#he was married to and murdered my second cousin

[irequirealobotomy]

my family’s long term friend was a murderer cult leader that only got charged this summer

@azucar-skull @ravioliravioliravioli @broken-slime-boi

it's so weird to me that everyone on this website is a human person outside of their weird internet niche so rb this with a random bit of your lore

[sunnami]

❝i am half-agony, half-hope. . . i have loved none but you.❞

summary: how the marauders loved you in their time. featuring harry potter the time-traveller and sixth-wheel.

pairing/s: poly!marauders + lily x reader.

tags: reader is referred to as she/her and a mother throughout the whole fic[!], reader is a violent gremlin who craves blood but the marauders love you for that, implied child abuse[!], mentions of blood and violence[!], disgustingly sappy poetic fluff, no angst, happy ending, not proofread we die like finnick odair, edited: very minor detail.

note: there is little plot, it’s just the marauders and their adoration for you. thank you all so much for your kind responses to my first marauders fic :(( ilysm! i hope you enjoy this one as well! because there are parts when i was writing that i ended up kicking my feet in the air and smiling to myself.

“MY NAME IS HARRY POTTER. I come from twenty-years in the future, you’re my mum — one of my ‘em, actually. It’s complicated. And you’re married to James Potter, Remus Lupin, and Sirius Black.” 

You blink. 

“Get the fuck out of my room!” 

Harry James Potter has dodged many things in his life. Killing curses, jinxes, girls, Draco Malfoy, and Dudley’s sloppy punches, but he’s never had to dodge his sixteen-year-old mother’s fuzzy slipper before. (Godric, that sounds weird, even in his head.) He doesn’t know precisely how he arrived here. In the Slytherin common room, to be exact, in your dorm. Harry remembers duelling with Death Eaters, Hermione calling his name, and a flash of light hitting him square in the chest, then he remembers waking up in the cold tiles of the snake dungeon. He nearly throws himself off the window when he meets your eyes, bleary from interrupted sleep — it’s not often he gets to meet [read: one of] his dead parents, after all, three had been brutally murdered by Voldemort, and one killed by his own loony cousin. He misses Sirius, though. A lot. And right about now, he could do with some of Hermione’s nagging and brilliant plan-making. 

At present — or past, Harry guesses — he watches you scramble out from your duvet, hand clumsily reaching for your wand as you snarl at him. He wonders if his mother knows that he’s encountered other creatures far more threatening than her. Oh shit, he realizes with all the forces of an angry Hermione Granger, isn’t this the last thing he’s supposed to do? But, well, Harry has given, and given, so much of himself all for the greater good — just this once, he’d like to see his parents alive and well. Even if they were currently trying to blast him into the walls. 

“If you’d just let me explain, mum—!” Harry pleads, nearly dropping his glasses after dodging one of your stinging hexes. Godric, you’re crazy. “Please!” 

“Stop calling me that!” You screech, eyes set ablaze.  Harry finds that you’re quite dynamic with your attacks. A hairbrush, followed by a stinging jinx, then a thick History of Magic textbook — which rudely hits him in the face, but he doesn’t dare complain because you’re his mother, and he’s respectful like that — and after you’ve exhausted your breath, running him into a corner, and your nostrils flare with the stubbornness of a lion, you point the tip of your wand at him. “If this is another one of the Prewett’s shitty pranks, I want you to leave! You are in the girls’ dormitory beyond midnight, and so help me, if you aren’t walking out that door in the next five seconds, I will kill you and string you up by your bottoms for everyone in school to see! Maybe all your stupid rumours of me being a Death-Eater might come true after all!” 

“You’re a Death-Eater?” Harry asks dumbly. 

You growl furiously, and Harry figures that was not the right thing to say. “I wonder what McGonagall would say if I delivered your head to her on a silver platter.” 

“Professor,” Harry corrects with a toothy grin. “Professor McGonagall.” 

You slam his head against the wall.

Definitely the wrong thing to say. 

Harry groans, little Dobby heads floating around his vision. Why was this so much harder than actually facing Voldemort? Quick, he needed to think of something, otherwise he’d end up eviscerated to ashes on your cold, stone floors. Harry is pretty sure you’d use his remains as decoration to send off a message to your enemies. 

“You hate your father,” Harry slurs through the pain, remembering Remus’s stories of how you were the gentlest magical being he’s ever had the privilege to love — now that Harry thinks about it, Remus was being extremely biased, nothing about you is gentle at all. “He’s forcing you to marry someone old enough to be your grandfather. You love to read Muggle literature but had to stop when your father burnt your whole collection of books. Your favorite novel is Persuasion by Jane Austen. It’s the one book you carry with you everywhere, you could never get tired of it.”  

Your grip on his shoulders falters, but the fury in your eyes crackles. “This isn’t funny.” 

“It’s not meant to be funny, mum,” Harry croaks, voice cracking pathetically — strange how this is the most he’s ever uttered the word, mum; it’s a peculiar string of letters, foreign on his tongue. “You have tremors in your left leg from when your father cast the Cruciatus curse on you. One of your dearest friends is a Hogwarts house-elf named Pipley. You cheated on your Transfiguration essay once, and—” 

“That’s enough!” You bark, eyes narrowed in dangerous slits. “I don’t know where you heard those from, you creepy, little stalker, but if you want to keep breathing, then I suggest you shut up.” 

Harry scoffs — you don’t understand. Everything he’s learned about you is from Sirius and Remus. They talk about you with whispered devotion, your name like a prayer on their lips, their eyes glazed with wistfulness as though they could see you reaching out for them — but you were dead in Harry’s time. Yet, you might as well have been alive with their tales of you. 

(“She’s a different kind of beautiful,” Sirius had said, a year after breaking out from Azkaban, sitting by the fire in Grimmauld Place, taking a swig of decade-old firewhiskey, “The kind of beautiful you don’t want to take your eyes off from because you’re afraid she’ll disappear from your eyes. But you won’t forget her, oh no, you’ll memorize the freckles and moles on her skin, the scars from her years, the light in her eyes, and the way she holds her head up high. You should have seen her, James, she. . . she was — is glorious.”) 

