion as you lowered their heads in reverence, in respect for their prince albeit that some carried an air of reluctance to them as they did. You felt no such devotion, felt no such need and your actions reflected that. There would be no bowing to a man meters in front of you, who spoke to you with contempt, as if your lives meant nothing at all.

His speech was over quickly, and he was gone with a few guards following in his steps. Another guard stepped up and made one last declaration before the group was to go into the dragons’ lair. “All those who wish to leave may leave, no harm shall befall you. You will be escorted back via ship at the earliest possible moment. All the others-” he signaled another guard who opened up the barricades put in place earlier, “follow me.”

Many of the crowd left, deciding that the threat of death so brutal was too large to face in comparison to the one they would face in King’s Landing. You supposed you could not blame them, a death by dragon fire or dragon stomping didn’t sound pleasant, however the fate that would no doubt await you in Flea Bottom sounded worse.

The ones left over were escorted to the inner parts of the castle, staircase after staircase, never once allowed to dawdle or gawk. The Queensguard were strict and didn’t hesitate to employ certain tactics to keep all in line. You winced as one of the guards struck a young man for touching a statue, the guard said nothing as he did so, only pushing the lad back into the line when he was done.

Tears pricked in the corner of the boy’s eyes, his hand cradling his hurting cheek. He had been pushed right in front of you, almost causing you two to collide. You tapped his shoulder as you procured an old handkerchief from your pocket, “here” you said as you practically shoved it into his non-occupied hand. He smiled a soft smile at you in thanks, before taking the fabric and dabbing at his eyes.

He didn’t seem much younger than you, perhaps he wasn’t. You didn’t ponder it too much however, chances were that he would die in the dragon pit just like many others. There would be no benefit in cosying up with the others, knowing that after this most of you will likely be dead or have risen too far in station to consider yourself with your lessers.

You cursed yourself and your cynicism often, however, today you proved yourself right. You were clinging to the walls of the dragon’s cave, hoping for dear life he had not seen you. The only light source you had were the flames that had come from Vermithor as he erupted in a fury that made him worthy of his name.

By now he must have devoured nearly all of the bastards that came to try and stake a claim. You pitied all of them, they tried to improve their standing however now all they were were ash and bones. Growls followed by screams were heard in the distance from yourself, perhaps the distance was large enough for you to get out and run, flee, escape, whatever the apt word might be.

An escape would be difficult, were it not for the fact that Vermithor was deeply engrossed in hunting a few people in the opposite direction of where you needed to go. You stalked through his enclosure with practiced ease, you tried to remain calm with your heart pounding in your chest, clouding your hearing and making your breath erratic. You refused to die here, you refused to be a burned corpse or some dragon’s dinner. No, you wanted to be more, so much more.

You wanted to be more than a peasant from Flea Bottom, a silver-haired bastard, a woman, you wanted to be more than all that. You wanted to be more than a dragonseed, more than what your parents doomed you to be. In order to achieve that, you would need to rise to the occasion and escape. With every ounce of strength, willpower, resentment, and fear you had in you, you ran towards the exit.

As you reached the opening you noticed it didn’t lead to solid ground, no grass or rocks to greet you. As you smelled the fresh air you also smelled the unmistakable smell of the sea. A salty fishy smell filled your nostrils and consumed your lungs.

Into the sea you soon jumped, a stupid, reckless idea, but far better than trying to climb down a mountain. All you hoped for was that the Gods would show you mercy and carry you to shore. The sea was cold, colder than you had expected, it took you great power to swim close to shore and drag your body through the sand before collapsing.

Your chest moved up and down in quick succession, desperate for air, as you tried to regain your strength you closed your eyes, letting the happenings of the day pass through your mind.

Sleep tried to claim you, alas, it was to no avail, for soon thereafter a loud roar resonated into the sky causing you to bolt upright from where you laid. A winged creature flew above you. It was large and formidable, you believed it to be even larger than the dragon you had seen in the Dragonstone caves.

The formidable beast’s shadow covered you as it flew over the sun, for as far as your eyes could see the world was now shrouded in darkness, only in the far distance could you see the sun rays touch the ground once more. The roars it let out were bone-chilling, a feeling of dread had washed over you from the moment you rose but now you were rooted to the ground with the fear of death settling in your veins which ironically left you unable to move. You had never imagined your death this way. Where nobles imagined dying in their canopy beds on silken sheets, you would be lucky if you died by a clean cut to your neck.

Now, however, it seemed you would die from this dragon thinking you made a decent hors d'oeuvre, before finding something larger or more plentiful to truly fill its stomach. Gods you really had a most cruel fate.

Once more a deafening roar resounded to the sky, causing your knees to buckle in fear as your hands shot to your ears in a vain attempt to dampen the noise. You kept your eyes locked onto the large figure as it soared through the sky, going higher and then lower, as if taunting you, playing with you, truly regarding you as prey.

In an odd way it frustrated you, standing there, waiting, baiting your breath as to when the dragon finally decided to end you. Anger rose through you more and more the longer this cat and mouse dance continued. Fear became an afterthought as your anger of a futile death overcame you.

“I’m here!” You screamed at the sky “Kill me! I dare you!” If anyone saw you, they’d be regarding you as a madwoman, which admittedly you were. However, it seemed as though no one was there, on this vast beach with waves continuing their cycle of ebb and flow, you were alone. Alone with the dragon. One last attempt you thought as you opened your mouth to scream, yet no sound could come for that very moment the dragon chose to descend onto the ground.

Your frozen feet suddenly could not move any faster, the large dragon got closer as you scrambled to get away, the sand making for incredibly difficult terrain when you want to be quick. One wrong step and you were sent tumbling down, face first in the sand. With the thought of impending death overtaking your mind, you found the tiniest bit of energy to turn around. In doing so, you were facing the dragon as it descended, shielding your eyes as sand was blown in all directions from the beating of the wings. A loud thud echoed on the empty beach as the beast finally stood on solid ground, its large body covered you in shadow.

Its snout was so close to your face, you could feel the puffs of hot breath. Bright, emerald green eyes were in stark contrast to the pitch black of its scales. The dragon was magnificent as it was terrifying, you gulped and took rapid breaths. Panic had settled in now, panic, fear, and anger, none were a pretty feeling. One of your hands went up to clutch your new necklace as you closed your eyes.

Waiting for the inevitable.

On a distant dune stood a smaller dragon, much smaller than the one hovering over the young woman. Upon that small dragon, with scales of olive green and wings decorated with a pale orange, sat the young prince, a spyglass held to one of his eyes as he witnessed the scene.

A part of him felt a great sense of pity for the woman. She looked young, perhaps around his age, and she had showed great courage in fleeing from Vermithor. A pity she would die so soon, yet at the same time. A bastard less or more would not make any difference

He closed his spyglass and pocketed it inside his tunic. There was no need to watch the scene unfold, he thought. He buckled his saddle tighter and spoke to his dragon, “sōvēs Vermax.”

#house of the dragon #jacaerys valeryon #jacaerys velaryon x you #jacaerys velaryon x reader #prince jacaerys #jacaerys targaryen #jacaerys x reader #jacaerys velaryon #hotd jacaerys #jace targaryen #jace velaryon #house of the dragon fanfic #hotd fanfic #hotd #rhaenyra targaryen

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sepherinaspoppies · 8 days ago

Text

Only If For A Night

ꕥ series masterlist & taglist ⋆. 𐙚 ˚ masterlist ✧₊⁺AO3

⟢summary: In Dia De Los Muertos (Day of the Dead), she gets forcefully transported to Westeros and meets her favorite book character, Aemond 'One Eye'. She asks and begs for his help to send her back home after realizing this was a world she did not want to live in. Unknowingly to her, her favorite fictional man had already grown too attached to fully let her go.

⟢pairing: Dark! Book Aemond Targaryen x Modern! Reader

⟢warnings for this part: Mentions of dead bodies, Harrenhal visions, light gore, Ser Crispy Coleslaw, Aemond being jealous and horny.

⟢wc: 7,872

⟢gif credit: @peachysunrize but she deleted her acc so im sorry!

Chapter 3: Me and the Devil

She was doing her best not to lose her mind. She’s never been stuck in a situationship like this before. Or hardly knew anyone that had been. Stuff like this only occurred in…books. In which she was now in the middle of.

She had so many questions yet no answers.

She knew she had to come up with some sort of well thought out plan. But if she was being honest, she barely even had a pl. As Phoebe Buffay once said on an early episode of Friends.

One thing was for sure, she was in the Riverlands. Harrenhal. Westeros. If she had her history correct, and she did, the year is currently 130 AC.

Rhaenyra Targaryen had just taken over the city of King’s Landing with the help of the Rogue Prince at her side.

She recalls how this news caused Aemond to go on a seize of murderous rampage, killing the entirety of House Strong. The very same pile of dead bodies she saw in the outer yard, those were them.

As much as she tried, she couldn’t get that horrifying image out of her head. Not now and perhaps not even the days to come. With every blink of her eyes, she saw them; bloody, decaying, eyes wide of what they felt before death: fear.

Don’t throw up, don’t throw up.

Not that there was much in her stomach to.

Shortly after Aemond had severed the guard’s head, she had literally thrown up just inches away from his feet.

He did not say much, only bringing a small green handkerchief from his pocket and wiped remnants away from her lips. Instead of being angry or disgusted, Aemond’s face exhibited only concern.

Because of that she was escorted inside Harren’s castle with haste by Aemond’s orders. With the very little time she had, she tried to go against this but her words were swiftly overlooked and ignored.

She was brought into a medium sized room at the highest tower of Harrenhal. The room wasn’t much to look at. High stoned black walls with no decorations or personality. A canopy bed with multiple pillows and furs laid near the window with two nightstands on each side, holding lit candelabras.

Facing the canopy was a vanity table with nothing but dried flowers and a dusted mirror that she couldn’t make out her reflection. It was obvious that no one had occupied this room in a very long time. The cobwebs, near all four corners of the ceiling, confirmed it.

To the left of the vanity was a beige folding screen and behind it was a large white bathtub that she had been thrown in immediately upon arriving in the room by two older women.

After she had been bathed and dressed, a third woman delivered a hot cup of peppermint tea to ease the nausea. However, after they left she made sure to discard the cup, choosing not to drink anything, harboring feelings of distrust when she previously drank a cup of tea.

The sound of the door being opened caused her to sit rigidly on the chair, thinking it was a particular one eyed prince entering the room. Instead, the knots in her stomach loosened as an elderly man made his way inside, offering her a simple smile before he set a leather bag he’d been holding on a nearby table.

Her mouth opened, wondering who he was but as she assessed his gray robes and the several decorated chains hanging from his neck, he’d have to be a maester.

Something close to a doctor in her world.

