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zorostitties · 9 days ago

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Aurora; 8 (m)

⤕ Your existence had been an endless night, where shadows whispered long forgotten secrets. Trapped in a golden cage, your fragile mind and shattered memories were chains that kept you from dreaming of freedom. Then, he appeared with the first light of dawn, like a gentle sun warming your cold skin. In his gaze, the promise of a new beginning; in his presence, the sunrise your soul had longed for.

In which Alucard saves you from Erzsebet.

pairing: alucard (castlevania) x (f) reader

genre: angst, romance, slow burn, eventual smut

warnings: violence/blood, explicit language, mental health issues, grief, physical abuse.

rating: 18+

word count: 9k

A/N: HAPPY ONE MONTH ANNIVERSARY TO AURORA!!! I can't even believe I got this far with this fic. Fucking 50k+ words in a month??? Hyperfixation REALLY go boom! It also happens to be my birthday today 🫠 my age is definitely starting to sound WAY TOO SERIOUS now. welp. ANYWAYS - an anon motivated me to create a playlist for aurora, so here it is!!! These are some of the songs that I listen on repeat when I'm writing. Not all of the lyrics have anything to do with the story tho, some just match the vibe of the fic. Though, if I had to choose a "theme song" for Aurora, it'd definitely be Darkness At The Heart of My Love - Ghost. I know metal isn't everybody's cup of tea but in my brain, vampires = metal. And specifically Castlevania = Rammstein for some reason lmao. Anyway!! I hope you guys give it at least (1) listen, as I really think the playlist encapsules the vibes I'm trying to portray in my writing very well. ANYWAYS!!! LET ME SHUT UP!! ENJOY THIS BEAST OF A CHAPTER <3

⤕ Chapters: check masterlist in bio! ⤕ Also on AO3

? Years Ago

Jerash, Ottoman Empire

The moon was hidden behind heavy storm clouds that night.

The rain whipped against the walls and ceiling of the humble house. It consisted of only two rooms – the kitchen and a tiny bedroom with simple wooden furniture. One would consider it the house of a common peasant, but the hundreds of books piled over one another indicated otherwise. They were everywhere: over the table, stored on shelves, precarious bookcases and boxes… some looked ancient, some looked new. Some had intricate leather covers, beautiful handwriting and illustrations, while others were nothing but a bunch of pages with incomprehensible scribbles. It was even difficult to walk into the house without stepping over one.

The place smelled of spices. Many types of dried herbs were hanging around the kitchen. Different types of stones of all colors and sizes rested over the closed windowsill: quartz, crystals, amethysts, obsidian, malachites… colorful bird feathers were tied by threads in intricate designs, also hanging from the ceiling. All of that was supposed to provide “protection” against the “evil”, apparently.

Drolta hated that place.

No… hate was too strong of a word. To hate someone or something, you must care about it enough, and Drolta didn’t. She was… disgusted. All the dirt, the simplicity, the cheap magic that wouldn’t even hurt a fly… it was boring.

And the owner of that house was especially disgusting.

That short, bald creature finally appeared from inside the bedroom, carrying a heavy book in hands and an annoying large smile. When all this ended – and hopefully it would end very soon –, Drolta would make sure to kill this little man and take a long, really long bath to take his smell off her skin. She didn’t even plan on feeding off him. He didn’t deserve it. Drolta refused to drink from a neck that wasn’t soft, young and feminine.

“Here it is. The product of all of my researches over the years,” he claimed proudly. What was even his name? Was it Khalil? She didn’t remember. Before looking at her face, his eyes stopped for two seconds on her cleavage. He did it every time and hadn’t been trying to hide it ever since Drolta stepped foot into this thing he called home.

Men… oh, how easy men are. Drolta witnessed multiple changes in the world during her long lifetime. She saw empires rise and fall, cultures cease to exist, philosophies and religions sweep the Earth. But one thing that had never changed over all this time was the simplicity of men. All she needed to do was put on a tighter corset, a deeper cleavage… and she had him on the palm of her hand. Drolta didn’t even need to try much much harder. This little Khalil man was the type she despised the most: the needy type. Never got married. Judged too strange by his fellow villagers. Probably never felt the touch of a woman. He was desperate.

But he had something that Drolta valued after all: knowledge. There was a time when the world was full of magicians. Speakers, priestesses, witches, oracles, shamans, alchemists… actual scholars of the ways of magic. But that was before the fucking Church. Now, apparently, all humans knew how to do was kneel and pray for a God that could not grant them any power.

Drolta was aware that she was partially at fault in all this. However, she would redeem herself soon.

When she finally succeeded in bringing Sekhmet back to life, this Earth would know what a real Goddess is. A Goddess with real power, real impact, who could bring real fear and obedience and adoration.

Soon, she thought to herself. I can feel it. She will come back soon. I will bring her back soon.

So many centuries of preparation. So many sun cycles searching for the right candidate. She had finally, finally encountered someone whose body managed to withstand Sekhmet’s power. Erszebet Bathory grew more powerful every day; the holy blood she drank was slowly but surely changing her body, her soul, empowering her. Drolta could feel Sekhmet’s presence in this world getting stronger. She could feel her goddess through Erszebet, talking through her, striving to resurface through that vessel. Everything was going so well.

And yet – all of her effort was still not enough, because half of Sekhmet’s soul was still missing.

Aside from taking care of the vessel, Drolta and her sisters roamed Earth after the Ba – Sekhmet’s mummy. For some reason, it was always out of reach: stolen from someone, bought by someone, then stolen again, then auctioned… Drolta was always too late. She prayed, prayed, prayed ardently that her beloved Goddess would help her from the other side, give her a sign, maybe twist things a bit so she could have a chance… but oh, she knew her Goddess was too weak to help. Drolta knew she would have to find a way.

And although all odds seemed to be working against her, Drolta found another way. Drolta thought of another chance.

As far as her associates scattered around the world knew, the mummy was lost forever. She completely lost track of it somewhere in the Horn of Africa; the last news she heard about it was years ago. As much as Drolta despised the idea – as much as she’d like to personally torture whoever committed such blasphemy towards the body of Sekhmet –, she had to be realistic and assume that the mummy was, perhaps, definitely gone.

But Drolta wouldn’t let herself be drowned by despair. No. Despair was the enemy of reason. She had to be strong – for Sekhmet, for her sisters, for her goal.

So another idea grew into her mind.

Drolta was under possession of Sekhmet’s blood, the Ka; the Goddess’ Ba, the mummy, was out of reach.

And then there was the third piece of her soul which was also out of reach.

Except… maybe it wasn’t.

Maybe there was a way to reach into it.

Yes, she knew no one had ever managed to do it. Yes, she knew the possibility of failure was high. Yes, she knew that, perhaps, it was all but a delusion. However, Drolta couldn’t be sure without trying first. If there was even the smallest possibility of it working, she would go on with it.

She had to do it – and do it fast. Drolta had never met anyone that could take so much of Sekhmet’s blood, but even her couldn’t take much more; the Goddess needed her other half.She could not lose Erszebet; she would do anything in her power to keep that woman safe.

Which led Drolta to this annoying mortal man.

He was disgusting. He smelled bad. He had the audacity of assuming he was going to fuck her. And still, he was an alchemist – and there weren’t many alchemists in the world anymore. Not good ones, at least. Drolta wasted her time going after a famous alchemist in China months ago, but she turned out to be a charlatan. As far as Drolta knew, this one was real. Maybe not powerful like mortal alchemists used to be, but he could do the job.

“From the information I have gathered, it hasn’t been tried in centuries,” Khalil spoke with amazement and reverence. It truly was the work of his life, apparently. “Not many scholars even believe it happened, in fact… it is under deep discussion. However, the ones that believe it, report that the occurrence happened in Wallachia, when a certain alchemist tried to… well…”

Khalil averted his eyes, seeming embarrassed and hesitant. Oh, the traits of a man that has been laughed at and ridiculed his entire life. Drolta felt grateful that he was this way. Much easier to deal with.

She rested her hand on his forearm and looked at him with round, curious eyes – even though she already knew what he was trying to say.

“Tried to what? Please, tell me,” she asked in a honeyed voice.

Khalil probably had an erection at that moment. His face flushed and he smiled.

“Tried to bring D-Dracula back to life,” he finally let out. “Yeah, I know it sounds absurd. I-I mean, Dracula? The folk tale to scare kids? How is that even possible?”

“I don’t find it absurd at all,” Drolta said, shaking her head softly. “Please, continue.”

The man averted his gaze from hers sheepishly, holding the book just a tiny bit stronger.

“Y-You are the first person to ever take me seriously, Miss Danubia,” Danubia? Oh… it’s the name she made up for herself. She had almost forgotten. “I… I really appreciate it.”

What, are you going to cry? Spare me.

Drolta caressed his arm softly.

“I admire your intelligence. I’d sit with you and talk for hours about all of your discoveries,” the idea sickened her, in fact. But Drolta couldn’t just force him to do anything. As far as she knew, the entire process had to be done willingly, otherwise it wouldn’t work.

For fuck’s sake, it really looked like he wanted to cry. Khalil blinked rapidly and looked down at the book again.

“Apparently, the portal was opened directly into Hell in order to retrieve Dracula’s soul. But it’s entirely possible that, through this same ritual, I could try to reach into other realms, too…” For the first time, Khalil looked hesitant. He gulped. “Though, if I’m to be completely honest, Miss Danubia, I do not believe I have the expertise needed to lead such a powerful ritual.”

Drolta stepped back, letting go of his forearm.

Khalil looked up at her, slightly startled at her sudden lack of touch.

But then, Drolta looked down, putting her hands over her chest and…

Tears welled up her eyes.

“I-I wish you could understand my pain and my despair, Khalil,” she started, voice trembling. “My mother… my dear mother. I could never tell her goodbye before her death. She had such a painful, slow death…” Drolta looked at him again, a single tear streaming down her cheek. “I do not wish to retrieve her soul, Khalil; I understand this goes against the laws of nature. I just want to… talk to her. In my culture, we believe that the souls of our deceased goes to the duat. If I can just get a peek of it… just look at her face once more… you will have my eternal gratitude. I-I can’t let this chance go by…”

Drolta covered her mouth and sobbed. With the corner of her eyes, she saw Khalil rush to put the heavy book over the table and bring her a handkerchief. She didn’t want to put that stinky thing near her face, but took it anyway and wiped her tears delicately.

Khalil pressed his lips together. All the hesitance was gone, being replaced by determination.

“I believe I can do it, Miss Danubia.” He inhaled before speaking. “The g-good feelings I have for you will be my guide and shield.”

Drolta offered him a sweet smile and a fragile thank you.

Khalil took off his coat and pushed the small table to the farthest corner of the room. He then took a piece of white chalk and started to draw something on the floor.

“This is the symbol of Osiris, Egyptian god of the Underworld… or the duat,” he explained while he drew. As if Drolta didn’t already know it. Yet, she acted shocked, trying to engage him in conversation as he lit a circle of candles around the hieroglyph. She needed him content and willing. Mortals work better when they are in their best feelings; they tend to put much more of their force into what they are doing, and this, in magic terms, was extremely meaningful.

Drolta loathed the fact that she needed this man happy to achieve her goal, but it was necessary. Well, if not happy, then hard. Sexual energy can also be extremely powerful.

After Khalil finished his preparations for the ritual, Drolta approached him and held his hand.

The man visibly held his breath.

It was so easy for her to send him that sweet gaze. So easy to trap his entire attention on her, as if Drolta became the very air in his lungs. She leaned down slightly and pressed her soft lips on his cheek, making sure to stay there a second longer than necessary, before leaning away a delivering a smile that showed quiet sadness and care.

“If you succeed, Khalil, you will have my heart eternally,” she purred in an almost whisper.

He was shocked.

It really looked like he couldn’t breathe.

Finally, he managed to crack a smile. He puffed his chest like a pathetic male bird and nodded as Drolta stepped away.

“I will, my lady. For you.”

She held back laughter.

Finally, Khalil took his heavy book again and stood near the candle ring. The flames projected eerie shadows around the walls; the outside storm was everything they could hear. He placed the book in front of his feet and took a small knife from his pocket.

“Blood is required to initiate the ritual,” he explained. “You can look away if it makes you uncomfortable, my lady.”

Khalil didn’t see when she rolled her eyes this time.

He swiped the knife on his palm, wincing in pain as he did. Weak little human, can’t even stand a cut without crying. He let blood drip over the symbol on the floor before walking back to the candle ring and taking the book in his hands once more.

He took a deep breath before finally initiating the spell.

His pronunciation of Akkadian was bad. Laughable, even. Drolta could barely understand half of the words. And yet, it was enough.

The candles trembled. The air within the house got colder. Drolta felt the floor beneath her feet shake slightly, the air vibrate in a high frequency – the frequency of high magic.

It was working.

A grin slowly grew on her lips. She… underestimated this little man after all. He was an actual alchemist – but the ritual was only working because of her efforts, she realized. Khalil was putting all of his love into the spell. Yes, actual love. How such a naive creature fell in love with her so quickly after a few days of knowing each other was beyond her.

Love is also extremely powerful in magical terms.

The storm grew angrier out there. A thunder so loud and so close shook the entire house, made Khalil lost his focus for a second before continuing to read the spell.

Followed by another thunder – even closer this time.

And another thunder.

The ground shook. Some books fell from the shelves. Khalil lifted his head and looked towards the window.

There was another sound mixed within the cacophony of the heavy storm.

Screams.

What was that out there? Was the house of his neighbor burning?

“W-What is–?” Khalil stuttered.

He hadn’t noticed that Drolta was towering right behind him. How did she get so close so fast?

She held his head with both hands from behind, guiding it down towards the book again.

“Keep reading,” she instructed in a quiet whisper, her mouth close to his ear.

A violent shiver ran down Khalil’s spine.

For the first time, Drolta’s presence made him feel uneasy. Her voice changed drastically; it wasn’t welcoming anymore, or warm, or caring. It was just freezing cold. It… it didn’t even sound much human.

All these talismans he hung around his house for protection – and yet the worst evil he could possibly imagine was standing right behind him, welcomed by him with open arms.

Another thunder. Another fire. Another house burning down. A few more souls to fuel the spell.

Khalil could be a real alchemist, but he was far from being a good one, Drolta remarked to herself. All of those books taught him nothing – again, she had to do most of the job. In the few days she worked on gaining his trust, she also made sure to mark every house in the village of Jerash with the symbol or Osiris. Marked it with virgin blood to make it even more effective.

Every respectable alchemist knew that in order to open a door into the Infinite Corridor, multiple mortal lives were required. That is why most alchemists weren’t brave enough to do it.

Khalil wouldn’t be brave enough to do it too if he knew what it’d cost. That is why Drolta lured him into it and made the preparations behind his back.

Drolta chuckled. How he must had been feeling at that moment, knowing he sacrificed hundreds of lives of his fellow villagers in the hopes of sticking his tiny penis inside of her?

“I told you to keep reading,” she repeated, and this time her voice sounded like a dangerous hiss.

Khalil’s hands trembled. He gulped. His voice wasn’t as confident anymore, but he had already initiated the ritual; there was no coming back from there.

The floor shook as more souls were reaped into the spell. Suddenly, the windows opened all at once; the ceiling cracked and was swiped away by a violent gush of wind. Drolta looked up in time to see a funnel of souls converging into a single streak of red light, being attracted by the symbol of Osiris on the floor; they made a twister within the circle of candles that were somehow still lit despite everything.

Wind and rain whipped Drolta and Khalil, made his books fly in all directions. None of that bothered Drolta. She had a maniacal grin on her lips, eyes locked in the chaos unveiling in front of her eyes.

Finally, finally, finally, a white crack slashed the air inside the candle ring. A crack in reality itself.

Freezing cold wind came out of it. The crack was slowly but surely getting wider. It made Drolta’s eyes widen, shivers run her body; few times in her life did she witness magic so powerful, so strong, so chilling.

It was working. It was finally working.

She stepped aside from a shell-shocked Khalil and extended her arms in a wide movement, the smile never vanishing from her lips.

A door to the Infinite Corridor, opened right in front of her eyes.

And yet – her work wasn’t done. This door needed to be redirected; it needed to be aimed at the right place.

“Oh Sekhmet, Eye or Ra, Lady of Terror, Mistress of Dread, She Who Mauls; hear mine calling, let thou be guided by the voice of thy loyal servant!” Drolta chanted with all her might, raising her voice as to be heard beyond the storm and the magic and the weeping souls.

The crack got a bit wider. Insurmountable amount of energy escaped from inside. Drolta didn’t even know if Khalil could stand in front of it much longer, given how weak he was, so she needed to rush.

“Hear mine call, Your Magnificence!” Drolta continued, gesticulating in wide movements. “Let mine voice guide thee through the waters of the primordial abyss; let thy Akh resurface in the land of the living. Oh Sekhmet, Lady of Slaughter, She of Ten Thousand Names; walk back into thy rightful realm, retake the throne unfairly taken from thee, wear thy rightful crown once more!”

The crack got wider, wider, wider. It was difficult to understand what could be seen inside of it; it looked like a confusing kaleidoscope. Different images jumped in the blink of an eye, landscapes not even Drolta could understand. And yet, she kept chanting, hoping her energy would be the necessary guide. The mark of Osiris burned in bright red.

Finally – the image within the crack seemed to stabilize itself.

Drolta’s eyes widened.

She saw a… calm river. A temple made of gold in the distance, sitting atop of an island. A pyramid. Purple trees adorned it; the tip of the pyramid shone with a blinding light. The most beautiful sky she had ever seen.

That was it. It was the duat.

Drolta got even more passionate in her speech; her throat ached from screaming.

“Hear mine voice, Lady Sekhmet! Hear mine voice! Come to me!” She begged. Finally, finally, finally, her goddess was right there; after years and years of searching and fighting for her and protecting her legacy and trying to find ways to revive her, after so many frustrated attempts of retrieving her mummy... Finally, Sekhmet’s Akh was right there in front of her eyes.

Finally, Drolta had succeeded.

All she needed to do was cross the door. Drolta couldn’t enter the duat, but Sekhmet could cross it towards the land of the living. Drolta held a small shabti made of pure gold in her hand, the holy object in which she could safely store the third part of Sekhmet’s soul. From there, Erzsebet would only need to incorporate it.

Come to me, Sekhmet; come to me, come to me, come to me, come to me, come to me, come to me–

Something happened.

The image twisted.

“What?” Drolta gasped.

The sight of the duat blurred.

Suddenly, the winds that whipped the house got stronger, more violent. The soul twister got more chaotic. Now, everything that could be seen within the door was the kaleidoscope of colors again, passing rapidly.

It… started to get black.

“No! No! What are you doing?!” Drolta turned to Khalil, her wrath so big that made him tremble. But the man was frozen in place, tears falling down his cheeks mixed with the rain.

“I-I-I’m not doing anything!” He stuttered. “It wasn’t me!”

Drolta turned to the door again.

The air was getting even colder. Colder, colder, colder… freezing. The Osiris symbol suddenly started to burn in black – and then everything else was black. The souls, the flames of the candles, the energy rays that poured from the door.

The air smelled of coal and sulfur.

“No! Stop! Stop!” Drolta yelled at whatever was interfering with the ritual. “I don’t want you here. I didn’t call you!”

But it was too late.

A second before the explosion, Drolta saw a dark figure walk out of the door.

She had time to protect her face with her arms. She did not care about Khalil.

Boom.

The shockwave destroyed what remained of Khalil’s house; he was sent back flying meters away. The reaped souls let their final, painful yell before dissipating in the air. The candles were extinguished in a gush of wind.

Drolta was the only thing to remain standing in place.

She lowered her arms slowly. It seemed that even the heavy storm got timid after such an unnatural occurrence. The neighbor houses still burned; the fires spread down the hill. As it wasn’t magical fire anymore, the rain started to quiet them down. No voices were heard. No more screams. No live witnesses anymore. The village of Jerash became nothing but a burning cemetery.

Drolta fell to her knees.

A shrilling scream of pure anger crossed the air.

She had failed. She got so fucking close and failed yet again. The duat was right there in front of her and she failed.

She turned around to see Khalil’s body on the floor.

Drolta got up, red anger clouding her gaze. He was still alive – hurt, bleeding and crying, but still alive.

“You stupid piece of shit!” She kicked his stomach so hard that the men rolled a few more meters away. “Useless little man. I submitted myself to your disgusting presence for days and you still didn’t serve me anything!”

Khalil coughed blood. He refused to look at her, shrinking into his own body, crying like a child.

She should skin him alive. This, at least, would serve as a way to calm down.

And yet – she stopped in her tracks.

Rain still fell over her head. She was entirely drenched. Drolta stopped and inhaled, letting her anger quiet down.

There was someone talking to her.

Something.

The air still smelled of coal and sulfur. It had nothing to do with the burning houses.

Slowly, she turned back to the circle of candles.

Her eyes widened.

There was someone laying on the floor inside the circle. She rushed towards it.

It was… it was a woman.

For a moment, overwhelming joy and excitement rushed through her veins. Could it be who she thought it was? What if she had actually succeeded, but in a different way than she first expected?

What if that was Sekhmet incarnate?!

Drolta knelt down beside the woman. She was unconscious, laid on her side, completely naked. With care – even hesitancy – Drolta turned her body around, making the woman lay on her back. She took some strands of drenched hair away from her face.

It was a young woman. Her chest moved slowly, as if she was simply asleep.

Drolta frowned.

She pressed two fingers over her neck. A regular pulse. The scent of… regular mortal blood.

Her frown deepened.

“This is no Sekhmet,” Drolta said through gritted teeth. “This is just human woman.”

Then, she lifted her gaze – and finally noticed what was talking to her.

It was nothing but a strange, tall shadow; Drolta could barely make sense of what she was looking at. But yet, that grin was very much recognizable. The entity seemed weak, vibrating in a low frequency, making the entire area around it even colder.

“Did you bring her with you?” She asked. The entity answered. It didn’t use… words. It spoke into her mind with intentions instead. Perhaps, it was way too weak to vocalize.

Drolta huffed with disdain. “And what use would this mortal have?”

The entity moved slowly, circling around them.

Drolta froze in place.

“How do you know this?” She asked in a cautious hiss.

The entity’s grin seemed to get even wider, now knowing that it had Drolta’s full attention.

It continued sliding around Drolta. The vampire lowered her head, looking at the human woman once again.

She looked and looked and looked and looked and…

She remembered.

Slowly, Drolta’s eyes widened as realization hit her.

This… wouldn’t solve all of her problems. She still needed to find the other half of Sekhmet’s soul. And yet… it could also serve her plans, in a way.

Drolta once again lifted her gaze towards the grinning shadow.

“I know you wouldn’t be offering me this out of the goodness of your heart,” she started with suspicion. “What do you want of me in return?”

The entity trembled. Drolta leaned her head slightly.

“An easy task. And if I fail?”

The entity grinned at her quietly. Drolta chuckled.

“You won’t have it, for I won’t fail.” She got up to her feet again. “But this sounds like a fair deal.”

A fair pact, in fact.

Drolta extended her arm towards the entity. It approached her; the shadow extended too in what resembled an arm. It revolved around her hand with a chilling touch.

When the shadow retreated, there was an icy object over Drolta’s palm.

A ruby necklace.

Drolta nodded at the entity; it sent her a last eerie grin before disappearing into the shadows of the night.

It was done.

Drolta looked down.

She took the cloak off her shoulders and covered the woman’s naked body with it. She leaned down, taking her into her arms, before straightening her posture again.

It… wasn’t a complete failure, after all.

Her Goddess never left her without a way out. She was always kind to send Drolta another option, another strategy, and that’s why Drolta managed to survive and move on after every problem.

“For every suffering, a wisdom is gained,” she said quietly. The mantra that had been keeping her sane for centuries.

Khalil was still weeping some meters away from her. Drolta paid him no mind. He wasn’t totally useless in the end, which meant he gained the right to keep living.

Drolta walked away from the burning cemetery of Jerash with the unconscious woman in her arms, the ruby necklace safely tangled around her palm.

The heavy storm clouds opened a small breach for the first time; the moon peeked through, being the only witness of the horrors that had unveiled that night.

Present time

Paris, France

The sun had hidden behind the horizon at least three hours ago.

You looked out the window at the full moon reigning sovereign in the sky from the tiny inn bedroom. There were barely any clouds to hinder its view. Stars adorned the space around her, creating a breathtaking view.

And yet, the air was… eerie.

Maybe because you knew what was about to come, and the fact that the rest of the city didn’t know yet made the situation horrifying. So many people were probably having dinner with their families, resting their heads over their pillows, having no idea of the hell that was about to burst upon them.

What made the situation even more difficult was that you were, well, useless in the middle of it all.

Richter and Annette were hunting nests of vampires. Alucard was about to leave to talk to the leaderships of Paris in order to organize the defensive lines. The three of them, much obviously, were ready to fight.

And you? All you had was a useless golden scepter.

Maybe you had your hopes way too high after what happened at the Louvre. You remembered what Annette told you when you first met – you might be a witch, Ruby; you just don’t remember it. You thought that, the moment you put your hands over the artifact again, you’d have some sort of epiphany. Your past would unveil itself in your head, you’d finally understand Erzsebet and Drolta’s interest in you, you’d know why you were needed to summon eclipses…

But nothing happened.

The scepter was just heavy and very impractical to carry around.

Alucard had no idea what language the inscriptions were. He advised you to not read them out loud, as it wasn’t clear the effect it could cause. You also didn’t magically understand what these words meant. So… just another frustration to add onto the pile.

“Ruby, I’m talking to you.”

You jumped and turned your head around. Alucard was standing in front of the door, searching for something in the inside pocket of his coat and eyeing you with curiosity. You adjusted your posture where you were sitting on the bed.

“I’m sorry. I… wasn’t paying attention.” You said sheepishly.

The white-haired vampire paused for a moment.

“Are you scared of being on your own?” He asked quietly.

You shook your head. “No! Not at all. I’ll be fine.” You reassured.

To be honest, being alone wasn’t exactly an idea you liked. The last three days were the safest you’d ever felt in your life, and that was because you were around them. You tried to avoid picturing the horrifying image of Drolta in her new night creature form breaking through that window and dragging you back to the chateau. There’s no way this is going to happen, not now that she retrieved Sekhmet’s mummy… I’m not needed anymore.

But the idea you liked even less was of being a burden, and you knew you’d be a burden if you kept hanging around uselessly while they fought. Annette almost died due to your mere presence. You were sure everyone would’ve handled the fight much better if you simply weren’t there. So… it’d be better if you just stayed hidden at the inn for the time being.

Alucard shrugged slightly and approached, finally revealing what he was searching for in his coat: a… red string?

He sat by your side on the bed, eyes glued on it. The only source of light came from the moon outside and a single candle holder over the desk. The light of the timid flame created a golden silhouette on his delicate features.

“The Revolutionary Commune is reunited some blocks away from here at this moment,” Alucard explained while his fingers worked on measuring the string. You watched him in silent confusion. His voice always dropped even quieter when he was close to you like that. It was… comforting. He was so close that his arm brushed on yours. “I must go warn them about the incoming fight. There will most definitely be vampires roaming the streets right now, hence why you must stay hidden for the time being.”

You nodded. “I understand.”

You watched as Alucard tied the red string around his own left wrist skillfully. How did he even manage to tie something with a single hand? That was quite impressive. “I won’t take more than two hours, however. After I assure your safety within the Revolutionary Commune, I will come to pick you up.”

Then, he brought his wrist close to his mouth; he put the remaining length of the string between his teeth and cut it using his sharp fangs.

Oh.

You couldn’t help but feel shivers run your spine whenever you remembered that Alucard had vampire fangs. He was half vampire, in fact. It was a bit strange how, as you grew comfortable around him, this “detail” became less and less relevant; you always associated vampires with the worst things possible, while Alucard was much the opposite. Perhaps that’s why it was a bit surprising to remember part of him was one.

You also had noticed that Alucard didn’t open much of his mouth when he talked… and it seemed to be a very conscious act when he was in public. You payed attention to how he talked to those boys earlier. Was it an attempt to make his fangs less obvious?

“Give me your left wrist.” He asked. You promptly obeyed. Alucard tied the remaining string around yours this time. “If anything happens, anything at all, untie this string. Mine will untie, too, and I will rush to you.”

You nodded, a bit surprised. “This is impressive.”

Alucard chuckled and tilted his head slightly. “You were effortlessly summoning eclipses and this is what surprises you about magic?”

The words got caught in your throat.

“Well– it is impressive.” He looked at you with a quirked eyebrow, which did not help you organize your thoughts better. “A-And I wasn’t summoning them, not exactly.”

“You’re not sure about that, are you?”

No, you weren’t.

Your shoulders dropped. Alucard chuckled again.

He finally let go of your wrist and a tiny part of you immediately missed his touch.

“Remember. Two hours. No more, no less.” He got up from the bed again and walked towards the door. “I might be asking too much from you, but I’d advise you against sleeping, too.”

“As if I’d be able to close my eyes at all,” you whined quietly to yourself.

Alucard opened the door and looked at you.

Once again, it seemed that he was about to say something. He looked… hesitant. His expression wasn’t as nonchalant as usual, but you couldn’t tell exactly why. You looked at him expectantly.

Then – this small glimpse dissolved in seconds.

“Lock the door,” he said, pointing at it with his head.

Oh.

You got up in a jump. At last, he left. You safely locked it and kept the key in the pocket of your vest.

Then, you were alone.

For the first time in your life, being alone didn’t bring you relief. You’d usually look forward to the moments you’d be locked inside your quarters again, recovering from your wounds; despite the pain, it were the only times when you had some peace. Now, however, you’d wish someone was here. You hoped Annette and Richter were safe, wherever they were…

You laid on the bed and faced the ceiling. The scepter was also over the bed, right beside you.

And you just… stayed there.

Your fingers fiddled with the red string on your left wrist mindlessly. Alucard didn’t make a complicated tie as to keep it easy to undo, so you took care to not untie it by accident. This little piece of braided wool had magic in it… but you didn’t feel anything strange while touching it.

You remembered how Alucard felt that the scepter was magic just by touching it, while for you it was just a normal object. You remembered how Richter could summon elements with his bare hands and Annette could see spirits as easily as people…. Perhaps you had no aptitude for magic at all. Perhaps they made you read that book because they needed a human to complete the summoning of an eclipse, not because you had some sort of hidden power.

You touched the scepter again without bothering to look at it. Cold and lifeless as usual.

Maybe it had that reaction – shining, the rust disappearing – because it needed someone to… awaken it. Anyone. Not you specifically.

But it must had been touched by someone before, isn’t it? Of course it was. It didn’t walk into that crate. Someone put it there.

You groaned and turned to your right side.

Minutes went by. Minutes, minutes, minutes. You were on high alert, so your eyelids didn’t feel heavy with sleep.

You laid on your stomach and brought the scepter close to your face.

These characters… you recognized them.

Alucard told you to not read them out loud, but he didn’t say anything about writing them.

You got up and rushed to the desk. There was a small drawer there with a piece of paper and some charcoal. You laid on your stomach again and started to translate the characters into the common Latin alphabet. Alucard might not recognize the characters, but what if he saw the syllables in a language he could read and the words made sense to him?

As the scepter had a lot of text and you didn’t have much paper, you tried to keep the letters as tiny as possible. You broke the charcoal a bit to make a sharper point. Your hands and the sheets got dirty with the black of the charcoal, but you couldn’t care less.

You didn’t pay attention to the time now that you had something to busy yourself with. Minutes went by. Minutes, minutes, minutes. An hour. Half an hour.

You had little free paper left and a lot to translate still when a sound out there immediately brought you back to your senses.

You froze and looked towards the window.

The street was very quiet up until that point – you even wondered if nights in Paris were always so peaceful. That sound, however, was impossible to ignore; was impossible to not make your heart immediately race.

A scream.

You got up in a jump and approached the window slowly, peeking at it with caution.

The scream came from a nearby street, followed by fast steps. Another scream. It sounded female.

No… it sounded childish.

Maybe it’s nothing. Just a kid spooked by a dog or a rat. Nothing to worry about. You shouldn’t get on your nerves every time you hear a scream.

You stood by the window for some more minutes, your heart thundering nonstop… and nothing appeared. You sighed, tried to calm your already irregular breathing. Focus on a single thing, a simple thing, to muffle everything else–

Someone running down there on the street.

You eyes widened. Your breath got completely caught in your throat.

It was a kid. A small kid, desperately running away from something. A boy. You recognized the worn out clothes and the curly black hair.

The lily in the pocket of your vest seemed to get hot.

It was Oliver.

When he disappeared from your sight, you saw what he was running from: three men. They laughed as they pursued him.

Three vampires.

You grabbed the scepter, the piece of paper and without taking a single second to think, you were already running out of the room.

The only things you could hear were your deep breathing, your thundering heartbeat and your boots rushing on the wooden pavement, then on the stone street as you rushed out of the inn. You almost fell when taking a sudden turn in the direction you saw Oliver running to. The street was completely empty and cold, but your body already felt hot from adrenaline.

You ran as fast as your legs could take. Please let me not be too late please please please please please please please please please–

Another strangled scream followed by more voices coming from an alley nearby.

You didn’t take a second to consider what you were going to do, how you were going to save him from this situation.

You just rushed into it.

“Oliver!” You screamed, stopping on your tracks.