“I told you,” says Harry firmly — although he loves his mother very much, she’s beginning to wear him out, “My name is Harry James Potter, I come from twenty-years in the future. You are one of my parents.” A lightbulb flashes in his head. He squirms in your hold, reaching for his robe pocket until he finds the thing he’s looking for. Harry dangles the ring in front of you, grinning in success when your eyes flash in recognition. “It’s—” 

“A family heirloom,” You say breathlessly. The alexandrite winks under the light, a familiar gold band with the Latin inscription of your House words. “Where did you steal this from?” 

Harry rolls his eyes. “You left it for me in my Gringotts vault. It’s my heirloom now. You have to believe me, there’s no way you can deny this.” 

You take a step backwards, nibbling on your lower lip, as you stagger to your bed — Harry nearly stumbling to catch you in case you fell; adjusting to the living proof of time travel was quite difficult, he, of all people, should know. He exhales, dragging a hand down his face. “Magic, amirite?” 

You throw a pillow at him, which he catches gracefully thanks to his Seeker reflexes, as you plop down in the comforts of your quilts. “Sleep. The other girls won’t be back until the end of the holiday. We can deal with whatever this is in the morning. It’s way too early for me to process the idea of a future Potter spawn following me around.” 

Harry smiles. “Yes, mum.” 

ONE THING THAT his fathers failed to tell him about you, and that Harry had to learn himself, was that you took ages to get ready. You sat on the chair in front of your vanity mirror, the birch wood legs whittled with snakes, and it was as though you had a Sticking Charm on the cushion. Harry didn’t know there could be so many creams, oils, and serums, and powders one put on their face. He blanches when you turn to offer him a cream for his under eyes. (“Suit yourself.” You shrug, turning to brush your cheek with dusts of pink. “Just saying, those dark circles aren’t doing you any favors.”)

“What am I like in the future?” You ask, a kind lilt to your voice, much like a warm hug, much like home. 

Harry stiffens, shoving his hands in pockets of the robes that were twice his size — you had given him the garments of Lucius Malfoy to change in, which you apparently had stolen from his room. It’s come full circle, really, the Sorting Hat had once told him he would be great in Slytherin, and now here he was, looking fabulous in green — because he was about to hurl at the feel of the velvet on his skin, knowing slimy Lucius Malfoy had worn it. (“No son—” You pause with a tight purse in your lips, as if you still can’t accept the fact. Harry doesn’t blame you. “—no son of mine will be parading around in red of all colors, future or not.” And Harry finds that he really doesn’t care, so long as you call him your son.)  

“Loved,” replies Harry gruffly, avoiding your eyes in the reflection of your mirror — they were piercing. One look and Harry wanted to spill all of his deepest, darkest secrets. He remembers the photographs in his album, the one he’s stared at so many times as a child. It’s a moving photograph of the five of you, fresh out of Hogwarts, each wearing a smile that stretched from ear-to-ear. Before Sirius and Remus, it was the only semblance of proof that Harry had — that you had once been alive. Remus is holding you by the waist in the picture, twirling you around as autumn leaves fell. You were — are — loved, and Harry thinks there’s no better description than that. 

(“I bloody hated her cat,” says Remus with a roguish quirk to his lips, regalling Harry with more talks of his parents. “Sirius, too. We just never got along with the little creature. But your mother loved it, and we would have done anything to make her happy. She deserved it, you see. She deserved more than what I had to offer her, but still she chose me anyway. And I am a selfish man, Harry, I crave glimpses of her and the whispers of her voice. She has made me a mad man whose only reprieve is her touch.”) 

You hum knowingly. “Stupid question, I guess. Since you aren’t allowed to reveal anything more about the future.” You sigh, gracefully threading your arms in the sleeves of your shirt, a green tie in the center of your collar. “Except, of course, when you gave me a heart attack in the middle of the night by telling me the last thing I want to become — no offense, I just don’t see how a relationship with those rowdy bunch would work. They get on my nerves far too much for me to ever feel anything other than disgust.” 

Harry doesn’t need a mirror to see that his expression has contorted in confusion; brows knitted and upper lip crinkled. By their memories of you, you all were madly in love in Hogwarts. Damn. This just made his trip to the past a lot harder. No maze seems to be ever just a maze. 

Luckily, you don’t notice him brewing a grand master plan to bring his parents together. Instead, you say, “But you don’t seem to be phased by any of this. If I had been thrown twenty years into the past, I would have puked my guts out twice at some point.” 

“Thanks for the image,” says Harry with a scowl. Truthfully, it had either been a present with a noseless Dark Lord to face, trauma to unpack but really never have the chance to, or a past where all of his parents were alive, and a chance to talk with them for however long he has. He knows where he’ll be staying, thank you very much. 

“Anytime,” You reply with an impish smile. 

Your heels pad across the floor as you walk over to him, mouth clicking as you pat the top of his head, full of wild, untameable Potter hair. “You need a trim soon,” You mutter, frowning, as you brush the thick strands away from his eyes, then you gasp — and Harry knows exactly what’s coming next. “Oh, you’ve got Evans’s eyes. That’s freaky.” 

“I know.” Harry grins. 

“Here’s the plan,” You say as you lead him out of your room, making sure no one saw him walking out of your door and getting the wrong impression — because that would be so wrong on many levels, but also, explaining to someone else that the person beside you was a time-traveller was just complicated in general. The Slytherin dungeon is unfamiliarly familiar, eerily quiet, as the two of you made your way out. “Just say you’re Potter’s distant relative, twice or thrice removed, and you’ve always been here. If you lie to their faces enough, they’ll believe it eventually.” 

“Will that work?” Harry doesn’t really mind — he needs a connection to James, his father, if he’s going to work out a connection between you and the others, because at the moment, it doesn’t seem like you’re too fond of them. There’s a tick on your jaw every time you mumble the word, Potter. Nevertheless, Harry decides he’s going to spend the duration of the holiday break trying to set you up with them — on the list of most insane things he’s ever done, living out the Parent Trap was high up the tally. 

You shrug. “They’ve fallen for less.” 