“You have not touched the tea, my lady.” His voice was barely audible, gentle as he pointed out. “Are you allergic to peppermint?”

“No,” she shook her head, her eyes landing on the medical supplies being brought to the rounded table. She recognized some of them such as the suturing kit, scale, gauze, scissors and a scalpel.

Her abuelo, Vidalio, had a collection of identical vintage medical supplies in his office that often as a kid she’d glance at in complete fascination.

“Are you not partial to peppermint?” The maester questioned.

“I’m not partial to drinking something that I did not see being made,” she added. After drinking that tea Alyssandra had given her, there was no way she’d risk doing that again. “Besides, peppermint is most known to target headaches. If you were to mix ginger and chamomile, then you have an accurate tea to treat nausea.”

The maester lifted a bush eyebrow, cocking his head to side taking her suggestion into consideration. “Very well. I’ll bring a cup of boiling water—” He tried saying, only for her to sprint directly in front of him.

“—there’s no need. I am well; as you can see.” She feigned a recovered smile.

“I still am in need of boiling water to brew milk of the poppy, my lady.”

It was her turn to gaze at him in wonder. “What for?” She inquired. She knew what milk of the poppy was. An opium made from the poppy flower to aid in severe pain and to anesthetize a person out cold in a deep sleep.

It was also the same pearly liquid she read in A Game of Thrones that Grand Maester Pycelle used to treat Ned Stark after an altercation he had with Jaime Lannister, which gave the Warden of the North, strange dreams. ‘Poppy dreams’ otherwise known as hallucinations.

As helpful as it was, it was also very addictive. Equivalent to morphine and fentanyl. As an intern at St. David’s Hospital, she’d seen how bad opioids took a toll on people.

So it was safe enough to say she wasn’t going to be easily convinced to take it.

The older man pointed at the swollen cut on her lower lip, where that asshole of a guard had slapped her hours ago. “The wound on your lip; I have to stitch it. I will use milk of the poppy to ease the discomfort when inserting the needle into your lip.”

“I already said I’m fine.” She answers more firmly. She glanced at the multitudinous array of small amber jars on the table that contained different kinds of fine powders, liquids, dried herbs, seeds, and strange looking roots.

She was able to make out a little bit of everything. Though, nothing of the sort would be needed for something so minor. Rubbing alcohol and perhaps a topical antibiotic ointment were as good as any.

“Tis’ not what the prince thinks, my lady.” The maester abruptly murmurs out, fearfully looking at the door. If the prince were to walk into the room, seeing his guest not being properly treated as he demanded, he too would suffer the same unmerciful fate as his lord.

“It’s a superficial cut! You can tell the prince, I don’t need tea or stitches.” What she needed was to get out of here and go home.

“A topical amoxicillin ointment should be enough. Though, I don’t think it exists here.” In fact no modern medicine could be found here. This era was if not the same as medieval times, where people die everyday of infection or contamination due to the lack of antibiotics, antivirals, and vaccines.

She felt lucky that all of her vaccines were up to date.

Except maybe for her yearly flu shot. Fuck!

The maester tilted his head in surprise, “Are you a healer?” He asked, intrigued that she too knew medicinal practices. Most witches did not, if he believed the rumors around the castle.

She crouched down, eyeing the herbs that caught her attention.

“Something like that. I know enough to know that I don’t need stitches. It’s just a little bit of swelling that will go down in a day or two if I ice it.” Though, she wasn’t sure how the maester would get ice in the Riverlands. If this was the North, ice wouldn’t be a problem.

The maester, befuddled, nodded. Knowing that his endeavors to treat her lip were pointless, he slid her a small amber salve of bread mold.

She gave him a ‘what the hell is that?’ kind of look, in which he explained it was an ointment to prevent infections.

After a few series of questions, she realized that this bread mold was as close as what she was going to get to penicillin.

A look of relief and ease plastered on the maester’s face as she delicately dabbed some of the salve on her wound. She was equivocal if the salve was meant to have a bitter taste or smell, but she kept her thoughts to herself as she wanted this visit to speed up.

“What’s your name?” She asked while watching the man place his medical supplies in his bag with uttermost care.

“They call me Maester Nywen.” He revealed.

She pronounced his name repeatedly in her head, trying to remember if he was mentioned in Fire & Blood. Though, there was no record of him at all.

“I’m—”

“I know who you are, my lady.” Nywen interjected. Everyone knew her name, including the walls of Haren’s castle. It was said she possessed otherworldly abilities unknown to men.

In his many years serving House Strong, Nywen never came across her path. Never saw her in the flesh. Just tales and rumors. Some that he believed; such as her being his lord’s favorite out of his true born sons and daughters. Some that Nywen didn’t quite believe; like the rumor of her bathing in maiden’s blood to remain forever youthful.

Looking at her now, her complexion differed from what he pictured.

To her befuddlement, she had no idea how Nywen knew her name. She didn’t remember mentioning it to anyone, including the old ladies.

This was all some weird mystery that was making her feel dizzy and unsettled. She only now wished she had some Ibuprofen or an Advil pill to dull the pain in her head.

“If this is all, I must take my leave. Good day, my lady.”

“Wait! I’ll go with you,” she called out, and the older man came to a halt before he exited the door.

A look of sympathy came on Nywen’s face. “Apologies, my lady, but the prince ordered for you to remain here.”

“Wait, what?!” She followed a close second after him, perplexed. Nywen gave her one last look of remorse, “I am sorry, my lady. You won’t be kept in here for long. The prince has some matters to attend to before he calls for you. Should you come in need of anything, ring the bell.”

“Nywen!” She called out, but it was too late as the door was suddenly closed right in her face. The sound of a lock confirmed her fears.

She was alone again.

She wondered how abuela Selena was doing. The older woman, who’d been more like a second mother to her, had come across her mind a lot more now.

Had she known she was missing?

Of course she did; she was probably seriously panicking right now and sent out a search party to look for her.

The pueblo was small, and it wouldn’t have taken her family long to figure out she wasn’t there or in any surrounding pueblos. She knew that wouldn’t hinder them from continuing their search for her. Her family were strong and brazen fighters and would stop at nothing to keep the family safe.

She also wondered if her mother knew. Though, she already knew the answer to that. Her very overprotective mother, who calls every hour of each day, must have flown from the states the second she did not answer the phone. A heavy argument most likely would’ve happened between her mother and her abuela, Selena, for not keeping a close eye on her.

Even if the fault had not been her abuela’s, she feared that her disappearance became a fresh new layer of conflict added on top of the decades long strife between her mother and Selena.

She did not wish for that. For years, she’d attempted to push them together to communicate and get past whatever tension they had between them. She prayed that things would not escalate further between them in her absence.

She could just imagine seeing them after all of this was over.

But to pinpoint when?

Now, that was going to be challenging.

She was so high up in Harren’s castle that she wished she were some type of bird. A raven, perhaps. With great big and wide wings to fly to carry her away.

Fly, a voice whispered next to her.

Startled, she snapped her head up to the side in the direction of the voice. “What?” She asked with a shaky voice.

You have wings. Use them.

She glanced behind her shoulders, feeling for soft feathers but was met with bare skin and no wings.

“Liar.” She asserted back. And the voice responded something in return, though it was barely audible.

However, something in the room had shifted. It became darker, colder, and overall strange. The dark hairs on her arms stood when the flames of the candles blew out one by one by themselves while the hinges of the door creaked open.

A thin curtain of light appeared at the end of the hall and her body seemed to sense some type of energy vibrating around the room, pulling her to leave now that the door was unlocked.

A part of her debated whether or not to take the risk and leave as this was exactly how people died in scary movies, by following strange energies. Another part of her said fuck it, sensing the energy as not evil or not good either.

She let out a frightened gasp as the door shut completely from behind and the vibrating energy increased tenfold. The longer she walked throughout the corridor, she began to realize that the buzzing was actually a low humming sound echoing down the hall.

A song.

Arrorró, mi niño

Arrorró, mi Sol

Arrorró pedazo

De mi corazón

Abuelo Vidalio would sing that exact song as a lullaby when she had trouble sleeping as a child. Which happened to be all of the time since she experienced very vivid dreams about strange people and creatures she did not recognize. Vidalio, with his soothing voice, would be there to sing the bad dreams away.

Este niño lindo

Que nació de noche

Quiere que lo lleven

A pasear en coche

Could it be him?

With trembling hands, she takes a peek through the slim opening. A large and nicely furnished room is set directly in front of her. It sort of reminded her of Vidalio’s private studio near the outskirts of her family’s home. Vidalio had a love for old vintage things like outdated medical books, scrolls, medical supplies, herb vials, maps, and furniture.

Some of those things decorated the inside room.

In the center, a man sat on a wooden rocking chair with his back towards her. She glanced at the carvings on the top rail of the chair; a three headed dragon, wolf, lion, some sort of sea creature, fish, falcon, stag, and a rose.

Instantly, she knew who the rocking chair belonged to.

“Abuelo?” She asks aporetically. Although she missed him terribly, she secretly hoped it wouldn’t be him. Since he, himself, had been dead for years. And it wasn’t like she didn’t believe in ghosts; she did.

The humming impetuously ends before it begins, and so does the back and forth movement of the rocking chair.

Purple eyes stare directly at hers like he’d been waiting a while for her to come in. “El niño no se puede dormir,” Vidalio addresses her in complete distress. (the boy can’t fall asleep)

His appearance made her halt on her tracks, he looked and dressed differently than what he normally looked like. She remembered him older, tanner, his light blonde hair styled directly away from his face, with more modern fitted clothes.

Here he was younger with milky white skin that was untouched from the harsh Mexican sun; his hair slightly long and silver. And more importantly, his clothes were strange and old fashioned, almost aristocratic.

The only way she knew for certain this was her abuelo, was by a polaroid her abuela took of Vidalio when he was young, were they both briefly lived in Cancun.

How was it possible that he was here, in Harrenhal?

In Westeros?

How could it be?

Her lack of response causes Vidalio to continue humming the lullaby as he sways something tight on his arms.

A boy, no more than eight, laid lifeless across Vidalio’s arms. Small cuts and bruises painted across the young boy’s small and delicate face and body. All while fresh blood dripped from the side of his chest, pooling down onto the floor.

He was bleeding out.

Yet, the boy was already dead.

What was more harrowing of it all, were the boy’s eyes. They were a rich and dark violet color, wide, blinking and staring right at her.

Through her.

It was the only thing about him that was alive.

Este niño lindo

Ya quiere dormir

Háganle la cuna

De rosa y jazmín

“We need to take him to a hospital,” she frantically suggested. Maybe the boy wasn’t completely deceased. Maybe all he needed was proper medical attention like a blood transfusion and a few stitches.

“It’s too late.” Her abuelo pointed out. “All he needs now is the comfort of his mother.” Vidalio gives the boy one last hug before he stretches the body in her direction.