The scene unfolding in front of you made your blood boil in a mix of anger and fright.

Oliver, the little boy, had fallen; his back was pressed against the wall. It was a dead end. His knee bled – he had probably fallen –, tears streamed down his cheeks, his pants were wet. He was shaking; his eyes, the most widened you’d ever seen.

The three vampires cornered him. They wore simple clothes, but all of them shared a similar trait: the symbol of an eclipse burned into the skin of their foreheads.

They immediately turned around at the sound of your voice.

For a moment, everyone was shocked – you, Oliver, the vampires. They were the first ones to recover.

“M-Madame!” Oliver stuttered in a strangled, horrified voice.

The vampire in the middle smirked.

“What do we have here?”

“This is even better than that bastard,” the one on the right laughed. “No one told you to not walk around at night by yourself, sweetie?”

“Leave him alone,” you blurted out. You didn’t sound that frightened, at least, because your body hadn’t properly processed what the hell you had gotten yourself into yet.

“Oh, we might now that you’re here.” One of them said with a disgusting smirk. “And what is it that you’re carrying with you? Looks interesting.”

They started to approach at slow steps.

You knew how vampires acted. They didn’t see you as a threat, so they would not use their inhuman speed. No; they wanted to savor your panic, to make you think you’d have a way out the way they did with Oliver. Vampires acted as cruel hunters, not as animal predators that acted purely on instinct and hunger.

That’s why they didn’t notice when you put your left wrist behind your back and swiftly untied the string.

I’m sorry, Alucard, you thought as the reality of that moment finally hit you. You… you did it again. You put yourself in danger again, exactly the opposite of what Alucard told you to do. But if you had waited for him, if you had untied the string at the inn and then explained what happened and then hoped that Alucard caught the vampires in time, would Oliver still be alive? Would he have an extra minute of luck?

Whatever these vampires were about to do with you – it didn’t matter. You could take it. Oliver couldn’t. The same way Annette wouldn’t have taken the night creature’s bite.

“M-Madame, run!”

His voice caught your attention again.

That little boy had wet himself in fear. He could barely stand. And yet, he was telling you to run. He was worried about your safety.

That little boy.

So small and so fragile and wearing those worn out clothes and shaking and hurt.

It brought forward an instinct within you. Perhaps that same instinct you felt when you looked at Richter’s sad expression. A will to take care. To protect. Something that run deep into your soul, something very familiar in ways you couldn’t explain, as if you had been in a similar situation in the past, as if you had felt this desperate need to protect someone small and fragile and dear to you.

These men were going to kill that little boy and he wouldn’t even be able to fight back.

This strange instinct to protect and the anger towards these men and the revolt because you had been in similar situations too, countless times, and you couldn’t do anything to fight back against a force tenfold stronger than you made your mind go blank.

Blank, blank, blank, devoid of any thought. Any fear. Any hesitance. At that moment, there wasn’t anxiety anymore. Your fingers didn’t shake. You didn’t think of any consequence.

All that existed was the need to protect that little boy.

One of the vampires approached and grabbed the scepter roughly. Instinctively, you held it with both hands, trying to pull it back.

And then – the vampire screamed.

A sizzling noise filled the alley.

“Let me go! Let me go!” He screamed.

The scepter was burning his hands. He couldn’t take them off.

Your mind didn’t register well everything that happened in the following seconds.

The moment you held it with both hands, it started to glow again – but in a different way than before.

The inscriptions started to glow. That same glow traveled from one end to the other – to the tip of the scepter; the image of the sun.

It started to shine.

The light was blinding. You had to tighten your eyes. It was hot hot hot hot, you almost dropped it on the floor, but something told you to keep holding it. So you held it with all your might. You felt a strange wave of energy flow from your body towards the scepter.

The little sun of the scepter shone, brightening the entire alley as if day turned to night–

And the three vampires yelled in agony.

They tried to cover their faces, tried to run away – but it was already too late. Their skin began to burn as if they were set on fire. Their muscle, their clothes, their scalp, their bones, everything was burning. The vampire that tried to grab it was the first to fall on the floor, agonizing, until he finally stopped moving. The other two screamed, yelled with nowhere to run. Their limbs were way too damaged to move.

You felt that your heart was burning, too.

Finally, the burning was too much for you to take. With a scream of effort, you dropped the scepter with a loud metallic noise and fell back on the floor.

The light extinguished.

You panted. You supported your body on your arms. Finally, the screaming stopped.

There were three dead vampires on your feet.

Their carcasses completely burned, unrecognizable. The smell of burnt flesh filled the air. Smoke clouded the alley.

You started shaking again.

What– What just happened?!

But then, you heard another tiny voice besides yours and you remembered that there was someone you still needed to take care of. You got up from the floor, not daring to touch the scepter again, tip toeing to avoid stepping over the bodies.

You knelt in front of Oliver and held him by both arms.

“What are you doing here at this hour?!” You lashed out. “Alucard told you to not get out at night!”

The boy sobbed.

“I-I-I’m s-sorry, m-madame,” he stuttered between his cries. “I-I-I was t-trying to help. I-I was t-telling people to g-get into their houses. I was already g-going back home…”

You wiped his tears with the sleeve of your blouse before hugging him. Tight. Oliver cried on your shoulder, his little body shaking against yours.

A hand touched your shoulder from behind – which caused you to gasp loudly.

Alucard had the most shocked, confused expression you’d ever seen. It was one of the rare moments when he wasn’t being subtle.

“What happened?” Was all he asked, but it sounded like a demand.

No no no that’s not what you should ask right now. Oliver is the priority.

The boy leaned away from you and you held his shoulders again. “Where do you live?”

He sniffed and rubbed his nose. His little face was all puffy and wet. “T-Two streets away from here.”

You got up and took his hand. “Let’s go.”

“Ruby–“

“Let’s go,” you interrupted Alucard. “I need to take him home.”

Take him home take him home take him home. Yes, this is what I need to do. This is all that matters.

You walked on a beeline with a rushed pace towards the exit of the alley – both the scepter and the piece of paper with your translations completely forgotten on the floor. Alucard followed you closely, but in silence. Oliver’s little hand was still shaking. You held it tightly.

After no more than five minutes of walking, he pointed towards his house. You leaned down and hugged him again.

“Don’t leave your house. Did you understand? Do not walk out under any circumstance. Tell your parents about it.” You repeated in a serious authoritarian tone you didn’t recognize yourself. Have you ever spoken that way before?

Oliver nodded and apologized again. Finally, he waved a last goodbye and entered the house.

It seems that you just started to breathe again when you heard the sound of the door locking.

A few seconds of silence went by.

“Ruby.”

You shivered and turned around.

Alucard looked down at you with frowned eyebrows. Was he angry? Oh fuck, of course he was angry. You put yourself in danger again. You did what you shouldn’t. You got out of the inn without his permission.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to interrupt your mission. I hope I didn’t cause any trouble for you,” you started while avoiding his gaze vehemently. Your fingers were trembling again; you hid them behind your back.

“Can you tell me what–“

“Oliver was being chased by vampires. I saw them running through the window and I couldn’t hold myself back. I’m sorry, I know you told me to not put myself in danger. B-But I couldn’t just stay still, you see?” You couldn’t shut up. Why couldn’t you shut up? Why was your voice shaking? “I didn’t want to make you angry.”

“I’m not angry at you.”

“And then– the scepter– it did that thing again. I don’t know how that happened. It– it got so hot out of sudden, and then the vampires were burning too. I d-don’t know if I was the one to do it. I just didn’t want Oliver to die. I hope I didn’t cause any trouble.”

“You didn’t, Ruby.”

“Oh– I left if on the floor, didn’t I? I’m sorry. I put you through all the trouble of going back to the Louvre only to drop it at the alley. I s-should take it back. Oh! And I was translating the writings too. I think I dropped the paper… well, I wasn’t translating anything, I was just writing the words in our alphabet, and I don’t know it’ll be useful at all but I wanted to help somehow–“

“Ruby.”

The words got stuck in your throat.

Alucard cupped your face with both hands, forcing you to look at him and nothing else.

He frowned. “You’re burning.”

You blinked rapidly. “What? N-No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. I can feel it through the gloves.” Alucard used his teeth to take the glove off his right hand; he pressed it over your forehead. He was probably trying to help, but that action made you feel even hotter on the inside. “We need to do something about it.”

“No!” You blurted out. “No, there’s no need. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. I’ll heal. I always do.”

“Ruby.” He called again.

Alucard shoved the glove inside his coat and held your face with both hands again; he lowered himself slightly to get closer to your eye level.

“I am not angry at you.” He started in a slow and quiet voice. “You didn’t interrupt me. You did nothing wrong. But I need you to understand that you are spiraling, and I need you to calm down first.”

S… Spiraling? You were spiraling?

You gulped and nodded.

“Breathe with me.” He instructed patiently.

Inhaled. Exhaled. Inhaled. Exhaled. You followed his slow pace.

Adrenaline dissipated in your bloodstream; your head got quieter again. Your heart stopped running and went back to walking. Your hands, however, were still shaking.

You lowered your head, desperately trying to avoid his gaze, when you felt tears well up your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” you said in a weak tone.

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Alucard’s voice was even quieter than usual… even gentler. He didn’t step away. His thumb caressed your cheek with care.

“I got so scared. I thought Oliver was going to die.”

Why did you even confess that? You weren’t sure; your brain wasn’t working properly anymore. But yes, that was true. You were scared of getting hurt – you were just used to pain, you didn’t like it – but you were even more scared of seeing that boy die in front of you. So small and so innocent and so familiar for some reason.

Why was that familiar? Why were you so confused? What the hell just happened?

You had no answer to any of these questions. All you wanted to do was cry at that moment – but not in front of him. Never in front of him; it’d be too humiliating. You wanted to step away, to have some space to recover. You wanted to hide from him.

Alucard had other plans.

When the first stubborn tear streamed down your cheek, Alucard pulled you closer to his body. His hands let go of your face; instead, he wrapped his arms around you. He was delicate. Hesitant, even.

Your face was then hidden in his chest.

Alucard didn’t say anything. Perhaps there was nothing he could’ve said at that moment, so he decided to act.

You froze at first. This… this was the closest you’ve ever been to him – at least while fully conscious, a proximity Alucard established willingly. You didn’t even know you had the right to stand that close to him.

When was the last time someone offered you comfort like that?

If it had happened before, you didn’t remember.

Slowly, your body melted under his. Your tense members softened. His sweet scent enveloped you. With much hesitance, you wrapped your arms around his body too, under his cape – and in the moment Alucard realized you accepted his embrace, he held you just a little tighter, a little more comfortable. One of his hands caressed your hair, while the other wrapped around your back.

You did your best to swallow any incoming sobs, forcing yourself to cry in silence. If Alucard even noticed you were crying, he didn’t show it. He just kept his arms around you protectively… affectionately. It made your insides feel warm in a way not even that strange scepter could.

None of you said a word, though there was much to be said. Both of you understood the gravity of what just happened. The three burnt carcasses were there at the alley, waiting to be inspected.

But that could wait for now. Nothing had the right to pierce through the small bubble of peace you shared.

You just stayed there in each other’s embrace for longer than your confused brain could register.

The bright full moon, reining sovereign in the sky, was your only witness.

#alucard x reader #alucard castlevania #castlevania #alucard #adrian fahrenheit tepes #adrian tepes #alucard tepes #castlevania nocturne #alucard x you #castlevania x reader #castlevania alucard

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brawberryz · 5 days ago

Note

Oh! I have a question for your Coraline AU!

You know how in the movie, the other Wybie and Other Father betrayed Other Mother? How both had repeatedly tried to ward Coraline away or give hints on how she had to escape?

Do you think any of the siblings would betray Other Bruce? If not to save Coraline Reader and help her escape, to maybe try to become the new owner of the Other Manor and keep Coraline Reader for themselves?

With the Ghost Children, do they have the same trinkets as their eyes as they do in the movie? Are they all past Wayne's, since it's connected to Wayne Manor?

What trinket would the Reader have to represent their eye? Maybe a pearl, just to mess with Bruce.

Would removing the button and stealing the trinket to the Real World save the Reader?

I wonder if, in a way, only sewing on one button was Other Bruce's way of being Yandere? To have claim over the Reader without killing them. Without devouring them. If he's a spider creature, it'd be really interesting if he started allowing them Other Manor to look more and more like how the Other Pink Palace did, with the insect themes. Or the descent in the Other Families appearances. If Bruce starts to stretch and look more starved. While in the movie Zelinsky was rat themed and the twin performers were fish like Pieces, would the Other versions of the siblings be animals? Though, Other Father in the movie was pumpkin based. Or would they follow being insects like Other Bruce?

(Though, if Other Bruce was a Bat, that'd be interesting. But then it'd be all birds and bats in the Other's themes.)

Does Other Dick play into the circus themes and the real one being an acrobat? Play it up? Maybe one of the ball rooms is also like the inside of a circus tent? Having Zitka the Elephant as a part of the act. (Part of me would say he's a Springtail, but a Click Beetle would be more fitting, given it's a great predator and acrobat.)

Other Jason cooks and bake with Other Alfred. Though, occasionally is in garden areas and the animal pens where Other Damian keeps his 'pets'. He sticks to the Library when not 'patrolling'. (I imagine he's kinda like a wasp, patrolling and guarding areas.)

Tim always seems to be around every corner. Stalking the halls. Only one without a themed room Reader can enter. Though, that would either mean his room is essentially connected to the Bat Cave or he doesn't have one. (Perfect for a Praying Mantis and their camera like eyes paired with swivel neck.)

Other Cassandra is obviously going to do ballet. Maybe have a stage to perform on? (A Photuris female Firefly. Very good at mimicking, luring, and body language.) But I'd imagine Other Stephanie sticks close by with her theme being 'pranks'. Maybe she shares a room with Cassandra? (A Robber Fly would probably suit her.)

Other Duke is constantly in the gardens trying new sports, playing pranks with Stephanie, and is the most personal feeling one of the lot. His main area being a game room that has a bunch of different box games, card games, and other such things. (While a Lightning Bug would be the obvious choice, I might go for a butterfly. He's eye catching. Doesn't seem predatory, at first. Almost comforting. People forget they literally drink blood, sweat, and tears.)

Other Damian obviously has animals and art though his main place would be with the 'animals'. Which are obviously acting as cameras. Maybe he cares for Zitka the Elephant when Dick isn't running his act. (It'd be interesting if he was a Tarantula, given how close it is to spiders and the fact some do keep pets.)

Dude...

what did you write 💔

you literally just figured out 70% of the things I had prepared for the next (and future) chapters

I don't know if I should feel surprised or scared with your imagination

I'll just say that some things you said are right, maybe I'll even be adding some things from the original Coraline book

although I'll be honest, your idea was very good, I'm not going to lie😭🙏

#batman #batfam x reader #batfam x batsis #batfamily x reader #batsis reader #fem reader #batfam au #send asks #send ideas #coraline! reader #berryz ♡#berryzz talks ♡#yandere batfam x neglected reader #yandere x reader #batfamily x neglected reader #neglected reader

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hidden-poet · 11 months ago

Text

Commander Snow; 8

Commander Snow

Summary; Under the advice of Dr Gaul Coriolanus returns back to district 12 where without blinding light of lucy-grey he could see you.

Warnings; dead dove to do not eat, stalking, unrequited love, breeding kink, violence, possessive!Snow, unco/dubco, sexual content, she/her pronouns, explicit, violence, death.

Editor: @hotline-to-hell

chapter one

Chapter two

Chapter three

Chapter four

Chapter five

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

The door was fixed with great haste. Before you knew it, you were back in the apartment playing housewife again. Coriolanus’s distrust of you grew to a new level. He no longer trusted you to remain home by yourself. Edmund was still not found, and Coriolanus was certain he would reappear and take you away.

You now worked with him, slept with him, and ate every meal with him. The fence line seemed like an impossible goal with him being so suffocating. You were pretty sure the broken chain was not found. He would have said something, would have taunted you with how close your freedom was. It meant you had something up your sleeve against him.

But you had no way of getting to it. You had tried to disappear during his work hours, when he was most distracted, but the only time you seemed to be out of his sight was when you showered. If there had been a window in the bathroom, you were sure that he would have been in there too.

You tried your best to soften him with affection. When you had the chance, you baked him the oatmeal cookies he loves. He ate whole plates in one sitting.

But as his work increased, your work decreased. Long days spent at his office were hard to fill. He sat behind his desk and never seemed to stop working. Sometimes there was mending you could do, or shoes to shine but most of the day you sat on the couch reading what was on hand.

You had taken to organizing the books in alphabetical order, then grouped them according to color. You worked quietly and slowly. Careful not to make any noise to disturb Coriolanus from his work. You had taken them down again just moments ago to reorganize them by subject when Coriolanus' assistant came in carrying a tea tray and a large parcel.

She drops the parcel down on the table in front of you, amongst the books. You look over it to see your name neatly scribbled on the recipient's information.

The receptionist doesn’t look at you as she puts the tea tray in front of Coriolanus.

He thanks her but her response is drowned out to your ears by the opening of the box.

“Is it from Tigris?”

You wait until the receptionist shuts the door behind her to respond.

You confirmed it was, as you pulled a soft silk nightdress from the box. It was light pink which was uncommon for the districts. Dark pink lace trimming boarded along the bottom and top of the dress. You run your finger across it. It was the most expensive material you had ever felt.

Another dress was folded in the box and you take it out.

It was light blue with yellow birds flying across it, made of a soft cotton material that would fall around your ankles.

“You like them?” he asks.

“They are beautiful,” you admit.

You look in the box for more to see a small pouch filled with sweets from the Capitol.

Tigris was too kind. If things had been different, you would have been a good friend to her. But as her cousin's captive, you were now sworn enemies. The box of treats didn’t change that.

You return the items to the box and see parchment paper protecting soft material at the bottom.

“There's a shirt for you.” It was a long white dress shirt with gold stitching running in horizontal lines down it.

He comes from his desk to collect it. Taking it gently from your hands, he brings it up to his nose and inhales the scent.

“You really miss home,” you comment, watching him breathe in the scent the shirt carried.

“I do. More than anything.” He returns to his desk with it still in his hands.

“You’ll be home soon.”

“We’ll be home soon”.

You smile thinly at him. “That’s what I said.”

“You should see the Capitol. Clothing, culture. Actual buildings, not these pieces of tin. You’ll be able to breathe much better in the Capitol.”

The scratching of his pen picked up where his sentence had been incomplete as he began his work again. The shirt lay across his lap.

“I have the day off tomorrow,” he said without stopping his work, “I was thinking we could visit the waterfall again. It will probably be the last time before Ravinstill dies.”

The thought made your stomach drop. If you don’t make it beyond the fence, it would in fact be the last time you ever saw your favorite place. The time was better spent within the compound waiting for an opportunity. He would never let you get too far in the district.

“I’d prefer not to.”

“Why?” he questions with a hard tone. He continued to write but the pen pressed firmly into the paper.

“I am behind on my chores, and I haven’t made anything in a while. The food in the fridge will go bad if I don’t get to it soon.”

“Let it. The Capitol is full of food.”

You realize now that Coriolanus had already made up his mind to do the activity. You wondered why he chose it. He hated the heat and the bugs.

You walk over to the tray of hot tea and pour out a cup, making it to his liking and placing it down in front of him.

“We’ll go if you want to.”

“Why don’t you want to go?”

“Why do you want to? The walk up there will take us nearly the whole morning in the hot sun.”

“I thought it might make you happy.”

He was trying to win your approval before he ripped everything you had ever known from your finger tips. It was something to use against him. Coriolanus responded best when he was in a position to be a hero. He would do anything so long as he felt he was the only one who could do it for you.

You lean down and wrap your arms around his shoulders, resting your face against his neck.

“You know what would make me happy? Some vanilla extract so I can send Tigris some shortbread cookies back”.

He responds positively by wrapping his hands around your forearms. He liked you looking out for Tigris.

“She’s been asking to meet you.” He says, his hand gently wrapping your arm around his shoulders. “I have a call with them next Friday afternoon. Maybe you’d like to come with.”

You retract your hold now that he was in a better mood.

There was only one answer you could give him when it came to his family.

“I’d love to”.

You had a deep hate for Capitol people but Tigris seems different. In any case, you were sure you could remain civil for an hour-long phone call.

Pouring yourself a cup of tea, you return to your spot with it and Coriolanus returns to his work.

———-

You stood out in the sun with Coriolanus as he discussed the new recruits' performance with another high-ranking officer. They were splitting them up into areas of work. The strong and fast became foot soldiers, the slow were put on kitchen duty, and the ones who showed a inclination to aggression were watchmen. He spared a couple to the infantry to learn basic medic care and help around the hospital. You couldn't work out what sent those recruits apart. It seemed random but you knew nothing Coriolanus did was without great care and strategy.

All the men seemed equally angry and you wondered if Coriolanus was the same when he was a Peacekeeper.

The sun felt nice upon your skin after so long. It was late afternoon and it had just begun to set, leaving behind a nice cool breeze.

You thought about your mother and Edmund. Were they enjoying the sun too?

The sound of a vehicle approaching ruined the moment of reflection. Coriolanus took your hand in his as soon as the tires upon the gravel could be heard as if you were to be run over if he didn’t.

It surprisingly stopped in front of where you stood. A transport car with no doors and a large trunk carried two men. A younger man wearing a District 12 peacekeeper uniform and an older man who wore a Commander uniform set apart by its light purplish color.

“Commander.” The older man greets as he swings out of the car.

“Vongurt.” Coriolanus uses his spare hand to offer a handshake which is strongly and fervently taken.

Another Commander had come to see Coriolanus. You doubted he was any better than the last.

“This is my wife, Y/N.” With his hand, he leads you in front of him to show you off to the Commander.

You were stiff with shock as the man's disapprovingly raked his eyes over you. He too felt jarred at the label of wife. District women weren’t wives. They were barely considered human.

But he smiles nonetheless, something you couldn’t return.

“Pleasure.” With a kiss placed upon your hand, the Commander's attention was turned back to Coriolanus.

“Your compound is impressive, Commander Snow. It has to be the largest I’ve seen.”

Coriolanus seemed unimpressed by the comment. He turns back to the Peacekeepers watching them as they leap, and fight.

“A palace of scrap metal.”

He waves over a tall man in a high-ranking uniform, who quickly makes his way over from across the field.

“Your apartment is only slightly better. Sergeant AJ will take you there.”

“I was hoping that we could talk. I’ve come all this way from District 2.”

“Later, Commander. The conference room at 7. You’ll have my undivided attention there.”

The man nods back and follows his guide back into the car.

Coriolanus makes a comment to his officer about a recruit and the man jotted down all of his thoughts.

You wanted to get away. Break free from his hold and bolt to the fence line. His delusions had reached a new height, with him now openly telling lies to men with power.

Your body moves to your thoughts. You hadn’t even realized you were twisting your hand away from him until he tightened his hold.

He turns to you, asking if you are ok.

“I need to go home” you respond. Home to my mother. Back home to normalcy.

“Take whoever we missed today and regroup them tomorrow morning” he directs the man next to him. A whistle is blown and the recruits stop their training, instead they congregate in front of you.

Coriolanus turns as his officer begins to dish out instructions, taking you back to the apartment.

“The heat can get to you,” he says.

You had lived in District 12 all your life if anyone was to know about the heat it was you. But you verbally agree and apologize for taking him away from his work.

He hushes you and it ends the conversation for the walk home.

He lets you go as you enter your prison, and you take off without him to the bedroom.

You hear his voice wafting down the hallway telling you to lie down. You shove your boots off and get into bed. Every day your window closes. It won’t be long before either the broken fence is found or you are carted off on the train.

But he had called you his wife. Not just to anyone but a Capitol Commander. Even if you got away, the idea that he would leave you here for the presidency is just a fantasy.

How long would you need to live in hiding before he forgot you? Could you bear the costs of it for as long as needed? What work could you do in the mountains to support yourself and your mother?

Wife. Why did he have to say wife? You weren’t that. You were his captive, a victim of his need to be cared for.

Coriolanus enters the room with a wet, cold rag and runs it over your forehead. A victim of his need to pretend he was capable of caring for something.

He sits on the bed beside you running the cloth over your forehead and into your hair.

“Do you feel alright?” he asks as you take the cloth off him.

“I am fine. Just a little lightheaded.” You throw the cloth on the bed stand and he takes it as a signal to get up.

“I’ll get you some water.”

He disappears and you're thankful for the space to think. Could you tell him you just need a walk around the compound by yourself to think? No, he would take it as an insult.

You had to get out. The fence was so close.

You don’t notice him as he sits back down beside you. Only the glass to your lips made you see him.

“I won’t go to the meeting with Vongurt if you are unwell.”

You sit up straighter at his words, pushing the glass away from you.

“No!” you say harshly, “No, you should go. I am fine.”

“You don’t look well.” You were sure you looked terrible after you had the shock of your life.

“But I feel fine. Just too much sun.”

He looked annoyed that you were arguing with him so you switched tactics.

“We need his support to get back to the Capitol. Maybe you could just leave the door open for some fresh air?”

You had pushed too hard, and he got up

“If I am not here, the door is shut.”

“Of course,” you breathe with a soft smile at him, “I’ll be fine by the time you have to leave.”

Coriolanus hovered around you for the next hour and a half before he had to start getting ready for his meeting. He took a shower to wash the sweat off him from the day and changed into his official outfit. It fit snugly, his broad shoulders carried the uniform well.

He attached the dressings of his uniform as you watched him from the bed.

“Maybe I shouldn’t go tonight. What if you feel unwell while I am away?” His fingers were still on the badge he was trying to put on.

“I am fine,” you assure him, “I feel fine.”

“We should invite him here. That way if you need me, I am here.”

You cringed at the thought of serving Commander Vongurt.

“I won’t need you. Besides the conference room is much nicer.” You get up to help him put on his badge and send him on his way.

“I haven’t felt unwell since dinner.” Coriolanus stood over you as you cooked, convinced that the heat in the kitchen would make you unwell again. With a knife in your hand, it was a dangerous time for Coriolanus to tell you what to do.

“You’re sure?” he pokes.

You were tired of saying it so you just nodded your head.

“Go to the bathroom then.”

It was an odd request.

“What?” you question.

“Go to the bathroom and take a shower. Get changed into your night dress.”

He checks his watch once before motioning you forward.

There was no other option for you then to follow his request. You thought maybe he just wanted to complete the bed time routine. He wanted to know you were washed and dressed for bed for his own comfort. You never knew what made him tick.

You complete the tasks quickly and return to find he had placed a glass of water and a packet of dried mixed fruit.

You quiz him on it but he doesn’t answer. He takes your wrist in his hand and tugs you to the bed.

Taking out his handcuffs, he clips your wrist into the cuff, pulling it up to the headboard where he attached the other cuff.

You tug against it in protest. “What are you doing?”

“Just in case, Edmund comes back.”

“He won’t! Please unlock me.” you beg.

“I left your book there if you are not ready to sleep yet.” He stands tall and readjusts his uniform.

“Coriolanus!” You say in a serious tone, “Get this off of me.”

You pull against it brutally and he captures your hand against the headboard.

“I left you one hand so you can read. I don’t have to.”

“Please, don’t leave me here like this!” He ignores you, bending down once more to flick on the lamp.

“You’ve had a big day. Try and rest. I’ll be home soon.”

“Coriolanus!” you call out watching him leave. He flicks off the main light as he goes.

“Coriolanus!” you yell.

You had never felt anger as you lay trapped in bed. He dictated when you worked, when you rested, when you ate. Nothing was yours anymore. Every breath you took was only because he allowed you to take it.

There was nothing to tell the time on. It felt like years waiting for him to come back and release you. You didn’t read, only plotted.

Could you feed him something to make him sick? Surely he would request you to come see him in the infirmary. You could break away when returning from your visit. What if he caught you trying to poison him though?

Friday provided the perfect opportunity. While he was distracted with his family you could sneak away. The communication building was on the other side of the compound but at least you would be outside of the apartment.

But how would you get away far enough to make a break for it? You thought about what was in the surrounding area of the communications building. Nothing would be a reasonable excuse to pardon yourself.

Could you excuse yourself to the bathroom? Surely one of the surrounding offices would have one. Would he let you go alone? Sacrifice time with his family to take you. Would he even let you go or just expect you to make do until the phone call was over?

You came up with twenty different scenarios of escape routes, each one ended with Coriolanus catching you.

You wished you didn’t shoo Edmund away now. He could have got the door opened in time. It was only your fearfulness that stood in the way of your escape. You could be with him now, with your mother. Up in the mountains, safe and sound.

God, you hoped they were safe and well-fed.

You wished for nothing more than to tend to your mother, to ensure that she was alright.

The care that was supposed to go to her was now unjustly turned towards Coriolanus, who was adamant to wring it from your hands.

Edmund had always taken whatever care you gave him with great appreciation.

Never demanded more, and then took it with force.

He was kind and patient. Two things Coriolanus is not.

And now you have dragged him into this mess where his life is at great risk. Still, he had never demanded any more from you.

When his lips first met yours, they were placed almost in questioning. It was up to you to accept and beg for more.

You wished you had seen his affection for you sooner. But he was your brother's best friend, and the main protector of you and your mother. If Coriolanus never entered the picture you doubt he ever would have acted on it.

But he had, and you had returned the affection. It was the start of something new and beautiful or the end of years of friendship and familiarity.

Once Coriolanus went back to the Capitol, your new life would begin.

You hoped it would be alongside Edmund. You would pay him back for his bravery.

You would be a good girlfriend to him, then wife, and then mother of his children. You would never ask him for anything, and take great care of his family life. You would ensure his happiness, as he ensures your life now.

You almost forget you were chained to the bed of the Commander as you daydream of brown-haired babies. But the sound of Coriolanus arriving home was a solemn reminder. His boots against the hardwood floor soften as they reach the bedroom door.

You still had a great challenge before you got to nurse Edmund’s children.

You had to get away from Coriolanus, and the only way you could do that is if he had no idea that you planned to.

The door creaks open and you sit up straight to watch him enter.

“I am sorry. Did I wake you?” He places his coat on the foot of the bed and crawls over to where you lay.

“No. I was waiting for you.”

He smiles down at you as he unlocks the cuff from your wrist with the keys in his pocket.

“You seem happy,” you comment. You could smell the whiskey on his clothes as he leaned over you.

“I am. I have you. I have Commander Vongurt’s support behind me, and Ravinstill is not expected to last the winter. We’ll be home before you know it.”

Throwing the keys on his bedside table, he leans down to kiss you before resting his head on your collarbone.

“That’s not long,” you comment.

“Three months at the most.”

You drowned in your anxiety quietly as he rested.

Three months and your life was over.

He takes your silence as a quiet contemplation.

“Are you thinking of your mother?” he runs a curled finger along your nose.

“Yeah. I’ll miss her”. You hope to never have to know the pain of missing her again. These past few weeks have been unbearable.

“You’ll write. I’ll organize a time she can come to the compound for video calls.”

You were sure he was going to let you write and call. For how long was another thing. You could see it already, your calls being cut short, your letters ‘lost’ in the mail.

“Yeah,” you respond again.

Your mind races with ideas of escape. You could fake a sickness and be sent to the medical camp. No, he wouldn’t send you there. He panicked today over a supposed case of heatstroke.

He lowers his head down closer to you where you can smell the evening on him.

“You want to know what I was thinking?” he asks playfully.

You could start a fire during dinner time. He was sure to open the door to let you out before dealing with the flames.

“Yeah?” you entertain. Fire could go wrong for a number of reasons. Besides you would have to fight your way to the oven. Especially now that Commander Vongurt was here. Coriolanus would be too busy to wait for you to cook something.

“I was thinking I hope we have a boy first. Then two girls, then another boy.”

Your eyes shoot open as his hand reaches out across your stomach. His hand finds its way under your shirt and he lays a warm palm over your belly.

Then again, a big enough fire might kill him. Was it worth a shot?

“You called me your wife today. That’s not true.”

“What else should I have called you? We sleep together, eat together, wake together. We look after each other. The only thing missing is an official title but as soon as we get back to the Capitol, we’ll fix that.”

You turn away from him to your side. Now that the talk of the Capitol was becoming a more serious threat, you felt sick.

“Did I scare you with talk of babies? It wouldn’t be for a few more years yet.”

His rants did scare you. That would be your life if you didn’t figure out a way to the fence. Nursing Commander Snow’s babies in the Capitol. Away from your mother. Away from Edmund.

Still, you had to perform. You couldn’t let any more distrust between him and you grow.

“You didn’t scare me. I am just tired. I’ve waited up all night for you.”

You feel a soft kiss press against your ear before the weight of the bed was shifted as he moved.

“Go to sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He leans over you once more to flick off the light. You hear him walk out to the bathroom to take a shower.

Could you force him to give you the keys? The chain was still dangling from the headboard. If you could somehow get his wrist caught, you could threaten him with a kitchen knife. You shake the thought from your head. You couldn’t hurt him with a knife. You were sure even one-handedly, he could take it off you if you tried.

You just needed a distraction, just two seconds when his attention wasn’t on you to escape.

Wet, salty tears rolled down your cheeks as you lay in the dark, but you made no sound.

You were still awake when he returned from his shower, dressed in his pajamas. Thinking you are asleep he is slow and quiet as he rejoins you in bed.