(“She’s got this adorable habit when she lies,” Sirius tells Harry, whipping up a stack of pancakes for their breakfast — Remus browsing through the morning paper. It’s the closest he’s ever been to a normal family. “It’s not obvious to her, of course, but I know her more than I know my own name. So we play along with it.” For a moment, he stops drizzling the maple syrup on the well-cooked batter, gazing at Remus fondly. “D’you remember that, Moony? She led us straight to one of her pranks, and we ended up covered in slug slime. She was so obvious — with her adorable fucking giggles. I need help with Charms, she said, and we knew right away it was a set-up. But it didn’t matter. I’d happily let her lead me to my ruin.”)  

The Great Hall is the same as Harry remembers. Now that most have returned home for the holidays, those who stay back mingle with students from other Houses, sharing meals under the bewitched ceiling, their low murmurs and hushed Christmas greetings bouncing off the walls. Harry scours the four tables to find a hint of blazing red hair, or the scent of impending trouble. Fortunately, he doesn’t have to search very far. As fate would have it, James Potter finds you — and where he is, Sirius Black is sure to follow. 

You’re barely seated when James comes bounding over to your table — more precisely, he struts, and Harry is horrified to ever be proven wrong by Snape, of all people. He ignores the roll of your eyes as he drags a leg over the bench, sitting to face you as Sirius occupies the space to your left before Harry can even sit down. He can’t even fathom how weird it is to see his parents as rambunctious teenagers. Lovesick, rambunctious teenagers. 

“Morning, dove.” James preens under your glare, stealing a grape from your bowl with a boyish smirk. His hair looks as though he’s ran his hand through it many times. “You look ravishing today.” 

“As always,” Sirius pipes in. “But that eyeshadow really isn’t complementing your skin tone, my darling.” 

You smile at him, right before your lips twist into a cutthroat sneer. “Piss off, Black.”

James stifles a laugh as he shovels a mass of potatoes on your plate, then pumpkin pasties, and slides a steaming cup of Dragon Well tea in front of you. 

“What the hell are you doing, Potter?” You reach over to smack his arm when he sprinkles apple slices and bacon on your breakfast. 

“What does it look like?” James smiles lopsidedly. “You need to eat more, honey.”

(In the future, Sirius will tell Harry, “It started off as a joke, a way to get on her nerves — but then, it just became this thing about taking care of her, making sure she got enough sleep before her tests, wondering if she had breakfast or dinner, staying with her in the library, walking her to the Slytherin common room, and sending her stupid notes just to make her laugh. You don’t get it, Harry. I’d give my every breath to ensure her life. We all would.” Harry doesn’t see Sirius any more during that evening, but he hears a bottle crashing against a wall, cracking into a million pieces, and the masked sound of Sirius sobbing, and Harry decides to leave him alone for the night.) 

Then, you tear your eyes away from James — he huffs, pushing your plate to you, mildly annoyed that you’ve deprived him of your eyes; they were his favorite part of you, you see, so expressive and full of life; James thinks you put the stars to shame — and thankfully, you remember that Harry still exists. You lightly smack Sirius’s leg until he gives Harry some room to sit. “Potter, meet other Potter. It’s the holidays, shouldn’t it be the perfect time to let go of House prejudices and spend time with family?” 

James looks at Harry up and down. “You must be from dad’s side of the family with all that hair.” 

Harry lets out a breath of relief. That was easy — way too easy. When he takes the vacant space in between you and Sirius, you dump all the available food on his plate, just as James had done for you. 

“Eat,” You say with a tone of finality. “You look like the wind could snap you in half.” 

“Yes, m—” Harry stops himself before he could finish his sentence, avoiding Sirius’s curious gaze. 

“Wow.” Sirius pokes Harry in the shoulder and in the cheek. “You really look like a mini-James, you’ve even got his terrible eyesight.” 

“Oi!” 

Your fork clatters against the silverware as you turn to Sirius with a shrill. “Not that I do enjoy your company — because, trust me, I do not want you here at all and would very much prefer if you got out of my sight — but why are you here? The Gryffindor table is over there. Unless your housemates finally got sick of you, Potter, which I can definitely see happening.” 

James chuckles, tossing another grape in his mouth without taking his eyes off you. “It’s as you said, isn’t it? It’s the time for putting aside House prejudices. And I think it’s a lovely day to enjoy a meal with my favorite snake.” 

“Drop dead,” You retort, digging into your chicken with a little more force than necessary. 

“Oh, dove.” James shakes his head, a teasing grin pulling at his lips. “It’s cute that you think death will keep me from you.” 

(Harry’s been told before, probably by Sirius, that this line had been wedged into his wedding vows for you. “A dramatic one, James was,” Sirius chuckles to himself one morning, Harry and Hermione listening intently, “He always said he’d rather die than ever hurt her. There was this time in seventh year, they had a fight — it was ugly — and she had ignored him for a week. James cried in Remus’s arms begging him to cut his heart out, saying that he didn’t deserve to keep on breathing, not after making you cry.”) 

“That is so creepy,” You say in disgust, scrunching your nose. Sirius chortles at your side. “I still wonder why Evans agreed to go out with you.” 

“It’s all part of the charm, dove.” James winks. “It’s all part of the charm.” 

Harry wants to barf, actually.

After breakfast, James then decides to introduce Harry to Lily, Remus, and Peter. (He’s gonna need the patience of a saint to not Avada Kedavra that rat on the spot.) Harry had spent the whole morning watching Sirius peel oranges and give them to you with a smitten look in his eyes — naturally, you gave whatever Sirius offered you to Harry, and each time Padfoot would visibly wilt. If he were in his Animagus form, Harry thinks he would be whining by now, tongue out and all. James and Sirius follow after you like lost puppies when you extricate yourself from the table.

“Where are you going?” James calls, hot on your heels as you leave the Great Hall.

“Away from you, Potter!” 

And James actually sighs when you turn the corner and disappear from their peripheral vision. Seconds later, he turns to Harry with a blinding smile, “She’s definitely charmed.”

Harry chortles.

“Well, come on then!” James guffaws as he wraps an arm around Harry’s neck — this is so, so strange. They begin walking in the opposite direction of where you went. “I still can’t believe we’ve got another Potter here and in Slytherin. I think I would have remembered Minnie calling your name during the Sorting Ceremony. What year are you in?” 

He’s supposed to start his sixth-year in a few weeks. “Fifth.” Technically. 