“What?!” She exclaims, feeling the air in her lungs rapidly leaving her body.

Surely, he didn’t mean the little boy was hers…

This didn’t seem possible. A mother is able to recognize the face of their own child. She’d hear on multiple occasions from mothers, at the hospital she interns in, how a sort of natural maternal instinct and intuition set in the moment they became mothers.

She’d know if she had a child, but that boy was not hers.

Or was it?

“I- I need to go. This isn’t real. This-this isn’t true. You aren’t real. You are dead.” She says between ragged breaths, feeling a panic attack brewing in.

She took a few steps back, only to be met with a cold hard chest. An older man, perhaps in his late sixties, with long silver-white hair and dark eyes, smiled warmly at her. Beside him, were six other men and a singular woman.

She noticed that the two older men wore more modern clothes, while the others wore some sort of old fashioned clothes similar to Vidalio’s, embroidered by the same red design.

“I’m sorry,” she let out an apology to the older man. The man, though, remained unfazed. He simply continued to look at her with tears in his eyes before he replied with a strangled voice. “Mama.”

“No. Oh, no, no.” She shook her head, placing some distance between them. All of them. As if that would help them disappear.

Yea she needed to get the fuck out right now.

She eyed the door and ran towards the opening, leaving behind people that did not exist. For a moment, she believed she heard something but dismissed it as quickly as lightning.

She saw people along her path but whether they were real or not she did not know or care for. Her goal was to leave. Leave this place, sapphire or not.

Halfway into her sprint, she got the feeling she was being followed. So she ran into a solitary hallway and opened the first door she saw.

“You’re early.”

She drew in a sharp breath as she came across the last person she wished to see right now, none other than Aemond Targaryen.

The prince’s lone eye was practically sparkling when looking at her after being hours apart. She had been away for too long for his taste.

Aemond would have preferred for her to come after everything– the wine, dinner, and dessert– were perfectly set up on the table as he had planned.

Yet, she was here now.

With the light blue with silver gown he specifically picked out. The colors itself reminded Aemond of House Arryn, a traitorous house that sided with the whore that was his half-sister. Though, the colors were at least better than that of House Strong.

Aemond almost had the two women killed for even considering such bletcherous colors for his one and only to wear.

Blind luck was bestowed upon them when another woman quickly brought an unused gown from her daughter’s armoire. Which was the one his love was currently wearing.

She looked mesmerizing. Goddess like. The very Maiden in the flesh.

“Are you alright?” Aemond asked as he noticed her out of breath appearance.

Before she had a chance to say anything, a tall and dark haired knight came in; presumably after her as he was out of breath too.

Aemond looked between Ser Criston and his one and only, and concluded that he’d been chasing her for some time.

“Tis’ alright, Cole. No grave offense has occurred,” Aemond affirmed with a court nod.

She blinked, assessing the man who was one of few to cause the civil war, Dance of the Dragons, between Aegon and Rhaenyra.

He appeared just as he was described in the books.

Charming.

Though, she did not expect him to be quite so… short.

Whilst Aemond stood exceptionally tall, Ser Coleslaw seemed no taller than five foot and eight inches. Perhaps that is one of many reasons he was such a misogynistic dick who couldn’t handle rejection.

If she did the math correctly by the current year, he must’ve been in his late forties. Yet he had this youthful look about him that one wouldn’t have guessed he was reaching his fifties.

Not that he would live to see his fifties.

Days later he would die south of the Gods Eye.

“Holy shit, you’re Criston Cole?!” She exclaimed not with fascination but with distaste lacing her tone.

The Kingmaker placed a hand on the pommel of his sword, glaring at her with such vigilance. “I am. Have we met before?”

“Not really–”

“Leave us, Cole.” Aemond snapped unexpectedly, causing her body to jolt at the intensity of his voice.

Criston shifted his focus to the prince regent. “I think it would be wise if I stay, my prince. Wouldn’t want anything… unseemly to happen.”

Oh.

At that, she took a few steps away from Aemond, placing as much distance between them as possible.

The mere thought of her and Aemond together made her feel uneasy and very unsettling. He was a prince. Royalty.

While she was the opposite of what he was. A simple commoner.

Aemond kept himself from frowning at the space his love placed between. He clearly did not intend to take her today, as much as he desired to.

His incessant desire and appetite would be sated the moment they were joined as one.

Which would be soon, if everything went according to plan.

“Leave us. It is a command,” Aemond said, tone much demanding and darker.

Criston clenched his jaw in anger before he turned to leave. Just as he was about to shut the door he gave her one last look.

There was no kindness in his cold green eyes. Rather he looked at her like the dirt beneath his boot that quickly needed to be swept away.

“Do you always captivate this much trouble, my lady?” Aemond asks, just seconds after the door closes.

She is only able to let out a hum as she feels all the words in her throat shrivel and dry up.

Aemond’s white linen shirt hung loosely and unbuttoned against his chest; His pants were halfway unlaced.

Aemond looked down at her silently, waiting for an answer from her. Yet she stood there gawking at the man in front of her, with his toned-pale chest on display, light silver trail of hair below his navel, leading to–

She apologizes quickly before rapidly turning around to grant him some privacy.

Doing so caused Aemond to curl his lip into a smirk. She didn’t need to be sorry about her curious glances. Aemond thought to himself. Very soon, she’ll be well acquainted with his body; as well as he with hers too.

Though, that day could not be any sooner. Much to his dismay, Aemond had to settle on that memory when she wore such sheer chemise. The same clothing he kept to himself after she was dressed, and used to pleasure himself with just moments ago.

“What makes you think that?” She added, her voice stammering a bit but she masks it with a cough.

“You outran three of my guards, for starters, and managed to harm one of them. You also fled from your chamber without so much as a word,” Aemond breathed. “Will you hand me my doublet, please?”

Her hands reached for the black leather doublet in front of the armchair, handing it back to Aemond with hands over her eyes. “Are you saying that I shouldn’t have run and let them have their way with me?” Anger, panic, fear and disbelief brewing deep in her stomach

“Seven Hells, no. That is not what I am implying,” Aemond expresses. “I am elated that you managed to defend yourself and run. But if your reason for fleeing was because you harbor any fear that it will happen again, I can assure you it will not.”

She stilled for a moment, the hair follicles at the back of her head rose when she felt Aemond’s presence so close behind her. “As long as you are here, you’re under my protection. I will never let anyone or anything harm you. I promise you this.”

The very gruesome image of Aemond beheading the guard that assaulted her, deemed his promise held true.

Nevertheless, she was taken aback by the comment and the surface of her face felt warm. “Um thanks,” she nervously chuckled. It was the only thing she could say at such earnest promise.

“You can turn around now, if you wish.”

And she did. He looked well put together, dressed in all black from head to toe. The dark shade truly suited Aemond, giving him the illusion of a gothic prince.

In such proximity, she could smell something amidst smoke, fire, and ash emitting from his clothes.

Possibly from his dragon, Vhagar.

Vhagar.

Being the bookworm that she was, she wondered what the oldest and largest she-dragon looked like. Or where she was currently nesting at.

However, her nerdishness had to be set aside.

For now, atleast.

“Are you famished, my lady? The servants are to bring us dinner shortly, but if you’re hungry now I could ask them to speed it along.” Aemond asked across the room, his hand on the handle of the door.

She was about to refuse his polite offer, unfortunately for her the mention of dinner provoked her stomach to growl so loud that even Aemond heard it.

Damned traitor.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Aemond said, his lips curling into a witty grin. She held up her hand in a way to prevent him from arranging dinner, she didn’t have time for. “That won’t be necessary–”

“The ferocious noise inside your belly says otherwise,” he quips as he instructs a nearby servant for some food. “I am starved from killing Strongs all morning and afternoon. I crave something more fulfilling besides shellfish and mediocre soups.”

It was all Aemond ate at the capital after the Pretender ordered the blockade. At first, the small council had spent a remarkable amount on enough meat, poultry, grains, fruits, and vegetables for his family and guests. Subsequently, in a moon or so everything had run out. Fish, oysters, shrimp, and different kinds of soups were served.

Aemond did not mind, in the beginning, but after a while his appetite longed for his regular and satiated meals. He nearly took one of Vhagar’s goats for himself. Aemond knew he couldn’t as Vhagar needed her strength for upcoming battles and decided to let that foolish idea go.

A few minutes went by when an array of servants arrived inside the room, carrying hot plates of food. She recognized two of the servants. Both of whom helped her bathe and dress earlier.

One, she noticed, struggled to keep a ceramic bowl steady. Instantly, she took the bowl from her trembling hands. “The bowl is very hot, my lady. You must be careful!” The old woman warned as she tried to pry the plate off her hands.

Although she was touched by her worriment, she couldn’t help but to chuckle. “It’s alright. I’ve been accustomed to touching hotter things, and this is not nearly as hot as you think.” At a young age, she more than often would help her mama make homemade tortillas de harina and would flip them by hand in the comal while scorching hot. On the weekend’s she’d help out at her uncle Belen’s restaurant. Often serving customers hot plates of food straight from the stove. (flour tortillas, griddle)

So heat never really bothered her.

She placed the large bowl in the center of the table, adjacent to the other plates and pitchers. Then she proceeded to help the servants set the table.

All while doing so she couldn’t help but feel Aemond’s eye on her the entire time as she moved. He stood silent near one of the windows, patiently waiting until everyone that wasn’t her, to leave.

“Will that be all, my prince?” A kitchen servant asked, her eyes struggling to keep eye contact. Aemond waved the woman away, disinterestedly. Something about that irked her to her core, and it reminded her of the countless entitled customers who treated servers beneath them.

“Thank you,” she smiled at the servants before they took their leave. They returned the smile and she couldn’t help but to think if they’ve ever been thanked before and she was content that she did.

“Shall we dine?” Aemond gestured to the overly-filled table.

She nodded, her stomach doing flips for food. Before she had the chance to pull out a chair, Aemond beat her straight to it with a smug smile carved into his lips.

“In truth, I’m glad that you came now. I was to summon you for another hour while you had your rest but to my surprise the maester informed me that you refused treatment.” Aemond spoke from behind.

She sucked in a breath, shoulders tensing as the tips of Aemond’s fingers softly grazed around the exposed skin behind her neck. A spot where she felt insecure and anxious from anyone viewing.

Even the two older women, who bathed her, halted their scrubbing when they came across the two deep vertical scars on each of her shoulder blades. A part of her was relieved that they did not say anything and continued their scrubbing, but the overthinker in her worried if they were secretly judging behind her back.

Aemond pressed his lips together tightly, replacing a frown as she wiggled herself away from his touch.