He curls up against your back and rests his hand on your stomach as if there is something already inside. He wasn’t going to wait a few more years. He said it purely for your comfort.

He dreamt of being a young President with a baby on the way. And another one close after that, and another, and another. He would undo history. He would have as many baby Coriolanus’s and Tigris’ as it took to heal the past.

Watching you nurture, feed, and play with his children would overtake his memories of fighting for his life when he should have been nursed by his mother.

He felt as if he was in the area but soon to be crowned Victor. President Ravinstill just had to die before he could have it all.

His destiny that had been interrupted when his father died but was now back on track. From birth, Coriolanus Snow was supposed to be the man who had it all. Not some impoverished boy, hanging on to his father’s legacy.

When he died, he would be remembered as his own man. Not as the shadow of his father.

Coriolanus Snow; Beloved President of Panem, star pupil of the Academy, Plinth Prize winner, devoted husband and father, and Victor of the games. Coriolanus would be remembered as the man who had it all.

You lay awake under him. The smell of alcohol mixed with the scent of his soap. It burnt your nose as you inhaled.

President Ravinstill could die tonight. There was no guarantee that he would even make it to winter. You had to get out. If you made it to the Capitol, you would never get back home.

While he was intoxicated was your best chance. He seemed so still now, you could take the keys off the nightstand and go through everyone. You were sure he wouldn’t wake, not until it was too late. You remember when your father drank on special occasions, he would sleep for 14 hours at a time. Coriolanus was sure to sleep for at least half that.

You wait until you can’t feel him twitch before you rise from bed. Very slowly, very carefully, you peel yourself from him, shoving a pillow in your place. He doesn’t move from your actions so you continue over to his nightstand where his key ring is laid.

Rows and rows of keys looped together. They jingle as you pick them up. Panic runs like ice up your spin as you turn back to see Coriolanus; unmoved and unknowing.

You wrap your hand around as many keys as you can to stop further noise and make your way to the door. Checking every few steps to ensure he wouldn’t turn up behind you.

The floor creeks as you pass the hallways to the living room but no other sound follows as you cross the kitchen to the door.

You start at the very first key. It slots in but refuses to turn. Moving on to the next, and the next in methodological order, bypassing the ones that were too big or small to be entertained.

You try numerous times but the right key is buried among the many.

Feeling as if it had been hours since the first key, you felt confident that it was coming up.

You stuck a key in with no resistance. The hope that died in you reappeared as the lock turned with the key.

But all too soon it died again, as you felt a hand snake into your hair. It yanks your head harshly back and you find yourself pressed against Coriolanus.

“That key will get stuck in the door, and it’d be a great pain to get it out again.”

His hand in your hair pulls you back.

“I was just going to the kitchen to get some ingredients for a hangover cure. I was coming back.” His hand twists unforgivably in your hair as you make your plea.

“Don’t lie to me,” he seethes.

“I am not!” You protest, trying to break free from his grasp.

“You think I am some type of fool?”

Reaching over you, he takes the keys out of the door and leads you back to the bedroom.

“Coriolanus. Please just listen to me.”

“If I had listened to you, I would have left the door opened. You spoiled, deceiving, little bitch.”

He was still drunk. You could smell it from his breath.

You thought it would make him complacent but it instead made him more violent.

“I was getting you my father's hangover cure.”

You stumble as he pushes you over the doorway.

“You need to trust me, Coriolanus.”

He shoves you until you are back to your side of the bed.

“I don’t.”

He throws the keys hard across the room to free his hands.

“I trust you.” You don’t fight him as he recuffs your chain, instead you willingly go along with it.

For good measure, you place a kiss on his cheek which throws him off guard.

“I don’t trust you.” he reiterated softly.

“That’s ok,” you state, “One day you will. We’ll have a happy life together. You, me, and our children.”

He looks perplexed at your words but makes no further comment as he lays down by your side, resting his head on you.

“I’ve tried my best to take care of you. To make you happy.”

“You have.” you console. You were no longer worried about President Ravinstill lasting the night, but rather yourself.

“Then why-”

“I wasn’t running. I was trying to take care of you.”

His face turns into your skin. You bring your free hand up to his head and press it down.

“Everything is ok. Just go to sleep. You’re drunk. You don’t mean it.”

You run your fingertips up and down starting from behind his ear, down to the bottom of his neck, and up again. You do it until you feel his shallow breaths upon your skin, only then do you release the tears from your eyes.

When you wake the next morning, your wrist is free and Coriolanus is not in bed.

You rise to find him in the kitchen, frying bacon. Maybe he was too intoxicated last night to remember his anger towards you.

“Good morning,” you offer. He doesn’t return the greeting. Maybe he did remember last night, and you were in a lot of trouble.

“How are you feeling?” you try again.

“What’s your father's hangover cure?”

“Two eggs, hot sauce, milk, salt, pepper, and honey”. Your father did not have a hangover cure and it did not include hot sauce or honey, both of which were considered luxury items in the District.

He looks for the ingredients, slamming the cupboards he turns towards you. “All here.”

“Oh,” you comment, “That’s good. Did you want me to make you one?”

The bacon pops in the pan and you rush over to distract yourself with it.

“Sit down. I’ll take over cooking”. The bacon was overcooked to the point where it would be barely edible.

“So what did you need for the compound kitchen last night?”

“I didn’t know we had the items. It's been that long since I cooked, I just assumed we were out.”

“You assumed you wouldn’t get caught.”

You sigh. Coriolanus in a bad mood would only mean bad things for you.

“I wasn’t running. I was trying to help. Are you always going to doubt me?”

“Yes.” he answers, pulling the pan back off you.

He dumps the bacon onto a plate and takes it to the kitchen table. You begin to clean up after him as he sits and eats.

The plate is still full by the time he is telling you to go get ready for the day.

You put on the blue sun dress he likes which acts as a two-second buffer for his anger when he sees you.

He had paused in the middle of throwing his bacon into the trash. Such a waste of food. You thought.

But he was determined to stay in his mood. He slides the empty plate across the counter.

“I am late for work,” he says.

It was unusual for him not to hold your hand as you walked to his office. You would have to work hard today to please him.

His tea was already sat upon his desk when you arrived and you rushed to pour him one.

He doesn’t drink it. It goes cold as he does his work.

You try extra hard to be quiet. There was sewing left from yesterday which you begin to complete.

“We still haven’t found your mother,” he says out of the blue after a morning of not speaking or looking at you.

His words filled you with confidence. If you could get to the mountains, at least you knew you were safe.

He doesn’t look up as he speaks.

“Edmund hasn’t returned to his house but there was a rumor that he was swapping meat for medical supplies just yesterday.”

What would he need medical supplies for? You wondered. Was your mother okay? Was he okay?

You needed to see them to make sure.

“He’s probably hiding with your mother in what’s left of the forest. Don’t worry. We’ll find him and bring your mother home.”

It was a disguised threat. He was trying to get a rise out of you.

“Good,” you comment. Keep searching the forest while they remain safe in the mountains.

“Good.” he repeats back.

A comfortable silence returns as you both go back to work, but it’s interrupted by his secretary bursting through the doors.

“Sir! Sir!” she gasps. Coriolanus shot up from his chair.

“Commander Vongurt is angry!”

You follow him without a word out of the office.

“The courtyard!” the secretary directs.

You fall behind his fast pace and reach for him blindly to keep from falling too far behind.

A crowd had formed by the time you reached the courtyard. You could hear the familiar sound of flogging and painful cries.

The crowd parts as Coriolanus approaches. In the middle of the bystanders was Commander Vongurt and a young boy curled on the dirt floor.

Coriolanus looks upon the same boy who failed to hit the target on the hot day.

Grabbing the baton from the Commander, he throws it to the ground.

“What are you doing?”

“Commander Snow,” Vongurt was out of breath from exerting himself in his beating, “This boy is a disgrace to your legacy. I caught him passing scraps to the prisoners through the bars.”

With the protection of Coriolanus, you felt safe enough to speak out, “He’s just a boy.”

“Take him to the jail. He can sleep there for a week if he likes their company so much.”

“Coriolanus!” you take his arm and tug it. He gives you a harsh look and you know you won’t be able to persuade him.

The boy cries out and begins to beg as he is carted away by two others.

“Coriolanus, please!” You tug his arm once more and he hits you harshly across the cheek.

You stumble upon the impact. The men shuffle away from you as you try and regain your footing.

Coriolanus takes your arm in a harsh grip, pulling you back in the right direction but he is turned to speak to Vonngurt.

“District 12 is my district. Next time you feel like taking discipline into your own hands, don’t.”

The older Commander nods his head, but you can see he is displeased to have been spoken to in such a manner.

“Let’s go.” He was now talking to you and shoving you forcefully in front of himself back to the office.

You tear yourself free as the door shuts behind you.

“You don’t dictate my decisions.”

Your nose is clogged from your tears. You couldn’t tell if you were crying out of pain or anger. Your brain was still trying to catch up.

“Calling my name,” he says astonished, “It doesn’t matter if you disagree with my decision. Your job is to support me.”

He catches you as you try to make your way from him and he tosses you to the couch, where he stands over you.

“You embarrassed me. Vongurt already thinks I can’t control my Peacekeepers, now he thinks I can’t control my women as well.”

You cup your bruised cheek. This wasn’t about Vongurt. He was still hurting about your attempt last night. All day he was looking for a reason to lash out, Vongurt only provided the opportunity.

You were put back on defense. With only at most a month before you were carted off to the Capitol, mistakes couldn’t be afforded.

“I am sorry.” you choke out.

He squinted his eyes, bringing his hand up to his head before throwing it back again, “What were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t!” you spit. There is no sincerity in your voice.

“Look at me when I am talking to you.” He takes your chin into his hand and pulls it up to his eye level. “Ravinstill is expected to die shortly. This behavior of yours cannot be brought back to the Capitol.”

“It won’t be. I am sorry.” Your fists clench by your side.

He turns your chin to expect your cheek.

“I did it too. That’s the only reason I spoke out. I would have been thrown in jail too.” you contend.

He lets go of your chin and stands up to full height, “You think a Peacekeeper would get the same punishment as a District? No. You would have been hanged. Yet another reason to be loyal to me. I’ve saved you.”

“I am loyal to you. Grateful for you.” You get up and follow him as he makes his way to his desk.

“Coriolanus, please don’t be mad at me. I was only ever trying to help.”

You sob ugly causing him to spin around. Your cheek hurt, and you felt the weight of the world on your shoulders trying to get away within such a short time frame. You were overwhelmed with the whole scenario and the thought of dealing with Coriolanus as he looked for opportunities to lash out was too much to bear.

He softens upon your unraveled composure, taking you into his arms.

“Stop crying. It’s okay”. You feel him rest his head on top of yours. “I am just a little wound up trying to get everything in order. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I am sorry.”

You smile slightly, he is back on defense.

—------

Friday came quickly. The call wasn’t until the afternoon so you spent the whole day as a ball of anxiety.

But at least you had a plan. On evening walks you took more notice of the building surrounding the communications tent, and saw a nurse carrying a load of blankets into a building of washing machines.

There were few things Coriolanus let you do alone, washing was one of them.

The washing machine in the apartment would need to be dealt with. But the long hours spent in his office meant that the dirty clothes were piling up. He would demand a fresh uniform for work. If you left it close to his phone call with his family, he was sure to let you go.

You push it out for as long as you can. He had wanted to leave ten minutes ago but you kept pressing him for one more minute.

You had taken small rocks from the ground during your afternoon walk, telling Coriolanus you would like to take a part of home back to the Capitol with you. He had allowed you to collect a small jar, you picked the biggest rocks you could find.

Big enough to jam the pipes of the washing machine.

“Darling, please. We have to leave.” He bangs on the door of the washing room.

You finish shoving the rocks as far as they would go down the pipe. It made an awful sound as the washing machine ate them up causing the water to rise.

“Coriolanus,” you call. As soon as you open the door, he grabs your arm, ready to yank you out.

“Coriolanus. The machine is broken. Look.”

He barely glaces at it, “ I’ll send someone to fix it. Let’s go.”

“I need to do the washing,” you pick up the basket as he pulls you from the room, “Can I use the compound washing machines?”

“That’s fine. Just move, we are late.”

You struggle to keep up with him as he rushes along the compound. He hated it if his phone call was cut short by even a second. Now he was two minutes late and he was almost running to make up time for it.

You reach the building in record time. He lets go of you to pick up speed, leaving you by the door as he hurries.

He rushes to the small screen, not bothering to sit down on the wooden chair as he twisted the knobs. “Tigris, Tigris? Can you hear me?”

He must have heard a voice on the other side as he broke out into a smile. It was a pretty, genuine smile that you had not seen before.

“Hey,’’ he laughs. You watch from where you stand by the door. He seemed almost unrecognizable. A young boy sent away to a summer camp instead of a ruthless and ambitious Commander. “I am sorry. The washing machine broke. How are you?”

His tone is light and happy as he talks to Tigris. You wonder if he had forgotten he even brought you. He didn’t glance at you as he spoke, giving her his full attention.

You wonder if it is best to make your exit now but his words stop you.

“She’s here.” he waves you over. You drop the basket in coming to him. You wondered what Tigris would look like. What she would sound like.

Coriolanus holds out the receiver for you. You peer at the screen to see a blonde girl in colorful clothing before you put the receiver to your ear.

“Hello,” you greet.

“Oh!” Tigris croons. She pulls the receiver away from her mouth to lessen her shout, “Grandma’am come see!”

She smiles as she turns her attention back to you, “Oh, Coryo has talked so much about you.”

“What is she saying?” Coriolanus places his hands on your hip and pulls down so you are sitting on his knee.

“She’s said you’ve talked about me,” you answer.

He smiles gently at you, turning the receiver in your hand out between you.

An older woman comes too close into the frame and Tigris pulls her back.

“Is that her?” the old woman asks Tigris who nods.

“Girl-Girl.” she talks into the speaker.

“Yes, Ma’am?”

“You must be grateful he is sending you back to the Capitol. Don’t ruin it like the last one.”

Coriolanus snatches the receiver away from your ear to soften her words but you heard them any way.

“Grandma’am is unwell,” he tells you, “Pay her no mind.”

Tigris takes back the receiver and positions it in a similar fashion to Coriolanus.

“Did you get the dresses I sent?”

“I did. Thank you. I was hoping to send you back some shortbread but Coriolanus has been busy with work.”

“He was saying you cook. Grandma’am and I are so excited to meet you!”

“Me too,” you lie. “I hear the Capitol is wonderful. I look forward to exploring it with you.”

Tigris laughs. She was beautiful, you thought. Perhaps too popular to be showing you the capital. You felt foolish for even lying about it.

“We’ll have a ball. I’ll show you all around.”

“In time,” Coriolanus interjects. The chains around you would not loosen just because you were in the Capitol. “The Capitol is big. There’ll be time to see it all.”

You let Coriolanus take over the talking. Only offering agreements or soft smiles as the Snow women talk.

The family soon falls into a comfortable way of talking. You had said next to nothing for the last 10 minutes, and it had gone unnoticed. It was time to make your way.

You slowly rise from Coriolanus who latches out on your arm.

“I’ll just put the washing on. That way it will be done by the time we finish.”

He tugs you back down causing you to fall into him. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Tigris almost cringe.

“We’ll do it later,” he demands.

“We’ll be washing well into the night if we leave it any longer. I’ll just pop it on. I’ll be five minutes.”

His face twisted with his words but you kissed him to stop them from leaving his mouth. It was the first time you had ever kissed him on the lips. You could tell by the way his mouth stilled that he was surprised.

“Five minutes.” You kiss his bottom lip to quell any fight he has in him. Grabbing the phone in the meantime.

“Tigris. Grandma. I’ll just be 5 Minutes to put the washing on”.

Tigris smiles at you, letting you know that it is fine. You could just barely hear Grandma’am make a comment about how the people in the Capitol don't do their own washing but it is cut off by you shoving the phone back in Coriolanus's hand.

He cups your face to bring you down for another kiss.

“Five minutes,” he repeats.

You smile at him as you pull away. It was too easy, You had won.

It felt like victory as you picked up the basket and placed it on your hip. You turn back halfway out the door to see he has gone back to talking to his family.

You don’t make it to the tent. Five steps away from the door and you had dropped the basket and taken off at a fast pace.

You walk to try not to draw attention to yourself. It worked for the most part. Hardly anyone gave you a glance. You could see the bins coming into sight. Your freedom is just behind them.

“Hey!” you hear someone call out. You ignore them at first, not thinking they could mean you. But a harsh hold on your arm spun you towards a Peacekeeper.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“What? Nothing”. Your freedom lay not ten feet away but was hindered by a zealous guard.

“Where’s Commander Snow?” He held you too tight. It interfered with your clear thinking.

“The communications tent.”

“Is that where you should be?”

“No,” you try and tug your arm away from him but his nails dig in. “Let go of me. Let go!”

“Let’s go ask Commander Snow what you should be doing.” The man starts to drag you along as you dig your feet into the dirt.

“Let go!” you shout. He was sure to notice you gone soon if he hadn’t already. Time was running out.

In frustration, you slap the Peacekeeper across the face.

“How dare you touch me. I’ll tell Commander Snow about this. You’ve hurt me.

You feel his grip loosen on you but he doesn’t let go completely.

“No, I haven’t!” he says somewhat fearfully,

“Commander Snow has asked me to get something for him, and not only have you stopped me from doing that but you hurt me in the process. How do you think he will react to that?”

You manage to tear free from him and give yourself some distance.

“I am going to do as he asked me, and you are going to do your duties like you should be doing. Otherwise, I’ll report you to the Commander."

The Peacekeeper mulls over his course of action before raising his hands.

“I didn’t mean to cause any trouble. Excuse me.”

You turn your back on him and quicken your steps to your destination. Making sure the coast is clear, you crawl behind the large bins. You couldn’t see any broken fence behind it.

Did they find it? Have you just made a fatal mistake?

You continue to crawl, placing your hand on the metal for any movement.

The chain bends showing cut wire as they bend. Relief washing through you.

It digs harshly into you as you pull yourself through.

You could have kissed the dirt on the other side. Freedom. Edmund.

The guard in the tower above you looks out across the field. You keep under his eyesight as you slide across the fence as quietly as you can.

It runs out, leaving ten feet of open field before the safety of the forest. Ten feet and then you were free. There was no cover, meaning that the guard could easily spot you if he was looking.

You say a silent prayer that the guard will keep his focus straight before you take the chance of discovery.

You leap across the field, throwing yourself upon the first tree you touch. The bark smashed your bruised cheek as you waited for the sirens to sound.

He mustn’t have seen you. You had got away.

You take a second to laugh as quietly as you can. Run, a voice in your head told you. You regain your breath and do. You run as fast as you can, taking the backroads back to your home.

Your lungs burn, willing you to stop but you keep going until your house is in view. You only slow down to stop drawing attention to yourself.

People had started to return home from work. You could see them as you walked along the back of their houses. You're careful not to be seen.

The back steps of your place come under your feet, and your caution disappears as you fling yourself into your home.

Edmund was sitting at the kitchen table dressing a rabbit he caught.

He stood up. Turning his knife towards you thinking you were an intruder.

You knew he would never hurt you so you throw your arms around his shoulders despite the threat.

The knife drops and he takes you into his arms.

“I was so worried.” he breathed.

“We have to go. We need to leave,” you state but make no attempt to pull away.

He does pull away, throwing the rabbit into his hunting sack and picking up his knife. You take his bloody hand and he leads you back out the back door and into the forest.

The walk to the mountains takes well into the night. You both do it silently. What was there to say? There was still a long road to safety.

You stay as close as you could to him. Always holding his hand or latched onto his arm.

The mountain trail is tough and you wonder how he made it up with your mother on his back. He knew the way well, having worked in the mines nearly all his life. He warned you of which boulders were loose, and when you tripped over he caught you as if he almost expected it.

You were worn out by the time you reached the campsite. Rows and rows of small wooden houses for the miners. All were empty this time of year as it got too dark too early and not light enough too late for the hours they worked.

You saw a freshly put-out fire and knew that your mother was close.

“Your mothers in that one,” he pointed to the right cabin, “My family’s in the next one.”

For the first time in the hour's walk, you tore free from him and ran into your mother's cabin.

It was a relief to see her sleeping figure. You throw yourself on top of her and begin crying.

She wakes in fright but knows the figure of her daughter well. She throws her arms around you and joins you in crying.

You were home. You were safe.

—---------

As soon as the door closed, Coriolanus felt as if he had made a mistake. He trusted you.

You were better now. Doing well. He could trust you.

But Tigris’s words made no sense to him. You were coming back.

He tried to focus on his family but he eyes the door expectantly.

Dread fills him. How long did it take to put on washing?

“Coriolanus?” he hears Tigris call.

He dashes out of his chair. He had made a very big mistake.

“Coriolanus?” the receiver resounds.

Upon opening the door he is met with his washing by his feet. He takes off running to his apartment. You were sick the other day, maybe you had fallen ill again and taken to bed.

He pushed past Peacekeepers as he ran to his steps. Taking them two at a time he reaches the top and pushes open the unlocked door. It was only ever locked to keep someone in, never someone out. He calls out for you but is met with silence.

He opened every door along the way to the bedroom, hoping you were just hiding.

He calls your name again and again until falling silent upon the empty bed. You weren’t here. Coriolanus had made a big mistake.

Clicking the radio built into the collar of his shirt, he demands that the compound is shut down.

“Has anyone been through the gates?” Both leading officers of the two entryways confirm that no one has. The Peacekeepers are diverted into searching the compound for you.

Coriolanus joins too. He didn’t trust the ability of his Peacekeepers. He searched every nook and cranny of every office and building he could find. His temper flared the longer the search went on.

You had to be in the compound. How could you have got out?

He returns to his apartment. Maybe you had returned upon hearing the sirens.

A cat catches his attention as it sits meowing and eating bits of food from the ground that the birds had managed to pick out.

He had never seen a cat in the compound before. Could it have got in the same way you got out?

He walks over to search it for any clues it might have but it runs off as he comes closer.

He chases it behind the bin where he watches it slip through the bent wire in the fence.

You had got away. Now at large in the districts.

He sighs deeply before taking his rage out on the back of the bins, bashing and kicking at it until he is forced to lean against it to catch his breath.

A search party would be sent out, interrogations would be issued. Someone had to have seen you along the way. He would find you and he would bring you home to him.

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#coriolanus snow #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #dark!coriolanus snow #commander snow #dead dove do not eat #coriolanus x reader #tom blyth #hunger games

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houseofhyde · 6 months ago

Text

v. another man's legacy

pairing. aemond targaryen x fem!reader synopsis. prince aemond calls all with fire in their blood forth to dragonstone with promise of a grand announcement, unawares of the king's own announcement. chapter warnings. no use of y/n, brother-in-law!aemond, stark!reader, infidelity, purity culture, extended family drama, possible spoilers for events that take place in fire & blood! smut ( unprotected piv, creampie, [redacted]'s cum used as lube, fingering, exhibitionism? possibly? maybe? if you squint? ) please kindly notify me of any warning i may have missed. word count. 13k. hyde’s input. i ideally wanted this posted a week ago but i've unexpectedly had quite a busy month, sorry besties. lowkey hate how this turned out, wrote it in a rush, but hopefully you enjoy the chapter x ( if you see a typo, no you didn't )

another man's series. feast. comfort. pleasure. pain. legacy. jealousy. ( coming october ) read on ao3. listen to the playlist.

The ravens are put to work.

Daybreak, nightfall. Sunrise, sundown. Highwinds, dry air. Blue sky, grey storms. Between man’s certainty of life and death, a new one arises: the promise of feathered wings flying high over the streets of King’s Landing. Dark wings, dark words — a phrase your late septa had sworn by, fear in her eyes everytime a bird dared arrive at Winterfell carrying a message — it does not ring true to the ink that fills the recent parchments.

The guardsmen saw me home safely through the southron sands, past the Stormlands, and alas, to King’s Landing. I pray for safety in your own travels.

You had written it in a hurry and sent it with even more haste, the innocent intentions of wishing well to a man bound to you in marriage. You had awaited no reply, in truth, yet when the raven perched itself upon your window sill at the Hour of the Wolf, you felt your heart try to flee out of your chest.

Whispers travel faster than ravens, I knew of your arrival already. It is good to read of it in your own hand. You need not fret on my safe-being, for I sit upon a mount from where no man may harm me.

No name, no signature. A rule unspoken yet well-kept. Should words be seen by unintended eyes, there is no space for errors, big nor small, for errors lead to questions, questions lead to answers, and answers lead to exposure.

It is truly a bore to attend courts as of late. No one lends me the privilege of a dance and, the few who do, seem to possess two left feet. I fear for the health of my toes, crushed under the weight of misplaced steps.

Your days in Dorne have come to mark a significant shift in your life, moulding you into a different version of a woman who always existed within you. You returned to the capital not only wearing a new dress, but a new attitude. A life divided by two key phases: Before Dorne, and After Dorne. And, yet, all that has truly changed in your life is this: the letters.

We danced this evening, when you visited my sleeping mind. Naked, sweet, pliant. It felt so real. I could taste you, smell you, feel you. I woke with a most horrible discomfort in my loins. You have ignited a longing in me befitting a petulant child, not a man of my class. How am I expected to live with never having you again?

There is a creature inside you that wishes to collect his words, like a crow collects a shiny trinket. Assign them a drawer at your bedside, a place for them to live near your resting head and hopefully whisper themselves into your dreams, the only lands you are able to get a glimpse of his blonde hair, and lean arms, and soft mouth. That would mean danger, however, a trail of evidence for someone to find. Each parchment lives on as nothing more than a pile of ash in your hearth.

There is rumour of Lohar’s death. Assassination, they say. It ripped apart the triarchy, half of them fighting, the other half fleeing. I must be honest when speaking on the swelling of my own pride. You not only heed my warnings, but also took my advice. Perhaps my next advice will be that you meet me beneath moon and sky, and let only our bodies and the gods bear witness to what we do.

Words grow bolder as minds grow desperate. You find yourself in a rut, counting days as if it does not add to your own torture. Insatiable, a term you have scarcely used to describe yourself in past times, yet it is all that feels adequate since that night upon foreign sheets. Your husband takes you, like a hound takes its bitch, and you welcome him. Close your eyes, picture that same silver hair, but another’s face, hands, voice. It ends how all couplings end between you — an unanswered prayer between your thighs, a bud on the permanent precipice of bursting into bloom, only for Aegon to rip it out by its roots and spill his own seed in its place. But for a moment, while his hips beat relentlessly against the swell of your arse and his nails dig crescents into your skin, you feel it: a subtle, low-burning pleasure. Not much, but enough, more than before.

Give me cause and I shall give you no rest, my Lady.

“Are you not enjoying the boar, wife?” Aegon’s voice cuts through the fog of your thoughts and brings your surroundings back into focus.

The King’s chambers, a table set for two, a handful of maids carrying pitchers of wine, and a nervous harpist, plucking a disjointed tune with shaky fingers. You pity the man. It is one thing to play to a court of dancing bodies and chattering mouths, it is another to play in the privacy of the King and Queen Consort as they dine in one another’s company.

You cough out a denial, shake your head as if to emphasise, “it is as tender today as it was yesterday, my King.”

“You’ve hardly touched it.”

“My thoughts feed me tonight.”

“Any that you care to share?”

No. “Of course,” Aemond takes the centre frame in your mind’s eye, not so much an image as he is a concept. You push him aside. “I attended this morning. Your dealings with the smallfolk, I watched from the balcony that sits over the throne room.”

“I saw,” he seems to light up as the topic is brought forth. Intrigued enough to lay down his cup and rest his forearms along the table, leaning closer as if awaiting some great secret to spill from your lips. You wonder if he would be half as amused if your mouth followed through on his unspoken request. “Well go on then! What did you think?”

“What did I… Think?” Your husband nods his head with enthusiasm, his unruly locks of hair shaking as he does so. It is hard to picture him any other way than this, unkept and unbothered, nothing like the rest of his Valyrian bloodline, with their meticulous braids and their well pampered image. Were it not for the striking colour that grows out his scalp, you would hardly believe Aegon is a Targaryen. His dark eyebrows shoot up expectantly. “You did well. You were cooperative and understanding. Just, too. No matter the personal issue they laid at your feet, you truly tried to solve things as best you could. You were… Aegon, you were kingly.”

“Do not sound so surprised,” rose tinted cheeks, a splash of bloodrush upon his soft skin. The wine must be getting to him and yet… And yet you wonder if it is something more, a rush of excitement at praise. He had never wanted this — the crown, the throne, you — until push came to shove and he felt the sweet weight of the Conqueror’s legacy rest upon his head and the grip of Blackfyre in his fist. Whether driven by ego or a genuine wish to do well by the people of his realm, Aegon has taken on his duties as of late with a grace no one, not even his own blood, had expected of him. A mess made in times of war, he spears ahead to clean up what rubble and ashes remain of the land. “I’m sure you’re wondering what prompted my invite to sup here, alone.”

“You are my husband, I am your wife. Who else would I share my meals with?”

“I am sure there are names ahead of mine on that list,” the smile he flashes is jaded. “Sometimes I worry you wish to forget our marriage.”

“Aegon, husband, I would never do such a thing.” And yet, you have. Naked in the Dornish heat, another name upon your tongue, another man inside your cunt.

“Leave us,” two words, enough to send the serving wenches out in a flurry of footsteps. The drag of a harp across the floor, loud and resounding as the musician slips his way out the room, closing the door behind himself. And then it is truly just the two of you, inspecting the other under a gaze cold enough it reminds you of the snow that falls over Winterfell. “The letter,” your heart leaps to your throat, blocking the space and robbing you of your breath. He knows, he knows, he knows. He knows of the letters, and the deceit, and all those complicated feelings you hold for- “That I sent to you during your time with my sister. I have not forgotten it. I expect you haven’t either.”

Air fills your lungs, your heart settles back down in the cage of your chest. The shake in your hand remains, and so you fill it with the weight of your other hand, clasp them both into stillness. “No.”

“Wonderful. Then you’ll recall my mention of a chat we’re overdue. There is no time like the present,” the little of your dinner that sits in your stomach stirs. Flips. Threatens to claw its way back up and out of you, spill itself all over the table. That would not rouse any suspicion, surely. It would be a perfectly rational response to your husband, bound to you in cloth beneath the Seven, requesting to chat with you. Aegon continues, as if unaware or simply unbothered by the distress bursting out of your seams. “It is not lost on me, you know? The looks you cast my way, the disdain that has slowly wiped itself over our union, a permanent stain that hovers over every interaction we share. I believe it is time to admit to-”

The chamber doors burst open anew.

“Your grace,” Maester Orwyle, out of breath, sweat lining his brow, and his chain hanging heavy from his neck. Never has his face been such a welcomed sight.

“I believe I ordered that my wife and I be left alone.”

“Apologies, your grace, but this is a pressing matter,” the maester holds up a scrap of paper, the edges curling in on themselves. “I carry word from the Crown Prince, Aemond Targaryen.”

You sit up a little straighter at the mention of his name. Days of private correspondence, nights of fantasised meetings, you have forgotten just how commanding his name sounds when spoken aloud.

Aegon sinks deeper into his chair, a boredom taking over his features as he waves his hand, “well then, go on, spit it out!”

“Prince Aemond has requested the presence of all members of House Targaryen at Dragonstone,” his sandal-covered feet make gentle pitter-patter against the floor as he approaches the table, laying out the note for Aegon to grab at and inspect for himself. “The letter brings promise of an announcement from the prince.”

The great Targaryen dynasty.

Built on the ashes of burnt kingdoms and the man-shaped collateral damage of one family’s lust for control. Centuries of legacy, an infinite amount of tales that better fit the stuff of legends and scriptures. Lavish castles, luxurious clothing, Valyrian steel. A puritan bloodline, a family tree that circles itself. The smell of a dragon’s breath, the shine of silver-blessed hair. And this is what it has been reduced to.

Four dragons. Two crippled by war, wings with crooked bones and punctured skin. One a mere hatchling, no older than three, with a sickly pale colour and an unhealthy disposition that keeps it curled around its bonded rider’s shoulder, unwilling to stray far. And then there is the eldest of them, unchanged by the war, already well-versed in the age-old Targaryen tradition of burning enemies to a crisp.

The Martells are the first to arrive. A small boat, with a handful of guardsmen, two ladies in waiting, a wet nurse, Princess Helaena, and her two children. The Prince of Dorne has remained at the seat of his house, unwilling to leave it defenceless in the early hours of peace.

The Hightowers arrive next. Three great ships, stuffed to the brim with armed men, and mute maids, and shy squires. Amongst them, the lowly Garmund Hightower stands at command, but it is his wife who’s presence has truly been requested: Rhaena Targaryen. The last time you had seen her, no war had transpired and she had been betrothed to another. If only Aemond had not taken to the skies that fateful night…

Above the Hightower fleet, another representative of House Targaryen flies, sat atop the blue beauty, Tessarion, the left side of her still marred with scars and puncture wounds littering her left wing from the battles she had endured during the war of kin. Daeron had insisted she fly, however, having not taken to the skies in moons, since the wedding at Winterfell.

The Velaryons do not answer the summoning. It is said Baela Targaryen, infuriated at her cousin’s request, had to be shackled to her bedpost, ranting and raving threats of greeting Aemond Targaryen in Dragonstone — with a sword down his throat.