“We should ask Lily,” says Sirius, hands in his pockets and ebony ringlets tickling his nape. “She’s got the best memory out of all of us.”

It’s odd, Harry thinks, meeting the person who’s got his eyes — or the other way around, as people have told him. It’s like someone carved out the emeralds of Lily Evans’s eyes and bestowed it upon Harry for safekeeping. She sits beside Remus Lupin, head resting on his shoulder, hands clasped together, as they enjoy the shade. Nex to them, oblivious to their intimate conversation, is Peter Pettigrew — with his rosy, cherub cheeks and innocent blue eyes; not at all the image of a pathological, cowardly liar. Their heads snap in attention as James boisterously cries for their name. 

“Marauders — and Lily-pad — meet ickle Potter.” James lightheartedly whacks Harry on the back, to which Harry feels his lungs spill out from his mouth, he’s sure there’s an imprint of his father’s hand on his back now. 

“There’s two Potters in Hogwarts?” Sea-green eyes look at him in scrutiny as Lily knits her brows. “How even is the castle still standing?” 

James cackles like it’s the best joke he’s ever heard in his entire life, slapping his knee for dramatic effect. Oh, well, at least they’re buying Harry’s half-baked lie. At this point, it’s not even baked, it’s just wet, soggy, and poorly done. “Good one, Lily-pad!”

Sirius ruffles Remus’s shaggy blonde hair, canines bared in a wide grin. “This one here’s Moony, uptight prefect in the morning and absolute beast in the evening.” 

Harry blanches. Surely he was talking about his furry problem, right? Right? 

Remus doesn’t even flinch, just peels off Sirius’s hand from him and extends his hand out to Harry. “Please do not mind him. Remus Lupin, nice to meet you. Although, I can’t believe this is the first time we’ve met. We would have definitely remembered if we had another Potter in our midst.” 

“It’s true, we Potters are just hard to forget,” says James, smiling cheekily. 

Harry pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue. “Mum didn’t take the Potter name. I’m part Dursley. Muggle.” 

Lily hums, toying at the ends of her bright hair. “Dursley, huh? What a familiar name.” 

“It’s a common one,” Harry assures her — not at all the names of the people who would take him in after they died. And make his life miserable. 

“I suppose you’re right,” says Lily, unconvinced. 

“And this is Peter.” James introduces the boy eagerly, pride in his voice — as though this isn’t the person who literally allies himself with Voldemort. As if Peter won’t betray his friends all because of fear. 

“N–Nice to meet you,” Peter stammers with a nervous fidget, “Any family of James is a friend of ours.” 

Harry’s eye twitches. 

IT IS ALMOST COMICAL — the way their eyes land on your figure, bursting through the courtyard from the corridors, winter cloak swishing with every step, tendrils of hair swaying in the crisp wind, and head held up high, thick books under your arms. You pause in front of the Marauders, face blank, then you turn to Peter, greeting him with a: “Hello, only Gryffindor I can tolerate.” 

Peter’s cheeks burn a saccharine hue of pink. Oh, no, no, no — absolutely not — Harry will not stand for a little crush Peter Pettigrew has on his mother. He needs James to act now. “Hi,” Peter replies shyly. 

Lily quirks her lips. “Hello, princess, see your score for the Astronomy test yet?”

You scowl. “Zip it, Evans.” 

The sound of Lily’s laughter fills the atmosphere — it’s the sort of melody that makes flowers bloom in deserts. “Had a bit of difficulty with the star charts?” 

Sirius pinches your cheek — Harry thinks you’re going to murder him on the spot. “Difficulty? I think this one just slept through the whole thing.” 

James snickers. “Must have been one hell of a nap, princess. You were drooling on my jumper.” 

“I most certainly do not drool!” You gasp, appalled, eyes wide as you step away from Sirius.

Sirius rolls his eyes. “What? Is drooling too barbaric for the pretty, little pure-blooded princess now? Newsflash, pet, you’re just as human as we are.” 

“Oh, you horrible, loathsome, infuriating—” You whip around to beat his chest with the course book in your grasp — it’s the kind of book Hermione would consider for light reading. 

“Irresistibly attractive—?” Sirius supplies for you, grin widening with as he captures your wrist with his hands. 

“In your dreams!” You shrill. 

You exhale slowly, eyes closing, chest rising when you take a sharp inhale. You open your eyes and stare straight at Harry — for a moment he fears that you’ll bite his head off. “Harry, dear, will you accompany me to the library? I think I’ve found something important regarding your situation.” 

Harry nods. “Is it time already?” 

“Yes,” You say firmly. “And time is of the essence. Come on.” 

“Wait!” Lily calls out to you as you turn to head back to the castle, Harry in tow — he tries to avoid the way James is glaring at your linked arms. “Hogsmeade next week?” 

Your jaw falls to the ground — this must have been unrehearsed, if the others’ reactions were anything to go by; Remus had dropped his book in shock, Sirius looked like he couldn’t decide between applauding Lily’s bravery or shaking her, and James was somehow frozen in time. “Excuse me?” 

“You’re excused, princess,” says Lily, dimples poking out of her cheek as she takes another step towards you. “You, me, Hogsmeade. A date. I’m sure you’ve gone on one of those before.” 

Harry elbows your stomach as you stare at Lily in shock. It takes a few moments to break you out of your stupor. “A–And what makes you think I’ll just go with you?” 

Lily shrugs. “I’m fit. Aren’t I, Remus?” 

“The fittest,” says Remus without missing a beat. 

You laugh incredulously. “Do you just expect me to go along with this? You’re mad, Evans.” 

Harry glares at you. You need to go along with this. 

“Are you scared, princess?” Lily’s face is inches away from yours, noses almost touching — Harry doesn’t know if he should keep watching this painful way of flirting — as she grins at you, happiness barely contained within her eyes. 

To your credit, you don’t back down. (Harry has to say this for the masses: he saw your gaze flitter down to Lily’s lips for a split second.) “Stop calling me that, Evans.” 

“One date, then.” 

You growl in exasperation, eyes flickering to the boys behind her back — pretending not to hear their conversation. “I suppose I’ll have to deal with them as well?” 

Lily beams and Harry swears sunflowers could grow in her direction. “We’re a package deal.” 