“Stitches are required for deep or gaping wounds, and surgical incisions. I did not necessitate it since this is a superficial cut. It will heal in a day or two if I clean it properly to prevent infection. Nywen agreed as well as I did and supplied me with a topical antibiotic.”

She watched as Aemond slid into a seat directly across from her, digesting in her words.

“Nywen?” Aemond arched his brow.

“The maester.”

Aemond hummed, content by her answer. “You speak as if you’re a maester yourself.”

“I’m a nurse,” She shared proudly, though ignoring the fact she has not taken her NCLEX yet. Meaning she was not actually licensed.

Aemond appeared to be taken back by her response and redirected his eye to her very glorious and plump pair of breasts.

Would she allow him the pleasure to drink from her chest as well?

The one eyed prince could only wish.

Aemond could practically hear his one and only loudly moan and cry for him as he drank every last drop from her breasts, providing her with not only relief but also pleasure.

The thought alone made his cock stir underneath his breeches.

“Not a wet nurse!” She exclaimed, as she crossed her arms over her chest, attempting to cover her boobs.

That, however, proved to be fruitless as the action alone caused her boobs to thrust upwards, revealing more for his eye to see. The violet in Aemond’s lone eye darkened and she swore she almost heard him… moan.

“Forgive me, my lady. I didn't mean to cause offense,” Aemond softened his voice as he discreetly adjusted his hardness beneath the dining table, stifling a hiss at the throbbing sensation.

“I never met a woman who practices conventional medical treatment; especially a young woman. Just old men. But seeing as to the maester being gone–”

Hearing that caused her head to snap up. “–Gone?”

“Yes, he left shortly after he was done treating you. I bid his freedom in exchange for his services and you were his last patient.” Aemond briefly told as he grabbed a slice of some type of roasted meat onto his plate.

“Well, that’s good to hear. At least he is free to see his family now,” she exhaled a breath she didn’t know she held.

Aemond hummed in agreement, choosing to spare the grisly details of him beheading the maester for treason against the crown.

In a way, the maester did get to finally visit his family, along with his liege.

“With him gone, perhaps you’d want to take his place?” Aemond offered coolly.

It wasn’t like she would stay here long enough to help heal his people. She had a deadline to meet and follow, and the One Eyed Prince sure as hell wasn’t going to get in her way. So she chose to give him a little inconsequential lie.

“Perhaps,” she shrugged as she began to assess the food upon the table.

And boy, were there many to choose from. There was a variety of cooked meats, sauteed vegetables, hot stews, breads, cheeses, and fruits.

It reminded her of an all-you-could-eat buffet.

She ended up selecting the same type of roasted meat as Aemond, paired with a small slice of bread and a goblet half full of a golden liquid she believed was some sort of juice.

By the way he was staring at her, she almost wanted to tell Aemond to take a picture to make it last longer but saying such a thing would be indecipherable to Aemond.

Rather it was better to say “paint a portrait.”

Now, however, was not the time to be comical.

Aemond began shifting to a new topic of conversation when she took the first bite of what he said was ‘roasted duck’. Instantly, she scrunched her face at the off- putting taste.

She always preferred her meat to be cooked well done and generously seasoned with garlic, salt, pepper, with a hint of rosemary and chili peppers for spice.

Though this meat itself felt uncooked in the center, bland and not seasoned correctly.

But what else could she expect from Westeros?

Aemond watched from where he sat, disheartened by her dischuffed reaction, “Is the duck not to your liking?”

No. She wanted to reply but she had a feeling that if she denied him, Aemond would try to convince her to take another dish.

“It’s good, thank you.” She lied after she forcefully swallowed the meat, smiling as she reached for her goblet to wash down the horrible aftertaste that lingered in her mouth.

Aemond was not in the slightest convinced that it was or the wine judging from her disapproving reaction. “Here, have some Dornish red. It is what I’m drinking, much better than the shit from Lannisport you drank.”

With hesitance, she took the cup. His fingers brushed with her own with a gentle caress that shocked her and almost pulled away from, if not for the goblet being nearly full.

She examined the dark red wine carefully before sampling it. There was a sweetness blended with some sourness that had her wondering if she had it before. It wasn’t a bad taste but it was definitely strong.

“Better?” Aemond queried, sitting straighter.

“Well you’re definitely right about the other one tasting like shit.” She laughed as she drank more Dornish red.

She's had some questionable alcohol before, but Lannisport wine definitely takes the cake. It was like drinking straight raw honey and cinnamon.

Aemond joined in with her laughter. “Dornish red can be quite strong and can surely get a person drunk if they have not eaten. Mayhaps I can have the cooks prepare something you prefer eating. What would you like?”

There were many foods she craved right now.

Back home, her abuela was preparing the masa for the tamales that took hours to make just for the entire family. (dough)

Her cousins Sara and Valeria, planned to bring a very spicy pozole and mole from their side of the family.

Tio Belen and tia Alicia were bringing their infamous chocoflan and caramel empanadas for dessert.

Those meals alone were what she wanted more than anything.

Sadly, there were zero chances that Westeros had any of that.

Especially during a war.

“I’m alright, thank you. I’ll stick to eating this, it’s not so bad now with the wine,” she reassured. Last thing she wanted was to waste food. Something she despised.

Her answer, however, wasn’t what Aemond hoped for but he settled on it for now.

“I do, myself, wish to know how exactly a lady such as yourself came to be wandering about in the woods, dressed in nothing but her shift.” Aemond implored, tilting his head to the side.

Uh oh.

“The remaining guards confessed that you were wearing your shift when they found you. Prompting them to believe you were some mislead whore. It still doesn’t justify their actions against you and for that I sincerely apologize. But, I’d like to hear your side of the tale if you do not mind.”

It all had been some unusual mystery, how she— the woman he had been expecting for ten years— came running onto his arms out of the blue.

Your life awaits

Was all Helaena said before he left to take back Harrenhal.

The pounding of her heart increased tenfold. She knew she had to stick to the truth as much as humanly possible, only altering the details that had to be kept secret.

She wouldn’t deny a part of her wondered if there was even a chance of coming clean to Aemond.

Without proof, maybe he’d think she was ludicrous.

If someone from Westeros came to the modern world, and extemporaneously said they’d been transported from a fictional universe, she without a doubt thought they were on some sort of crack.

She clears her throat, blinking rapidly in search of the right words to say. “Earlier I was sent to pick out some flowers for my family. Along the way, a woman came across my path and robbed me of not only my gown and shoes but my belongings as well. I tried chasing after her but after several minutes my feet became tired and I was lost around the woods with nothing to go by.”

“Your guards found me moments later. They insinuated that I was a whore, and I tried to tell them I wasn’t. That’s when things got violent and I was only trying to defend myself.” She explained transparently.

Aemond redirected his gaze towards the cut on her lower lip, then to her hand noticing some bruising. He recalled how the first guard had a stain of dried blood on his nose right before he killed him.

“Again, I must say how truly sorry I am for the dishonorable actions of my men. And I applaud you for your braveness, my lady.” Aemond said as he raised his goblet before taking a sip.

“Oh, this?” She asked, gesturing to the hand that was bruised. “This is nothing.”

Aemond let out a chortle. “It’s not nothing. You certainly broke his nose and damaged his foot by the looks of it. Who taught you to hit like that?”

“My uncle, Aimon.” She answers. Though unsure if she should reveal details about her family. “Most of us, my cousins and I, are girls. He said it was important that we, as women, learn how to be self resilient and defend ourselves. He taught us with a practice dummy, at first. Then with some padded gloves. ”

Aemond raised his brows, shocked by the notion that a man would allow their nieces to physically fight. His own father never bothered to teach his sister how to train in combat, not that Helaena would’ve wanted to or his mother allowed it. The Dowager Queen detested violence.

It was only ever him that learned to train in combat.

Not by his father, too sickly and yet too worried about Rhaenyra. Only Ser Criston Cole who shared the passion of the sword with him.

“Your uncle seems progressive,” Aemond stated, watching as a sad smile set on her face. “Yea he is.” The reminder of Aimon made her reflect on how much she missed her family right now.

Especially since Aimon was coming home for Dia De Los Muertos, after being stationed in Mexico City for ten years. Alicia and her were the only ones that knew of Aimon’s surprise visit to abuela Selena.

Though, perhaps now the only surprise her abuela was going to get was her disappearance.

“Have I said something to upset you?” Aemond questioned.

Her attention went back to the one eyed prince, who looked at her with concern. “No, no you haven’t. I just… nevermind.” She shook her head as she fiddled with the edges of her goblet.

Aemond leaned forward in his seat, desperately wanting to know what she had to say. “What is it? You can tell me—”

Just as his hand was about to reach hers, a knock interrupted them both. “Prince Aemond, the dessert you requested is almost done. Shall I have it straight delivered to your chambers?” A kitchen maid inquired from the other end of the door.

Aemond made a sound of complete annoyance, causing her to give him a major side eye. “Yes, do so.”

His reply caused her to be taken aback. Did that mean she had to stay longer with him?

She hoped not as there wasn’t enough time for dessert or any of his pleasantries. No matter how hard Aemond procures her to stay. There was a deadline she had to follow and a family and home to go back to.

She knew that by now, her family already contacted the authorities; the police and even the fucking FBI. They’d even call the SWAT team if it were possible.

Maybe she was being a bit too… dramatic. But was she?

There wasn’t anything her family wouldn’t do for her, including searching all of Mexico just to get her back.

Sadly, she was nowhere near Mexico.

Rather she was stuck in a world that up until hours ago, was purely fictional. A work of fiction that she received as a gift.

Her first mistake of coming into this strange world was not thoroughly checking the cottage properly. Perhaps there, she could find some clues and answers that could help identify where this sapphire might be.

So, now was as good a time as any to leave. More hours later and she’d permanently risk staying here forever, just as Alyssandra warned.

As much as she wanted to explore and live through every bit of Westeros, she already missed her home, her family, the food, internet, and comfortable clothes that weren’t medieval dresses.

“Would you care for some more Dornish red as we wait for dessert to be served?” Aemond eventually asked, breaking her out of her stupor.

Go.

“Actually, I can’t,” she nervously chuckled as she stacked her plates and swept leftover crumbs with a napkin. Even universes away she still had the decency to pick up after herself.

Aemond felt his heart drop.

“It’s getting late and I must go. I’ve been gone for hours and my family is probably wondering where I am.” It was not entirely a lie. Her one way ticket out of here was to play her cards right by telling the truth.

“But the dessert—” The one eyed prince tried to explain but was interrupted.

“— can wait or I’ll take it on a to-go box. Do you guys have one of those here?” She knew not but it was worth a try.

Aemond gave her a look of utmost bewilderment. “A what?” A box for a piece of dessert?

She waved him off before she stood up, “it doesn’t matter. Thank you for letting me stay and for everything else you’ve done. I’m grateful, really. But I seriously have to go.”