And then, at last, the King’s fleet arrives. An outlandish six ships, with more guards than dare fit on the island, enough chamber-maids to fill the Great Hall, and the main figureheads of the Green Council. Up above flies Sunfyre, a watchful eye amid the clouds, yet his back remains riderless. The King, instead, stands at your side aboard the ship, his mother and grandsire on the opposite end of him.

At last, you step foot on Dragonstone, and that is when you notice her.

Vhagar, a mass resting atop a hill, too large to nest within the caves, too lonesome to answer the call of her kind, the excited screeches taking place on sand as Tesarion and Sunfyre circle one another, jostling against the keepers who attempt to wrangle the pair into the mouth of a cave. You watch as the giant she-dragon merely lifts her head, peering at the antics, before laying back down, uninterested in the commotion of everyone’s arrival.

To tell the truth, you are not all that interested in greeting everyone either, too many heads bowing in your direction as you smile and exchange pleasantries by your husband’s side. The commotion of an extended bloodline retracing the halls of its ancestral home, unwanted as it may have been, only makes it all the more easy to slip away once you cross the threshold of the castle, however, letting your feet sneak off to your own private summoning.

Once you arrive, I recommend you find your way to the library. Alone.

The raven had arrived hours before you departed the capital, shaking out its feathers as you awoke from your slumber. You barely had the time to read over it once before the doors to your chambers came barreling open, an army of ladies waiting to grab all your loose threads and sort them back into place. Wash your hair, scrub your skin, rouge your lips. Tighten your bodice, clasp your necklace, rest the dainty tiara atop your head.

Running your thumb over the dried ink, you trace the words he wrote to you, before tucking the note safely back into the sleeve of your dress.

The library is miniscule in comparison to the one living within the Keep, yet it still manages to steal your breath away, stumbling through the door. Rows of dark oak bookcases, stuffed full of colourful, aged, leather-bound, cloth-bound spines of books. The smell of old, the smell of history, with a hint of spice and a flare of cinnamon. Candles with their wax melting into the surfaces they rest upon. Chairs, cushioned by green leather and detailed with dragon-like carvings. A table littered with scrolls, and ink, and feather quills, signs of life having been here. But no sign of Aemond Targaryen.

Boredom brings your feet to a halt within the row of bookcases furthest from the door, curiosity leads your hand to pulling at the spine of an aged book. Dragons: A Record of the Hatched. The smell of dust infects your nostrils as you flick through the wrinkled pages, from end to beginning.

Morning has yet to be listed. You let a few pages flick past, find yourself staring at the sketch of a familiar creature. Syrax. A splotch of ink covers the name of her rider. Turn to the next page, and there sits the Blood Wyrm, with Aemon Targaryen followed by a splotch of ink listed under his riders. Page after page, dragon after dragon, sketch after sketch, the names of the Black Council sit hidden behind stains of black ink.

An uneasy feeling stirs in your stomach and a sadness burns at your eyes, staring down at how easily their existences are being erased from history. How long, you wonder, until Rhaenyra Targaryen is nothing but the beggar Queen in a folk song, another name lost to time and another life lost to the throne? How long until the stories of the Black Council are more myth than fact?

How fickle of a thing, life. Order dictates that a name promises a legacy, a memory, a marking in a family tree to be listed until the end of time. And, yet, so easily man picks and chooses the scraps of history that will remain, when time has long passed and all who lived through it have perished back into the ground.

The sickening feeling wells inside you, uncomfortable and heavy, and so you turn another page, and another, and another, until you find yourself faced with Vhagar. The sketch does no justice to her sheer size, cramped within the page, but your eyes do not linger long enough to care. Instead, they are reading over the list of riders to find the one they seek. Aemond Targaryen. You lift a hand off the edge of the book, fingers skirting forward to trace over the lustrous A of his name.

The weight of the book shifts, resting carefully in the palm of your left hand, teetering on the edge of slipping, when something grabs at you. With a great smack, the book crashes to the floor, a cloud of dust bursting out as its pages snap shut. Arms wind around your waist, loose yet firm in their hold, and a spread of warmth blankets over your back.

“They just reached the crypts. We have less time than I had hoped.”

The voice is a whisper in your ear, a fleeting kiss against your neck, the flutter of a butterfly’s wings. Gentle, soothing, delicate. Something given only to you, meant only for you. It warms a chill within you, melts away the frost encasing your heart, heating you to the bone and soothing the uneasy feeling in your loins. It is the feeling of tired limbs sinking into soft sheets, it is the feeling of stepping through the familiar gates of Winterfell, it is the feeling of home. It is Aemond.

The arms that bind you to him pull a little tighter, a momentary rob of your breath. Your hands claw at his wrists, squeezing down to feel the firmness of bone beneath skin, skin beneath leather. No ink, no paper, no written promises. Tangible, tactile, sentient. Him, him, him. Firm at your back, calm in your heart, forgiving in your ear. Your tongue itches to tell him you have endured that longing, the very same he confessed to, head deep in his cups, mouth stained in the strawberry jam of your tarts.

“You erased them. Their names, they no longer exist,” the words are an accusation, your tone is not. It is just — sad, empty, disbelieving. The mourning of strangers, a family you met once upon a time, a table set in honour of a dying man, a family feud brushed falsely aside. Until the tension snapped, until Aemond raised his cup. Final tribute.

Final.

Tribute.

“Traitors have no place in our history,” fingers tug at the green velvet of your dress, moulding the golden stitching of a dragon out of shape. You resist his call to turn, not when his words feel so cold compared to his touch. “By order of the King.”

“They were your family, your blood,” you say, willing it to mean something, willing him to show a moment of vulnerability, like his confession amid tangled limbs and wrinkled sheets. A rusty chain in need of oiling, his remorse sits buried beneath layers of oxidised irony, a faux coldness the sorrowful look in his eye so often contradicts.

You turn, at your own will, and find that very look staring back at you. Momentarily, it bleeds with something, the sharpness in his stare softening as he takes in the features of your face, as if he needs reminding of how you look, to tune his imagination more deftly to your true image.

“They tried to kill you,” it is a whisper yet the prince almost seems to spit it out, as though it is a struggle to let the words form on his tongue, his eye widening as if the memories all come barreling in, the sight of blood on your skin, blood on your sleeping gown, coin beneath his table. “Do not ask me to mourn them.”

“And what of it, if I do ask it of you?” It is daring, to straighten your back and tighten your grip on his wrists, only to drop them and grab for his face, instead, as he tries to flee from your eyes. You hold him there, thumb smoothing over scarred cheek. “Would you mourn them?”

His mouth does not answer.

Instead, it kisses you.

Everything melts away under his lips, all thoughts, and questions, and pleadings. Words drift away, your mind rids itself of all the letters that do not belong to him. Aemond. Why would you ever need more than those six letters?

It is the seventh time the prince has joined his mouth to yours. You know this not because you have tried to keep count, but because each one is as striking as the last, as utterly world-bending, and fear-ending, and noteworthy.

There was the night in your chambers, from sudden kiss, to hesitant lips, to sinful tongues. Two nights later, the weight of Helaena’s teary eyes still heavy on your shoulders, you fell tangled amongst sheets with him once more. Breaths exchanged, whimpered names, a carnal hunger that only grew the more you both fed it. Twice, with no respite between, as the moon hung stars in the sky. And when the sun began to paint an orange hue, he woke you just to have you once more, eyes barely departing from sleep, bodies laying on their sides, a leg thrown over his waist, and a hand cradling your mouth against his own.

The last kiss had tasted of sorrow and longing. In the early hours of the morning, a flurry of soft knocks at a door opened to him, wide awake and dishevelled.

“I could not do it,” he had muttered, cradling you closer with each step he took into the room. “Not again.”

Though the matter of this it had never been clarified, you knew, you understood. You agreed. Not again could you see yourselves departed from another, without so much as a proper goodbye. Suddenly, that momentary longing you had to return to the Keep had been nothing but a bout of insanity, and all you wished was to fall asleep one more night in Dornish sheets. Instead, you would later count sheep whilst attempting to ignore the turning of wheels and the whinnying of tired horses.

That kiss came with no warning, his mouth on yours in one blink of a teary eye, and lingered longer than either of you dared acknowledge. Each time one seemed ready to let go, the other pulled closer, pressed harder, kissed deeper. An ending, no pause. No see you later, only goodbye. A picture-perfect ending to an affair already gone too far with, left behind by both of you as you raced to return to reality, abandoning the whispers, and the sighs, and the unspoken vows to bury themselves beneath layers of sand and silk.

But this kiss, the one that has your back pressed against the wooden bookshelves and all sense bleeding out of your ears and spilling onto stone floor, is no goodbye. It is hello. It is I missed you. It is welcome home.

It is a kiss for the simple sake of a kiss, like true lovers do, meant nothing more but to fulfil a craving for one another’s taste.

“You look lovely in green,” he brushes the compliment against your lips, eye slipping shut and unaware of how your own trace down the healing flesh atop his eyepatch, no sign of the thread of your dress still embedded in his skin. You should be happy he has healed up, yet there is a twist in your gut that longs for the return of something belonging to you being threaded into him, a physical marking of your place in his life, no matter how small a space it occupies. “Have I ever told you so?”

A sting in your eyes. You try to recollect the last time anyone had told you such a thing, paid you such an earnest compliment, and come up empty handed.

You shake your head.

“What a coward. I should have told you, everytime,” he gifts you an eighth kiss, a fleeting peck against your mouth, yet the tingly feeling lingers on, a reminder that he has touched you. “I thought it, each time I saw you wear it.” A ninth kiss. “Each time I saw you wear anything,” a tenth, eleventh, twelfth kiss. “Each time I saw you.”

“Aemond,” you pull back from him, in hope of remembering what you had been saying before he laid his mouth on you.

The brush of a hand up your thigh has you forgetting all over again, head falling back against the books with a gentle thud and a subtle sigh. If he notices the way your legs slip open with no resistance, or how the left one hooks itself so easily over his hip, the prince says nothing.

A trail of goosebumps, following the path of his palm up the length of your inner thigh, tugging at the layers of underclothing and smallclothes, meaningless scraps of cotton that only waste time.

Time.

“We don’t have much time,” you hate yourself for saying it, and even more when he reminds you of the bliss of his kiss down your neck. “You said it.”

“Then we make do and act with haste.”

It takes you longer to register what Aemond says than it does for his fingers to make good on his promise, slipping wordlessly beneath garments and meeting warm skin, wet skin, a buzzing bud of nerves that lives between the apex of your thighs.

In a pathetic display, a singular circular rub against you, followed by a gentle stroke between your lower lips, has you biting the inside of your cheek, noise stifled in the act. Satisfaction crosses through the prince’s eye, a quirk in the corner of his razor sharp lips. Teasing, playful, he is watching you writhe over his touch.

A harrowing memory dawns over you a moment too late, when Aemond has already gone and spoken his thoughts aloud.

“Eager, Lady Stark?” The tips of two fingers, long, and lithe, and a welcome intrusion in your cunt as the prince curls them, pressing against an eye-roll inducing spot within you. “Tell me, your grace, was it the taste of my tongue or the ludicrous act of sneaking off to meet me, under the very same roof as your husband, that has you soaking my fingers?”

Your lips part. You try to speak, no words are produced.

The prince must mistake it for bashfulness, a challenge to best, for he slowly thrusts his fingers, back and forth, brushing a little deeper each time, curling a little more sinfully against the soft walls of your core, the occasional brush of his thumb over the warmth of your pearl.

No longer biting your cheek, a traitor’s moan, gentile and heard only in the space between you, bursts out your mouth. You speak his name, trying to get the words right, trying to warn him of the unknown spoils he is knuckles-deep in.

Aemond mistakes it for just another call of pleasure.

And then, all by himself, the realisation seems to fall over him.

Hand slips out from under cotton smallclothes and green velvet, fingers that shine wet, shine white beneath candlelight. You stare at them in a mixture of horror, shame, and ruined dignity, apologies already rushing off your tongue before the prince can even speak a word of the seed that drips down his knuckles.

“Aegon, he- Gods, I am sorry,” his silent observation of the white fluid only makes your loins tangle in their own web, a twisted sickness creeping to the back of your throat, the blood draining from your face. “He insisted on coupling, this morning. I did not think-”

Your rambling is interrupted by the sudden intrusion of Aemond’s soiled fingers, thrust against your tongue and coating it in your husband’s flavour.

It should disgust you. It should bring a wave of shame, flooding over you and dragging you beneath its unforgiving surface, drowning you in its overwhelming currents. Remains of an act of marriage, mixed with the taste of your act of passion, and the taste of his skin, beneath it all.

But it is hard to feel shame, when Aemond looks at you with so much approval in his eye, when he’s feeding his fingers deeper, till they bump the palate of your mouth and trigger that teary-eyed effect you remember, all too well, from his chambers’ floor, your knees bruising into stone, his hips fighting against the urge to buck up into the warmth of your mouth.

“It seems I owe my brother some gratitude,” the clink of metal, a belt tugged loose. Somewhere, beneath where your eyes dare stray from his hypnotic gaze, his free hand works himself free from the confines of his breeches. Shooting under your skirts and dragging them up the length of your legs as you lick one last time at his fingers, watching how they slip out your mouth and shine once again beneath the candlelight. Not a trace of Aegon remains, except for between your thighs. “He’s gotten you prepared for me, whether he be so aware or not.”

With one leg hooked around his waist and the layers of your gown bunched around your own, the prince pins you between the bookcase and a hard place, a hard thing, notching at your centre and reminding you of the pleasures of the flesh, the pleasures of Aemond’s flesh.

With one roll, then a second, and a third, of his hips, the prince’s cock sinks slowly inside your cunt. There is a small ache, a sensitivity left behind by Aegon’s earlier frantic motions over the edge of a table, the corner of it digging into the meat of your thigh over, and over, and over again with each uncoordinated thrust. The wince escapes you before you can even try to correct it. The prince stills, instantly, a hand cupping at your cheek and a kiss pressing against the tip of your nose.

“I do not wish to hurt you,” he whispers. Gentle, earnest, reassuring. Tears well at your eyes again, you try to blink them away, and scold yourself for getting so wet in the eye, so often. A tear escapes you regardless, charting its own course down your cheek. Aemond catches it with the tip of his tongue, warm against the cold of your face. “Tell me, it will not cause me anger. Tell me if you do not want this.”

Memories of those same words, that same voice, the same body. But a different room, a different position, a different state of undress. Naked, denial, hesitation, then. Clothed, touching, anticipation, now. The prince, buried deep inside you physically, is still giving you the option of an end, of an exit, of pushing him away and repositioning your clothing and leaving, like nothing has ever happened.

It only serves to reaffirm what you do want.

Him.

Somehow, the surety of this threatens a new wave of tears that you almost shed. You want to collapse into him, sink into the vessels of his arms, let yourself be lost to eternity within his hold. You want to tell him the truth, to tell him what Aegon had wanted of you in his letter, in his chambers, to tell him what Helaena had prophesied. The Stranger. The truth feels too complicated a thing, however, and the sin of lust is a more pleasurable subject to get lost within. You do not have much time, the prince would not wish to waste it on silly things, like feelings, and fears, and where your relationship with your husband stands.

The leg at his waist holds him closer, reaffirming your grip at the first sign of him stepping back. You don’t let him, won’t let him, “it’s fine. I’m fine. Please, don’t let me go.”

The prince proves he can listen well, no more questions falling from his lips, movement resuming in his hips. Slow, smooth, back and forth gyrations, a remedy to the dull ache below your womb, the lubrication of Aegon’s seed aiding in the slide of his cock within you.

A back that digs into the surface behind it, yet you ignore it in favour of the delightful thrill of Aemond working into you each time a little faster, a little harder, a little less restrained. A hand that finds cause amidst his Targaryen tresses, tangling in the locks as the prince’s forehead lays itself to rest upon your own. A set of mouths that hover inches apart, a single breath of air exchanged back and forth in sync with the rhythm of his thrusts.

Time. Time. You do not have much time.

But who is counting the seconds while the pair of you merge into one against the spines of books carrying the words of history? It is best it all be forgotten — the duty, the King, the announcement Aemond has promised his kin — in exchange for just another moment here, pressed one to the other, forgoing titles like Prince, and Queen, remembering only the shape of mouths, and the burn of skin.

The prince’s fingerprints carve out bruises along your thigh, gripping, and pulling, and kneading at the skin, a leverage to grasp onto as he continues to fuck into you. Sweat drips down your neck like wax drips down lit candles, disappearing beneath the lace atop your dress’ bodice and slipping between the valley of your breasts. Warm all over, you crave no refuge from it, from him, tugging him closer, arching your back, losing yourself in the feeling of friction. One foot still pressed to the floor, perching on your tip-toes, your composure buckles alongside your knee and, if not for Aemond’s fast-moving hands, quick-thinking mind, you would be moments away from crashing, elbow first, down to the floor.

Instead, you feel the prince hoist your leg around his waist, ankles locking behind his back with a reinforced grip as he takes on the weight of both your bodies. The effort he puts into fucking you manifests in a series of grunts, clenched teeth that hold back words, bite back filth.

One hand still tangled in his hair, the other stretches up, reaches behind you, scrambling to find purchase on a panel of wood from the bookcase. It finds, instead, the top of a book, slipping down its leather spine. The book falls, crashing to the ground near the one you had been reading with a great sound. A domino effect, in which two, three, four more heavy, bound by string and wrapped in leather, books fall from the shelves. Thud after thud, after thud, no doubt heard from anyone passing by.

The prince does not flee. If anything, he appears almost spurred on by the scandal and mess, a hand sliding from your waist to pull and bunch the layers of your dress higher, as if wishing to unveil to the naked eye the sins transpiring beneath the green of it, the repeated plunge of his manhood into your core, soaked in a vile mixture of your own pleasure and Aegon’s spend.

“This is what you wanted, hmm? What you needed, Lady Stark,” his voice is a whisper, his teeth biting at the lobe of your ear and pulling a shocked gasp from you. “To be filled by a man’s seed, the kind that knows how to get the job done. Not the King’s poor excuse. No. No, not Aegon’s. Mine.”

Time, and how little of it you both have, feels all the more unimportant, that familiar feeling — of everything warm, and soft, and delightful — begins to tighten at your loins, poking and proding at your dizzied conscious as you feel his cock bullying itself deeper, and deeper, impossibly deeper inside of you. The end is near, within your grasp, waiting for the right thrust, or the perfect grind, or the best friction, to finally let the thread snap.

A knock, loud and forceful, at the wooden doors to the library, is followed instantly by a voice. “Is someone in there?”

Movement stops, both of you frozen, bodies tangled in a crucifiable state.

The handle turns, you gasp, Aemond slaps a hand over your mouth.

For a moment, you feel a weight fall off your shoulders, that ever-looming fear you have dragged along with you — a ball and chain attached to your heart, ever since your return to the capital — that all your guilt sits written upon your face and, soon, someone will read it and see the treason you have committed, the adultery you have engaged in. For certain, they will have your head separated from the rest of you. Perhaps, the King will find enough grace in his heart to forgive his brother. After all, what blame does he truly possess? He is a man, unmarried and unburdened by the threat of a bastard’s life ever swelling within him. At the very least, you will die swiftly and be able to put all your lamenting to rest at last.

Then, the door fails to open and the prince’s voice is in your ear.

“I locked it. Do not worry.”

Mouth still covered, all you manage is to continue staring at him, eyes wide with fear, heart beating against the confines of your ribs. As if to worsen things, you watch as something flashes behind his eye, and he pulls his hips back only to thrust right back into you, the bookcase rattling softly behind you.

“Who goes there?” Aemond calls out, voice steady, unwavering. Even as he repeats the movement, the slow pull-back of his cock, the quick refilling of your core. “Announce your intentions to your prince.”

The golden handle goes still, a throat clears, and metal clinks, as if a knight were straightening his posture. “Forgive me, Prince Aemond, I did not mean to interrupt, I know how dedicated you are to your studies,” the voice is familiar, something that strikes deeper fear within you and more daring in Aemond’s features.

“Do you think he knows,” the prince croons against your skin, a sickly sweet, well-deep sound that entices you to throw yourself, head first, into it. The dull pleasure between your thighs is slowly rebuilding itself into something monstrous, something you lost sight of at the echo of knuckles on wood, with each thrust the prince drives into you. “Just how dedicated I am to studying you?”

“I was sent in pursuit of the queen,” the man at the door continues when he receives no word from Aemond. Your nails dig scratches into the bookcase. Your heart doubles, triples in speed with each beat it takes, yet you do not push Aemond away, you do not shake your head, you do not so much as move an inch away from him. Your ankles tighten their grip on one another at his back. “Have you seen her?”

Aemond nods, a cheeky grin taking shape upon those lips. As if staring right into your soul, the prince reads you effortlessly, watching as the seconds pass by and sanity slips surely out of your reach, the haze of lust fully overtaking the fear that fights against it.

Another book falls from the case. The man outside is too consumed by the sound of his own voice to notice. At least, you hope. “I’m her sworn shield, you see. Ser Arryk Carg-”

“Have you tried any of the guest chambers?” He cuts the knight off, confident in his words, as if he does not stand mere inches from your face, manhood buried to the hilt inside of you. “Perhaps Lady Stark grew tired of our Graces’ company and desired some much needed respite?”

With a rush of flustered agreements, and a couple of apologies, Ser Arryk clinks away, a mass of metal that grows further away with each step he takes. Not a moment too soon does he leave, for at last the tension snaps and you’re crying out into the prince’s palm, eyes rolling back into your skull as you reach your peak. He follows not long after, a series of grunts that follow the pistoning of his hips before he stills, as deep within you as either of your bodies allow, spilling himself inside your walls.

A few laboured breaths pass between the culmination of your coupling. Your feet meet the ground once more, the aid of Aemond’s hands guiding them down from their pedestal. Weak in the knees, you sink forward, sink into him, hands reaching for any inch of him. The prince meets you halfway, mouth finding your own once more, lips melting together in a fleeting kiss.

Time. You don’t have much time.

“Aemond,” you whisper, half to grab his attention, half to savour the shape of his name on your tongue. Now is the time to tell him, even if it is rushed out amid heavy breathing and on shaky legs. He needs to hear of it from you, before the threat of Aegon grabs ahold of him, thrusts the news upon him off-guard. “Aemond, there is something you must know-”

He cuts you off, a chaste kiss against your forehead before hands shift your weight backwards, resting you against the bookcase. The same hands adjust the skirts of your dress.

“Turn left down the hall and up the first staircase you see. There you shall find some guest rooms,” he steps back and takes the warmth of him too, leaving goose-skin to bloom along your neck as cold air bites at sweaty skin. “You will need to move with haste, before your sworn shield reaches that wing of the castle.”

The door to the library shuts gently at his back, and there the prince leaves you, chest heaving, lips parted, heart racing. An ache blooming between your legs and the stain of his seed sliding down your thigh.

The very same state Aegon had left you in, hours earlier.

Never has the castle been so full of life.

The flicker of candlelight brightens every hall, painting shadows over slate walls. Voices of men, women, and children carry through the space, ring through every corner. It reminds him, momentarily, of hosting an army of soldiers, mind dragging him back to the dark days and darker nights lived within Harrenhall, echoes of haunted shrieks and unpleasant sleep, men huddling under the crumbling ceiling, mere leagues away from the charred bones of a House that no longer stands. Beneath the molten breath of a dragon, it truly does not matter what name a man wears, he will never be Strong enough to endure the skin-splitting, blood-boiling, eye-popping heat.

In truth, Aemond loathes the sudden company.

Moons now he has lived at peace, Lord to the island and Prince of Dragonstone, waiting idly for the day to come where his duty as heir at last calls upon him. But then he just had to go and open that damned letter, answer a call that never should have been laid at his feet, and fly out to the dusty lands of Dorne. The new warmth in the air to blame for all his impropriety, landing him tangled with you in his own muddied desires. Since then, the prince has known no peace: his bed now too quiet, his castle now too empty, his… you now too far away.

The restlessness is what drove him to act, hours spent with his nose thrust between the pages of books, wrist cramping and fingers aching as they wielded a quill, delicate swirls filling empty pages. When he ran out of things to read, and history to recount before sending it off in ravens to the maesters at Oldtown, he took to the courtyard, determined to make men out of squawking squires, so puppy-eyed and pink-cheeked, they seemed to have hardly lived a day away from their mothers’ teats. And when that became a bore, a lost cause he dumped back on the shoulders of the master of arms, the prince took to exploring. A lonesome activity, peaceful enough to find an emblem of rest for his soul in the echo of his own footsteps bouncing off cave walls. It was there, deep in the dark corners of the island, he stumbled upon a discovery, a reason to call upon the King, an excuse to see your face. After all, where the King goes, the Queen is expected to follow.

Were matters left in his hands, the only raven sent would have been the one flying out to King’s Landing. Unfortunately, the rational words of a maester had him agreeing that this was too momentous a thing to not include all those of his bloodline, no matter if that blood be thick or thin.

And here he now stands, seeking out that quiet his castle had lost the moment their ships all docked ashore. Falsely, he had believed he would find it hidden away in the hall that houses the throne of Dragonstone, away from the rapidly filling dining hall. The unwelcome sight of a crown sitting lopsided on a head of silver hair halts his step.

“Tread carefully, brother,” Aemond watches how the other man’s shoulders rise with a jump, startled by the sudden sound of his voice announcing his arrival. No guards stand nearby, no guests watch on. It is just them, the King and the Crown Prince, and the heavy presence of Dragonstone’s seat, currently being warmed beneath Aegon’s rump. “Your throne is in King’s Landing. That one belongs to your heir, to me.”

Propped upon his throne, the King swings both legs over its side. Aemond ponders over the man’s distasteful care for grace, an image that so wholly encapsulates his attitude towards ruling the Seven Kingdoms, and feels himself fighting off a frown. How can it be that the gods chose Aegon to man the task of carrying on the dragon empire?

He, a drunken fool, a boy more interested in spreading a whore’s legs than a book’s pages. He, a graceless soldier, a threat to his own safety each time he wields a blade. He, a useless husband, a leech draining the life out of a wolf-pup, locking her away in a kennel with not a lick of water nor a stroke of affection.

Aemond could recite the pages of every book, back to front.

Aemond could thrust his sword through the chest of his uncle with one hand, while the other steered Vhagar free from plummeting through the surface of the God’s Eye.

Aemond would keep the wolf at his heel — morning, noon, evening — close by and content for eternity, free to roam beyond the four walls of a castle.

“Worry not, I just wanted to make sure you’re keeping the seat warm.” As if to make matters worse, Aegon gives him one of those smiles, the kind that flashes half of his teeth and accentuates how foolish he looks, unkempt hair swaying as he rises off the seat. The crown slides a little closer to the left, his ear caught beneath the band of it.

“The others are taking their seats at the table,” he shifts his weight, one foot to another, one hand clasped over the other behind his back — just like your ankles had been. The pommel of his sword pokes out the opening of his leather coat, pointing ahead at an approaching Aegon. Strapped to his side for nothing but purely decorative reasons, the younger brother suddenly feels the hackles rising in his neck, a need to unsheath the steel itching at his palms. No one would have to know, no one would see him hold a blade to the King’s neck. “And here you are, hiding away in a damp room, sitting in my seat, and-”

“A seat I gave you,” Aegon cuts in, a smug lilt lifting his words and delivering them harshly into Aemond’s ears. Where the younger of the two delivers accusations with the seriousness they deserve, the older brother has always thrown a blanket of humour over every argument, debasing the sentiment, luring his opponent into a false sense of safety.

“You have no child to call heir. As the eldest of your male siblings, I am next in line, by right. You have given me nothing.” Nothing but a dull ache in the head.

That respite he had come searching for, now so out of reach. It has the prince longing, wishing he could travel back in time to being burrowed between the shelves of books and the warmth between your thighs. He should have stayed longer, kept the door locked and you close, for as long as you would allow him.

But he had been spooked.

First by your sworn shield, a confirmation that your absence had been noted and the two of you were far away from the lack of watchful eyes of the Water Gardens. Then, by that look that came over your face, the words that left your mouth. Hesitance, vulnerability, shame. Aemond, there is something you must know. If this something was the reason for your shift in demeanour, he did not want to know. For once, he wanted to taste just how sweet ignorance could be.

A laugh pulls him back to the present.

A cackle, in truth. Shoulders shaking, cheeks wrinkling with the stretch of Aegon’s lips, eyes reflecting the dull flames that remain on the candles. The King paints an unsettling image, the mixture of lighthearted laughter lit beneath the growing darkness of the hall, the echoes of noise bouncing off the walls, swirling atop Aemond’s head like a murder of crows, each one waiting to spot something shiny to dive down and peck at.

An arm is thrown over his shoulder, five tight fingers clamping a grip on the back of his neck. Can you feel your wife’s fingerprints, singed into the skin you are touching? His brother fortunately cannot hear his inner thoughts, too busy bending himself at an awkward angle, his shorter stature struggling to turn the prince towards the door.

“Lighten up, brother!” With a clenched fist, Aegon delivers a weightless punch into his bicep, the hand at his neck squeezing him even closer, the King’s chest pressing into the prince’s elbow. Reluctantly, he follows in the footsteps of the elder, letting himself be led over and out of the hall. The door thuds shut at their backs, neither of them sparing at it. Out in the hallway, the world seems brighter, louder, a distant hum of chattering voices coming from the left. In sync, uncomfortably close, the pair move towards the noise. “Is the lack of whores in this decrepit place leaving your cock so lonesome you now see it as a weapon? Say the word and I’ll have your favourite madame shipped over. Or better yet, come home. We’ll visit the streets together, just like when we were boys.”

Boys. The word makes Aemond feel sick, empty stomach twisting up inside him. His older brother had never grown out of that mindset — boyish, foolish, reckless. At times, Aemond had wondered if the King had robbed him of his boyhood, kept those years for himself and left the younger nothing but the misery of being a man — grown, wise, calculated.

Two sets of guards stand at either side of the double-doorway, swords hanging at their sides, armour fixed to each inch of skin, floor-length spears clenched in their right fists. One after the other, they bow their heads as the Targaryen men pass by them.

A table stands in the centre, set with the shiniest of tableware and topped by pitchers full of wines, meads, and baskets spilling fruits down their sides, and assortments of breads and cheeses. He counts a total of six birds, roasted and sitting on silver platters up the length of the table. In the very centre, an entire pig shines pink beneath the light, an apple clamped in its mouth and a bed of leaves cushioning it upon the platter. And, gathered around it all, any guest with a name worth mentioning.

Children, cousins, siblings, wives.

Martell, Hightower, Targaryen, Stark.

Across the room, standing at her husband’s side, with a stiff-lipped smile and a barely-there attempt at engaging with the woman dishing out congratulations, stands Rhaena Targaryen. Grown a head and a half taller since the cousins had last crossed paths all those years ago, sat around a table not so different from this one, her white curls cascade down the back of her black dress, denoted with the shine of red rubies and golden stitching. In a sea of Hightower green, she stands out like an aching thumb painted in colours of her dead queen. For her audacious bravery alone, Aemond feels a smirk twitch at the corner of his lips. It falters the moment you come into focus.

A vision wrapped in green, you stand before his cousin, smile a blinding light that pulls him into its vortex, numbing him to all else that surrounds him. The emerald gowns, the mustard robes, the golden chains, the auburn hairs, it all grows mute, a dull grey beside the colour you wear, possess, exude, a rainbow that strikes its mark across dark clouds.

Your lips are moving. You are talking, with both hands clasped at your front and fingers that fidget with the rings housed upon them. A pause in conversation, an exchange of laughter. There is an air of hesitance in everything you do, standing before Rhaena Targaryen and the small bump that protrudes out her midriff. The desire to swoop in by your side, to snake his hand into your own and give those nervous fingers a solid squeeze of reassurance, to watch the stress flood down the length of your spine and melt away to torment some other body, it burns at Aemond.

But, he does not move. He cannot move. And, even in a world where he can, he doubts his presence would do any good at diffusing the tension that swells in the air around his cousin. Quite the opposite, truly, his face alone may be what drives her to at last snap and drop the forced smiles.

“She’s a pretty thing, isn’t she?” Aegon’s voice cuts in, and the room bursts back into colour. The hall grows loud, a renewed noise the prince had unknowingly blocked out the moment his eye found you. The same eye he drags away to look at his brother who has just caught him unapologetically staring at you like you are the only person in the hall. Humour still dances over his features, a daring grin spread upon his mouth as he glances between you and Aemond. “She’s even prettier on her back,” the hand at Aemond’s neck slips down, a sharp smack delivering itself upon it. “Maybe someday I’ll let you try her, brother, let you get a taste of how it feels to be king for the night, between her thighs.”

Visions of you, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, lips dropped open, burn behind Aemond’s eyelid with each blink. In the library, legs clinging to him, sweat slipping under your dress. On the bed, bare to his mouth, hands tugging him deeper by the hair. If that is what it feels to be king, he can die happily without ever knowing the weight of the Conqueror’s crown upon his head, because how could that possibly feel better?

“I was not aware you were so fond of her,” he finds himself retorting, stealing any excuse to look at you.

Helaena has reached your side, one arm linked with yours, and he can see how visibly relaxed you are in her presence, shoulders back down where they belong instead of pointing up to your ears.

“Perhaps I was not. But let’s say I’ve had a revelation of sorts.”