“Unfortunately,” You utter — but Harry notices it, the lack of venom in your voice. You straighten your posture, nose lifted haughtily, “I choose where we’re going.” 

“Done.” The sun peeks out from the cloud just as Lily smiles at you. 

“And I want to—” 

“Done,” Remus interjects raspily, peering up at you from underneath his lashes. “Anything you want, it’s yours.” 

You fight a growing smile, but continue, “If we’re going out in public, you’re going to have to wear—” 

“Done,” says James giddily, he looks as though he could kiss you in front of everyone without a care in the world.  

“You can’t just agree to anything I say!” You flap your arms in frustration. 

“Yes, dear,” Sirius teases. 

“Do you know how much you piss me off, Black?” You squawk. “Because you are this close to—”

“You are so fucking beautiful,” Sirius confesses, every pretense shed raw from his skin, sincerity pouring from his words. 

“I—” You falter, heat rushing to your cheeks. “You’ve gone mad.” 

“It’s your fault, dove,” says James, eyes twinkling like crescent moons as he smiles. “You best take accountability for this.” 

“You’re incorrigible — all of you,” You say as you avoid their gazes.

(But they were yours. Past, present, and future. They loved you so much that their soul was no longer their own — it was yours; yours to keep, yours to break, and yours to love. It would be unjust to ask them why they loved you. Do we ask why the sun rises each day without rest? Do we ask a daisy to stop blooming, or a tree to stop growing after it has endured storms and floods? After all, we do not ask why humans follow the light in a tunnel shrouded in darkness.) 

“Come on, Harry, let’s go.” You reach for his hand, he notices immediately that the tips of your ears are pink, and your palms are warm with sweat. He barely sees Peter wave goodbye before you tug him in the direction of the castle entrance. 

“Wait up!” Remus catches up to you two in quick strides, offering to carry your books for you — not that you agree, stubborn Slytherin that you are. “I’ll walk you to the library.” 

“There’s no need for that, Lupin, thank you.” You dodge his eyes, lips tightly pressed together, nails slightly digging into Harry’s arm. 

“Remus,” He says with a twinkle. “Call me Remus.” 

“Alright.” You pause. “Remus.” 

(In that moment, Remus wonders if you remember decking Lucius Malfoy in the face to defend him in your fourth year. He didn’t think he deserved to even breathe in the same air as you — the pure-blooded princess, dressed in clothing worth more than his life, adorned in jewelry he could only dream to afford, raised to believe she was better than everyone else. Then, you beat up Evan Rosier the next month in the courtyard, eyes ablaze, extravagant silk marred with grass stains and mud, and knuckles split open. You spit blood on the ground, looking at Lily then back at Rosier. “Red,” You say, kicking him one last time in the stomach, unafraid of McGonagall’s wrath growing louder and louder. “Just like everyone else. Like those Muggleborns you fear. We’ve all got dirty blood, Rosier. Suck it up.” 

“I’ll tell your father about this!” Rosier bellows through bloody teeth. 

“Tell him!” You grab his neck and slam your forehead against his. “Tell him that I decide my own future now!”

Remus doesn’t even have to think about it. 

He falls in love.) 

FUNNILY ENOUGH, IT’S LILY who gives you her heart first, before anyone else does. It’s the last month of her first year at Hogwarts — it still hasn’t quite sunk in yet that she was a witch. Her, not Petunia, but her — Lily Evans, the witch. Apparently, some people can’t believe it either. A girl from Ravenclaw calls her this foul word, she’s heard it a few times now but it always hurts the same. James and Sirius get into a fight for her honor, now faced with detention later this evening. But she can’t help but wonder, what if they were right? What if she really didn’t belong in this world? It was too good to be true, anyway. Perhaps she’ll just run a flower boutique with Petunia.

“Oi.” 

The sound of your voice startles her, and she nearly topples over in the Great Lake. Lily catches sight of your Slytherin colors and resigns herself to another round of name-calling. “What do you want?” 

“They’re wrong, you know,” You tell her, ignoring Lily’s question. You look down on her with your nose raised arrogantly — she wishes she could be like you. Born to be magic. “You’ve got a terrifying brain locked up in your head there, Evans. And they know it, too. They’re scared.” 

Lily scoffs. “I’m just a Mudblood to them. There’s nothing to be intimidated by.” 

You sneer. “Don’t say that word. You’re more than that. More than them. They’ve got long ways to go to prove they have a place in this world. But you — you’ve defied the odds and you were destined to become magic. You don’t have to prove anything. You have the right to be in the wizarding world and no one can take that away from you.” 

Then, you pivot on your heels, not bothering to hear her reply. “You’re my rival now, Evans. Do keep up. We’ve got an Astronomy test tomorrow. I look forward to seeing how you do then.” 

Lily just gapes. She’s certain there’s butterflies in her stomach. Her heart thumps wildly against her ribcage. Lily raises her hands to feel her blushing cheeks. There’s a light unfamiliar sensation in her stomach — like the urge to kick her legs and scream into a pillow, or more precisely, chase after you and hold your hand.

She stiffens.

Oh.

part two

[blossom-hwa]