Aemond found himself standing as well and before either of them knew it, Aemond spun her around so that her back was pressed on rough stone and his chest just inches away from her glorious plump breasts.

“You can’t leave,” Aemond said with a loud growl.

She swallowed, her eyes widening in total disbelief. “What?” In a frail voice she asked.

Aemond had to be gentle with his next choice of words. Last thing he wanted was to scare her off, like how he currently was doing so.

The prince softened the darkness in his eye. “Well,” he sighed, “you’ve said so yourself, it is getting late and I don’t think it is wise for a lady to wander by herself in the woods again. Especially at night and with a mugger on the loose.”

“I’ve caused you enough trouble as it is if I stay.” She stated, distancing herself away from Aemond.

Though the one eyed prince was quick to act as his hand barricaded her point of exit. “You caused me no trouble, I swear this to you. Please stay a little while longer. I’ll send a raven to your family that you reside here with me.” Aemond begged, feigning a demeanor of woefulness.

Although she did slightly feel bad, the deep voice in her head told her to stick to her guts; which was leaving.

“I don’t think so.” She shook her head as she was quick to duck underneath Aemond’s arm towards the door. She felt the light graze of Aemond’s hand reaching for her but she pulled away before he could touch her, causing him to frown.

Aemond yearned to have more time with her; to know every single part of her that made her so intriguing to him. She had haunted his dreams every night for far too long to let her go now. Considering how he had not yet voiced his affections to her. Aemond presumed, now was not the right time to declare his devotion. Time is what he needed.

“Alys, wait!” Aemond called out.

And she was sure as hell did wait.

A/N: sooooo I haven't updated this story for 8 months and for that I'm sorry guys 😩

but for those who are wondering: I live in an abusive household. so that should say enough.

and yes I am trying to get out, but I am currently unemployed.

the next chapter won't take 8 months I promise, but I am writing some smutty one shots for valentines day so I won't update this story until march!

also, if anyone can guess who Vidalio is, I will post a sneak peek of chapter 4!

#prince aemond #aemond fanfic #aemond targaryen x reader #hotd fanfic #hotd aemond #aemond one eye #aemond x reader #dark aemond x reader #alternate universe #modern reader

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moonsaver · 5 months ago

Text

Vena jugulară

War carries many things home. Jiaoqiu finds hunger. You find cures.

Warnings/tw; yan!jiaoqiu x reader, cannibal!jiaoiu, descriptions of gore, blood, veins, flesh, all of that nitty pitty, (slightly) suggestive scene, war, ooc definitely, rushed(?) etc..

A/n: 3.4k words. Not that big tbh. I kinda wanted to get it over w/ and thats all. I hope you guys enjoy. I kinda did.

- reader is a nurse who previously assisted Jiaoqiu on the battlefield to help wounded soldiers. I have mainly kept them gn, but i might have slipped up here and there.

"Doctor."

"Hm?"

Jiaoqiu hums and turns slightly to face you. His hands continue to fold the bandages. You eye the stain that's rusting on the off white shade.

"Another one."

"As usual."

A few men carry a stretcher into the tent soon after; dirtied from the filth of war. The stretcher has a man writhing and groaning in pain, but presumably passed out. His leg is injured.

Well, rather, his leg is torn.

A long tear. From the bottom of his knee, just shy of the curve, to the top of his foot. The flesh is almost cartoonishly pink, decorated with blood leaks and torn veins.

Jiaoqiu doesn't flinch, immediately getting to work, registering the anesthesia while guiding you to fetch rubbing alcohol and other surgical equipment. You silently oblige, as the other men leave, dredging on with their heavy boots riddled with mud.

A few moments later, as the last stitch tugs at the skin, Jiaoqiu sputters. You look up at him, concerned. A scruched, disgruntled look on his face, eyes still closed. You look down to see the slightest bit of mara leaking from the body.

"Even if I shall put him back together, what are the chances he may survive?"

He whispers, more to himself than asking you. You stay silent. You stare at his mouth, slightly covered in saliva, most likely from his sputtering.

He continues coughing a few moments more, handing the needle over to you as you hurriedly finish up a knot, then immediately leave to stand by him, shadowing him in worry as he continues coughing for a moment.

"Sorry. I choked on my spit."

You nod, before leaving and proceeding to finish up the work, leaving Jiaoqiu to catch his bearings.

You feel almost traitorous when you have such thoughts, however,

You've noticed an awful lot of things about your senior as of late.

His fur that's seeming to fray, split and gather on almost every surface, making it hard to disinfect and keep things sterilized for the most part. The stressful, or rather constrained look on his face when another soldier is sent his way – soldiers with flesh bursting at the seams of tight skin, blood flowering around the scene. The constant choking he feels from the heavy, thick scent of iron, and more spit dribbling down his chin.

Although, you feel it may be something else.

Granted, you don't ask. You hand him your handkerchief, and continue normally. You don't, however, miss the dilation of his usually thin pupils whenever he stares down at the man on the table. Like a starved predator upon a feast.

His eyes catch yours, too. Both of you stay silent.

–

"Hm, how.. disappointing."

You hum, Jing Yuan reverting to his pondering state, as you beat him at another round of the board game he'd invited you to.

"Battle strategies are your thing, General. I'm almost surprised. Are you letting me win, by any chance?"

Jing yuan laughs, a deep, curt sound that bubbles from his chest.

"Nurse, I would know how much fairness and certainty means to you."

"Hmm.. really,now?"

Your hand grabs his wrist, gripping onto the small guards of his arm, as you catch him trying to steal one of your pieces,

"Touchè".

You huff, letting go of his wrist, his hand languidly placing back the piece, before he repositions to lean the side of his head on it,

"Perhaps your instincts from then still remain."

"Mara struck are awfully dangerous."

"I've heard plenty. And seen, too."

"One tried to stab me with an empty syringe when I turned my back for a second."

Jing yuan hums, his hand hovering over the board decisively,

"Quite peculiar, such a trait."

"Strange indeed."

Jing yuan makes his move. It's time for you to think, now.

You lean slightly over the table, observing and calculating your moves. He continues to speak,

"Were you not infected as was the Chef?"

"Not sure why.."

You mumble out, fingers gently perched on a piece as you contemplate the move.

"You must have. That fever struck you for a month."

Your thoughts stop for a moment. Jing yuan almost smiles, watching the tension of your fingers over the piece,

"It's.. hard to remember what happened."

Your other hand creeps up to wrap around your waist, under the table. Something still faintly aches, but you aren't sure if you can fix it now.

"Chef cared for you quite arduously. That was the last time I'd seen a fox like him so ruffled."

You look up and click your tongue, as Jing yuan's fingers teeter around the pieces. He stays still and smiles, playing it off.

"I was the only one who could assist him. It's a given."

"Hm.. I've been driven to a corner."

You chuckle softly, jing yuan's eyes turning contemplative as you move your piece into position.

"Ah-ah, not so fast."

You blink, looking up at the General as he tuts, your hand hovering over your piece. Did you make a mistake?

He leans over, his hand reaching over to pick a stray hair off of your shoulder. It was short, and pink. Fur.

His hand retracts and languidly dusts it off his finger to the side. Ah, you realise,

"Must be Jiaoqiu's."

"I'd be surprised if it wasn't."

"I have been watching over that pink-haired girl.."

Jing yuan chuckles softly, shaking his head,

"He seems quite irritable since then."

"He's.. clingy. Ever since I.."

He hums, his golden eyes calculative as he decides his next move.

"What a shame."

You yawn, the settling winter thawing under the new sun making the atmosphere more comfortable than chilling, leaning back on your arms.

"I can never understand that man.."

Jing yuan makes his move, and waits for you, as he takes a sip of his tea.

"Foxians are quite interesting."

"Hm?"

Jing yuan's words pique your interest, as you slightly perk up,

"Really? What of it?"

"They react differently to mara."

The board is abandoned by now, as you listen intently, leaning forward,

"Do you know how mara works?"

He sets the ceramic cup down, the liquid in it ebbing gently from the motion.

"Foxians of his lineage have tendencies to act far too soon on their desires, from even a smidge of exposure."

..is he lying?

"It was a strange event he decided to treat such wounds in his past. With you on the line beside him."

"But, I was already working there before him."

"Indeed. That is why I.."

He stays silent for a moment. A small chuckle leaves him, as he shakes his head,

"You should be more cautious."

You blink for a moment, simply looking at him. Under the golden sunlight, it's hard to look away.

Wait.

You look down at the board, as he steadily gets up,

"Wait, you- stole the pieces-?!"

----

You sneeze, and cringe immediately.

Jiaoqiu's unreadable expression is pointed at you, as you look to gauge his reaction. You've always hated the taste of his medicine.

It was more peaceful than anything, other than the looming threat of catching the attention of your "mentor" (or as he insisted). The occasional thick scent of chili and sizzling meats settled into the air, along with the gentle draft of early spring, hints of the winter's cold lingering in the crisp air in the atmosphere. You sniffle and shift in your seat, as Jiaoqiu approaches you.

"Try."

He places a bowl of noodles in front of you. You eye it suspiciously.

"It took me a while to prepare. So don't waste it, disciple."

You look up at him, warily. His closed eyes and sly grin greet you back.

You eye the dark, rich broth that would have had your mouth watering just a few decades ago. The perfectly cut noodles paired with an assortment of seasonings of all kinds – cut meat, hints of vegetables, boiled eggs. It was perfect.

But you couldn't taste it.

Truthfully, after you became sick, nothing tasted the same as it used to.

Your palette must have dulled. You could barely taste anything. It was as though you ate the same food, everyday, every month, every year, with no change in sight. Jiaoqiu's made a bit of a personal mission to try and challenge your dull palette.

"Jiaoqiu.."

You start, softly trying to protest,

"[Name]."

He sits down across you,

"Do you remember when I first served this?"

He leans forward, his chin cradled on his interlocked fingers, knees pressing onto the table. There's a faint smile on his face.

You sigh,

"Yes, back when.. I had a terrible fever, which just wouldn't leave."

"Mhm. It was the only reason you had the energy to walk around."

You continue staring at the dish. A hint of sentimentality at least seems to spark some appetite in you.

"Hm, too soupy isn't it?"

You comment, looking back up at him

"We aren't scarce on resources anymore, are we?"

"You could learn to not alter a few recipes for sentimental value."

"And what? Feed you that ashen bowl of noodles with barely a scrap of meat or any spice?"

You sigh,

"..alright."

You pick up the stationed chopsticks from the side, and stir the noodles slightly. Jiaoqiu's smile widens, as he watches you.

"The broth looks.."

"Remember when your fever wouldn't go down at all? The high temperature was so stubborn."