“Oh,” the sound escapes him dripping in… something. Envy, disappointment, confusion? He hates to give his brother any chance to pry into his own mind, if ever Aegon possessed the wits to do so, and finds himself clearing his throat, fixing his neutral expression back on, reopening his mouth. “And what would that revelation be exactly?”

Both you and Helaena part from where his cousin stands, arms still linked and eyes too caught up with one another to notice the way you both almost smack into two members of the Kingsguard, Giggling, like two young girls who share the biggest secret, you make your ways further down the length of the table, searching for the little cards that hold your names, mark your place along the table. He itches to follow after you both, to pull back your chair and offer it out to you. Maybe he could even lie, switch your card around with his brother’s to have you just that little bit closer.

“That I enjoy being king. And I want to continue being one, for as long as I like,” the reply has Aemond’s head snapping immediately back to his brother. No longer is he painted like a fool with humour, but something different. Something Aemond has never seen reflected on his features. Determination, it almost seems. “I do not want to just be king. I want to be good at it,” he continues speaking, head turning to where their grandfather stands, smiling politely back at you as he pulls out your chair. “And, if I want to be a good king, I need to be a good husband.”

Aemond wishes he never inquired about the revelation.

Is this what you had wanted to tell him? Is this what he must know? That no longer are you a pair split in two, but a union. A united force. A marriage. A good husband, and a good wife, and absolutely no one else in between. Had the only reason you had even gone to the library been to put an end to the madness transpiring between you and the prince? Aemond had given you an out, but had he given you enough time to truly think your answer through, before he put his hands on you once more?

“I do appreciate all the… kindness you have shown my wife,” your name curls over Aegon’s tongue and the sound is a poison to Aemond’s ears. Wrong, out of place, he does not deserve the grace of speaking such a pretty name. “Over the years, dancing with her at feasts, and even keeping her safe on that boat up north. I think I’ll do those things myself from now on, however, take that burden of mine off your shoulders.”

He wants to protest. Wants to say you are far from a burden. Wants to insist on his usefulness, on how he can keep you blissfully busy upon the ballroom floor while Aegon sneaks off to mess around with women of coin and drown in his cups. Wants to use Aegon’s own words against him, that a King should not waste his time travelling sea, or dirt, or anywhere else you may be, when he has the skies at his disposal.

But his tongue is made of lead and he is too weak to speak, frozen as he watches you speak across the table to his mother. Suddenly, the fact that all but himself and the King have taken their seat strikes upon his conscience. That hand claps against his back again and, though it is weaker than the last, Aemond wavers under the impact, swaying slightly.

“Come, brother,” Aegon whispers, a chuckle sneaking out. “Let us sit. Your King is eager to hear what announcement you bring.”

Seventeen.

That is the number of times your eyes have betrayed you and turned to sneak a glance at him.

He crests the top of the table, sitting by himself and staring down at his summoned guests. Power suits him, especially the kind that rolls off him in waves, pride in his eye at the way everyone is looking at him, hanging on to every last one of his words, patient anticipation for the why and the what of Aemond’s ravens. He is close. Close enough you can swell the spiced freshness you have come to recognize on his skin. All that sits between you and the prince is Aegon.

Aegon, who currently has a mouthful of pork and a hand resting, possessive, at the back of your chair. It is a distracting fact. One that robs you of the ability to pay Helaena and your good-mother the attention they deserve, only half hearing their exchanges of mutual flattery, complimentary words on dresses, and hairs, and smoothness of skins. Every so often, a young girl tugs at Helaena’s sleeve, seeking her mother’s help with cutting the food on her plate.

Otto Hightower sits across from your husband, engrossed in conversation with his three grandsons and Ser Criston, who you barely recognize out of his armour. The hand’s pendant sits pinned to the leather jerkin he doubtlessly has borrowed.

Further down the table, guests sit entranced in their own bubbles of conversation, a hollow chatter that buzzes throughout the room. The table is no longer the picture of perfection it once had been, platters of half eaten carcasses, and stains of spilled wine, and sparse grape vines housed in empty fruit-bowls.

All it takes is the clink of a knife against a glass for the bubble to burst.

Silence befalls the table as every head turns towards Aemond, expectantly, only to find him frozen and with equal question in his eye. Down the other end of the table, someone clears their throat, a chair scrapes back, and Rhaena Targaryen stands up.

Her lips are stretched wide, so far up her cheeks you can almost hear the way her skin cracks under the pressure of it. You half expect the corners of her mouth to split open. She reaches a hand down towards the table and, where you think she is going to grab at her goblet, she reaches for an empty plate and a fork.

“Pardon my intrusion,” she calls out with not a hint of apology, smug satisfaction candying her voice. All eyes follow as she steps away from her seat, yet none seem as panicked as those of her husband, who borders somewhere between scolding her and dashing after her. He remains seated, however, as the Targaryen girl travels slowly up the length of the table, plate and fork gripped tightly in her hands. “But I cannot sit still with the joy this all brings me.”

Eighteen times now.

To unsuspecting eyes, you are certain the prince appears unbothered, unshaken. The way his finger twitches over the wood beneath it tells you a different tale.

It would be so easy to reach out and intertwine your hands. Just a simple stretch of your arm, you would not even have to scoot your chair closer. If only your husband were not between you, a boulder in the shape of a man unbothered by his cousin’s display, shovelling up another mouthful of food.

“To sit here, at this table, surrounded by so much… family,” Rhaena continues her advance, coming to a halt halfway up the table. Turning her attention towards the glistening pig — or, better said, what remains of it. With no apology, she squeezes a space for herself between two seated bodies, the subtle swell of her expectant womb bumping at the shoulder of a woman you scarcely recognise — a hightower, no doubt about it, wrapped in green and the emblem of their house denoted across her left breast. “Such a beautiful site we all make. Why, I wonder, has it taken us so long to gather like this?” She pauses, only a moment, and you watch how her piercing gaze zeroes in on the man who sits at the head of the table. “Ah, that’s right. The last family feast ended in fisticuffs and.. Strong accusations. But we were just children back then, weren’t we, cousins? We have grown. I do hope so, at least. It would be such a shame to learn there is still someone among us who cannot take a mere… Joke!”

A stomach-turning noise fills the hall as you watch Rhaena stab her fork into the pig’s eye.

The left eye.

Nineteen times. Aemond’s jaw sits impossibly clenched, so much that you fear for the survival of his teeth.

Back by the pig, Rhaena raises her fork to the air in a sickening toast, eye secure in its prongs as she smiles a little wider and loudly proclaims, “To House Targaryen! Long may she reign!”

Heads shift, back and forth, no hands moving for their cups until the King himself does so, laughter bubbling out of him followed by an obnoxious, “Hear, hear!” Within an instant, glasses rise and heads tilt back, welcoming the burn of wine down their throats.

Twenty, and you see that even Aemond follows suit, though his eye remains glued on Rhaena’s back as she carries herself triumphantly to her chair.

No sooner than she scrapes herself back into place, another clink rings out. Once again, all heads turn to the prince and, once again, he greets them with his own confusion. Close by, it is Daeron who’s legs stretch to a stand, hand clasping at a goblet.

With a clearing of his throat, the youngest of the siblings commences. “I hesitated on whether I wished to deliver this news at the table, however, cousin, you have inspired me.” Ever the polite man, it would not be hard to take his words towards Rhaena as true, as honest, as appreciative. The fierce loyalty that exists for his Green family, on the contrary, has you believing it is nothing but a means for peace at the table. “After the many happy years I have spent living in Oldtown, I have decided it is time I take my leave. It is time I return home,” he pauses, glancing over at his mother. “To King’s Landing. And, if the King finds place for me, I would like to do so as a knight of the Kingsguard, under the command of the very man who taught me to wield my first blade, Ser Criston Cole.”

Without a pause for silence, Aegon is shooting out of his chair and rounding the table, pulling his brother into his side and clapping a hand over his chest, “I’m sure I’ll find a space for you! Seven hells, we can hang one of the other six and have his armour melted down and reworked to fit you. Can’t we, Ser Criston? Pick amongst yourselves, whoever’s the weakest link.” There’s an eruption of laughter, and you take it as an excuse to sneak a twenty-first look. The doubt on his face matches your own, a worry that the poor fools at the table think the King speaks in jest.

Cups raised, wine sipped, seats refilled. Aegon returns to your side a ball of energy, hands fidgeting without control. First, one lands on your thigh closest to him and clamps down on the meat of it. The same hand shoots up, fingertips brushing over your cheek, tangling in a loose thread of hair and tucking it behind your ear, pulling a little tighter than you think he intends. At last, he returns it to the spot behind your chair, fingers drumming a nervous energy into the carved wood, and a third knife meets a glass.

This time, it is Aemond, and you have your twenty-second chance to look at him.

And keep looking at him, just like everyone else is, eager ears awaiting to hear what brings them all to the island.

“I will not waste your time with unnecessary words,” but you wish he would, if only to listen to the soothing lullaby of his voice enough to memorise it a little better, refine how your sleeping mind tries replicate it when you are drowning in the waters of dreams and his is the only face you want to conjure by your side. “I have already taken enough of your time, dragging you all out here.”

Pause for laughter. And for him to shoot a pointed look down the table at his cousin and her plate-full of pig’s eye. See, he seems to be saying, I can joke.

“It is no lie that our house is half of what it used to be. War is a god, however, and it demands a sacrifice in the shape of death. The dragons we lost are not a stain on our hands, but all of those who dared mount them with treacherous intentions.”

No sound has ever haunted you as deeply as the screech of a dying dragon.

It is a memory you do best to suppress, the screech of Helaena’s she-dragon struggling to escape her attackers, horrific shrieks carried from the Dragon Pit all the way up to your window at the Keep. The momentary burst of freedom, the flash of Dreamfyre rising out the crumbling roof of the Pit, only to crash back down in one final scream, the city turning silent moments after. Your good-sister had been inconsolable for days, a mess of tears, that bond between princess and beast lost forever to the rioting of smallfolk.

“But, we can rebuild what they took from us. That is what I wish to show you all,” Aemond continues. He nods his head towards a serving wench and, with a screech, the doors of the hall open, making way for two men, a heavy chest carried between them, and a man carrying the chain of a maester around his neck. The chest travels up the hall, all the way to the prince’s side, before coming to a rest gently on the floor. With ease, he twists a key, tugs off the lock, and throws the lid open, hands disappearing within. When they emerge, it is with an oval shaped rock in each one. No, not rocks. Eggs.

The maester at Aemond’s side holds out two more eggs. Each a different colour of scaly, rough surface. There is a golden one that reminds you of Sunfyre’s own scales. A black one that, as Aemond turns it in the light, undertones of a dark green shine through, and a pale lilac egg that appears near white. The most striking of the four — and the one you feel your eyes drawn to the moment it is unveiled — a bright, sapphire blue colour.

“A clutch of four,” he says, a look of pride on his face as he stares out at expressions of amazement. “I found them in the depths of the caves. Our maester has already confirmed to me they show promise of hatching, with time and patience. We will have a new generation of dragons.”

The first to move is Alicent, who rises out of her chair, hands clasped over her heart as she makes her way over to her son. Careful of the eggs in his hands, she wraps herself around his slim waist. “Aemond,” she speaks so softly, you doubt the other end of the table hears her. Hesitant fingers reach out, halting, only to let themselves brush down the length of the golden egg at the prince’s insistence. “This is wonderful news! You have… Oh, my sweet boy, you have saved us, ensuring the future of your house.”

Those words are enough to send the room into a ruckus of applause. Voices cheer, hands bang down on the table, cups are toasted and emptied. But you pay them no mind, not even a single glance over your shoulder.

All you care to look at is Aemond, and the earnest smile that takes over his face. Happiness looks good on him. It warms the tips of his ears, the apples of his cheeks, the length of his neck, a rosy hue blooming beneath porcelain skin. He deserves to look like this all the time, radiant beneath the spotlight of people’s praise, the validation of being recognised for the things he does on behalf of his family. The rug is ripped from beneath his feet, however, with the clearing of a throat and a fourth clang of a knife.

Celebrations cease and chairs are refilled as their king comes to a stand.

“I’ve never been one for speeches. In truth, I find them to be a bore,” Aegon laughs at his own honesty, and the others are quick to follow. “But, listening to you all, well, it inspired me to give it a try. First, I want to thank all of you in this room. It’s no secret the trials and tribulations that have tested our family since my coronation. You, who fought for my claim, are the true heroes of our realm, and your king is proud of you all. If only my father were still here, I’m sure he’d feel the same, pride for those who defended the heir he chose with his dying breath,” a choked back laugh echos from down the table as Rhaena saws her steak knife through the eye. “If any doubt still remains towards my claim, I believe my dear brother’s discovery is a sign from the gods, the gift of more dragons. And, for that, I thank you, Aemond.”

“It is I who must thank you, brother,” the prince interrupts, eye looking just past where the King stands, cup in hand, and at where you sit, hand tugging at your husband’s sleeve and an unspoken pleading furrowing your brows. It seems I owe my brother some gratitude, Aemond’s voice replays in your mind, so real you can almost feel the shelves at your back, the smell of dust and books in the air, the sound of Ser Arryk knocking at the door. “For naming me as your heir and gifting me Dragonstone.”

“I’m glad you see it that way, brother. These dragon eggs are the dawn of a new era for us all, one of prosperity,” heads that nod in sync, radiant joy still beaming from Alicent’s face. The smile on Aemond’s face, however, is gone, stolen by Aegon. “But they are not the only gift the gods have favoured my reign with.”

The urge to drag your husband back down into his seat spikes at those words. You want to shovel food into his mouth, fill his stomach with wine, sew his lip shut. Anything, before he says something foolish, something he should not.

But as you tug harsher at the sleeve of his doublet, the King misunderstands. He turns to you, fingers twisting themselves in an uncomfortable grip with your own and pulling you to stand at his side, that same hand curling around your back and holding you tight against him.

“Apologies, it seems my wife wants to help me do the honours,” you shake your head, shooting Aegon a look he does not even notice, too busy smiling out at the table full of his family. Too busy pulling you that little closer, both of your sides smushed together. Too busy smoothing the hand that still houses his glass down the golden embroidery of your dress, an honour to his own dragon. Too busy bringing his hand to a stop atop your lower stomach, knuckles brushing against the green velvet. “After many years of marriage, the gods have at last blessed my wife’s womb with a child of our own. A new heir.”

If anyone cheers, if anyone raises their glass alongside the King, if anyone congratulates you, you do not hear them. You do not see them.

All you see is Aemond, frozen in his chair, face a mirror for anger, and white-knuckling his grip on his chalice, refusing to drink, refusing to toast.

Refusing to look anywhere else but your sorry eyes.

You send a letter, the eve of your return.

I did not wish for you to find out like that, from him. You must believe me.

By morning, no reply arrives. By noon, no reply arrives. By evening, no reply arrives. As a day turns to two, and two turns into a moon, no reply arrives.

The ravens no longer perch upon your window.

+ extra hyde !

this week, a new bombshell has entered the villa! so aegon bestie is trying to be a better king/husband. how are we feeling about that, chat? definitely don't see this being a point of contention.

in completely unrelated news, rumour has it that taste by sabrina carpenter can be heard on dragonstone at full volume, on repeat, 24/7. sources say the noise is coming from prince aemond targaryen's room.

my irl bestie is reading this fic on ao3 & now i'm so hyperaware of any smut i write. hopefully, i rectify my own apprehension towards writing the filth these two deserve in time for next chapter, because they're supposed to fuck, no more of the silly couplings they've done so far. thankfully my bestie and i are long distance right now so i won't have to look her in a the eye for a while.

see you next month <3

#aemond targaryen smut #ewan mitchell smut #house of the dragon smut #aemond targaryen x reader #ewan mitchell x reader #aemond targaryen fic #aemond targaryen series #aemond targaryen fanfiction #house of the dragon fanfiction

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azzo0 · 1 year ago

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Pickpocket

Summary: You've successfully managed to pickpocket a fortune. While you're fantasising about the things you could do with so much money, you're dragged away by the royal guards to face the wrath of Prince Katsuki.

Pairing: Bakugo x f!reader

A/N: I wanted to complete the story within this chapter, but it got too long. See you in the next chapter!

Part 1; Part 3

You opened the coin bag you had pickpocketed from the mysteriously covered stranger, your jaw dropping to the floor when you saw it was filled to the brim with gold coins. It looked like you had just stolen someone's life savings.

Your parents and siblings knew that apart from the hunts you went on and did not make much from, you often went out to pickpocket, something you often got scoldings for. But the few extra silvers that you managed to get lightened the weight on your parents' shoulders to some extent. It was usually just a few coppers and silvers you stole. How were you going to explain this fortune you pickpocketed?

While you were in the middle of counting the coins, your youngest brother decided to come into your room, gaping at the gold on your desk, "Y/n, what is that?! Did you just hunt a super rare creature or something?"

"You know the only thing available in these forests is rabbits and birds or deer if we're lucky," a mischievous glint flashed in your eyes, "I pickpocketed this."

"You're unbelievable," He shook his head, picking up a coin, which you snatched, "With that much gold, we'll be able to eat three times a day, buy a horse and a carriage, new clothes and a whole castle!"

You smiled at the youngest. It wasn't enough to tend to all his dreams, but it still made you happy knowing you could at least feed your family and get a few needed household items. However, your fantasies were short-lived when you heard a series of heavy knocks on the front door.

"I'll go see who it is." You went to see who it was to find your father had already answered the door. You froze when you saw five hulking royal guards talking to your father. You didn't need to step forward and talk to them to know this was about you.

Who was the person you pickpocketed? Perhaps a noble or someone close to the royal family? Sweat rolled down your neck when one of the guards caught your eye. He matched in past your father, squinting at your face, "Oi, she's the one we're looking for!"

"Me? What could I have possibly done?" You innocently batted your eyelashes.

"Don't pretend like you don't know why. You stole from the prince." The guard spat.

"Y/n? Is this true?" Your father asked. Your face drained of colour. That person you stole from was the prince? You even insulted him! God, you were in a shit ton of trouble.

"I found the coins!" One of the guards exclaimed from behind you, coming out of your room with your brother, hitting the guards back with closed fists to give the money back.

"Stay off, brat. This is not yours. It belongs to the royal family." The guard kicked your brother in the gut, sending him flying away. You growled at him, pouncing at him with a fist ready.

"Don't you dare touch him!" You yelled, swinging your fist at his face. Before the punch could land, another guard kicked you in the side, sending you crashing into a wall.

"Now you're in trouble not only for stealing but also for trying to harm a royal guard," One of the guards took you by the arm, pulling you to your feet, "Prince Katsuki will see to you personally."

"Like I give a rat's ass!" You spat, thrashing as the guard held your hands behind you. Another guard tried getting your legs to stop flailing but got his jaw bruised instead. Your family was huddled together in a corner, timidly watching you try to pry away from the guards.

"Get off me!" You yelled as you got dragged away and got tied onto a horse with your mouth and hands tied so the guards wouldn't have to listen to your constant yelling and complaints.

Once at the ginormous castle, two guards held you by your arms, dragging you inside. You shuddered when you felt the cold from the marble floor travel up your spine. You must've lost your shoes when the guards yanked you around.

"Mind your manners when in the presence of the prince." One of the guards said, his fingers digging into the flesh of your arms. You shot him a glare, trying to free your arm from his grip. What was the point of bruising your arms when your hands were already tied behind you?

The doors to the throne hall were opened, and the guards dragged you inside, forcing you to your knees so you were bowing low. When they let your head lift from the floor, you dared to look up.

There he was, Prince Katsuki, sitting on the prince's chair beside the King's and Queen's throne, blood-red eyes mindlessly boring into you. All that you heard about the prince was true-- stunning crimson eyes, spiky ash-blonde hair, and flawless skin. Behind his lethal beauty was evident rage and fury.

Bakugo could see your gaze wavering between the floor and him as you tried to keep that sassy and brave front. Your hair was in a mess, and your clothes were dirty from being pushed and kicked around. He told his guards not to use force, and here you were, looking like you fell into a wrestling pit. The guards standing behind you didn't look any better, with scratches and bruises on their faces.

"Your Royal Highness," One of the guards behind you said, "This woman not only stole from you but also put up a fight with us."

"Care to explain?" Bakugo rasped.

"Your guard kicked my ten-year-old brother in the stomach. Was I supposed to stand and watch?" You snarled at the prince, your teeth bared. Bakugo's eyes shifted to the guards, demanding an answer.

"Y-Your Highness, the child was clinging to my back and-"

"So you kicked him." Bakugo cut him off, standing up and coming down the steps that lead to the thrones, stopping in front of you, "Get out, all of you. I'll deal with you later."

"But, Your High-"

"Now."

You gulped once the guards were gone, and although you hated them, you wished they'd stay since being alone with the prince made you feel like you were going to get slaughtered like a lamb. You held his gaze from your position on the floor, not letting your fear slip through your eyes.

"Stand." He ordered.

"Are one-word sentences all you know to speak, princeling?" You smiled at him with sickly sweet poison. "I really like it on the floor. It's comfortable."

You let out a gasp when he suddenly pulled you to your feet, the fabric of your shirt balled in his fist, his maroon eyes dangerously close, "Watch who you're talkin' to, sweetheart," he growled, his voice reverberating in his chest, "I could throw you in prison forever, and you wouldn't be able to do anything about it."

"Must be fun being a spoiled prince, eh." Bakugo looked down at your devilish grin. Weren't you afraid of him one bit? Prison was the place every little thief like you went to, but something about you stirred amusement and another mysterious feeling deep within him. It wasn't every day he got to see a brat like you roast a prince right at his face and take on five guards at once.

"Besides," you went on. "I'm going to go to prison anyway. I might as well strut in there with a show."

"You have some nerve speaking to me like that," He scowled, letting your shirt go, "You ain't going to prison."

"Huh?"

"Yer servin' three months at the castle." He said. "And if I find you snooping around and stealing, I'm chopping your ugly fingers off."

"I'm not scrubbing your dishes and sweeping your damn floors." You scoffed. "Throw me in prison instead."

"Does that pretty little mouth of yours ever shut up, or does it have a fucking answer to everything?" Bakugo glared at you. You had some guts rejecting his orders like he was some commoner you'd known all your life.

"I'm not working at the castle, and that's final." You said firmly.

A hint of fear flashed in your eyes when Bakugo bared his teeth at you, approaching you with slow strides. You kept backing away until your back was pressed into the doors behind you, your chest tightening when you saw his hand rest on the hilt of the sword dangling from his side.

He lowered his head to your level, roughly grabbing your chin and making you look into his eyes. When you tried to shift to the side, he put an elbow on the door, trapping you. Looking into his deep red eyes, you felt your heartbeat quicken, knots forming in your stomach.

"I'm the one who decides what your punishment is. Do not forget that," he purred into your ear. You almost shivered. His voice was supposed to be scaring you, not making your heart race, "Either you work here for three months or get your hands cut off."

He pulled away, smirking down at you satisfyingly. He could tell you were flustered as you glared daggers at him, "Am I clear?"

Your gaze shifted down to the floor, "Yes."

He called for the servants to take you to the servant quarters and get the filth cleaned off you. You sat in an unnecessarily big tub filled with warm water as the other servants scrubbed your body raw. You blankly let them, still trying to process what on earth had just happened. After your bath, you were forced into a night suit that would have been considered low quality for the royals and nobles, but it was more expensive than anything you ever owned.

"What kind of punishment is this?" You muttered, lying on the comfortable bed in your new room.

It was a very big punishment.

It all started going down from the moment you woke up. The head maid scolded you for not waking up early enough and rushed you into the kitchen, where you got yelled at by the chef for not washing the dishes quickly enough.

"What are you even good at?!" He yelled, pushing you aside when you somehow managed to burn the stew he made. All you were supposed to do was stand and watch it.

"I'm good at hunting." You mumbled.

"Too bad you're not here for hunting," He gave you a sour look as he diced up the ingredients to remake the stew.

After the dishes were done, you were handed a mop and a bucket to sweep the great hall. You took a deep breath, stepping into the thankfully empty great hall. It was just mopping the floor. You wouldn't mess this up, right?

As you mopped the floor, you tried convincing yourself this was better than rotting in the prison for who knows how long. You just wanted to go back to bed and let your poor back rest, but it was still only the afternoon. Sighing, you stepped towards the water bucket to dip the mop inside, accidentally knocking the bucket in the process. You deadpanned, tears forming in your eyes. This castle brought nothing but bad luck.

You cringed when the soapy water soaked into the long red carpet that led up to the King's and Queen's thrones. You turned around in horror when you heard the doors to the great hall open, slipping and falling to your ass. The fact that it was the prince that opened the doors only made things worse.

"Are you okay there?" A red-haired man asked, stepping forward.

"M' fine." You mumbled, slipping down again when you tried standing again.

"Looks like someone's having a great time," The prince snickered. If he wasn't a prince you'd have slapped him in the face to wipe away that mean smirk. You scowled at him, stopping when you saw a hand in front of your face. It was the red-haired man looking down at you with a warm grin. You noticed he had interesting sharp teeth. You put your hand in his, letting him hoist you up.

He inspected your face for a second and then looked at Bakugo, raising an eyebrow. You were the very same girl Kirishima saw bump into Bakugo yesterday. He was sure Bakugo said that you were a pickpocket, then what were you doing here in the servant's attire?

"Go get someone else to clean it since you clearly can't," Bakugo ordered. You clenched your jaw at him, grabbing a fistful of your dress. Why did he have to be so mean and harsh with his words? You would have loved to hit his head with the mop but knew better than to give in to your intrusive thoughts. You stormed past him and got some rags to clean up the mess you made.

Once Kirishima was sure you were out of earshot, he turned to Bakugo, "Why is she here, prince?"

"Serving three months in the castle for stealing, hurting five guards and being a brat," Bakugo replied in a matter-of-fact tone.

"Couldn't you have put her to prison instead?"

"Tch, are you trying to tell me what to do?"

"No, my prince."

Bakugo sighed, turning his back to Kirishima, eyes plastered to the floor, "Her family has been struggling with basic necessities," he said after a moment of silence. "I learnt that her father had a fabric business before the war started, but his shop burnt down during the war. He hasn't been working ever since."

Kirishima blinked at Bakugo, baffled he had delved so deep into someone's background. "A lot of people are still suffering even though it's been years." He said.

"Yeah," Bakugo agreed. "She lives in a pretty shitty neighbourhood, too, now."

"Is there something that can be done to help?" Kirishima asked.

"I've already done what I could." Bakugo grunted, "They ain't gotta worry about rations. I talked to Father about it, and he agreed to send monthly rations to the entire neighbourhood."

"That's nice," Kirishima smiled. He had a feeling you not only stole Bakugo's money at the weekend market yesterday but also accidentally stole his heart.

Tags: @colouringfrogssittinginleaves @zaiban2989

#fantasy bakugou #bakugo #bakugou #katsuki bakugo #bakugo x reader #bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #bakugo x you #azzo writes

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604to647 · 4 months ago

Text

Safest with You (The Epilogue)

3.2K / Modern AU Retired Mob Enforcer!Din Djarin x fem!reader

Summary: You and Din welcome a new member to your family.

Warnings: All fluff - just the way we started this series! Established relationship, nicknames as usual (Pretty bird, baby).

A/N: A cute little glimpse into the lives of our happy couple around two years after the series finale. 112 Carlota Galgos is a real Galgo rescue in Spain! I won't go into the circumstances that make the rescue work they do so important, but many of you know that I have a greyhound, and the plight of the Galgo is well known in the sighthound community. These dogs deserve the world!! If you have an opportunity to check out organizations that aid Spanish Galgos or even help - I promise these gentle giants deserve it. Lisette is a real galgo I knew! She passed last year and this epilogue is dedicated to her (cute pics included at the end!)

I’m posting this on the one year anniversary of Chapter 1!! I can’t believe it’s been a whole year of writing these bbs 🥹 Thank you thank you everyone who has supported and followed along with this series - you are all as dear to me as Pretty Bird's garlic knots are to Mayfeld 🥹🥰 (I still plan on publishing that recipe!)

Dividers by @saradika-graphics as always! 🥰 / Series Masterlist

Just before your finger is about to press down the call button on the outside of the closed metal gate, you retract your hand and look questioningly at Din.

“How many am I allowed to get again?”

Din stares at you for a second to ascertain if you’re kidding and when he sees you’re not, a little panic sets in on his face, “One, pretty bird. Just one.”

“But…”

“We only made arrangements with the airline for one, baby.”

You pout a little, but know Din’s right, “Okay. Fine. One.”

Somewhat dejectedly you press the button, though the chorus of barks and yelps from the other side of the gate resulting from the chime of the bell perk you up immediately, and by the time the gate is buzzed open with a loud brrrrzzzt, you’re giddy with excitement again.

This is the last planned destination of the European trip you and Din have been on for the last three weeks, both of you looking forward to flying home in just a few days.

The vacation has been an absolute dream. You and Din have eaten your way through Amsterdam (Stroopwafels! Bitterballen!), then Paris (Steak frites! Macarons! Croissants! One, sometimes two baguettes a day!), followed by Rome (Gelato! Pasta until you exploded!), and then finally Barcelona (Paella! Bombas!) before ending up where you are now: Andalucia, Spain, outside the gates of the 112 Carlota Galgos dog rescue.

The happy and excited woofs from the still unseen pups remind you so much of Alfredo. Gosh, you miss your best guy so much – although, if the daily photos and videos you’ve been receiving are to be believed, he might be hard pressed to leave Paz’s when you get back. By now a minor celebrity in Din and Paz’s neighbourhood, you’re happy to see that Al’s been making the rounds at the local shops (and accepting generous samples everywhere he goes), enjoying fun road trips to nearby hiking trails, and most importantly, helping Paz cement his image as an attractive, eligible bachelor about town. You’re sure if you were to peek at Paz’s dating app profile, you’d see it updated with copious pictures of him fawning over your dog.

Originally, you had been hesitant to have Paz take Al to his place for three whole weeks, wondering if it was better if instead, Paz could come and dog-sit at your and Din’s place – but Al does seem to be adjusting to being away from home just fine. Though Alfredo is generally super easy going and adaptable, you nevertheless recognized that it had been quite a year of transition and multiple upheavals for your pup and worried about how he might cope with yet another change in scenery.

Nearly a year ago, you and Din moved in together and Al had been uprooted from the only home he’s ever known. Though it wasn’t without some understandable disinclination that you left your beautiful and much-loved apartment, both of you agreed it made perfect sense for you to move into Din’s place above Mando’s. Of course you loved your old place – you had poured so much of your heart and soul into making it your refuge and the perfect home for you and Al, but you couldn’t find it within yourself to regret leaving – Din is your home now, as you are his. The only safe haven you need is the one with him, and though you’re sure he would have moved without hesitation if you had asked, the idea of Din leaving a residence right above his place of work, in a building he already owned, was too silly to even entertain.

To try and make the adjustment as smooth as possible for his pretty bird, Din had given you free reign to redecorate, bring in your furniture, and make whatever changes you wanted in order to make his, now your, apartment feel more like home. The third floor of Mando’s would always hold his most cherished memories of his childhood and father – he didn’t need it to look a certain way or have it maintained as some kind of physical shrine in order for that to be true; Din was ready to make a home and new memories with you. It was sweet and you appreciated the gesture prodigiously, but aside from adding your own bookshelves and swapping out a couch, the only thing you had asked for was a bigger kitchen. Din had readily agreed and even suggested he build you an expanded closet and turn the second bedroom into a home office-dog den for you and Al. Din’s enthusiasm and eagerness for the project was enough to have you agreeing to his considerate suggestions.

What had followed was seven months of renovation chaos, living out of and tripping over boxes as a slew of tradespeople and workmen paraded in and out of what was supposed to be your new sanctuary.

You love Din with all your heart, and one of the things you love most and find endlessly attractive is just how good he is at the things he does: taking care of you and Al, supporting the community, running Mando’s – to say nothing of the skill and prowess he displays in his work in and out of the ring; just the sight of Din running drills with his boxers or deftly commanding the Mandos gets you weak in the knees.

But elaborate home improvements and remodelling? Unfortunately, not part of Din’s impressive skill set. Nor any of the Mandos for that matter. For two weeks, every Mando on payroll seemed to be over at your place “helping” with measurements and the demolition of the kitchen and the wall between the two bedrooms. Only after a burst pipe and the subsequent three weeks of living with drying fans running 24/7, did Din concede it was time to call in professionals. Then came a parade of contractors and their respective plumbers, cabinet guys, drywall, tile and marble contacts, electricians, etc. – who all seemed to owe some kind of “favour” to Boba. The good thing about that was they were committed to doing a good job; the bad thing was that no one was particularly dedicated to doing a fast job. For the next five months, you, Din and Al lived in a construction zone of various partially started and finished projects with different strangers coming in and out of your place at all hours of the day – it had stressed Al out endlessly.

A little over half a year after moving in with Din, you hit a breaking point and, with Din’s encouragement, packed a suitcase and took Al to stay at Bea’s until a firm completion deadline could be negotiated with the various contractors. Din had insisted on staying behind to lead the "negotiations" and "supervise" the follow through; lo and behold, everything had been completed to perfection and cleaned up thoroughly two weeks after. Upon seeing the beautiful finished space, you finally felt at home – though frustrated, you hadn’t ever been terribly mad about the whole situation, but it had been a very confusing time for your pup.