a very fine line, indeed [1] | c.bg

pairing: Beomgyu x fem!reader genre:  fluff, angst, enemies to lovers, regency era!au, nobility!au warnings: attempted assault, mentions of abuse, cursing, period typical misogyny word count: 6.3k notes:  — updates every M/W/F at 8pm EST until the series finishes — assault/abuse scenes are not graphic, but please heed the warnings and let me know if any of it is romanticized or just written in poor taste--I assure you I did not mean it, and I will fix anything needed. — inspiration taken from an amalgamation of different bridgerton stories - let me know what easter eggs you find! — story takes place in the same universe as my duke!yeonjun and earl!taehyun fics - check out the link to the series below for some more easter eggs :) In a society where it only takes a year for a young woman in search of a husband to be considered out of season, it is no wonder that by your third year out, you are desperate to marry. Known as one of the beauties of the ton, such a task should not be difficult for you—but with an absent father, no dowry, and a reputation centered around your inability to keep your mouth shut around one certain Beomgyu Choi, your prospects are more limited than you’d like. While you cannot recover your family or your wealth, however, the one thing you can try to control is your reputation. So when the third season rolls around, you resolve to keep your distance from Beomgyu Choi, your childhood enemy, and the man you hate most in the world. Enter Beomgyu Choi, second son of the Kensington Viscountcy, one of the most eligible bachelors in the ton. His older brother, cousin, and good friend have all recently married, leaving the mamas to salivate at his doorstep for the chance of marrying one of their daughters to him. When Beomgyu walks in on a particularly traumatizing moment between you and one of the most unsavory men in the ton and learns of your desperation to marry, despite your history of enmity, he proposes you a devious deal—to pretend to court you. It seems like a winning situation for both of you—more gentlemen will take notice of you, enhancing your prospects, and he will have the ton’s mamas off his back—and so, despite your misgivings, you agree. With you hell bent on marriage and Beomgyu completely indifferent to the concept, even independent of your hatred for each other, it seems unlikely that any sort of true affection will bloom. But as you begrudgingly put aside your differences to spend more and more time in one another’s company, and as you grow to know each other beyond your ill-conceived preconceptions from childhood, you begin to realize that perhaps you two have more in common than you had once thought. And as your faked acquaintanceship becomes more truth than fiction, a friendship beginning to bloom most unexpectedly— Perhaps you no longer need to convince the ton of the veracity of your courtship, because anyone with eyes can see that it is true.  Part 1 >> Part 2

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By the end of the night, you think you might murder someone.

It’s not the party’s fault. Lady Arina Park always hosts the first ball of the season, and in the three years you’ve attended them, not once has it ever been a disappointment. Her taste in decoration always sets the tone for the months to follow, and she is the most wonderful hostess—crotchety, kind, and always brimming with wisdom to impart. 

She might be one of your favorite people in the ton. 

Unfortunately, you cannot only talk to one person the entire night, and given your own reputation, you’re not sure you even have the social right to speak to her this season. See, it was never the party that was the problem. 

It is the fact that you have attended now three times in three different years, each without a husband. 

This is a fact that seems to dog you everywhere you go. Beautiful, sharp-tongued Miss L/N is going yet another season without a man on her arm—or at least a serious man on her arm. Never mind that you have had two proposals, both of which you turned down quietly and did not announce out of sympathy for the man’s reputation. You might be on your third season and desperate, but you rather think you’d prefer to become a spinster than marry either of those who asked for your hand. 

Lord Kierston was nice enough, if absentminded. You genuinely might have said yes to him if not for two things—his rotten breath (you have no idea what he could be eating to have such horrid breath all the time), and the fact that he is over the age of forty. 

You are barely one and twenty. And while there have been married couples with greater age gaps than that, you wonder if it is truly too much to hope to find someone nearer your age.

As for Mr. Thompson…he wasn’t even nice. He was rude, and arrogant, and during his proposal blatantly said that you would have to accept him as with your lack of dowry and snide personality, you had no choices elsewhere. All facts for certain—your dowry is nonexistent, your character is not one that endears many to you, and at the time, no other men were seriously courting you so it was true you had no other options. But you could still be a spinster, you let him know. And you would far rather be old and unmarried than tied to a man such as he. 

He looked almost murderous when you said that, which was why you’d excused yourself quickly after. You may consider yourself cleverer than most, but you are no fool. You thank your few lucky stars that your family left for the country just a few days later at the end of the season and you haven’t seen him since. 

But now you are back in town, with a fresh new crop of debutantes to outshine your wilting, rotten personality, a father trying to drum up business abroad, an evil stepmother breathing down your neck, and possibly a Mr. Thompson to run into. Not to mention Lady Whistledown with her peacock feather pen and watchful monocled eye, carefully waiting to elaborate on your futile prospects with her sharp-tongued words. 

Not that you know if she uses a peacock feather pen or a monocle. As far as your knowledge stretches, no one in the entire ton save the writer herself knows who she is. But you’ve always imagined her with such things. Ridiculous to the max. It makes it much easier not to strangle someone after you read her words about you. 

God, you’d care so much less about her gossip column if she wasn’t so damn good at writing it. 

You wish you were still in the country. Lady Whistledown wouldn’t see you there, and her gossip column would never reach your home. In fact, the only reason you’re certain she isn’t part of your sparse circle is that your spat with the younger Lord Choi at the garden party last year took at least two weeks to be broadcast in London after you came back for the season. Someone had to feed her the information before she could issue it, including your now infamous quote about how you’d like to slit his throat with his own letter opener. 

Your stepmother yelled at you for hours over it. You were sentenced to a week of nonstop chores and none of the few servants still in your family’s employ were allowed to help. Yet at the end of the day, Lord Choi the Younger is a menace to you and to society, and so you privately still stand by your comment. 

Lord Choi the Younger. Mr. Choi, when his brother is in the room. Annoyance. Menace. The devil in disguise. All apt nicknames by which to call Beomgyu Choi, one of the most annoying people you’ve ever met. Which, unfortunately, brings it all back to here and now, because apparently he is in attendance at tonight’s party. 

And hence why by the end of the evening, you might be locked up in jail for murder. 

Last season after the horrible garden party, you took very, very great care not to end up in the same room as the younger Lord Choi. For the most part, you succeeded. You couldn’t always avoid him—the ton is only so large—but the few times you had to come face to face with him you managed at least one minute of civil conversation before it turned into thinly-veiled verbal sparring that you thankfully had the self-control to bow out of sooner rather than later. But apparently people found your little spats amusing. A source of entertainment. And Lady Whistledown has remarked more than once since then that it would certainly liven up the endless parade of balls and parties to see a showdown between you and Mr. Choi once more. 

You’ve been at this ball for hardly two hours and already almost everyone who’s spoken to you tonight—even Lady Arina Park!—has found some sly way to allude to a possible catfight between you and Mr. Choi to bring down the house. And unfortunately, experience tells you that in the heat of the moment, you care about getting the last word in with Mr. Choi far more than you care about your precarious reputation. 

You do so hate to disappoint the ton, about as much as you love it when your grievances are aired in public via the Whistledown gossip column. And it does so truly break your heart not to be the sole source of entertainment at Lady Park’s annual ball. But this is your third season out and you need to be married soon, so when you see the man himself wearing that annoyingly bright smile and surrounded by an annoying number of young girls and their mothers, you make the first excuse you can to duck out of the ballroom and make a beeline for the gardens, where you find yourself in sudden silence. 