You shudder at the reminder. You still remember it – the searing burn of the medicine you hastily applied, the following high temperatures and sweat, the constant discomfort of being so unutterably weak you couldn't even sit upright.

You suppose he doesn't like when you nitpick. You resign yourself to eating it quietly.

–––

The sheets are soft, and cold as your bare back settles against them, your head gently hitting the soft pillow behind you. Your fingers absentmindedly trail down to the bandages on your abdomen, tracing the tight-binded edges of it.

Jiaoqiu's back is turned to you as he readies a concoction. One of many he's tried to use to "fix" you.

You sigh, staring up at the ceiling. You would have felt more awkward, more embarassed about having to lay almost half naked in your 'mentor's bed, but considering the recent flare up a few days ago, you couldn't care less.

Jiaoqiu walks around the expanse of the bedframe, and gently settles down on the other, empty side. He placed the paste on the nightstand, as his fingers reach down to undo your bandages.

There is something tender, you think, about having to lay bare under someone who has seen something so ugly, yet persist regardless. Under his fingers, where your flesh seems to either rot, or bloom. Something beautiful, if it weren't for the past pains of war still haunting you two. Something tender, if it weren't for your own flesh rotting into you.

His nose scrunches up a bit as your wound is exposed at the removal of the wraps. Foxians, especially of his kind, tend to have sensitive noses. Specifically for blood, if it makes sense.

Your age-old wound has shriveled and ached for so long, you almost wonder if it's alive on it's own. How have you been? You almost ask, every time you see it for yourself. The tainted flesh almost searing every time another paste, another cure, is desperately smeared on it. Almost as though it is offended.

Jiaoqiu stays silent, for a moment, his eyes slightly opened as he stares down. His hands have moved to your sides, as though framing your outline.

They move up, slowly, as though encasing your ribs. They expand with each breath, skin stretching and moving with the flesh alive underneath. His face slowly dips down, as if in prayer. His lips ghost the dip between your lower ribs, in ancient reverence. You wonder if he might break you open and eat your heart from the cages of your bones.

His lips trace down ghosting over the edge of your skin, where the previously infected part begins. He inhales, slowly, before speaking.

"I don't know how to fix this."

You stay silent. Your hand comes up to the side of his face, his hair tickling the back of it,

"Jiaoqiu. It's alright."

"It isn't."

You watch his face retract, his troubled gaze on your wound. The flesh has been marred and sunken.

"This isn't something you can fix."

He moves, the bed dipping as his weight shifts, the side of his face resting on your chest, one of his hands moving to your stomach, the back of his fingers grazing your skin as it moves up to the centre of your ribs.

"Bitter, sour.. distasteful.."

He murmurs, his fingers absentmindedly tracing your skin,

His face shifts, his lips resting just above your heart,

"Your blood smells like poison."

You still for a moment. His teeth graze your skin. The hot, damp breath wets your skin.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Your heart beats in his ears. He longs to feel it in his mouth. His other hand, still on your side, shifts, the fingers digging into your skin.

For a moment, you wonder what the scene will reel out as ‐ your limp body, a feast under his hungry mouth. Your arteries stringing from the cave of your flesh to his mouth like a bridge, thin veins scattering and puzzling themselves in the crevices of his teeth. You hope he doesn't devour you.

For now, he resigns himself to your skin. His teeth bite. They do not draw blood yet.

---

Jiaoqiu has had more peace, recently.

Here he sits, behind you, entangling the thin stems of flowers within themselves, braiding a flower crown. His nose scrunches, and his ears flit slightly whenever you hand him a fragrant one. You chuckle whenever he comments on it. His head leans forward and rests on your shoulder, as you continue to page through recipes in his book. Medicinal ones.

"Ah, look. It's stained here."

"Hm, gunpowder?"

Jiaoqiu asks, his tail swiping your back, the curled end of it tickling the side of your face,

"I think so."

You continue paging through the recipes, before stopping on a page.

Ah. There's blood.

"Dear, how did that happen?"

Jiaoqiu muses, his fingers paused as he looks at the blood stained page.

"I wouldn't remember."

"Hm.."

The blood smells sweet, despite having sunken into the page almost decades ago. It carries a hint of vitality, still. At least, in his foxian sense.

You turn the page.

---

"Jiaoqiu!"

"Not now–"

"The nurse..!"

Jiaoqiu stops in his tracks, taking his eyes off of his station with slightly furrowed brows, towards the person who's abruptly entered,

"What is it?"

"They're ill! They've fallen to the‐"

Jiaoqiu rushes with those few meager words, swiftly walking past as he asks where you are.

Unfortunately for you, you were trying to gain your bearings on the wooden floor.

This entire month of war specifically, had torn you both down to shreds. Your inventories were looted, leaving you with scarce medicine and many maimed to look after. The enemies were bolstering their presence harshly, and closing in furiously.

Upon stumbling on a rare sight of a wounded enemy soldier, you leaned down to check if they carried anything useful – medicine, maps, anything, when you realised in your haste you should have checked for their pulse first.

And it was in that moment of realisation did you feel a sharp plunge and sting, as the soldier's arm swiftly swung and stabbed you with a small knife.

You wanted to scream, but the overwhelming pain of the intrusion, the visceral splitting of your flesh far outweighed the need to scream. You jerked away, weakly, but hastily, retreating, leaving the enemy with their last bout of energy to laugh bitterly at you.

–––

Jiaoqiu still smells poison on you.

With war came many things. A lost locket on the vast field. A lonely sword in the quiet of the night. A child asleep in front of the door, forever waiting their parent.

And with war, came your eventual poisoning.

Perhaps it was the weapon. Knives edged with venom. It could have made for a lethal weapon.

But something felt odd.

Jiaoqiu's face presses into the warmth of your stomach.

Bitter. Sour. Distasteful. Rancid. Rotting. And Defiled.

Jiaoqiu's mind often wanders to wine reds. The pulling of sinew arteries, the sharp cut of a blade through flesh. The slow leaking of myoglobin or blood through the cutting board.

Sometimes, it had wandered while he tended to patients.

Blooming flesh, at incineration of skin due to sharpnel, or burnings. The vigorous pumping of the heart at the sight of blood draining down slowly, outside it's confinement, ever so oblivious to the lethality.

Jiaoqiu had craved flesh. Flesh beyond the slaughter of a Lamb, of a Cow, of any animal.

Flesh, right under the safe confines of human ribs.

Sweet, sweet viscera of the Liver. The expanse of Lungs. The tightly wound cartilage right above and below the muscles. Bones that leaked marrow.

The heart.

But he hadn't dare consume.

With war, came hunger.

Hunger he had not experienced like any other. Hunger that devoured him whole. Hunger so vast he could feel his insides churning and dissolving for the capacity of the appetite he would need to fulfill.

A hunger for you.

Poisoned, and permanently so. It's safe to say his attempts to 'fix' you, weren't necessarily innocent.

He shifts, his face moving to your neck, nose tickling the edge of it as his lips linger on your nape. Unprotected spinal cord. His canines expose and gently press on the tender skin, the pressure increasing, waiting for the breach of the skin.

You laugh, airy and sweet.

"What are you doing?"

Jiaoqiu retracts, slightly. Staggered, shallow breathing as he struggles to restrain himself.

He stays quiet. You grow nervous at the strange silence.

"Jiaoqiu?"

"[Name]."

His head turns slightly, eyeing the open recipe book on your nightstand. The night's gentle breeze wafting through the open window agitated the pages, slightly uncovering the blood-stained page for a second.

"What is it?"

You quietly ask, sensing the slight tightness in his voice,

"You poisoned yourself."

Your breath hitches, a shock rendering your body paralyzed for a second.

What?

You shift and turn to face him. His eyes are open, staring endlessly into yours. You break into a cold sweat, his slitted eyes almost cutting through you. Your heart beats harshly in your chest, as your breathing staggers slightly.

"Jiaoqiu?"

"While concocting that medicine for yourself.."

He whispers, his hand pushing down on the pliant bed as he leans forward, making you lean back in turn,

"What are you–"

"In your haste, did you ever think to use the right ingredients?"

He's towering over you, as you look at him, eyes almost blown wide, pupils dilated, breathing heavily. You don't notice it until you realise how out of breath you feel, despite the chill of the night air causing chills on your skin.

"The.. ingredients.."

You stumbled into your tent, almost meeting the ground, your arm on reflex grabbing onto something sturdy, as you gasped and panted. Your other hand presses onto the wound on your abdomen, as you cry out, abruptly interrupted by a sharp inhale at the pain. Tears singe your eyes, but your heart is beating too loud, and you're too pained to cry yet. You grunt as you pull yourself up, your bloodied hands sifting through the cacophany of items on your own desk, shuffling in haste for something,

Eventually, you hurriedly concocted a simple but powerful herbal paste, smothering it onto the blaring and irritated, bloody wound, seeping and crying incessantly of blood into your hands as you lathered it onto the wound in great pain. You ignored the uncharacteristic burning of the paste, hurriedly trying to wrap the bandage onto yourself, before too much blood was lost.

"Do you realise? That paste.. if you messed up a single point in the recipe, you'd poison yourself. Each ingredient was selected to neutralize the other."

Erratic, shallow breaths leave you as he looks down at you. What have you done?

This is poison. This is the curse.

The curse you carried after the war. It was never mara that could affect you.

And it was the poison Jiaoqiu had longed to taste.

His face dives down into your neck again, his fangs ghosting your jugular vein,

"Do you realise what truly courses in your blood?"

A cold bead of sweat drips down from the side of your forehead. Death could possibly taste sweeter, you imagine.

"I can't wait to taste it."

And his teeth sink.

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sugoi-writes · 9 months ago

Note

Morning! I have a little silly idea for Alastor x Reader and wanted to share :D

Reader is stressed over some big event that is about to happen in the Hotel (like idk maybe they're throwing a ball or some gala to encourage more sinners to check in) and while she's giving a pep talk to everyone she absentmindedly starts fixing Alastors bowtie/coat/hair and everyone expects him to snap at you (you two were more of rivals than friends) but instead he smiles at you softly and fixes your necklace. You two only realize what you did when Angel "quietly" asks as a joke when did the two of you get married 😅

Sorry this took so long!!! I hope this is doing your prompt a little bit of justice! Please enjoy!!!

No warnings for this one, really! Just some good old fluff and pining (which I DESPERATELY need to work on, HAHA--)

♥️♥️♥️

Everything was hung in place, not a tassel or a drape awry. The decorations and accents, deep reds and lush golds, adorned every surface you could see. It was... gaudy. But it was perfect.

When all was said and done, you clasped your hands together, a triumphant smile on your face. Charlie, being the sweetheart she was, tasked you with orchestrating the grand-reopening ball. She had to admit, it was nice to throw the reigns to someone else for a while. She definitely got some MUCH needed time alone with Vaggie, who was also more than willing to take a backseat.