Din had felt awful – this wasn’t the symbolic big step and storybook start to your lives together that he had envisioned. You either, if you were being honest, but it genuinely mattered very little in the grand scheme of things; you reminded Din, as the two of you christened every surface of your brand new kitchen, that your lives together had really started a year before moving in together, when he had taken his own big step and shown up outside of your office, making you the promise to be open and honest about everything.

And he had. Din had forgiven himself and won you back, and these last two years have been the happiest of your lives, even with the renovations.

In that time a lot’s happened. Jimmy won another two division championships and moved up a weight class. Cass announced that her and Rikard were expecting. Rory’s bridal boutique expanded to a second even more successful location and to her chagrin, she was promoted to manager. The second book in Bea’s series came out to amazing reviews and the anticipation and hype for the third (due out later this year) was through the roof. Poe decided to pursue and then successfully obtained his pilot license. You went up in his Cessna just once – the views had been unforgettable, Lisa getting sick in your lap no lesser so. Katie guest starred on Law and Order – twice (two different characters). You met the Mods. And Al finally settled into his new home, overseeing his new kingdom from the plush and cozy dog den that his dad lovingly built for him.

And now you and Din are about to take another big step together.

Greeted enthusiastically by one of the women who runs the Spanish hunting dog haven with whom you’ve been conversing with over the past few months about adoption, you and Din take a tour of the facility before being led out back to meet the dogs.

Per Elenna’s guidance, you sit in a chair near the water bowls and let the galgos come to you on their own terms. Some, understandably, are shy and timid, wary of strangers – tentatively, they come and investigate you with their snoots, eventually accepting your gentle pats and scritches once they feel comfortable enough. Others have no such hesitation - tails wagging, curious and excited, they enthusiastically crowd you, nosing in for pets and try to sniff out the treats you have in your pocket. Your chest expands, heart nearly tripling in size to see these dogs get to be dogs again, as you rub their little faces and coo endless words of deserved praise at them for their bravery.

Maybe the plane will have room for another crate, you think, or two? You can’t stop giggling as your face is licked and poked with wet noses, or when those same noses goose your tummy and legs, competing for the attention of your busy hands – you’re in heaven, nearly overwhelmed by all this furry cuteness. Surely Din cannot possibly expect you to limit yourself to one! Knowing the marshmallow squish that resides beneath his hard and steely frame, you’re willing to bet that Din has already softened his stance on taking home multiple pups. You crane your neck to see over the dogs, looking around the property to see if you can locate your boyfriend.

To your surprise, you find him not being surrounded by enthusiastic, bounding galgos, but alone - crouching near the ground and gently scratching a smaller fawn coloured dog who’s laying on her side, her slender head lifted just slightly off the ground to lean into Din’s hand.

“That’s Lisette,” Elenna says when she notices you looking at Din and the fawn girl, “she’s just come to us after this last hunting season - we found her in the street with a broken leg. She’s all healed up now but is still quite skittish, especially around men. This is actually the first time I’ve ever seen her let a man touch her, never mind a stranger. Your husband must have a very calming touch.”

“Oh, he’s not my husb-” your voice trails off as you watch Lisette continue to happily receive Din’s attention. Walking over, you hear him speaking quietly to her in Spanish.

“What are you telling her, Din?”

Din looks up, eyes soft and shiny, “Just telling her what a good girl she is. That’s she so brave and sweet. And that she doesn’t have anything to be afraid of anymore. She’s safe now.”

There is no question as to which (one) dog you’ll be adopting today.

Lisette settles in quickly when you and Din get her back home, especially with Al immediately taking up his role as big brother. Lisette falls into the easy comfort of following his lead, regularly looking to Alfredo for guidance – he never leads her astray and the two of them become inseparable. With growing pride, you watch Lisette tentatively explore her new environment and slowly over the next few months, becomes more and more comfortable in her forever home: first your and Din’s apartment, then the gym, whose enthusiastic occupants always greet her like the princess she is, and eventually the entire neighbourhood where she’s never without her protective brother by her side. When she’s ready, you and Din take her and Al out on further away adventures: to your and Din’s favourite farmers’ market, Poe and Lisa’s (where you learn in their pool that Lisette can swim!) or to Boba and Fennec’s where she can run and play with Mochi and the other Daimyo Dogs. Your heart positively kvells as Lisette’s confidence grows and she becomes the happy pup she deserves to be, putting her less than ideal start to life behind her.

The only thing you wish you could change, though you would never push, is that Lisette won’t cuddle with you - she only ever cuddles with Din. You know she loves you, but she’s very much a daddy’s girl and he’s the only one with whom she feels safe enough to have in such close proximity while sleeping or relaxing. You don’t begrudge Lisette at all for feeling this way; Din is her protector, she trusts him to keep her safe - you understand the comfort of that feeling better than anyone.

And in truth, you love watching them together – seeing your sweet girl so at ease and your strong, formidable warrior melt into a puddle of goo when she burrows into the warmth of his lap. Din talks to Lisette in Spanish all the time, repeating what he told her back in Andalucia: she’s safe now, she doesn’t have to be scared anymore - this is her home.

Your home feels complete now – there’s nowhere you would rather be than cuddled up on the couch with Din, each respectively loving on the pups that have curled up against you: you, Al and Din, Lisette.

Then one day, you’re on the couch tapping away on your laptop when Lisette saunters up to you. You rub her little head and give her a little smooch on her snoot as she walks by, fully expecting her to wander away but she surprises you to no end when she hops up on the couch and curls up by your feet. Terribly delighted but not wanting to spook her, you pretend like it’s no big deal – your heart, however, is doing jumping jacks; looking up with a big smile you see Din nodding encouragingly at the both of you.

And then she does it again. And again. At first still staying arms length from you, she inches closer and closer, little by little. Though your chest is exploding and you want to shout with joy, you always remain calm and give Lisette copious amounts of quiet praise after she’s settled. To celebrate this progress, Din will eventually come over to shower Lisette with additional treats and Spanish words of adulation that she happily accepts. Sometimes you even catch him encouraging her before she comes over to you or see her looking back at him for reassurance before she climbs onto the bed or couch to sit with you. Always her protector, her safe space.

It's slow going, but worth it.

Today, you’re on the couch having just finished a book, funnily enough it’s the most recent in the fantasy series that Din had bought you and your friends on that first day you met nearly four years ago, when you see Lisette moseying on over to you. You swing your legs off the couch and pat the spot next to you, and to your delight, she hops up and starts to do her little nesting circles, prepping for her laydown spot. When she finally settles, she lays her little head in your lap and you think your heart might burst. You look up and see Din, handsome and relaxed, leaning against one of the bookshelves looking at the both of you with an adoring expression on his face. You beam back - yep, the two of you are his girls. The ones he takes care of. Looks after. Loves.

Lisette nuzzles her furry little face deeper into your thigh and you can’t help but giggle at the sensation. “Okay, okay,” you chuckle, as if you needed any invitation to pet and love on her. Dispensing gentle scritches all over her head and little ear rubs, you notice that your sweet girl has an extra collar on. Normally Lisette wears just a martingale and sometimes nothing at all when she’s at home, but today, she’s got a thin rope collar encircling her neck as well. Rubbing it between your fingers, you say to Din, “This is pretty! When did she get this house collar?”

“Got it for her a while ago, but thought I’d wait for the right moment to put it on. Do you like it?”

Lisette lifts her head and you take the opportunity to take a closer look at the pretty pink collar; admiring the delicate metalware and the luxurious feeling fibres of the rope, you run your fingers over the collar until you get to the small clasp in the front and feel something you don’t expect. Rotating the collar around Lisette’s slender neck so you can get a better look at the thin object, you gasp when it comes into view.

A diamond ring.

Din, with Al by his side, starts to walk towards you, the look in his eyes clear and so easy to read: Devotion. Adoration. Love.

“Pretty bird…” he starts. Din has an entire speech planned. He needs to thank you for coming into his life and showing him what true strength and power is. Grace, honesty, and compassion have been your gifts to him, and he’s a better man, a stronger man, for your kindness and generosity. He wants to promise you that your faith in him will never be misplace – that he will cherish you and your heart to the very last beat of his own and beyond. He loves you, admires you, trusts you, is in awe of you, and remains forever grateful for you. Grateful for every smile you throw his way, every laugh you pull from him and allow him to draw from you, thankful for all the ways you’ve woven yourself into his life and made it better. And above all, grateful for your acceptance and love for him and all that he is, was, and ever will be. He needs to ask you if you will allow him the honour of spending the remainder of his days showing you his gratitude and loving you the way you deserve.

Din’s heart is overflowing and he has so much he wishes to express; he’s not entirely sure he’s going to be able to make any sense. But Din’s not nervous - the radiant smile on your beautiful face as he approaches already telling him everything he needs to know.

Real life Lisette!! 🥰🥰

Very last tag for this series!! Thank you all forever for your support 🥹😘

@tuquoquebrute @furiousmushroom @cheekychaos28 @72scsuze @nerdieforpedro

@toobsessedsstuff @whirlwindrider29 @inept-the-magnificent @mellymbee @that1nerd-20

@hipabbster23 @bitccchmood @bigbutchenergee @rainbowcat164 @the-strawberrythief

@johnssherlock221 @misstokyo7love @vivian-pascal @florxdexcerezo @fanficlover1414

@rarachelchel @heartbrokenlilbitch-nef @jeewrites @sunnytuliptime @kulekehe

@bebsjo @yopossum @cartonkid1200 @rav3n-pascal22 @sjc7542

@xxx-silhouette-xxx @pedroswife69 @kilamonster @mandoshoney @joelalorian

@syd-djarin @moonlessnight14 @lucienofthelakes

#din djarin #modern!din djarin #din djarin fic #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #din djarin x f!reader #pedro pascal characters fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #modern au

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padfootagain · 3 months ago

Text

Love in Verses (XXXVI)

Chapter 36: ‘So I imagine such love of the world—its fervency, its shining, its innocence and hunger to give of itself—I imagine this is how it began’

Hi! Here is a new chapter! Time for an adorable first date!!! Also, a reminder that this is not meant to be read by minors…

I hope you like this chapter! Tell me what you think!

****

Pairing: Hozier x fem!reader (professor!AU)

Warnings: slow burn, angst, hurt, hurt/comfort, tooth-rotting fluff in later chapters, some scenes in later chapters will have heavy sexual themes even if it’s not explicit nsfw description, so minors here

Summary: Your life seems perfect. You're engaged, your career is thriving as you become an assistant professor at Trinity College, and this Andrew Hozier-Byrne you're sharing an office with seems to be a nice guy you hope to call a friend soon. Life seems to be smiling at you... until everything goes sour. When your fiancé breaks up with you, your perfect world shatters. And when your colleague also gets his heart broken soon after, your shared office seems to be a curse rather than a blessing. But Andrew seems determined to mend your broken hearts... Will things finally go according to plan?

Word Count: 3839

Masterlist for the series – Hozier’s masterlist – Main masterlist

Of love

I have been in love more times than one, thank the Lord. Sometimes it was lasting whether active or not. Sometimes it was all but ephemeral, maybe only an afternoon, but not less real for that. They stay in my mind, these beautiful people, or anyway beautiful people to me, of which there are so many. You, and you, and you, whom I had the fortune to meet, or maybe missed. Love, love, love, it was the core of my life, from which, of course, comes the word for the heart. And, oh, have I mentioned that some of them were men and some were women and some—now carry my revelation with you— were trees. Or places. Or music flying above the names of their makers. Or clouds, or the sun which was the first, and the best, the most loyal for certain, who looked so faithfully into my eyes, every morning. So I imagine such love of the world—its fervency, its shining, its innocence and hunger to give of itself—I imagine this is how it began.

Mary Oliver, Red Bird

Andrew looked at his reflection in the mirror, hesitated, freed his hair from the bun he had gathered it in.

He heaved a sigh, trying to slow down his heart, to alleviate the knot in his stomach.

He was so fucking nervous. God, Andrew had not been this nervous since his first date with Samantha. No, scratch that. He had not been so nervous since he had presented his thesis.

He checked his outfit again, pondered his choice for the hundredth time. A black shirt, black pants, black vest, brown leather shoes. Was it too much black?

He shook his head. He looked good in all black, his mother had told him so, and he trusted her with this. He readjusted his glasses. Should he wear contacts? Sam liked him better with contacts rather than glasses…

Fuck Samantha.

Andrew preferred wearing glasses, and so he kept them perched on his nose.

Hair up, or hair down?

He couldn’t choose, thought his hair looked good enough today even if he let it loose but then again he didn’t want to have his hair always falling before his face. He opted for the middle ground, tied up only a few strands in a half bun and let the rest fall loosely to his shoulders.

Yeah… he looked good enough.

He added a little bit of his cologne, just to make sure he smelled nice. He turned towards his dog, who was lying behind him on the floor, his head resting on his front paws.

“So… Elwood… what do you think? Do I look nice?”

The dog lifted his head at the sound of his name, making Andrew chuckle. He walked over to pet Elwood behind the ears.

“Yeah, I agree. I look decent enough. Wish me luck! I’m gonna need it.”

Andrew had made sure he wasn’t going to be late, even if he had to drop Elwood at his brother’s. He had set up five alarms to mark the passing of time. And indeed, when he knocked on your door, he was two minutes early.

He was picking you up tonight. For your first date he was the one planning everything. He hoped you would like the evening he had planned for you. He wanted to impress you, to be honest. He wanted to show you that he could be better than Frank, that you didn’t have to regret your choice…

He took a couple of deep breaths as he waited before your front door, looking at the bouquet of flowers in his hands. Your favourites, he had made sure to choose them. He hoped you would like them.

When you opened your door, he was left speechless. He froze, stared, couldn’t help his eyes from raking your frame. You in your emerald dress, the one he had bought with you and that he had dreams about, the way you had tied your hair, the light glimmer of a jewel around your neck…

You… you were… so fucking…

“Gorgeous.”

You raised a surprised but amused eyebrow, a smile tugging at your lips now. And Andrew blushed all the way up to his ears…

He cleared his throat, tried to overcome his embarrassment. God, he really was the worst…

“You… Hi.”

“Hi,” you let out in an excited breath, grinning up at him.

“You… you look beautiful,” he complimented you, making you shy away a little.

“Thanks. You look nice too.”

He grinned at that, a wave of pride washing over his heart.

“Thanks, Y/N.”

He handed you his flowers, and you thanked him again, breathing in their sweet scent.

“These are my favourite flowers.”

“I know,” he nodded, and you seemed touched by his answer, emotional now.

“You’re ready to go?” he asked.

“Sure! Just have to put these in some water and grab my purse. Come in.”

He obliged, waited while you were getting ready. He was fidgeting when you came back, his shoulders bent, nerves making him want to disappear. He had to bend to pass your doorframe, and he hadn’t straightened his posture after that.

You noticed as you walked back from your kitchen, found him still standing before your door, rubbing at his palms. And you were frowning now, slowly approaching him.

God… were you second-guessing this already?

“Andy?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you alright?”

He looked at you, surprised.

“’Course. Just… a bit nervous, I guess.”

The understatement of the century. He was this far from shitting his pants…

You reached out, placed your hand on his upper arm. His heart quickened at the touch, he felt his muscles relax without being able to control his own body.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Look smaller than you are.”

He raised a surprised eyebrow, but didn’t straighten his posture.

“You do that when you’re sad, or feel bad, or just… want to disappear. Are you… Are you uncomfortable with us going on a date?”

“Uncomfortable? No, of course not… I’m… nervous. Terrified that I’m going to do something stupid and ruin our date, but… no, I’m not uncomfortable with us dating at all, on the contrary.”

“I like it, you know? How tall you are. I really like that about you. So… no need to shrink down when you’re around me, alright?”

His heart was filled with warmth, and finally, Andrew stood straighter again.

“Besides… I’m already in love with you. So… no pressure. It’s not like you have to seduce me or anything.”

He laughed, rolling his eyes.

“Right…”

You offered him a tender smile, narrowing your eyes a little at him, mischief painted all over your features.

“Actually… can you bend down for a second?”

He frowned.

“Why?”

“Just for a sec.”

Slowly, he obeyed.

“A bit more…”

He bent down again, until you were raising to your tiptoes and kissing his cheek.

You gave him a toothy grin, a mischievous one that made him giggle like a lovesick fool.

“Alright, now we’re ready to go,” you smiled, and he followed you outside of your flat again, his skin burning where your lips had touched him, feeling a little light-headed after your gesture, dizzy with your perfume.

He drove the two of you outside Dublin, all the way down to Wicklow. Andrew finally started to relax during the drive, conversation settling smoothly, as it always did with you. The sun was setting, it would soon be nighttime, but for now the light was painting the sky with golden and red, stripes of purple stretching towards the horizon.

“You haven’t even told me where we’re going!” you noted, and Andrew smirked.

“That’s a surprise.”

“A surprise?”

“Hmm… I hope you’ll like it. Had to ask for some help from locals to get everything ready.”

“Really?”

“Hmm.”

“What have you planned?” you asked, fully intrigued by now.

“Ha! Won’t say! It would spoil everything.”

You mumbled something about Andrew being annoying, and it made him laugh.

Indeed, he had asked a few friends to help him set up the scenery he wanted for the date. He was also using a part of the land owned by some family friends.

You frowned as you entered the property, but didn’t head towards the house; Andrew aimed the wheel towards the small wood instead, that stretched beyond the fields of barley.

“Where are we going?” you asked again.

“This property belongs to some friends. My parents live nearby, they’re practically neighbours, have been friends for decades. I asked if I could spend the evening on the edge of their wood. We shouldn’t be disturbed.”

“Oh… right…”

“They own the whole farm,” Andrew explained.

“Okay…”

“Don’t worry, no one is going to come during our date. I just needed a nice spot to set up my terrible plan.”

You chuckled at that, let Andrew drive the rest of the way in silence.

He parked by the edge of the trees, opened the door for you, and you smiled at the gallant gesture, a tinge of teasing in your smile.

“Oh, thank you, dear knight in shining armour…”

He rolled his eyes.

“Come on, don’t take the piss. Let me be romantic tonight, alright? The lad is doing his best…”

“Alright, alright… sorry.”

“Right, you need to close your eyes now.”

“What?”

“Close your eyes. This is a surprise. Don’t worry, it’s just behind those trees. And I won’t let you fall.”

He offered you his open palm.

“Trust me.”

His smile was kind, infinitely tender. You stared at him, but he didn’t read hesitation in your eyes, your expression was a little too emotional for that. Still, you nodded, slipped your fingers in his hand.

“I do trust you, Andy,” you tenderly smiled up at him, before closing your eyes, and Andrew struggled to breathe at your words, his heart feeling warm again.

“Although… I don’t know if I should,” you joked, back with your playful tone. “You are a pretty clumsy lad…”

He laughed at that.

“A clumsy giraffe, that’s what I am.”

Still, when he gently pulled on your hand, you followed him.

You walked for no more than a couple of minutes, before reaching a tiny clearing. Nothing impressive, but there was enough space between the pines and oak trees for Andrew to set up his plan.

He had hung a large set of white sheets between two trees, had set a projector so you could watch a movie. A blanket, some cushions and a picnic were set to eat during the film. He had borrowed some fairy lights from his parents to hang them around the clearing, and his brother and Alex had helped him set them up.

It looked nice. He hoped you would like it…

“Alright, you can open your eyes.”

You blinked, gasped as you took in the view. You looked around, found no words to say.

“Andy…”

When you turned to him again, you had tears in your eyes.

“This… this is…”

He offered you a shy smile, trying to take in the view as well. The way the sunset was painting your frame with orange hues, how the fairy lights shown in your eyes…

“Do you like it?”

You laughed, blinking tears away.

“I love it. This is… this is better than what I had imagined.”

“Good,” he whispered, burying his hands in his pockets, feeling himself relax.

“What are we watching?”

“A movie you like,” he answered simply, moving towards the cushions so you would both take a seat.

The picnic was simple, nothing too fancy, but you were glowing, a grin permanently glued to your lips, and so Andrew reckoned that he was doing something good. When the evening turned into night, that the sun finally disappeared beyond the Wicklow Hills, and that the moon and stars were left to light up the heavens with silver, Andrew proposed to watch the movie while you ate your dessert. You nodded eagerly, waited patiently while Andrew was setting up the movie with his laptop.

You recognised Pride and Prejudice with the first frame, gasped at the sight.

“This is perfect, Andy,” you breathed.

You leaned closer, letting your shoulder and head rest against his arm. He kissed your hair.

“Are you having a good time?” he asked in a quiet voice, warm and deep, and he noticed how you leaned even closer, until he was snaking an arm around your waist.

“This is… perfect,” you repeated yourself, and Andrew grinned, feeling proud and content.

“Good… That’s grand…”

“Andy… you know I… don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining, by any means. This is magical. It’s… no one has ever done anything like this for me.”

He tightened his hold on your waist without noticing, his heart speeding up as he felt dread replace peace.

“But?” he encouraged you to continue.

“But you don’t need to impress me, you know? I… I love you. This is amazing, but spending time with you is enough to make me happy. Okay? I don’t need all of this to be happy to be with you.”

He felt tears rising to his eyes, but he blinked them away as he nodded.

“Thank you…”

“No, thank you, Andy. Thank you for tonight, thank you for everything…”

You both fell into a comfortable silence, picking up some fruits and watching Elizabeth and Darcy fall in love all over again…

You helped Andrew pack up everything in his car, leaving the clearing undisturbed by human activity again but for the fairy lights hung in the trees, Andrew would come back for these later. You failed to spot the owl you heard before leaving, but you didn’t mind. You took one last look at the small clearing, at the moon almost to its fullest above your head, at the stars shining bright and clear against the inky sky, and you thanked them for keeping a warm and bright weather for tonight.

Andrew drove you home, you chatted all the way, sang along to the songs on the radio and laughed at the lyrics you invented. He walked you to the door of your building, and you both remained standing there for a couple of minutes, under the pretence of finishing your conversation when, really, you simply didn’t want to part. At last, once neither of you had anything left to say, you looked up at him in silence, hesitating. You didn’t want him to leave…

You noticed how his cheeks grew a little pink, how his gaze grew more intense, entrapping your stare. They held such tenderness as they rested upon your features, such fondness… you dared to call it love…

And Christ, Andrew was so handsome like this. All in black, elegant and so damn tall, with his hair held back to reveal his features. You wanted to trace the edge of his sharp jaw, you longed to feel the roughness of his beard under the pads of your fingers, to kiss the bright pink of his lips… And in the streetlights the red in his hair and beard shone brighter than usual, his eyes a darker shade of green and brown. Your heart was pounding at the sight, your entire body heating up at the thought of reaching out to touch him…

“Y/N?”

“Hmmm?”

“Can I… Can I kiss you?”

You grinned at that, reassured. He wanted the same thing as you did. Andrew wanted you too…

You finally noticed that his breathing was irregular, loud and slightly trembling. That his fingers, as they reached for your hand, were warm and calloused and unsure. He seemed vulnerable, waiting for your answer. As if he didn’t really believe this was happening either, as if he too was unconsciously awaiting a rejection.

You closed the space between your hands, intertwined your fingers together, and Andrew released a long breath.

You stared right into his eyes as you spoke.

“Please… kiss me, Andy.”

Something changed in his expression, then. It held the same tenderness still, the same loving expression, something close to adoration. But instead of doubt and fragility, his gaze darkened, he seemed more confident again. His grin was bright and a little dreamy as he reached up to cup your face in his large hand. And if it made you feel small, his touch also made you feel safe.

Slowly, he bent down, while you went to your tiptoes to meet him halfway. When he finally kissed you, it was like the world had disappeared, like you were the only beings left in the universe, like time itself had stopped to grant you this moment. You let go of his hand to wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him even closer. Meanwhile, his now free hand was resting on the small of your back, pressing you against him. For how long you kissed, you couldn’t have guessed. All you knew was that when you finally pulled away, gasping for air, head spinning a little, your chin burning because of his short beard, all you wanted was to kiss him again, and again, and again…

“Andy?”

“Hmmm?”

“Do you want to come in?”

He blinked his eyes open, stared at you, but there was nothing but want, desire and awe to find in your gaze. And so, Andrew let out a shaky breath.

“You’re sure?” he asked anyway, even if the answer was obvious, written all over your features.

“Yes, I’m sure,” you nodded.

Before you could add another word, Andrew was kissing you again, more urgently this time, something filled with sparks and want, kissing you like he never wanted to stop…

He did break away though, nodding, his nose brushing against yours in the process.

“Yeah… yeah, I definitely want to come in.”

You giggled at that, noticed he was blushing, but you still took his hand and guided him inside the building.

In the elevator, his lips were back on yours, he was pressing your back against the wall, hands holding tightly your waist. You had rarely felt so wanted in your life, and you were not even in your apartment yet, let alone your bedroom.

He followed you to your door, you noticed the way he closed and opened his hands repeatedly, as if refraining to reach out and touch you.

The second you were locking your door, Andrew was kissing you again, pressing your back to the wooden surface, holding onto you tightly.

“Y/N?” he whispered against your lips, and you hummed quietly to encourage him to continue. “You… I trust you to tell me if anything feels wrong, if you don’t want me to do something, if you feel uncomfortable or… whatever. Alright? No matter what it is. Okay?”

You looked up at him, pupils blown, and panting with want, hair already made a mess by your fingers, glasses a little lopsided upon his nose. You had never felt as safe as you did in this moment.

“Okay. Same for you. I trust you to tell me. And I trust you to stop, too.”

He gave you a reassuring smile, silently nodding. He kissed you again, tenderly, softly this time. Slow and loving.

“I love you,” he whispered against your mouth, stealing all the air from your lungs.

“I love you too, Andy. I love you…”

You kissed him once more, passion making your movements more urgent again, he groaned when you gently captured his lower lip between your teeth.

“You’ll be the fucking death of me…” he murmured.

He let out a breathy chuckle, the kind that revealed he seemed barely able to believe this was real…

“Can I undress you?” he asked, voice deep and low, the sound alone making your entire body tremble.

“Yes… God, yes… Can I undress you?”

“Please, do…”

A second later, his jacket was on the ground; your shoes soon followed.

You felt the tip of his fingers glide up your waist, sneak behind you to touch the bare skin of your back. Every fibre of your being was on fire, boiling, burning, burning…

“Any boundary I should know about before we do this?” he asked, voice so deep, you thought you were losing your mind.

His warm breath was fanning over your lips and chin, reminding you how close he was.

“Erm… I don’t know… Nothing that could hurt, I guess…”

He chuckled sweetly.

“I’m not much of a bdsm kind of guy either, if that can reassure you.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed, you absolute softy…”

“Anything else?”

You couldn’t think straight, had nothing to add. You asked back the question.

“Nothing I can think of right now… but then… it’s hard to think at the moment.”

You both giggled at that, and if you were still both highly turned on, you bathed in the solace of the moment, all trust and tenderness.

“You’re still okay with me undressing you? With me touching you like this?” he asked, and you nodded.

“You too?”

He chuckled, something darker in his gaze as he bent closer to kiss you again.

“Y/N… you have no idea how much I want you…”

His lips moved to your jaw, your cheek, your neck. He nibbled at the tender flesh over your pulse, kissed and tasted your skin with a brush of his tongue…

Your legs were shaking, you were ready to combust right there, against your front door.

His fingers were back to your waist and then moved up your frame as he spoke again, a path excruciatingly slow across the velvety material of your dress, from your waist to the edge of your breasts. He flattened his hands on your stomach, and you took a sharp intake of breath at how big they felt across your torso.

“I’ve dreamt of this,” he confessed into your ear, before sucking on the skin behind it. “Dreamt of you… Christ… I want you so fucking bad. The sins I want to commit with you…”

Then his hands left your stomach to travel down to your arse, and then to the back of your thighs, a silent demand to let him carry you to your bedroom. You didn’t hesitate as you jumped into his arms, wrapping your legs around his torso and kissing him again. You undid the buttons of his shirt while he walked to your bedroom, letting your fingers cover his breasts, touch his chest hair, fall across his stomach. He shuddered under your touch, his breathing stammering, and you felt so powerful like this, held within his arms and able to summon such reactions from him.

“God… I want to taste you so bad,” he confessed, and you were surprised at how straightforward he was about this. “Can I? Can I put my mouth on you?”

“Yes… yes, please…”

The undressing resumed, he peeled off your dress, your stockings, your underwear from you, and you pushed away his clothes as well.

There was so much awe in his gaze as he took you in, eyes travelling your body as if to make sure he would remember every inch. When he caught your gaze once more, you could read nothing but want and adoration in his dilated pupils.

A silent question, one last checking in to make sure you were still fine to continue, and you nodded, reaching up to touch him, no matter where, you only longed to feel the warmth of his skin under your palm. You untied his hair, the last item remaining on his body, while his glasses had been discarded to your bedside table a while ago. His hair fell down around the two of you, you giggled as it tickled your shoulders, and so did Andrew. When he lowered his lips to your skin again, it was with the intention to touch and kiss every inch of you, make sure you knew how much he longed to worship you.

Your eyes closed with his lips reaching at long last their final destination across your skin, and the groan he let out when you pulled on his hair as a reaction to your pleasure made you question whether this was real or merely one of your dreams.

#andrew hozier byrne #hozier #the hoziest #hozier x reader #hozier x you #hozier x y/n #hozier fanfiction #hozier x fem!reader #hozier series #hozier au #hozier professor au #hozier fic #writing #fanfiction #fanfic #series #professor au

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quinny19 · 11 days ago

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Rivals part 1

Hawks x Reader Rival-to-Lovers

Chapter 1: The Six Winged Hero ( hate at first sight)

Hawks knew the moment he saw you that he didn't like you.

Scratch that—he hated you.

Because there you were, standing in the middle of the Hero Public Safety Commission’s grand office, six enormous, pristine, feathery wings spread out behind you like some kind of celestial being. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, the smug look on your face told him that you knew exactly how much this bothered him.

"Why the hell does she get six?" was Hawks' first thought.

The second thought? "I bet I can still fly faster."

The officials introduced you as the newest rising pro hero, a powerhouse with unmatched aerial speed, strength, and battle precision. A Seraphim-like quirk, they called it. "Seraph"—even your hero name was flashy.

Hawks plastered on his usual lazy grin, hands in his pockets. "Six wings, huh? Bit excessive, don’t you think?"

You blinked at him before tilting your head. "Oh, sorry—were you feeling insecure?"

His eye twitched.

And thus, the rivalry was born.

Scenario 1: The Speed Challenge (Because Everything’s a Competition)

It started with a simple mission—a joint patrol of the city. Should’ve been easy. Should’ve been peaceful.

But the moment you both took off, Hawks smirked. "Bet I can finish my patrol before you."

You, mid-yawn, stretched your arms. "Bet I can do it while half-asleep."

And you did.

Not only did you clear your patrol in record time, but you also managed to rescue a stranded cat, stop a runaway truck, and still arrive back at the agency before Hawks—while barely awake.

"Unbelievable," Hawks grumbled as he landed, wings twitching. "You weren’t even trying."

You gave him a lazy smile. "Maybe I’m just that good."

Mirko, who had been watching from the sidelines, burst out laughing. "Oh man, Bird Boy, I think she just flexed on you without even trying!"

Hawks scowled. "Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, rabbit."

Scenario 2: The Media Fiasco

The problem started when some tabloid snapped a photo of you and Hawks during a mission—standing a little too close, wings slightly overlapping.

"New Pro Hero Power Couple? Wings and Love in the Air!" the headline read.

Cue immediate denial from both of you.

"Absolutely not," you said, crossing your arms.

"In your dreams," Hawks scoffed.

But the internet? Oh, it thrived on the rumors. Fan edits, shipping hashtags, conspiracy theories about "secret dates"—it was a mess.

Endeavor sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Just ignore it."

Easy to say. Harder when the next press conference had a reporter boldly asking, "So, when’s the wedding?"

Hawks nearly choked on his coffee. You? You just blinked.

"Ah, well," you said smoothly, "Hawks would have to admit I’m better than him first. And we all know that’ll never happen."

The entire room exploded in laughter.

Hawks shot you a glare. "Oh, you are so dead."

Scenario 3: The Last Piece of Food War

It was supposed to be a normal lunch at the agency breakroom. Then came the last piece of takoyaki.

You and Hawks both reached for it.

A stare-down commenced.

"You take it, and you admit I’m the better flyer," you said.

Hawks smirked. "You take it, and you admit you like me."

Your eye twitched. "Nice try, Pigeon Boy."

"You blinked. That means I win."

You lunged for the takoyaki.

Hawks dodged.

Best Jeanist, watching from the corner, hummed. "Ah, the delicate threads of fate weave a complicated romance…"

Both you and Hawks turned to glare at him.

"Shut up, Jeanist!"

Scenario 4: Forced Partner Mission (AKA Hell)

When the Commission paired you and Hawks for an undercover mission, the entire hero community knew it was going to be chaos.

Disguised as a couple infiltrating a high-class villain gathering, you had to act the part.

"You two need to look natural," the handler warned.

"Define ‘natural,’" Hawks said, arms crossed.

"Like you actually tolerate each other."

Silence.

Then Hawks sighed, dramatically draping an arm around your shoulder. "What’s up, honey~?" he said in the most obnoxious voice possible.

You elbowed him. Hard.

"Ow—damn, woman!"

"Call me ‘honey’ again, and I’ll make you a flightless bird."