Sudden, but not altogether unwelcome. The night air feels comforting on your face, wind breezing softly against your skin. You hadn’t realized how hot the ballroom was until you came out here. You settle on one of the benches in the garden and fan yourself with a hand, letting the cool air bring you back to the moment. No one else is out here as far as you can tell. You can relax, if only for a moment.

For a few minutes you just sit in the moonlight, your face tilted to the sky, letting the cool air kiss your cheeks. It would be lovely to just stay out here all night, you think. Away from the people, away from the stares, away from the crushing anxiety that no one will ever want to marry you and you’ll have to live at home with your horrible stepmother forever—

A branch snaps. Your eyes fly open. And all of the anxiety returns, with a healthy dose of fear, when you see Mr. Thompson looking at you from the other side of the garden. 

For a long moment you just stand there. Looking at each other. All of the night’s beauty has been forgotten, its comforting silence turned threatening in light of the knowledge that you are a young, unmarried woman alone with a man in a garden. 

Scandals have been made out of less. 

“Mr. Thompson,” you say in as flat a tone as possible. “I apologize. I was just leaving.”

“Now don’t leave on my account, Miss L/N.” His mouth twists in what looks more like a sneer than a smile and he takes a step toward you. You take a step back. “It is lovely to see you after a summer away. Your beauty hasn’t diminished a bit with your age.”

You almost snort. Exactly how much does a person change in one summer? “Apologies if I don’t quite take your compliment, Mr. Thompson. I was not under the impression we were on speaking terms after last season.”

“We never spoke again because you left for the country.” That sneer-smile grows wide and you start calculating how much of a head start you’d need to flee into the ballroom before he caught you. “If it were up to me, I would have proposed again, after you had had the time to consider it.”

This time, you do snort. “With all due respect, sir, after an entire summer to think about it, my answer remains the same.” You still your features into a cold mask and pray, even with the sinking feeling of dread in your chest, that he will go away. “I will never marry you, Mr. Thompson. As I aptly put during your first proposal, I would rather become a spinster than entertain the thought.”

His eyebrows draw in. You’d think the sight was comical if his eyes didn’t glint with menace under the moon. “Do you really think yourself better than me?” he snarls. “You should be thanking me now, for offering you this second chance.”

You laugh incredulously. “Thanking you? For what?”

“I’m your last hope.” He advances so quickly you almost trip on the hem of your dress as you stumble backward. You try to hide the panic rising in your throat as you glance at the house—still full of light, still full of gaiety while you’re trapped outside by the night and this man. “No one wants you, Miss L/N.” He lunges forward and you gasp, his hands uncomfortably tight around your wrists. “Not a single one.”

“Let go of me,” you snarl. “Let go of me—get off me—”

“Not—” He grunts as you stomp on his foot, but doesn’t let go. “Not until I have what I want—”

You manage to free an arm and before you can think, your fist careens through the air straight into his face. 

For a long moment you just stand there, barely able to breathe, the thump of Mr. Thompson’s body falling to the ground playing over and over in your mind. Your heart is pounding and your breath is coming out in short gasps and your fist throbs with pain. A sort of buzzing sound fills your ears. The world starts blurring before you and vaguely you wonder if it’s just the night, or if you’re about to fall. 

“Miss L/N. Miss L/N!”

The sound of your name from a familiar voice breaks through the buzz and you blink, coming back to earth. It takes a moment for you to reassess the situation. 

Mr. Thompson is still on the ground. 

It does not look like he will be getting up soon. 

You are still physically unhurt. 

And there is a new third person in the garden with you. 

Oh, God. You resist the urge to bury your face in your throbbing hands. Not only did Mr. Thompson try to assault you, you also knocked him out with your own fist, and someone caught the two of you in the garden just after it happened. Or maybe even before. Maybe they saw it, saw everything—how much did they see? How badly will your reputation be ruined beyond what is already in tatters?

A hysterical laugh builds in your chest. All that comes out is a strangled whimper. You’ll never be married once Whistledown gets her hands on this. No matter that Mr. Thompson didn’t succeed in whatever he planned to do with you. All that matters is that you were alone with him in a garden at the first damn ball of the season and someone saw you.

Things couldn’t get any worse than this. 

“Miss L/N.” The familiar voice says your name again, this time accompanied by a cautious hand on your shoulder. You flinch viscerally but it doesn’t leave. “Miss L/N,” it repeats, considerably lower than before. 

You shut your eyes hard. Open them. You try to take a breath and only just manage to stifle a strangled half-gasp before it leaves your throat. You’ll have to face your fate at some point when you beg for this person not to immediately spread this juicy piece of gossip to every person in the ballroom. With heaven’s mercy, they’ll take pity on your situation and leave some details out of the story. Or at least not embellish what they already saw. Praying silently to the hopefully-merciful heavens, you slowly turn around. 

And then you curse out loud. 

“What in God’s bloody name—”

You were wrong when you thought things couldn’t get any worse, because the man standing before you is Beomgyu Choi. 

The heavens must be having a good damn laugh at you right now. 

. . . . .

After what just happened, Beomgyu is honestly surprised that the first thing to come out of your mouth upon seeing him is a curse. Maybe he should be thankful, though. This probably means that you’ll come out of this all right. 

“Goodness,” he says as genially as he can, given your outburst. “I would have asked if you were all right, but based on your reaction to seeing me, I suppose you are just fine.”

“Mr. Choi.” You look and sound vaguely sick. Beomgyu gathers that you would rather be anywhere than here. “Apologies. I did not realize it was you.”

“I gathered about as much.” Now that he knows you’re fine, or at least standing upright, he steps forward to check on Mr. Thompson. Thankfully and regrettably, the man still has a pulse. Beomgyu wouldn’t purposely wish death on anyone, but if he had to choose one person in the entire ton he wouldn’t mind not seeing for the rest of his life, Mr. Thompson would certainly be one of the top contenders for the position. He looks back up at you. “Pray tell, Miss L/N, what is your first made of? Pure steel? You’ve knocked the poor man out.”