Your voice cut through the chatter like a knife, silence behalfing the room with your address," Alright... guys, everything looks great. The place looks perfect. Everyone is looking--"

As your eyes flit about the hotel residents, you spy a freshly-apparated Alastor, who was... off. Physically, you mean. You squint for a moment, spying three things: Hair, Bowtie, Handkerchief.

"Sh-Sharp... everyone looks sharp."

Without thinking, you marched right up to the Radio Demon, collective gasps around the room as you touched him. Looks of bewilderment, horror, and amusement surrounded you both. You were preening him, adjusting him... unannounced? With no physical repercussions? How were you still alive?

Both hands shimmied the black bowtie into place," The music is covered, thank you for the recommendations, Alastor--"

"Anytime, dear," he quipped, not flinching in the slightest. His eyes were trained forward, avoiding eye contact as you pat his chest. Charlie's eyes looked like they were going to pop out of her skull as you pulled out the handkerchief, refolding and placing it back into Alastor's breast pocket. Another, resolute tap to his chest, and Angel's brain was short circuiting.

"Right-- like I was saying, everything is PERFECT. I need everyone on their BEST behavior when the doors open-- you especially, Angel. Everyone has their roles--"

Angel squinted, pouting as he shifted his weight... His head cocked to the side with a smirk, as if to say 'speak for yourself'! You strained onto your tiptoes, fluffing and adjusting Alastor's fringe, completely oblivious. There was a tinge of hair gel in Alastor's crimson, which surprised you. He had really gone the extra mile... albeit, still a little under perfect. Or maybe, you had just never noticed how much effort he put into his appearance?

"Niffty: keep an eye on the buffet and clean any and all messes. Angel, intel and vibe-checker. We have some big-wigs coming tonight, and I'm sure we could weasel our way into their good graces-- Make sure they're drinking, eating, dancing-- yknow!!! Having a good time!"

Alastor leans his head down for you, allowing easier access to his hair. You silently thank him, your tangent continuing," Charlie, Vaggie: you know the drill. Get them hooked on this place. Give them the razzle-dazzle to get them to stay. Lucifer, sir, you're in charge of the fireworks. I'm sure you have something ENTIRELY too bombastic for this, but-- just try not to scare anyone off tonight, sir???"

Lucifer, though still flabbergasted, gave you a pair of finger guns. This was his way of giving silent acknowledgement.

"Husk, of course: you're on drink detail. The more booze, the looser these guys get. The more likely they'll cave and stay the evening or become a patron--"

You blinked as warm hands were on your collarbone, adjusting your necklace. Though your face burned brightly, you didn't utter a word as Alastor finished his adjustments, giving you a pat on the shoulder. You looked up towards him, a friendly smile shot your way.

No words were exchanged, just smiles. You nod to Alastor, before turning to face the crowd. You weren't expecting to see looks of confusion and shock: everyone looked like deer in headlights. You sigh, chuckling a bit as you crossed your arms," C'mon guys, I know everyone is nervous about reopening to the public today, but we've got this!!! Seriously, everything is absolutely perfect now and--"

"If I can cut in real quick, toots-- are we plannin' a weddin'?" Angel retorts, fanning his hand back and forth between you and the Radio Demon.

"I mean-- not that I'm complainin', but y'gotta warn a guy first. I would've worn somethin' else for such a special day~"

You blink, utterly confused, before it finally clicked. You sputter dramatically, eyes wide and face heated from the implications," I don't-- I don't know what you mean, Angel--"

"Oh honey, we aren't BLIND. Admit it, you're mackin' with Tall, Dark, McNasty. And honestly, I get it. Chase your dreams or whateva. It's kinda cute~"

There were murmurs from the other crew, loosely agreeing to Angel's sentiments.You take a step forward to say something, before a hand clamps onto your shoulder. Your face only grew warmer as Alastor stepped in front of you. His pleasant smile strained, his annoyance further proven by his left, twitching eye.

"Now now, let's not lead the night with accusations and gossip-- though I'm usually a big fan myself~," Alastor mused, his grin widening.

" I'm afraid you all have the wrong idea-- I was just simply making sure everything was perfect. Just as our party host is." Alastor turns to you now, his smile softening," And that's exactly what tonight will be, with you at the helm: perfectly executed."

Angel snorts, leaning over towards Husk as he covers his mouth. A hushed whisper and an eyebrow wiggle are thrown his way," Oh, they're DEFINITELY fuckin'~"

You nearly shrieked as you cover your face with both hands, frustrated," Shut up, shut up, just-- UGH. L-Let's get to our battle stations, guys-- doors open in FIVE MINUTES," you bark. The nervous energy in the hall multiplies before dispersing, as everyone made themselves busy. It was very clear that everyone was trying to ignore the elephant in the room (and failing miserably). You do your best not to smudge your polished appearance as you turn on your heel, making your way towards the bar.

Immediately, you give it a knock, two fingers out. Husker nods, pouring you a double shot of your preferred poison. Swiftly swallowing the elixir of courage, you felt some of the embarrassment melt away. A familiar presence appears beside you, mimicking your knock and drink order. You sigh as Alastor's hand comes into your line of sight, eyes naturally following it as he swirled his drink, before downing it. You couldnt help but focus on the bob of his adam's apple, before you had the decency to look away. Alastor grinned down to you, tilting his head.

"Still troubled by their words, dear?"

You groan," D-Don't call me that, Alastor... Angel's going to feel like he's right," you reply, holding the bridge of your nose. Alastor laughs, leaning against the counter," Oh come now, I'm sure this whole mess will roll off your back by night's end~" Alastor teases, jazz hands accenting his playfuk tone. You groan again, frustrated," UGH, no, if HE'S distracted by that, EVERYONE here will be-- I just-- I don't wanna cause any unnecessary attention. 'For EITHER of us. You have your gambit for tonight, and I have mine... We need this to go WELL, not to be the talk of the town..."

Alastor leans against the counter, back pressing into it as he looks your way. Normally, he would continue to goad you into a precious, pathetic mess, but the look on your face felt too... troubled. You really were overthinking things, his eye catching the way you bit your lip.

The two shots he ingested already softened his edge, his head lolling to the other side," ...'a little advice, then?" You look over at Alastor, surprised by the change of subject.

"Sure. Might as well," you quip, resting your chin on your hand as Husk whisks away your empty glasses.

"If you walk around the room like your hair is on fire, the entire operation goes up in flames... This is commonly seen in management, but works just the same here," Alastor states, pretending to be fascinated with his talons.

"And truly, for tonight, you are the leader, the ringmaster of this event... the others will ask questions, and look to you for guidance. If you walk around like everything is going to fail, then it is destined to. So perk up!" Alastor's hand finds your chin, forcing you to look his way. Your breath catches for a moment, your eyes settling on his face. It was flushed, warm... and a hint of something you can't describe. He was being unreasonably chaste. Is this what Mimzy meant by "sweet as a kitten"?

"I think everything will go as it should, as long as you keep a cool head, dear. And if you can't, well...," Alastor grins as he knocks on the counter, each of you receiving another drink.

"--there's always liquid courage to settle the nerves."

You nod slowly, processing his words. Real, genuine advice... and, some sincerity sprinkled in? Were you really that drunk already??? Deftly, you picked up your glass, almost downing it before Alastor stops you.

" A toast, first."

Alastor grins as he picks up his own glass, clinking it against yours," To your success, my dear."

You move in autopilot as you clink back against his drink," Y-Yeah uhh... to the Hotel's future," you added, the two of swallowing your drinks hastily. Alastor straightens his posture, reaching over to squeeze your arm in reassurance. The radio in the room flicks to a new frequency, changing to a modern, catchy song that you recognized.

" Th-This is--"

"Your favorite, right?" Alastor finishes, his grin widening," Well dear, I am nothing if not accommodating. For tonight, let's have a little fun. Change things up." You nearly jump out of your skin as the front lobby doors begin to open, Alastor's eyes meeting yours.

"I expect to have your first dance. Meet me when you'd like to accept the offer."

And with that, Alastor leaves you, melding into his shadow form to flit to another spot in the room. You blink a few times, still reeling from the entire interaction. You hadn't told Alastor your favorite song. Not even once. And, you never dared to listen to it in front of him, fearing that he would disregard you or even chastise you for your taste.

You feel your heart swelling as you search for Alastor again, mouth falling open in silent protest. You wanted to pester him, ask him how he was able to know something so personal.... However, you are greeted by a sharply dressed demon, all too eager to make your acquaintance.

You allow your hand to be kissed, and pleasantries were exchanged. But ultimately... you felt your eyes constantly searching for Alastor. Maybe Angel was right, you thought... Maybe you did have something going on between the two of you. You felt a blossom that had remained so stubborn finally experience it's long-awaited bloom.

Maybe you did like Alastor. Maybe, just maybe, he liked you too... As the night grew longer, you realized that you just might be content with that.

#hazbin hotel #alastor x y/n #alastor x oc #alastor x you #alastor x reader #alastor hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel fanfic #hazbin hotel imagine #i tried keeping things pretty GN but hopefully this will suit your tastes!!!#thank you again for your request #im so sorry if this is shit #gdhdhshsjsjsjs

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lele5429 · 2 months ago

Text

When your friend is a decorated veteran but you are a just a happy guy with a Birb…

Drawing based on meme (below) by Lele

Colouring by @violet-xd09

Meme ⬇️

“Flipped through my old Christmas photos again, and realized that the handkerchief my sister gave me was actually her hamster”

#linked universe #lu ravio #lu legend #albw #ravio #albw Hilda #a link between worlds #zelda #Loz #Lu fable #Lu Hilda #sheerow #Lu memes

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the-kr8tor · 4 months ago

Text

High on the Feeling

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader

Summary: Hobie goes to the dentist and you leave with a very giggly and sweet Hobie high on anesthesia.

Word count: 2.4k

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, cw blood, cw food mentions, talks of marriage, lovestruck! Hobie, fluff.

Navigation

Octobie 🎸

You've practically flipped through every single magazine in the dentist’s waiting room while you wait for Hobie. He's been complaining about the annoying ache in his molar that has hindered him from doing his responsibilities for the past few weeks. And after some convincing on your end (and a lot of smooches and coddling), he finally accepted that he needed a tooth extraction.

Now, you'd think that with his abilities that a regular ol' anesthesia wouldn't even work on him. But judging from the lack of swearing and screaming behind the tooth shaped door, you and Hobie's hypothesis were dead wrong.

You pick at your nails while you wait, and listen to the cheery pop song that's starting to make you more annoyed than the hospital-like smell of the place. The walls are painted stark white with a bunch of Ikea bought shelves perched on it where a bunch of teeth related decor sits and a handful of picture frames filled with stock photos of smiling people. You feel unnerved by the choice in decoration. Couldn't they just put infographics on how to properly brush your teeth like a normal dentist?