The handler groaned. "This is a disaster."

Scenario 5: The Almost Confession (But Not Really, Because Denial is Key)

It happened after a rough mission. You were both exhausted, sitting on the rooftop overlooking the city, wings slightly battered.

Hawks nudged your arm. "You good?"

You exhaled. "I’ve had worse."

A comfortable silence.

Then, quietly, Hawks muttered, "If you were my type—which you aren’t—you’d be almost tolerable."

You turned to him, raising an eyebrow. "If you weren’t so annoying, I might almost respect you."

Another pause.

Then—

"Nah," you both said at the same time.

A smirk tugged at Hawks' lips. "Bet I can heal faster than you."

You rolled your eyes. "Bet I can ignore you longer."

The rivalry continued.

But the unspoken warmth between you?

That was another battle entirely.

#mha fanfiction #mha x reader #mha x y/n #my hero academy fanfiction #bnha hawks #hawks x reader #hawks x you #hawks x y/n #mha hawks #keigo tamaki #keigo takami x reader #mha takami keigo #keigo x reader #keigo takami #my hero acedamia #my hero academia

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mayajadewrites · 10 months ago

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could've been you: aizawa x fem!reader x hawks

summary: You're the new teacher at UA with a rocky past with one of their beloved teachers, Shouta Aizawa aka Eraserhead. You'd rather never see him again but alas, such is life. You also meet Keigo, aka Hawks, who is the opposite of Aizawa. Smiley, golden retriever energy. Nothing could go wrong... right? relationships: aizawa x fem!reader, hawks x fem!reader warnings: some chapters will be NSFW, they will have a warning on them in bold. not many descriptions of reader, other than she's midsize.

ao3

TAG LIST:

@come-away-with-me87, @kxshdoll, @evilsanzu, @friendly-neighborhood-turtle, @lili-pond,

@the-unhinged-raccoon @falling4fandoms

CHAPTER SEVEN

this is a super smutty chapter and i'm not sorry

Your fingers grazed the petals of the roses that Keigo got you. You placed the vase in the middle of your dining table and they were undoubtably the center of attention.

Keigo is a rose. Stunning, adored by most people, and gives whoever receives them an immense sense of adornment.

Shouta is an Azalea. Specifically purple Azaleas. They need more shade in order to flourish, but they are absolute stunning once in full bloom. Azaleas also never receive a quarter of the love and recognition that roses do.

You pour yourself a glass of white wine after your first day as a teacher at UA. You're now in a cream colored lounge set consisting of pants that hug your curves and a tank to.

As you swirl your glass you glance at your phone. You're not sure why you're hoping to see Aizawa's name - he doesn't have your number and you refused to give it to him.

Keigo's name flashed on the screen. You slid the arrow to the right to answer the FaceTime call.

"Hi." You smile as you answer the phone. Keigo is in the air, you can tell by his dark red wings moving through the air.

"Tell me all about your first day!" He smiled into his phone. His yellow goggles moved with his cheeks.

"You're too cute. Well, it was good! Then I got a gorgeous bouquet of flowers from a man that just so happens to fly."

"He sounds like a keeper." Keigo flashed his teeth. Your heart rate increased when he said that. You didn't know if you wanted him to be your boyfriend. You didn't know if you wanted a boyfriend period.

Did you want to have this conversation now?

No.

So you don't.

"How's patrol going?" You changed the subject. Keigo's lips slightly lowered as his smile faded. Not too much, but noticable enough.

"It's going pretty well. League of Villains seem to be in hiding. Which worries me."

"Well at least it's quiet for now." You sigh thinking about Shigaraki. How much pain he was feeling, that in turn you had to feel but only temporarily.

"Please get home safe, Kei." You pressed your chin into your palm as you leaned on the counter. Keigo smiled at the screen - his honey coated eyes shining under the moonlight.

"I miss you." Keigo said softly.

"I miss you too. Come over on Friday and you can sleepover since it's not a school night." This makes Keigo smile form ear to ear.

"It's a date." He takes flight and you notice the screen moving slightly.

"Keigo please hang up if you're gonna fly while on FaceTime, I feel like I'm gonna be sick." You giggle.

"Sorry, I fly when I get excited." He stops moving, presumably leanding on the ground. "Have a good night baby bird."

"You too Kei. Be safe, please." You press the red button on your screen to hang up, leaving your phone on the counter.

One glass of wine turns into two. Two turns into three.

Three turns into knocking on Shouta's door.

Your body felt fuzzy. You could control your actions (mostly) but you felt more... free.

So why wouldn't you knock on Shouta's door at 11 PM?

You pressed your knuckles to the door and knocked semi-quietly.

"Eraserrrrrr." You sing as you plant your hands on your hips.

You hear footsteps and then suddenly the door is open.

Shouta is standing in front of you wearing a black t-shirt, sweatpants and slippers.

"Why are you knocking on my door at 11 PM? No boyfriend tonight?"

"I don't have a boyfriend silly." You look past his shoulder into his room. "I've never seen your room so I wanted to see it!"

"At 11 o'clock at night?"

"Yes. Why do you keep mentioning the time?"

Aizawa stared at you for a few moments, analyzing your face. "You're drunk?"

"I've had 1... 2... 3 glasses of wine!" You held up three fingers in front of his face.

Aizawa grabbed the hand you were holding up and pulled you into his room.

It's spotless, but very dark. He has one light in the corner that's on next to a comfy looking chair and a book. His kitchen is the same as yours, just decorated different.

"You're so clean." You press a finger to his counter.

"Did you think I would be dirty?"

You shook your head and plopped on his couch. "No. I don't know what I was expecting." You shrug your shoulders. Shouta sat next to you and placed a glass of water on his coffee table.

Your eyes wandered to his chest, his muscles filling out his shirt perfectly. His biceps peeked out of the sleeves, something you didn't know turned you on.

But the wetness in between your legs would say different.

His hair was in the low ponytail that it was this morning that made you cross your legs. You must've looked like you were squirming.

"Are you okay?" Aizawa leaned back on the couch and extended his arm behind you. You bit your bottom lip at his movements, unable to hold it in any longer.

"I want you to touch me." You blurt out. Aizawa stared at you through his lidded eyes.

After a few silent moments, he spoke.

"Show me where." He moved his body closer to you, your hips touching. You grab his large, heavy hand and bring it to your body.

"Here." You pressed his index and middle finger to your lips. "Here." You moved his hand to your chest, goosebumps growing along the skin of your tits. "Here." You slowly brought his hand to your aching, wet core. His fingers grazed your clothed heat gently, causing a moan to escape your lips.

"I haven't even truly touched you and I have you moaning already. How long have you been thinking about this?" Shouta's body covered yours as he brought the hand that you were using to show him where you wanted to be touched, to your cheek. His other arm is still laying behind you on the couch.

"I've thought about it a lot."

Why were you admitting this.

You could smell the mint of his toothpaste as he leaned in to rub his nose on yours, something you take note of. He did this before. He loves to kiss with his nose first. It's cute.

"Have you thought about it?" You tilt your head to the side and wrap your arms around his neck, letting your fingers drag through his hair.

"Only every day. Hourly, probably." He whispered and kissed your lips slowly. You take no time to deepen the kiss, opening your mouth to let his tongue in.

You're needy and he knows it. You felt his lips form into a smirk as he slid his tongue into your mouth, one hand in your hair, the other gripping your hip tightly.

You drag one of your hands down his chest to his lap where you feel his erection pressing against his sweatpants. You smile into the kiss with satisfaction, knowing you caused Shouta Aizawa to get hard.

"You're not touching that tonight." He whispers and moves your hand to his chest as he brings his mouth to your neck, leaving sloppy kisses and bites. In your drunk state, you're not thinking about the bruises he will leave behind.

"Why nottttttt." You whine as he bites down on your skin, rougher this time.

"I want you to be sober when you see it. So you remember." His words are hot against your skin as his large hand grazes your clothed core. You whimper with need, knowing your panties are soaked at this point just from kissing him.

"I need something, Shouta." You throw your head back when you feel his tongue drag along your neck to your chest, leaving bites along the front of both of your tits. He looked up at you for approval to take your shirt off, to which you nodded.

Your touches are turning desperate. You're about to come and he has barely touched you. You feverishly pulled him into you, dragging your fingernails along his back.

Aizawa pulled your shirt down, your tits bouncing out of them. He needs two hands for these, maybe three, but he's not complaining.

He left hot kisses along your right breast before he took your sensitive nub in his mouth, sucking and biting as he kneaded your other breast. Your cheeks were red from arousal as he kissed down your soft stomach to the top of your pants. He kissed your cloth core with a smirk on his face.

"You are such an ass." You squirm as he moves to his knees on the floor. Your thick thighs encase his head as he uses one hand to spread your legs apart, pulling your pants down to your ankles.

Aizawa sees your black laced panties and runs his fingers over the fabric. "These are pretty. Too bad they're about to be ruined." He pulled the side of your panties and watched them break with ease.

The sound of your panties breaking sobered you up just a little.

"Hey! These were my favorites." You whined as you looked down at him. He looked like an angel between your legs, his tired eyes gazing up at you as he planted one of his hands on your thigh.

"I'll buy you more." He mumbled as his nose grazed your entrance. You moaned quietly as you felt his tongue slide past your folds. His other hand kneaded your breast with his calloused fingertips.

Aizawa dragged his tongue down your slit, letting all of your juices fill his tastebuds. You place your hand on top of his head as he devours you.

This man is starved.

He turns his attention to your clit, wrapping his lips around the sensitive nub. Your breath hitches as his lips attach to your clit, while he inserts two of his long, thick digits into your aching pussy.

"Shouta," You moan as he thrusts his fingers in and out of you.

"You taste so good, baby." He mumbles as he laps up your juices. You watch his lidded eyes find yours as he continues to destroy your pussy with his tongue. His stubble tickled your thighs as he buried himself into you using his tongue.

You feel the knot in your stomach about to break as you buck your hips into his face. "Shouta, fuck, I'm about to come."

"Not yet." His words vibrate against your body.

"The fuck you mean not yet? I can't control-" His thrusts his fingers into you, curling them once they're burried in your pussy. "Aizawa, please." You whine.

He ignored you, his mouth sucking on your clit and his fingers pumping in and out of you. "I know you can do it, Princess. Don't come until I say so."

You felt the knot in your stomach grow tighter as you heard the squelches of his tongue against your clit. Your hand gripped his raven hair, pulling it gently as pleasure ripped through your body. You bit down on your bottom lip, hoping it was enough to stop you from coming.

"See you are a good listener." He smirked against your pussy. "Tell me what you want, baby."

"I want to come. Shouta, I want to come." You moaned as your toes curled. You were so close. "Please."

"Go." Was all Aizawa said before you had the most mind blowing, body changing, rippling orgasm. The knot in your stomach finally broke. You were seeing every color in the rainbow. This was euphoria.

Aizawa lapped up your juices as your orgasm hit you like a tidal wave. He sucked on your sensitive, overstimulated clit, sure to drink up all you had.

His hands gripped your thick, plush thighs as you he took his last slurp of your sex. His nails dug into your skin when he finally removed himself from your pussy, his face lathered in your arousal.

He wasted no time bringing his lips to yours.

"Taste yourself." He mumbled against your mouth as he slid his tongue inside of yours. "I could live between your legs and never get hungry."

Your mouth was greedy with his kisses, drunk off of not only wine but also his mouth.

Reluctantly, Aizawa pulls away from you slowly. His cheeks are a shade of red that matches his bloodshot eyes. You whimper at the loss of his touch, knowing that this was ending.

"Goodnight Princess." He kissed your forehead gently before standing up. You sat on his couch for a moment, your pussy devoured to the bone, your body bruised from love bites, and your mind was a mess.

"Night." You pull your top and pants up, and you leave.

Without another word.

#aizawa x reader #aizawa #eraserhead #aizawa shouta #shouta aizawa x reader #bnha shouta aizawa #mha hawks #keigo takami #mha takami keigo #keigo x reader #hawks x reader #mha fanfiction #mha fanfic #aizawa smut #shouta aizawa smut #shouta aizawa #aizawa fanfiction #aizawa mha #could've been you

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dragon-kazansky · 10 months ago

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Heart of the Dreaming

Morpheus x Female Reader

Soulmate AU

You are the daughter of Rodrick Burgess. You find out about the "demon" in the basement and decide you want to see it. Things take an unexpected turn when your soulmate connection is made with the man you find down there. You are the one he has been waiting for, and you're being taken away from. Not for long. Dream will protect his soulmate.

{Masterlist}

{Previous Chapter} - {Next Chapter}

Chapter Eleven - Cracks in the glass

☆☆☆

You were sat in your garden. Sitting on the stone wall over a flowerbed nearby. The bricks were your favourite colour. Dream's doing, of course. You had been out here for about an hour now practising making things.

You had been in the Dreaming for about a week now, if you had to guess. The power Dream had given you was almost begging to be used, so you decided to put it to use. After all, he did gift you the garden.

You sit with your hand covering over the soil slightly. It was strange. Somehow, you knew what you needed to do. Rubbing your pointer finger and thumb together, dust fell down to the soil. No, not just dust, stardust.

It fell delicately from your fingers and embedded itself into the soil. Slowly, a little green stem poked out from the soil. You smile and move your hand over a little and repeated the action. You kept going until the flowerbed was full of sprouting flowers.

You smile at your work.

"Your garden is beginning to grow."

You turn and see Dream behind you. You smile at him softly. "Yes. I felt it was a good time to put the garden to use."

Dream walks over and offers you his hand. You look at it for a moment and then accept it, rising from the wall. He brings your hand to his arm as he guides you round the garden.

"How are you enjoying your time here in the Dreaming?"

"I've settled now. I am used to your realm," you tell him.

"I am glad. This is your home now."

The two of you walk slowly through the garden. You watch as fairies and birds fly overhead. A doe prances through the trees to the left. A horse grazes in a field on the other side. There was so much beauty surrounding you.

"I was hoping to have a word with you," he starts after a long bout of silence.

"What about?"

"The night I was captured."

You stop. Dream feels you tense beside him and looks at you.

"The night I was captured, I was in the waking world. I was searching for someone. I only intended to find him and bring him back here, but evidently failed when your father summoned me."

"I'm so sorry," you say softly.

"Don't be. You are not at fault for what your father did. That was his own doing. As was Alex's when he decided to keep you in your room all those years."

Dream could see you were still upset about what happened and reached up to cup your cheek. His hand is warm against your skin. "Don't cry," he spoke softly.

"I'm sorry."

He hushes you quietly. "What I wanted to discuss with you was the man I was searching for that night."

You nod to show you were still listening, unable to find your voice right now.

"He is one of my nightmares. The Corianthian. He has escaped my realm and is still out there now. I came to tell you this because I must go in search of him again."

"I understand. I'll wait for your return."

"You do not wish to come with me?" He asks, sounding surprised.

"Wouldn't it be best I didn't? I don't want to get in the way or be the reason anything goes wrong."

Dream seems confused by your words. "I want you to come."

"You do?"

"Of course I do. Why would I not?"

"For the reasons I just said before." You look at him in wonder. "Is he dangerous?"

"Quite. More so now, I assume."

"And you want me to come?" You ask again.

"Yes."

You chuckle softly and shake your head lightly. Dream smiles at your amusement. Every day, he discovers something new about you that he likes.

"What can I do to help?" You ask.

"For now, keep practising with your new power. I need to find his location first."

"Alright."

Dream smiles and then takes hold of your hand. He lifts it to his lips and kisses it gently. You exhake softly through parted lips as you keep your eyes on his. He does not look away once.

When he lets go of your hand, it feels cold. You miss his touch. You watch him retreat back into the palace.

☆☆☆

Over the next few days, you work on your garden. Every flowerbed is full. You work hard to help them grow. You want your garden to be full of colours of all kinds. You want Dream to know his power did not go to waste.

Matthew flew above the palace and swooped down into your garden. He landed on the fountain and saw you sprinkling stardust onto the flowers again.

"How's it going?" He caws.

You look up and smile. "I'm making progress."

"Yeah, looking good. So, uh, his higness is asking for you."

"Oh? Alright. Lead the way."

Matthew takes flight, and you follow him inside the palace. He takes you down several halls and down toward the throne room. When you arrive, you see Morpheus and Lucienne talking. When they hear you approach, they stop and turn to look at you.

"I have found him," Dream says before you can ask.

"Alright. So, we go now?"

"Do you feel ready?" He asks.

"I don't know, but you want me to help, so I'll try. Though I'm still not sure what I can do."

"It may seem strange, but I'll explain when we get there." He can sense your anxiety.

Lucienne looks between you both.

Dream offers you his hand. You take it, stepping closer to him. This pleases him. He other hand reaches for his sand, and he begins to tip the pouch. The sand falls around you in a haze.

Lucienne looks concerned.

Before you know it, you're standing outside a diner. You look around to find yourself in a place you've never seen before.

"Where are we?"

"America. He's here." Dream keeps his eyes trained on the diner and walks on in. You follow him closely.

The last diner you went to was covered in blood. John. Poor John. Things could have been so different for him if Rodrick wasn't involved in his literal creation.

Inside was quiet. Few people are present. The chef could be seen through the window to the kitchen, and there were two girls on the counter. One pouring coffee for a gentleman at the bar and the other restocking condiments.

A few stools down from the man with the coffee was a plate of untouched food. No one was sitting there.

You both stand by the door and look around. Clearly, there is no sign of this Corinthian.

"Are you sure he's here?" You ask.

"Yes."

In that next moment, a man steps out from the men's toilets. He wipes something you can't see clearly with a cloth and then tucks both items into his pocket. On his face sit a pair of small round frames covering his eyes. He stops and looks up, a huge grin appearing on his face.

"Well, well, well."

Something about his voice sets you on edge, and you find yourself grabbing at Dream's sleeve. He feels your little tug on his coat, but doesn't turn to look at you, keeping his eyes solely focused on the other man.

"Corianthian."

"Dream."

You look up at Dream, but his gaze is locked on to the other man. You feel like the Corianthian is looking at you, though. His lipsnarw curled up into a very pleased grin.

"So, you got free."

"I did. I am here to finish what I came to do all those years ago." Dream speaks firmly.

"Is that so?" Corianthian speaks slowly.

The Corianthian chuckles and walks past you both, heading outside. You look at Dream, who just follows him with his eyes and then follows him out. You stay right behind him.

The Corianthian goes round the back of the diner and stands there. You watch him, staying close to Dream. You do not feel good about being here.

"Well, I'm not going without a fight."

The Corianthian reaches into his pocket and pulls out the thing you saw him put away earlier. When he removes the cloth, you see the knife.

Dream doesn't seem threatened by it.

"I should explain why I bought you with me," Dream says, turning his head slightly to show he's addressing you, but his eyes stay forward. "I gave you a portion of my power, which means I am only complete when I am with you."

You look at him. "Why did you give it to me then?"

"It was a gift."

"Dream..."

You feel his fingers brush against yours as he takes your hand. You glance down and look at them entwined together.

"Look at me."

You lift your eyes to his.

"Trust me."

You nod softly.

Dream turns back to the Corianthian, and his expression becomes firm again. "Your games are over."

The Corianthian laughs. The knife shimmers in the sun. It looks so very sharp. Dream keeps his hand in yours as he lifts the other one up. He's trying to force the Corianthian back into the Dreaming.

However, the Corianthian isn't having it. His aim is true as he throws the knife towards Dream. You push him by instinct and raise your hand to shield your face. The knife embeds itself through your hand, and you resist screaming.

Dream's focus is instantly on you as he places both his hands on your upper arms, looking at the knife in your hand.

The Corianthian runs.

"Go!" You tell Dream.

"No."

Morpheus pulls you into his chest and uses his sand to return you both to the Dreaming. The moment you're both back in the palace, he calls for Lucienne. She rushes in and sees you, asking what happened. Dream doesn't explain. He just asks her for help.

That was something he rarely did.

You're in tears, and your breathing is erratic. Dream is worried about you. You're hurt, and it's his fault. Lucienne has to pry his hands off you so she can help you, requesting things from Matthew and Mervyn.

Lucienne sits you down, and Dream can only watch. He's panicking on the inside. He won't let them know, won't let you know, just what he's feeling right now.

You're hurt.

The scream that you let out when Lucienne pulls out the knife makes his heart break. He watches blood drip down, too late for Lucienne to prevent it from happening. She tends to your hand all while speaking to you in a calming voice.

That should be him, but he couldn't. He couldn't help you. He can't be gentle with you like that. He can't comfort you the way he wants to.

Dream leaves. He can't watch any more.

☆☆☆

You had long since gone to bed. You had come to bid him goodnight, despite the fact he didn't sleep. He told you goodnight and watched you go quietly. He then sank down on his throne and sulked for about an hour.

His sad hours were cut short by a deep rumble under his feet. He snaps back into reality, or well, his realm, to what could only be described as an earthquake. He rises from his throne but holds onto it for support as he looks around the room.

The window behind him cracks, and he stares at them in confusion.

Then it stops, and all is calm.

Matthew comes flying in moments later. "Uh, boss?"

"I know, Matthew. I felt it."

"You, uh, might want to see Lucienne." Matthew caws.

Dream nods and makes his way to the library. The Dreaming doesn't have earthquakes, so whatever that was, it was new.

☆☆☆

@deniixlovezelda - @missdreamofendless - @kpopgirlbtssvt - @meganlpie - @thoughtsfromlayla - @ladyjbrekker

@mwaaaaaugh - @bluespecs14 - @intothesoul - @lady-violet - @navs-bhat - @krahk - @oldsoulmagic

@rubyrose2014 - @lorkai - @roxytheimmortal - @star-maker-rain-dancer - @intothesoul - @gemini-mama - @whotperlinda

@dreamingblueberries - @the-shadow-of-aurora - @novavida - @blackgirlmagicforever

@permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 - @hopshusushi - @sloppyzengarden - @thecraziestcrayon -

#heart of the Dreaming #morpheus x reader #dream x reader #the sandman #soulmate au #dragon writes

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half-dead-ham · 4 months ago

Text

Tim Drake's I.E.F Ch.1

To all those new to this fic, Hi! Welcome! I'm sure you'll have fun with this since I'll be posting/updating the old update posts all at once. It's a lot, but if I don't do this now I probably won't later, so bare with me, will you?

[Ao3 chapter] [Masterpost] [Chapter 2]

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Getting shot isn't the best way to start a friendship, but at least nobody died, right?

Gotham is dark.

And big.

And haunted.

It would seem like the worst place for Danny to hide, considering just how many vengeful and sad ghosts there are. And yet, here he is, on his third month here after escaping leaving Amity Park after an unexpected and, frankly, embarrassing reveal of his secret to his parents.

Needless to say, they did not take it well.

Silently cringing at the images of the inside of ecto-proof cages and Fenton blasters running through his head, he floats on his front invisibly about his current interest in lazy circles as they perch on the edge of a rooftop. Red Robin, the first bat he encountered during his stay, and second favourite Gotham vigilante, (his first being Red Hood) was currently working on a case that revolved around a string of break-ins to large electronic stores around Gotham's commercial district. The contents of what was stolen didn't seem to have any pattern, but none of the security systems at previous stores were able to even glimpse at the thief.

Red Robin, hearing rumors through his contacts of the electronic store across the street from them being the next target, had decided to stake out the place in hopes of a clue. The security feed was currently being patched through onto Red Robin's wrist computer as the bird watched silently for any signs of movement. A slight distortion caught Danny's eye and he lowered himself over Red Robin's shoulder to get a better look. Red Robin shivered at the sudden chill, but didn't look around like the first dozen times Danny had hovered into his personal space.

It was weird, the lack of reaction. At the beginning, about a month beforehand was when Danny had first taken interest in the vigilante. He was bored of staying in the decrepit old building he'd started squatting in after the first few nights of paranoia fueled isolation. Figuring the best way to settle his nerves was a midnight patrol, he took off flying in a lazy pattern, first around his new house(not his home, not without them) and then around the rest of the district.

He was just about to head back when he came upon police lights outside a small computer repair shop and curiosity, reluctantly, got the better of him. Danny, invisibly and intangibly as to not be detected, floated cautiously through the roof of the shop to see what had happened. He was not expecting to see Red Robin surrounded by four officers all huddled together watching—glaring—at the monitor displaying the shop's security footage.

Seeing that A. There wasn't anything really bad about the place, like a body or any particularly fresh ghosts, and B. That his second favourite Gotham hero was on the scene had instantly made Danny much less cautious and much more curious. He waited for the officers to focus their attention elsewhere in the store and floated closer to have a look at what the hero, who was currently rewinding the tape, was so baffled about. Red Robin had just hit play when Danny came close enough for his shoulder to accidentally brush the side of Red Robin's head in a momentary lapse of his intangibly, sending the vigilante bounding to his feet in a defensive position, searching for anything close.

Danny, in the split second between his accidental tangibility and Red Robin's reaction, had instinctively moved back and reasserted his powers for good measure. The video played behind Red Robin as he tensely searched the dingy narrow shop for anything that could have caused the cold chill and light brush to the back of his head, but even with the high tech sensors in his lenses he couldn't pick up anything that close to him, just him and the now three other officers in the building. His body slowly uncoiled, the fight bleeding out of him as he watched the officers inspect a particularly interesting piece of wiring near the entrance. 'Like a snake' Danny mused, before silently berating himself for almost getting caught by a bat.

Man, that would've been embarrassing.

Danny was lucky he hadn't thought to switch to thermal viewing, or he would have noticed the massive cold spot just above him to his left.

After that night Danny kept going for patrols around his squat house, and subsequently kept running into Red Robin in his case to find the ghost(ha) thieves. After the seventh time he figured it would be more interesting to just start out searching for the vigilante instead of running into him after the police lights directed him to a crime scene.

An alarm from the store across the street had Danny refocusing on Red Robin's wrist computer. There hadn't been movement on the cam footage, but as Red Robin rose from his crouch Danny noticed one of the camera views where an empty display that had previously held a line of 60 inch flat screens not five minutes before. Rising and hopping off the cornice Red Robin toggled the button on his comm with an exasperated groan.

"Oracle, it's RR," he paused and a woman's voice could vaguely be heard, "So you couldn't see anything either?" He groaned again, louder as he took a few more steps away from the roof ledge. "What kind of tech could hide someone from all the cameras in there?" Another pause, this time from both ends.

"You think it's a meta?" Red murmured, almost to himself. "That could be why we didn't even see the goods getting moved," Oracle was saying something he couldn't make out, then "I'll try, but I don't know how much I'll find even if I can see them." Danny tuned out their conversation after that as another sound caught Danny's attention at the back side of the building. Red Robin was too focused on his conversation to notice or hear, but to Danny the hushed tones were both loud and suspicious.

As he got closer to the edge, the tones became voices, all three deep and rough. He peered over the rear cornice to the alley below, and spotted three men dressed in all black loading the freshly stolen TV screens into the back of a nondescript white van. Two of the men were making their way to the front doors of the vehicle and were wearing large gaudy white belts and were shouting at the third arranging the monitors in the back. The half-ghost only had time to think 'well they don't look suspicious at all' before the first one got to the driver's side door and yanked it open. Belatedly realizing that they were probably the thieves the pacing hero behind him was looking for, Danny made a split second decision and dove for Red Robin's utility belt.

Among the few gadgets Danny had seen Red Robin use, the tracking bug was stored in an easily accessible front pocket at the birds front. Rather than trying to be stealthy for the sake of him not being found out, Danny quickly made a downward sweeping motion with his hand to grab the tracking device intangibly out of the pouch. Only half noticing the full body chill he gave Red Robin on the process, he dashed back to the van of whose driver had just keyed the ignition and stuck the tracker to it's undercarriage in time for it to peel out of the alley back doors only just closing on the turn with a lot 'slam!' and into the dead side street away from the electronic store.

As he watched the van go, he hoped that tracker had an automatic 'on' function or he would be down one piece of mysteriously missing bat-tech and up one very suspicious bat.

Flying worriedly back up to where he had left said bat, he was greeted with his slightly panicked conversation with the person(s?) on the other end of his comm. "-I am not hallucinating! I just felt something go through me and nothing's here! I'm- no I'm not coming down with something Dick! "

Something in the way he said that made Danny pretty sure he wasn't meant to hear that. Vigilantes and their secret identities, right? (was his name really Dick? Or was that just an insult? It felt like a name when he said it…)

"I swear something has been stalking me for the last month and none of you will believe me!"

The half-ghost flinched, realizing that yeah, he maybe hadn't been as sneaky as he'd thought in hanging (haunting?) around the vigilante, but after the first few reactions to his ghostly presence he'd thought Red Robin had choked him up to being some regular Gotham chill or something, only shivering before going back to what he'd been doing previously. Before anyone, present or otherwise, could say anything else, Red Robin's wrist computer beeped and pulled up a map showing the location of the -thankfully operational- moving tracker.

A small "What?" was the only thing to accompany the deep frown as Red Robin lifted his gloved arm showing the tracker, before reaching into the pouch that previously held said tracker and pulling out empty air. Somehow deepening his frown, the bird looked around the empty rooftop, scanning for seemingly anything, before moving his hand back to his comm to speak.

"Guys, I think I got a lead," he stated wearily. He was met with a few seconds of dead air before a flurry of voices spoke one after another in a cacophony Danny could barely even start to decipher before Red Robin spoke over them.

"Something took my tracker. I don't know what has it but it's heading to the docks, I'm going to see where it's headed and maybe find some clues about either who took it, or. that tech."

A distinctly male voice replied this time, and Danny could vaguely make out something about the tracker leading to a trap. Danny really didn't think about what he'd do after setting the tracking device, just that his core urged him to help. Internally groaning at his lack of planning yet again, he was surprised to hear Red Robin's reply.

"I don't think it's a trap. If what I think happened, then that thing that's stalking me might just have given me the lead I need to bust this case open. And yes I know you guys still don't believe me about the thing, but I've seen and felt too many things over the past month not to think something's keeping tabs on me." He started to make hand gestures around halfway through his rant, ending off with a grumble at the notion of invisible teens' currently unknown presence. He heard one more voice speaking up in a cautious tone before the vigilante raised his hand again to the comm. With a reassuring sounding "will do" he switched off his comms and headed to the fire escape off the side of the building and to his bike parked a few streets over.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The docks, Danny thought, were both more haunted and quieter than Amity's, and that somehow made them even creepier.

While keeping up with Red Robin's ninja-like movements through the maze of Gotham's harbour he had spotted no less than fifteen ghosts of various power levels and forms, ranging from the usual blobs to some very concerning looking business men in drenched suits.

Coming up on the location of the tracker Danny placed on the thieves van, they came to a warehouse that was a lot less dead than the ones beside it. Creeping up to an adjacent roof Danny could spot three guards, likely armed if their postures were anything to go by. Red Robin surveyed the perimeter before finding an open window on the second floor. He studied the opening for a few minutes to confirm whether or not there was anyone in the room, then pulled out his grapple and shot it at the overhang of the building just above it, sailing through the small hole with practiced grace.

'Most of the batclan could probably take flight really easily… A bat that could actually fly, now that would be terrifying.' The intrusive thought couldn't escape Danny as he floated through the wall behind the bird, watching as he took a roll and came up in -from what the half-ghost could tell- a perfect defensive crouch. Red Robin checked the room for any cameras before creeping over to the doorway, the door itself having most likely been lost to vagrants a long time ago. With no one in the corridor -though with the other doorways having actual doors it was hard to tell- the vigilante stalked towards the open end, presumably where the office portion ends and the warehouse properly 'begins'.

Red Robin stopped just short of where the office hallway met a grated catwalk that overlooked about two thirds of the warehouse below. Though it must not have been originally, the office space was held aloft by solid yet bare I-beams that jutted from the concrete below. Remnants of walls in the form of gypsum dust and water stains were all that proved the existence of a previously blocked off section to a now open space. The open space, of course, held pallets and pallets of stolen electrical equipment; TV's, computers, stereo systems, just to name a few that Danny could see. Along the wall to his right he could see the van he'd tagged with Red Robins tracer, along with two other vehicles of similar make to the one they followed. The first van currently had its rear doors wide open as four men in all black unloaded the monitors into a waiting palette for… storage? It was hard for Danny to say, but by the way the vigilante slightly below him gasped -silently, he noted absently- they had found the mother-load.

There were more guys than just the ones unloading the van, obviously. They seemed to keep in groups, but in total there were maybe thirty of them, the ghost boy guessed. All of them had some small firearm on them, about half some visible melee weapon, and all had the same Bad Guy™ wardrobe of black long sleeves and pants.

A good few had those garish white belts on, Danny had noticed due to the fact they stick out like the belt on his HAZMAT, though for different reasons. The goons that wore them didn't unload the goods with the ones who didn't have them, suggesting they had a different job in this operation.

Red Robin was taking all this in just as much as he was, watching the men at work as they catalogued the new additions to a collection that clearly went further than just the department store robberies. 'Maybe they break into houses too?' Danny had to assume that because how else would you get a literal mound of cellphones and tablets without some good ol' B&E?

You can't, that's how.

Both Danny and Red Robin were too captivated by the floor below they weren't paying attention to the floor they were on. Specifically, they didn't notice the goon slip out from one of the offices they had neglected to check beforehand. He didn't see them—really just Red Robin, Danny was still invisible—immediately, but as the bird didn't turn around immediately the thug took the chance to take out his weapon—a short lead pipe in this case—and slunk towards the bird and ghost duo as silently his black converse could.

Danny heard a scuff a second before the guy behind them took a swing—straight at the back of Red Robin's head. Thank the ancients so did he, swivelling on the ball of his left foot and kicking out with his right, sweeping the thugs legs and sending him face first into the catwalk grate with his momentum. As he landed though, he let go of his pipe.

Which fell to the floor below.

Which in turn alerted everyone to what was happening just above their heads.

Danny metaphorically held his breath (not literally, he didn't need to breathe as a ghost) as, as one, the entire warehouse snapped to look in the direction of the loud clang! and eventually the bird in the rafters. Many rushed to unholster their firearms before shooting at the vigilante.

Red Robin cursed and sprinted back the way he came, into the vacant room and back out the window to the opposing roof with his grapple. Behind them shouting and more gunshots could be heard, leaving Danny's ears ringing as the mob of thugs spilled out of the warehouse in pursuit of the rooftop runner.

Danny had to resist the urge to put up a shield to aid the bird in his escape, his core screaming at him protect protect protect! As bullets whizzed by them in the leaps Red Robin took between corrugated rooftops. He deflected as many as he could without being obvious, but due to that a few found their marks, the first one in Red Robin's upper right arm, another grazing his left cheek to the bridge of his nose, and the final one getting through his body armour and through his lower left side, exiting through his chest.

The last bullet made Red Robin yelp in pain, losing focus of his landing position and slipping on a slick spot on the next roof. His legs went out from under him and though he tried to find something, anything to hold onto, the strain had his right arm weakening, and with a look of terror, he fell.

Protect protect protect protect protect pr̵̟̬̬͕̼̜̪̞̊̓͗̊͌͆͠͝ͅo̷̦̟̥̠͉̘͕͛̎͛͝ͅṱ̷̼͔̘̩̆ě̴̗̱͍̤̣̻̯̹̇̍̄c̶̡̤͔̫̠̲̍͋́͐̀͂̕͝t̵͚̟͓̔͐̏͊̈́̕ ̶̘͈͙̻̦̫̱͑̂p̴̧̩͚̝̲͓̜̰͑̅́̉̈́͛͝r̵̨̛̘̕ǒ̷̧̰̟͖͓̳̘̮̓̊̈́͗̉t̵̢͙̝̰͍̗̪̀͛ͅḛ̵͖͎̭̹̾́̀͋͘ç̵̭̭̫̥̭͎͚̯͌̌̀̾ṯ̵̤̪̟̙̹̂̓́̊͛̐̓͘̕͜ ̵͙͈̟͆̀̍̆p̸̡̛̙͎̖̭̐̆̈́̇̏ṙ̸̘̗̪͖̂̽̉́̕o̶̝̬̔̅̈́͑̃t̷̨̧̛̖̘̩̩͇̺̀̔͋̈́́̄̈́͝ȅ̴̞̗͗̂͂͂̉̚c̶̛̥̹̃̃̓̐̽ṯ̶͎̈́͂̈͐̎́͒͝!̶̥̇̄̈̓̈́͗̀͝͠

Before he knew what he was doing, Danny dove for Red Robin, catching him by the wrist not five feet from the very hard, very solid, concrete pavement below them. He lowered the vigilante down gently, his legs not supporting him due to shock of not going splat. (or possibly due to trauma and blood loss.) Danny only let go when Red Robin was firmly sitting on the ground, back to the adjacent wall and unharmed -other injuries notwithstanding- and turned to the rapidly approaching thunder of footsteps as the goons came running at them.

Dropping his invisibility, Danny put a shield around the prone teen behind him. Better not to have him get worse due to some stray bullets while he was being protected.

Why wasn't he taking the injured vigilante and getting the hell outta dodge to somewhere safe? Well that's because he was angry. He was angry they hurt something that was his. They would pay for hurting something he was protecting.

And so, as the mob of goons came at the two teens, Danny, for lack of a better term, unfolded.

A multitude of eyes and teeth and claws came gnashing and snarling outwards in a cloud of frozen shadow at the gang, causing many to panic and either shoot or flee. Some of the ones shooting shot the ones trying to get away, and the buildup of panic and screams and fear had Danny cackling in static echos as he gouged and disarmed and covered the mob in his nebulous mass. He never injured enough to kill, but enough to make sure that if they weren't carried away that they'd need a while to recover.

As the stars that were his teeth and nails stopped flashing in blows delivered Danny adjusted himself back to his usual state, teeth only slightly sharp and claws firmly under the white of his HAZMAT gloves. Satisfied at seeing no man left behind was a code the thugs stood by, Danny turned back to the glowing dome that housed his vigilante.

(No, not his, he can't own someone.)

Red Robin was still in the same spot, which is good. He was also unconscious, which is less good. Gingerly, Danny put two fingers to the bird's neck, looking for and finding a pulse that while strong, was erratic and fast. He would bleed out without immediate attention, and it would be a bad idea to try and carry him to the nearest hospital for multiple reasons. Cursing, he took off his left glove and wrapped it under Red Robin's armpit, knotting it tight for a makeshift tourniquet. Trying to assess a chest wound with only the surface knowledge he knows from patching himself up would be disastrous, so from the small interdimensional space that held his possessions while in ghost form he pulled out his to-go med kit. Thankfully he hasn't needed it all that much since he got to Gotham, leaving much of the more heavy duty supplies for cases of emergency—cases like these. He takes the antibacterial spray and applies a generous amount to both the entry and exit wound, then seals both with his ghostly ice and wraps his torso in bandages. Debating on whether or not it was better to dress the cut on the fainted teens face, the need to respect his privacy won out and applied some gauze with a hint of frost to keep it on and to prevent infection.

While not entirely satisfied with his handywork he knows the ice mixed with the spray will kill anything off except the bird himself, he focuses on the hard part.

Telling the bats.

He knows he has to. But the fear of them trying to look into him has him hesitating. His core thrums loud in his chest, urging him to help, protect your human, protect and the fear recedes for a moment. Before it can come back Danny pulls Red Robin's comm out of his ear and holds it over his own. Taking a fortifying breath he technically doesn't need he pressed the button on the earpiece and breathed out a nervous "H-hello?"

"RR, status report." The female voice he recognized as hearing before, Oracle, comes over the comm instantly.

"Uhhh, bird down?" He hadn't seen a code used for when a bat needs immediate assistance. He could've at least tried to sound more confident.

"... Who are you and how did you get Red Robins' communicator?" Anand that just sent her on high alert, great going Fenton.

Ignoring the question and putting a little more bravado in his voice he states "listen, Red Robin has been shot and needs medical assistance. I've patched him up but he's unconscious and might be in shock. One of you bats needs to get down to the docks and help him."

The line was dead for a moment before another voice—was it Dick—came on the line to answer.

"I'm on route to the docks now, tell me where he is and we'll see what happens to you."

Relief flooded through Danny despite the thinly veiled threat and he quickly rattled off their coordinates, noting in between which warehouses they were in before turning off the comm and placing it in its original position.

He stayed to make sure Red Robin was safe until he heard the silent hum of Nightwing's electric motorbike. Turning invisible he watched the older vigilante rush to check over Red Robin's wounds, make a comment into his comms, then turned his head to search for the one who patched him up.

Giving up quickly he picked up his fainted younger bridal style and carried him over to his bike, placing him on the front with him just behind him to secure him. Then they were off, speeding to Danny didn't know where, probably the bat cave? He was about to head home when the thrum from his core gave him pause. It still needed to know Red Robin was safe, still calling to protect, even if there was no danger. Trying to ignore it would just make the thrum turn to a burn, so reluctantly Danny sped off to follow Nightwing and his (no, not his) Red Robin.

'This is going to end either very well, or very badly…' Was all he could think.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[Next][Ao3]

#ham writes #dpxdc #dp x dc #danny phantom #dp x dc crossover #batman #danny fenton #tim drake #chapter fic #chapter 1

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honeybeezgobzzzzz · 6 months ago

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𓅨 Sleepy Bitch Syndrome: Chapter Nine

Sleepy Bitch Syndrome: You've got narcolepsy and have been visiting the Dreaming daily for years. Then its Lord and King finally return and he doesn't know quite what to think of you.

Warnings: Death, Angst.

To Note: Morpheus/Dream x Narcoleptic!Reader, for you dear @aralezinspace.

Word Count: ~2.4k

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Fiddler's Green spreads before you, an expanse of rolling hills and blooming flowers. It's a place of peace and beauty, yet all you feel is an overwhelming emptiness. The colors seem muted, the scents dulled. You find yourself perched on a low branch of an ancient oak tree, staring blankly at the horizon.

"Why did it have to end like this?" you mutter, the sound barely escaping your beak.

Fiddler's Green appears beside you, his form solidifying from the landscape itself. His presence is a comfort, though it does little to lift the heavy fog of depression that clings to you.

"Sometimes," he begins softly, "the paths we tread are not the ones we would have chosen for ourselves."

You look at him, your eyes reflecting your turmoil. "I had so much left to do. So many things I wanted to say." Your voice breaks, the words catching in your throat. To him.

He nods, understanding etched into his features. "It's never easy to accept what has happened. But you must remember that your essence remains here in the Dreaming. You still have a purpose."

"Purpose?" You scoff, flapping your wings in frustration. "What purpose could I possibly have now?"

Fiddler's Green kneels down, bringing himself to eye level with you. His gaze is steady and filled with compassion. "You were always a part of this realm, even before you became one of us. Your presence here has always been significant."

"But it's not the same," you argue, the weight of your new reality pressing down on you.

"No," he agrees softly. "It's not the same. But that doesn't mean it can't be meaningful."

You fall silent, contemplating his words. The sun dips lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the vibrant fields. The tranquility of Fiddler's Green contrasts starkly with the storm raging inside you.

"I just... I don't know how to move forward from this," you admit finally. "I was looking forward to so many things with Morpheus and now— now I'm a bird."

Fiddler's Green's gaze remains unwavering. "Moving forward doesn't mean forgetting what you've lost. It means finding a new way to exist within it."

You close your eyes, breathing in the scents of the Dreaming, trying to draw some strength from the world that once brought you so much solace. "I don't even know where to start."

"Start by allowing yourself to grieve," Fiddler's Green advises gently. "Grief is not a sign of weakness but a testament to the depth of your love and your loss."

The mention of love makes your heart ache. Morpheus' face flashes in your mind—those intense eyes, the way his presence filled every corner of the room, the rare moments of vulnerability he shared with you. You wonder how he's coping with your absence, whether he misses you as much as you miss him.

"Lucienne said I should go to him," you whisper, unsure if you even have the courage to face him now.

"She's right," Fiddler's Green responds, his voice firm but kind. "Morpheus needs to know you're still here, even if not in the form he remembers. You owe it to yourself—and to him—to find out what comes next."

You shake your head, feathers rustling with the motion. "I can't face him like this," you say, voice tinged with a mix of fear and defiance. "I refuse to show him what I've become."

Fiddler's Green sighs, a sound like wind through leaves. "It's not about what you've become, but who you still are."

You hop from the branch, taking to the air with a swift flap of wings. The sky stretches wide and blue above you, but it feels like a cage. You fly aimlessly, avoiding the paths that lead to Morpheus' palace. Each flap of your wings seems to take you further from the courage you once had.

Lucienne finds you perched on a gargoyle overlooking a vast garden. She looks up at you, eyes filled with a mix of sorrow and understanding. "He's worried about you," she says, her voice carrying the weight of her words.

"I know," you respond, barely more than a whisper. "But I can't—"

"He's not as unfeeling as he seems," Lucienne interrupts gently. "You meant more to him than perhaps even he realizes."

Your heart clenches at her words, but the fear remains. "I can't stand the thought of seeing disappointment in his eyes."

"Disappointment?" Lucienne's expression softens further. "He's more likely to feel relief that you're still here in any form."

You want to believe her, but doubt gnaws at you. "What if he sees me as a failure?"

Lucienne shakes her head slowly. "You're not a failure, and he won't see you that way."

You turn your gaze away from her, staring at the distant horizon. "I just need more time."

"Time won't change what needs to be faced," she says softly but firmly. "But I understand your need for it."

You nod, grateful for her patience even if you're not ready to accept it fully.

"Take your time," Lucienne continues. "But don't let fear keep you from what might bring both of you peace."

She leaves you then, walking back toward the library with a grace that belies the heaviness of her heart.

You remain on the gargoyle, watching her retreating figure until she disappears from sight. The silence of the Dreaming surrounds you, a stark contrast to the turmoil within.

Perched high above the garden, you let out a sigh that seems to echo in the vastness around you.

"I'm sorry," you whisper into the wind, unsure if you're speaking to Morpheus or yourself.

For now, facing him feels impossible—but deep down, part of you knows that this isn't something that can be avoided forever.

But today is not that day.

You find yourself lost in thought, perched on a branch in Fiddler's Green. The beauty around you is almost painful, a stark reminder of everything you've lost. You wonder if Morpheus feels the same, if he even misses you. The weight of your new existence presses down on you like a leaden shroud.

Meanwhile, in his palace, Morpheus stands by a window, staring out into the Dreaming with vacant eyes. His normally composed face is etched with lines of sorrow and confusion.

Lucienne watches him from a distance, her heart breaking for him. She finally steps forward, unable to bear his silent suffering any longer.

"My lord," she begins softly.

He doesn't turn to face her but acknowledges her presence with a slight nod. "What is it, Lucienne?"

"Y/N is in Fiddler's Green," she says gently but firmly. You’ve been moping and punishing yourself long enough.

Morpheus' eyes narrow slightly as he processes her words. "I cannot feel their presence," he says, a touch of confusion lacing his usually steady voice. "Not in Fiddler's Green or anywhere in the Dreaming."

Lucienne steps closer, her gaze unwavering. "They are there," she insists. "If you would go and see for yourself, I am sure that your melancholy would lessen."

He shakes his head slowly. "If they are there I do not wish for them to see me like this," he admits, his voice strained.

Lucienne places a hand on his arm, a rare gesture of comfort. "You owe it to yourself—and to them—to see for yourself," she says softly. "They need you now more than ever, just as you need them."

Morpheus closes his eyes briefly, as if summoning strength from deep within. Finally, he nods. "Very well," he murmurs. "I will go."

Lucienne watches as he steps through a portal that leads directly to Fiddler's Green, her heart heavy with hope and worry. You remain on your perch, staring into the distance when you sense a shift in the air. A presence approaches—a familiar one that sends your heart racing and feathers trembling.

Morpheus materializes in Fiddler's Green, his dark silhouette stark against the vibrant backdrop. He looks around, his gaze sweeping over the landscape until it lands on you. His eyes widen slightly as they meet yours—an unreadable expression flickering across his face. You feel a rush of emotions—fear, hope, love—all tangled together in a confusing knot. For a moment, neither of you move.

Finally, Morpheus speaks, his voice soft yet commanding. "Who are you?"

The question hits you like a physical blow. For all your fears about this moment, you'd never imagined he wouldn't recognize you.

Oh gods you make an ugly raven, don't you!

Morpheus' question hangs in the air, a knife poised to strike. You feel the weight of his gaze, sharp and probing, cutting through the layers of your new form. The courage you'd tried to summon evaporates, leaving you exposed and vulnerable.

“Hi Morpheus,” you manage to croak out, your voice a mere whisper carried on the wind. For a moment, disbelief flickers in his eyes, quickly replaced by an intense sorrow. He takes a step closer, and you see the pain etched into every line of his face. He’s never looked so pathetic.

"Y/N?" His voice trembles slightly, an emotion you've rarely heard from him.

"Yeah,” you confirm, your heart aching at the sight of his anguish. "I'm sorry."

He reaches out a hand as if to touch you but stops midway, uncertain. His fingers hover in the air, trembling with restraint.

"How—" he begins but chokes on the word, unable to finish the question.

You flap your wings awkwardly, feeling more exposed than ever. "I had an episode. I fell into a coma and... I guess I died while I was asleep.” Your words come out stilted, each one a fresh wound reopening. “It’s a little muddled.”

Morpheus' eyes close briefly as if trying to absorb the magnitude of your revelation. When he opens them again, they're filled with an unbearable sorrow. "I failed you," he whispers.

"No," you interject quickly. "It wasn't your fault."

He shakes his head, his expression darkening. "I should have protected you."

You want to reach out and comfort him, but your new form makes it impossible. Instead, you let out a mournful caw, hoping it conveys some semblance of your feelings.

"Being here isn't so bad," you say softly, trying to lift some of the weight from his shoulders. "I still get to be in the Dreaming."

You see the determination harden in Morpheus' eyes. It's a look you've seen before—a resolve that bends worlds to his will. A chill runs through your little bird body as he steps closer, his fingers reaching out again. What is he going to do…

"Y/N," he says softly, voice imbued with a power that sends ripples through the Dreaming. "I will change your form. I will restore you to a semblance of what you once were."

Panic surges within you. "No, Morpheus, you can't just do that on a whim!" you protest, your voice cracking with urgency. "This isn't something you can fix with a snap of your fingers."

He halts, his gaze piercing into yours. "Why not? You deserve more than this... prison of feathers and beak."

"It's not about what I deserve," you argue, wings flapping in agitation. "It's about accepting what's happened and finding a way to move forward."

Morpheus' jaw tightens. "I cannot accept this. I cannot lose you in this way." His words are laced with desperation, an emotion so raw it cuts through the air like a knife.

"But changing my form won't change the reality," you insist, trying to make him understand. "I'll still be dead in the Waking World. I'll still be... different. You can’t changing reality just because you don’t like it!”

His eyes soften, but the resolve remains. "You have always been different," he speak. "That is why I cannot bear to lose you."

Before you can protest further, his hand reaches out and touches your feathers. A warmth spreads from where he touches you, enveloping your entire being. You feel a strange sensation, like you're being pulled apart and stitched back together all at once.

"No!" You try to pull away, but his grip is firm. The world blurs around you, colors blending and shifting until you're no longer sure where you end and the Dreaming begins. The sensation intensifies, and for a moment, everything goes dark.

When the world comes back into focus, you're no longer perched on the branch but standing on solid ground. You look down at yourself and see hands—human hands—where feathers used to be. You stagger back, disoriented by the sudden change. Your heart races as you take in your new form—a reflection of your old self but tinged with a dreamlike glow.

"Morpheus," you breathe out, both breathless and horrified.

He stands before you, eyes filled with a mixture of triumph and trepidation. "You see?" he whispers softly. "You are still here, with me.”

Tears well up in your eyes as conflicting emotions flood through you—relief at feeling somewhat human again but also an overwhelming sense of loss for what was taken from you without consent. Being a bird wasn’t all bad.

"I really want to slap you," You grouse at him. He doesn't blink at your words, reveling in the sight you once again in his realm.

"If that is what you wish, you may do so without fear of repercussion," the Endless has the balls to inform you, presenting his cheek. You want to grind your teeth together in exasperation, but you can't seem to stay mad at him. A sigh escapes your lips.

“That was a very stupid thing to do,” you mutter weakly, but the conviction in your voice wavers as he reaches out and gently cups your face.

“Perhaps not,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “But I could not bear to see you suffer and I do not wish to exist without you by my side..”

The warmth of his touch makes you quiver and tremble in place, and for a moment, all the anger and confusion melts away. You’re left with a raw, aching need—a need to feel connected to him again.

"I'm still angry at you," You inform him, lifting your chin. Your face betrays your words and he can see it. A moment goes by with you staring into his eyes, wondering what would happen now, then his hand pulls your lips to his and he kisses you. Right on the mouth. In front of Fiddler's Green. You forget to care and kiss back.

Responding instinctively, wrapping your arms around him and pulling him closer. The kiss deepens, growing more urgent as the world around you fades away. In this moment, there is only Morpheus—his warmth, his intensity, his love.

When you finally break apart, both of you are breathing heavily. His forehead rests against yours as he gazes into your eyes. The stars in his eyes are blazing with vibrant elation.

“I missed you,” he admits softly, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Tears well up in your eyes at his words and your shoulders slump in final resignation. “I missed you too,” you confess, the raw honesty of the moment breaking down any remaining walls you have tried to hold up.

Date Published: 9/4/24

Last Edit: 9/4/24

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#dream the endless #sandman x reader #dream of the endless x reader #morpheus x reader #morpheus #the sandman netflix #lord morpheus #dream of the endless #dream the endless x reader #the sandman

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romanshomeonwattpad · 10 months ago

Text

Girl in New York | 5

pairings - art donaldson/reader | challengers au! |

“_ _" = Y/N

masterslist | next chapter | last chapter

sypnosis - you have lunch with Art’s girlfriend and your parents….

warnings - messy blowjobs, dirty talk, slut shaming, cheating, voyuerism

word count - 2k

You and Art….came to an understanding.

It was odd. Although it was winter—the sun was shining today. White shorts hugged your hips, showing off the curve of your ass. A black tank top let your breasts spill out just enough without flashing the entire tennis club. Birds chirped at the sudden heat, spreading their wings and able to fly away from their problems.

Sweat had gathered at the top of Art’s lip as he drank from his hydro. You two had agreed to meet on Fridays instead. He hadn’t mentioned what occurred Sunday night, diving right into your usual routine. The both of you had just finished an hour long practice—but Art didn’t seem it was long enough. “Let’s go again.”

You groaned, throwing your head back before plopping down onto one of the chairs. There were a ton of tables since there was a food court nearby and people liked to judge the players while stuffing themselves. “My legs are killing me. Can’t we just wait until tomorrow?” You kicked your legs onto another chair, looking up at him. “Matter of fact, let’s get ice cream. I’m craving it.”

“You should lay off the carbs,” Art placed his hands onto his hips, raising a brow at you. Something glinted in his eyes. “It could mess with your cardio.”

You sleep with a guy once and he thinks he could tell you what to eat.

“Whatever. I’ll get it myself.”

Art lit a cigarette, “Least you’ll be getting off your ass.”

You pushed yourself off the chair and hit his shoulder whilst passing him. As if you hadn’t just spent the last hour aggressively dodges Art’s stroke’s. You were pretty sure there were three bruises on your knee from falling to strike back. And on top of that, the concealer you applied on your neck to cover his hickeys was melting off. It was fucking December—why was it ninety degrees?

Bees buzzed around lavender colored flowers. You spotted around the corner the food truck. A familiar pair of pretty brown eyes and a charming smile popped into view. Humming to yourself, excitement flourished within you, approaching him. “Oh hey—it’s you again,” his brown orbs not so swiftly racked up and down your figure. “I was gonna text you but my phone broke. It like won’t turn on…it’s a piece of shit.”

You raised your brows, “Can’t even trust your own phones these days to not cockblock you.”

He laughed, “Literally. What can I get you? On the house.”

“A chocolate ice cream on a cone, please.”

A wink was thrown your way—shooting right down into your core. But his eyes didn’t swirl with the same hungerness as Art. This was more like desire…curiosity. It didn’t feel as exhilarating as tossing flirty banger with the gorgeous blonde. This guy was younger, and seemed like he tried too hard to impress you. Whereas Art didn’t give a fuck what you thought, he still said it regardless.

It didn’t irritate you that he wasn’t acknowledging the situation. All you knew was that it surely wasn’t a one time thing. Whether he expects it or not, he’ll eventually give in. And if he didn’t—you wished to savor his taste on your tongue for as long as possible.

“Here ya go, gorgeous.”

You snapped out your daze. There was a cutie in front of you—and were off thinking about Art. Get it together _ _.

He handed you the vanilla cone. There were sprinkles on top of the perfectly scooped ice cream. But before you could thank him, Art grabbed your arm, pulling you away from the guy. You knitted your brows, “Art what the f—thanks uh, Chase! Or Chad!”

“It’s Chris. How do you flirt with guys you don’t even know,” Art eyed you from the corner of his eye, not fully turning his head. Once you two got far enough, you tugged from his grip.

Your eyes narrowed into daggers. “Says the guy who cheated on his girlfriend.”

That shut him up. Ignoring the non-staggering death stare he was burning into the you—you licked at your ice cream. His eyes focused on the way the tip of your tongue twirled around the cream. “Perhaps I should’ve went with vanilla,” you tasted, locking eyes with his. They were hooded and cloudy, drinking in every movement you made with your mouth. No longer thinned into knives penetrating your skull.

And then it flew out your hand. You’re ice cream.

“What the fuck, Art—“

“Get behind that wall,” he sneered, shoving you anyways. You almost tripped before his hands pushed your shoulders downwards—guiding you to your knees. When you got the message, your eyes rounded up at him. “Art—we’re at the club. Your girlfriend—“

His fingers gripped your chin in a bruising hold. Taking out his cock with the other hand by pulling his sports shorts down, he then tapped the pink top onto your bottom lip. “Don’t mention her before I’m about to throat fuck you,” he smirked, before watching his head vanish between your lips. A salty undertone filled your taste buds, his thick head pulsing on your slippery tongue. Your eyes don’t leave his as you hummed, savoring the taste of his pre-cum. Sucking and swirling with your mouth, and jerking the rest with your hand, you put yourself to work.

His hips harshly snapped into your mouth. Art’s eyes were barely open, bliss taking over his features.

You couldn’t get enough of him. You wanted to see him break above you. Moaning around his dick, you felt it twitch in the warm walls of your mouth— before more of his salty liquid dribbled out. Signaling he was getting close already, your wrists began to twist the base of his cock. A patch of blonde hairs resided above it. He held his shirt up with one hand, holding the back of your head with another.

“Fuck, that’s it. Take it all like a good fucking girl.”

Sticking out your tongue, you continued to jerk off his huge cock. “I’m gonna—fuck—“

His cock twitched, blue eyes boring into your wicked ones—taking everything he had to offer. The liquid shot out all over your tongue, and on the ground.

“We would like to meet your instructor.”

You almost dropped your spoon, choked on your mashed potatoes, and screamed at the top of your lungs. Perhaps your mother had gone crazy. She took a sip of wine, shrugging her shoulders at your father. “She seems passionate about Tennis. It seems as if he inspired this newfound hobby.”

Oh…you have no idea.

“We’ll come watch you play next week. It’s set,” your father nodded, taking a bite of steak. A know it all look crossed his features. “You know—I used to dabble in the sport back in high school…”

You tuned out your father out.

Your parents were going to meet Art?

This could not fucking happen.

“How ya doing? I’m Bradford Smith, and this is my wife—Fiona Smith. _ _’s mother.”

Art’s eyes flew over to you. The sun shined without mercy, the tight long-sleeve that covered your tits due to your parent’s presence making you itchy. And to make matters worse, a high pitched hello sounded from behind. A pair of blonde pigtails came into view, and as soon as she spotted you, her arms clung to Art. “_ _! What a surprise! Speaking of those—I was planning on surprising Art. I didn’t know you were bringing your family as well.”

You laughed in disbelief that this was all happening. “Well isn’t that just strawberries and confetti throw up fun.”

Art sent you a behave look, earning an eye roll from yourself. Your mother chuckled, probably just as confused as everyone else, “_ _ wants to show us what the two of you have been working so hard doing.”

“I love watching you play, baby. Let’s do it!” La-la loopsie cheers, clapping her hands excitedly. You refrain from rolling your eyes again, grabbing your racket from the table and heading to the court. You overhead your mom tell your dad that Art’s girlfriend was cute—leading you to make a disgusted sound and warm up.

Art bounces his ball of the ground before hitting it with the racket. Just how you liked it. He started out aggressive, but you expected that, hitting it with yours quickly. The both of you dove into your skills, hearing your current audience clap every once in a while.

After about thirty minutes, you began to grow winded, and called for a break. Your father ended up talking to Art about his old tennis team. Surprisingly, the two got along—sharing a few chuckles here and there. Tiffany kept kissing your mother’s ass, asking her about the mug’s she liked to design. Just from listening to the conversation, you began to grow nauseous.

“I’m getting slushie,” you muttered, walking away from the scene. But before you could get too far, Art overheard you—his head whipping away from your still speaking father.

“I’m actually thinking about getting something too. I’ll go instead,” he offers, Tiffany noticing his sudden interest. You knit your brows together.

“I got it.”

“No seriously. I’m good friends with the dude anyway.”

“Chad?” You raise your brows, causing him to send you a glare before walking away. Tiffany followed him—wearing a painted smile. You thought the encounter was weird, but before you could think too deep into it, your mother pulled you aside.

“You should wear longer skirts, _ _.”

“Mom—I’m an adult. Please.”

Your father kissed the side of your head, “Why don’t the five of us have some lunch. There’s a cafe right there. Go let your friends know and we’ll grab a table.”

Before you could reply, they walked away to find a spot. Tiffany and Art returned back, him handing you a cherry slushie. “It was all they had.”

“That cashier guy asked about you. Is he like, your boyfriend?” Tiffany asks, sipping your Diet Coke. You didn’t see the point in diet anything if there was no sugar. It made everything taste a million times better.

Art pressed his lips together. You shrugged, sipping your slushie. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” your tone was uninterested. Being in the same vicinity made your blood boil. She had the ability to kiss him in broad daylight—and didn’t even take advantage of it. No wonder Art came to you for his sexual needs. It seemed like she was plain and simple. If a boy likes you, date him. If he doesn’t, run away.

She doesn’t know how to take care of someone like Art. Someone like you.

“Anyways,” you look at your nails, tension in the air. “My parents what us to have lunch together. I can tell them you guys are busy.”

“No that sounds fun!” Tiffany chimes in, holding onto Art’s arm again. His eyes slightly widen, face paling into a white sheet. He ground his jaw.

“I’m actually really tire—“

Tiffany tugged on his arm, whining in a tone that made you want to pierce your ears. “Please babe…”

“Yeah,” you smirk, thinking of a fun idea. Art’s eyes instantly met yours, a worried look crossing his features. While his girlfriend was looking at him, your tongue poked out and swirled around the straw—his teeth gritting at the sight. You noticed his fists ball at his sides. Tiffany looks at you, beaming excitedly. You send her a fake smile,

“You should taste this slushie I had last week. It was super creamy.”

“Alright let’s go.” Art grabs Tiffany, dragging her over to find your parents. You giggle to yourself, enjoying seeing him flustered.

“My mother is a Stanford graduate. That’s actually where Art and I met.”

Tiffany wouldn’t stop rambling about the history of her and Art. It was driving you literally insane. Your father helped himself to his club sandwich, barely listening to what she was even saying. Your mother on the other hand was absolutely ecstatic for the couple, sharing her own experiences about meeting your father.

You picked at your salad, glancing at the fair haired boy. He had been sipping his coffee—clearly uncomfortable with this entire situation. You decided to tease him a bit, taking advantage of the fact that you were seated beside him. Brushing your heel against his calf, he suddenly jerked, catching the attention of everyone at the table.

He cleared his throat, “Uh—a bee. It flew away.”

“Right. You remember that time we went to Cuba for that tournament, sweetie.”

He hummed, pulling out a cigarette from his back pocket. Tiffany made a face, “If you’re going smoke, at least go to the parking lot. Everyone’s eating.”

Jesus. What a bitch.

“I don’t mind,” your mother placed her hand on Tiffany’s. She smiled warmly at Art afterwards. “Bradford used to chain smoke those things until I eased him off then. Looks like we’ll have to do the same thing to you.”

Art returned her smile, ignoring Tiffany’s eye roll, sparking the cigarette. “_ _. Tell them about how you used to dance in the bathroom with my old tennis racket. It was the cutest thing. She’d be naked—“

“Actually, I’m gonna spark one up too. I’ll go to the parking lot though so no one complains.”

“I’ll come with you,” Art shot up, offering a nervous smile to everyone. “I just—feel so guilty.”

“Okay kids. We’ll be here.”

“What the fuck, _ _?”

You never thought it would be so hilarious to see someone smoking a cigarette whilst looking immensely frazzled. As soon as the two of you reached the back parking lot, out of sight of people, Art let you know how he truly felt. Fortunately, you weren’t in much of a talkative mood, so you listened patiently whilst finishing your cigarette.

“Not only are your parents here—but your mom loves my girlfriend. This fucked situation just got entirely more fucked.” He ran a hand through his light strands, pacing back and forth.

“I hate when she does shit like this.”

“Who?” You mumbled, leaning your back against the wall.

“Tiff!” His hands flew in the air, shaking his head. “She always pops up unannounced. I hate that kind of shit. She has no respect for my time nor schedule. I mean—what makes her think she can crash my lesson? “

“Why are you even with her?”

Art looked at you with a sudden calmness. It was as if your words urged him to think.

“I….don’t know.”

That made you pause. The cigarette burnt as the both of you stared at one another. For the first time, he was expressing his feelings. It was different than usual. “She doesn’t let you breathe. You’re a free soul, and she wants to keep it caged. You won’t stay with her for long. It’s only a matter of time.”

“I guess I like her company. She’s always there for me when I need it,” he shrugged, standing beside you. He looked away from you, “But if it came to actually being in love with her—I couldn’t tell you. She doesn’t accept me for me.”

“Then she’s a fucking idiot,” you smirk, “—because you’re like…kinda cool I guess.”

His eyes twinkled, your gaze meeting once again. You smirk was met by a sheepish smile from him.

“You’re pretty aggressive, you know that?”

“You love it.”

His eyes fell to your lips. “We should stop sneaking around, _ _. This is going too far.”

You laughed, throwing the cigarettes off the ground before crushing it with your heel. “C’mon, lover boy.”

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