As the thought passes by your mind, the tooth shaped door opens and out comes Hobie stumbling over his own feet. Boots stomp loudly on the tiled floors, and you immediately run towards him to catch his flailing body.

Thankfully, you catch him in time, his head falls on your shoulder as his arms fall limp on his sides. His muffled groans reverberate, making you turn towards the rushing dentist assistant with her hands frantically pushing a wheelchair that you surmise was supposed to be Hobie's ride out.

“Is everything okay?” You ask both the nurse and Hobie, who's basically laying his entire weight on you. You feel his drool leaking onto your shirt. Or his shirt for that matter.

“I'm sorry, he just launched himself out of the wheelchair!” She sighs tiredly. “He keeps saying that London needs him. And that he's Spider-Man.”

Your eyes widen for a second before fixing your expression. “...Oh,” you say, laughing nervously. You put your arms under his armpits to hold him better. But it doesn't make it any easier to carry all 6 feet and three inches of Hobie. “How did it go? Is he alright? Except for being a drama queen.” You joke so that the woman forgets what Hobie told her.

Fortunately, she chuckles. “Yeah, the procedure went well. Although, he was a lightweight with the anesthesia. Like he was out out.”

“Really?” You furrow your brows questioningly while you hobble towards the wheelchair to sit him down or your hold on him will fail since he's tethering to the side now. “I thought you might've needed more of it than less.”

“Us too, he's just a bit loopy but he'll be okay after a few hours.” She helps you put Hobie on the chair, he falls unceremoniously on it with a clatter of metal. “I suggest you drive him home.” She winces when Hobie mumbles something incoherent with a giggle right after. He looks like a happy camper.

“Yeah, for sure.” You think he looks adorable with him looking like he's high up in cloud nine. He seems fine except for his droopy eyes and mouth, and all the drool pooling in the corner of his lips. At least he's not in pain anymore. Taking a handkerchief from your jean pocket, you gently dab at the corner of his lips, to which he hums appreciatively. “Thank you, I'll take it from here.”

She smiles as she hands you the push handles of the wheelchair over to you. “Of course—oh, I almost forgot. We kind of promised him ice cream.”

“Coconut!” Hobie suddenly yells, perking up from his seat with wide eyes. The other people waiting in the room jumps from their seats. If something bad happens to him because of the anesthesia, you're going to sue this place to the ground. You place your hand on his shoulder, which he immediately calms down and looks up at you with stars in his eyes.

“Coconut ice cream to be exact.” The nurse gives you an apologetic look.

“Good thing I know where to get some.” You smile down at Hobie, only to find him boyishly smiling up at you.

“You're pretty.” He whispers breathlessly like you've taken the air from his lungs. His hand holds the back of yours, patting it softly. He looks as handsome as ever even with a cotton ball shoved in his mouth.

“Thank you, Hobs, you're pretty too.” You feel like melting on the spot as he smiles at you. “Let's go home first and then I'll get you a whole pint.” Hopefully he'll be sober by then, although you're loving his lovestruck gaze on you.

“Home?” He asks while you push him towards the exit.

“Yeah, we live together, Hobie.” You giggle, nudging the top of his head with your chin. The bells hanging above the door jingles when an attendant opens it for you. The cooling autumn air greets you and Hobie.

“Woah.” He sighs like he couldn't believe your words. “We married?”

You pause right next to the van, heart squeezing in your chest. “Oh, Hobie.” His question is the most adorable thing you've ever heard.

“Oh no,” he utters like he hurt you. Stumbling out of the chair, he turns towards you to rub your arms just like he always does whenever you need comfort.

“Sit down, Hobie, you might fall—” His hands cradling your cheeks stop you from continuing. You see his eyes well up with tears, pretty hazel eyes glimmering under the afternoon sun. “Oh, baby, don't cry.”

“We're not married?” His lips wobbles, “that's bonkers.”

“Do you want us to be—?”

“Yes.” He says before you could finish your sentence. You hold him by his waist, helping him with his balance.

You chuckle with a soft smile, hand reaching up to rub your thumb along his chin as you peck the tip of his nose. “Tell you what, we'll talk about it in the car.”

“Really?” Hobie's eyes light up. You've only seen him like this whenever he gets home early on patrol only to see you waiting for him happily.

“Yes really. We’ll feed our guests coconut ice cream.”

He drops his head back, chuckling deeply. You raise his head back up in fear of him choking on the cotton ball. Once his head is upright on his neck once again, he grins at you. “You know ‘m Spider-Man, right, love?”

Your guffaw echoes around the parking lot, “off you go in the van, Spider-Man.” Guiding him towards the van, you turn the corner to open the passenger door for him.

Hobie takes a big whiff, and you look on with an endeared smile. “I smell pine.”

“Yeah, it's the scent thing we bought at the gas station.” You point at the swinging 2d pine tree in the rearview mirror, other hand placed on the small of his back, making sure that he doesn't fall.

“I don't fancy pine.” He pouts uncharacteristically, making you clamp down your lips to quiet your giddy laughter.

“It was the only thing available. We'll get a new one, okay?” Kissing his shoulder, ready to guide him on the seat, he leans in for a proper one but you move away before he could. He pouts again, brows fully knitted together. “Sorry, but we're in public, Hobs, and you have a bloody cotton in your mouth.” You really want to kiss him, you really do, but he probably can't tell his right from his left right now.

Hobie scrunches his nose, hand reaching up his mouth but you stop him halfway before he could yank it out. “Why?” Swatting your hand away, he playfully fights with you.

You continue to fight with his long arms, you two must've looked like a couple of kids baby fighting in the middle of the parking lot with your hands slapping his own away. “Because, you can't— Hobie! You can't take it off!”

“But I want to snog you.” If it wasn't for his haze filled eyes, you'd think that he's playing with you.

“I promise you can snog me as much as you want later when you're well aware of your surroundings—!” His hands manage to grab hold each of your wrists, braceleting his fingers around them. You fight a giggle, acting like you mean business but the amusement in your eyes says otherwise. “Get in the car please.”

“You promise later?” Hobie clicks his forehead against your own. Eyes fully closed, sighing quietly.

Rubbing his back, you let him calm down from his high for a moment. “Yes, I promise—” you hear soft snores. “Are you asleep?!”

After wrangling Hobie into the passenger seat, making sure that his seatbelt is properly settled, you finally pull out of the parking lot. Once you manage to get back on the road, you glance towards Hobie, who's looking out the window with his face squished on the glass.

“You okay over there?” Patting his leg, you get his attention, and you swear he looked like he just realized you were in the car with him when his entire expression lit up like a billboard in New York. “I wish I had a camera right now.”

“What for?” He places his head on the head rest, cheek smooshed on the leather, eyes sparkling as he looks at you softly.

“To take a picture of you.”

“I want to take a picture of you.” He says softly, “a million pictures of you.”

“Can one of those pictures be with you too?” You grin, trying to focus on the road ahead instead of looking at the adorable sight next to you.

“If you want to.” His eyes flutter close, but he's clearly fighting sleep.

“Well, I want to.” You stop the car when the light turns red, a perfect opportunity to hold his hand. “You can nap if you want. I'll wake you up when we're home.”

“I want to pick flowers for you.” You swear your heart jumps out of your chest. “But only your favourites.”

“And I'll get you coconut ice cream as much as you want.”

His eyes closes to the hum of the engine. “I'll share it with you.”

“I know you will, Hobs.” Kissing the back of his hand, you let him go just as when the light turns green.

Hobie has always been sweet on you, but this time, he's beyond just being sweet. Your teeth feel like it's rotting from how incredibly saccharine he is. And you love every second of it, but you wish that the meds wear off so you could be with the same Hobie who hogs the blanket at night and who wakes you up with his cold feet against your thigh.

—

You cuddle close to Hobie whilst you feed him spoonfuls of coconut ice cream on the sofa. The anesthesia has completely worn off, sobering up to his old self. You've given him his pain meds and you've lit up a scented candle for him to relax more. Crumpet sleeps next to him, face snuggled up against his side, unbothered by everything that's happening around her. Your head finds penchant atop his chest as his palm rests above your stomach after he casually flung your shirt over his hand to feel your warmth.

“How's the pain?” You ask, while he draws patterns over your soft skin.

“Throbbin’, a three right now. Nothin' I can't handle though.” He says while you scoop out another spoonful for him. “I think they took more than one tooth.” He says while he opens his mouth for you to feed him another dollop.

“Do you want me to check?” You tease, pointing at his bottom lip with the spoon, looking up at him with a smirk.

“Maybe later,” he squeezes your nose before letting go with a chuckle. “What else did I say other than tellin' people my secret?”

“They didn't believe you anyway, thanks to the meds.” A drop of ice cream falls from the bowl down to your hand, licking it off, you let the sweet treat melt in your mouth after giving it a taste. He looks at you like you're the dessert. Smiling, you perch both of your legs on his lap, to which he just grins wider at. “You really want to know?”

“Was I that embarrassin’?” Hobie nudges the crown of your head with his nose to tell you that it's his turn to be fed. Arm pulling you impossibly closer to him.

“Blackmail worthy,” you joke, you move to take another mouthful of ice cream but he beats you to it by taking your wrist to lead the spoon towards his mouth instead. “Rude.” You giggle and he pinches your side.

“C’mon, tell me.” He wipes away a bit of cream from the corner of your lips with his thumb, which he quickly licks away, flustering you in your seat. He smirks victoriously, eyebrows raising smugly. He knows what he's done.

“Fine,” you laugh, pushing at his chest lightly. “you asked if we were married. And you cried when I said no.”

“That's… the right reaction.” He tilts his head in the same way like he's hiding a surprise for you. The last time he did this was when he got you your favourite pasta from a restaurant across the city.

You narrow your eyes at him. “What do you mean?” Your heart thuds loudly in your chest.

“Even my high self knows about it.” He side glances at you, while you're left pondering what he meant, he takes the bowl of ice cream from your hands. “My turn to feed you, lovie.”

“Hobie,” your eyes shimmers under the cinnamon smelling candle light, you hug his middle with a shaking arm. “What do you mean?”

He makes a face, shrugging while a bright smile spreads across his face. “Nothin', love.”

You laugh giddily, waking up Crumpet from her nap. “Okay then—wait, you're fucking with me aren't you?” Narrowing your eyes, you shut your mouth as he tries to feed you a scoop.

“Open up,” Hobie holds the spoon up for you, winking as you gaze at him softly. You still don't open your mouth, so with a glint in his eyes, he leans close to you, smashing his lips to yours, tasting the coconut on your lips while you laugh against his lips as the kiss turns from a playful one to a gentle, loving kiss.

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