You look to be grinding your teeth even as you speak. “I had no intention—”

“I am not chastising you, my lady.” He smirks. “In fact, I must say I’m quite impressed.” Then he squints. “You’re not about to swoon, are you?”

A long silence hangs in the air before you mete out a very measured reply. “I am not going to swoon, Mr. Choi. And the next time you decide to say something just as inane, take very good care, or you might find yourself in the grass next to Mr. Thompson as well.”

He lifts his hands in surrender with a laugh. God, he might hate you and you might hate him, but it really is so much fun to spar with you like this. “A jest, my lady. I thought simply to lighten the air.”

You open your mouth to reply, then close it. Beomgyu watches in amusement as you close your eyes for a good few seconds—ten, if he’s counting correctly—before taking a deep breath. Good God, you really are making some strong effort to rein yourself in this season. “With all due respect, my lord, what are you doing out here?” you finally ask. 

Beomgyu raises an eyebrow. “I might ask you the same question.”

“You were the one who walked in on a private disagreement,” you snap. “If anyone should be asking questions, it should be me.”

“It didn’t look like a private disagreement as much as an entire physical altercation,” Beomgyu retorts. 

He expects a rapid-fire reply from you just as he always has, but instead you blanch. Your lips suddenly look too pale, entirely drained of color, and your eyes are fixed on Mr. Thompson’s prone body. He stands up. “Miss L/N?” he says quietly, slowly stepping toward you. “Are you all right?”

“I—” You turn to him but it doesn’t look like you see him. “Don’t tell anybody,” you whisper. Your breaths have grown shorter, more rapid, and he bites back a curse. You look like you’re going into shock again. “Please. I can’t—if Whistledown—if people know what he did—what he tried to do—”

What he tried to do?

Well, clearly now is not the right time to ask, and it isn’t that difficult to put the pieces together anyway from what little he saw—Mr. Thompson grabbing you, you punching him, your current shock. If Mr. Thompson was awake he might yet punch him again but he isn’t, so Beomgyu focuses on you.

“Miss L/N.” He gently puts his hands on your shoulders. Something in your eyes seems to focus and internally, he sighs with relief. “I will not tell anyone what I saw today in the garden. Not a soul.” He takes one hand off your shoulder to place it over his heart. “On my honor, I swear it.”

Something in his words must have rung clear. Your breaths begin to slow, and you manage to nod. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” It’s somewhat strange, comforting his sworn enemy since childhood, but oddly enough he isn’t too conflicted. Even if you spend most of your time annoying Beomgyu out of his boots, you’re a person too, and clearly Mr. Thompson wasn’t doing anything good in this garden. If anything, Beomgyu is a man, and he knows what the other entitled men of the ton sometimes do. No woman—no person—deserves to be subject to their horrific plans. Not a single one. He keeps his voice as gentle as he can as he leads you to a nearby bench. “Will you tell me what happened?”

He stays quiet as you mumble out a vague summary of the altercation. That Mr. Thompson had proposed last season and acted an absolute arse about it, that you thought you’d seen the last of him but he showed up in the garden when you left the ballroom for some air (Beomgyu saw you leaving just as he entered so he gathers he had something to do with your quest for air, but he bites his tongue just this once). That he had proposed—if it could even be called that—a second time, and when you repeated your original sentiments, he grabbed you by the arms and told you to be grateful. 

And then you punched him. 

Beomgyu nods slowly at the conclusion of your story. “First of all, I must apologize. Being the recipient of a proposal from Mr. Thompson could be nothing short of traumatic.”

For the first time that evening, the ghost of a smile flutters across your lips. It’s a very nice smile. You have always been beautiful—even Beomgyu will admit that—but you’ve never directed a smile at him like this. Likely because you’re always scowling at him instead. Which, given your history, is fair enough, but that doesn’t mean this still isn’t nice. 

“There is a reason I turned him down,” you mutter. “I may need to be married, but I still have my pride.” 

He raises an eyebrow. “You need to be married?”

You fix him with a dead stare. “Mr. Choi, I am not exaggerating when I say that if I don’t marry this season, I will go insane.”

Beomgyu blinks. “…Not even a little bit?”

You look away with a loud sigh, muttering something under your breath. Beomgyu doesn’t hear all of it but he does catch something about three seasons and hopeless and men.

He chooses to focus on the first bit, because he gets the feeling that the last two wouldn’t end up being particularly complimentary to him or his kind. “Three seasons?”

You give him possibly the worst stink eye of anyone he’s ever met. “Yes, Mr. Choi. This is my third season out. If I am not married by the end of it I may as well be a spinster, and to be a spinster in my stepmother’s home is not a fate I wish upon anyone.” You look down, fiddling with the dance card around your wrist. “I need to get married,” you say again, though more to yourself than him this time. 

“You need it this badly, then,” he says, half amused, half surprised. “So much so that you would exit the ballroom the moment I entered for fear of confrontation.”

Annoyance flickers back into your eyes. It’s a much more familiar expression than the one you were just wearing, and thus infinitely more comfortable to deal with. “In case you hadn’t noticed, Mr. Choi, every time we come into contact in public, the resulting altercation makes its way into Whistledown and, as such, everyone else’s lives. Forgive me if I am only trying to pick up the remnants of my already shattered reputation.”

Beomgyu snorts. “You seem to think it my fault that your societal standing has plummeted so. Have you ever considered it a matter of your personality, instead?”

Low blow. He sees it in your face, in the way your eyes shutter as soon as the words leave his mouth. Immediately he wants to slap himself. He should apologize, but before he can open his mouth to do so, you’re replying through very obviously gritted teeth. “I have, actually.” You fix him with a hard stare that reminds him why half of the ton finds you terrifying. “I would be a poor judge of my own character if I did not realize that I am at least as responsible for our disagreements as you are.” A bitter laugh escapes your lips and curdles in the air. “And it is not as if the ton hasn’t been gossiping about my temperament for years.”

Beomgyu stays quiet. 

You let out a sigh. “I have answered quite enough of your questions, Mr. Choi, so I beg you now to answer mine. Why are you here?”

“Avoiding people.” He eyes the bright lights still coming from the ballroom. Distaste curl his lip. “Mamas, mostly. I suppose they are people.”

You don’t smile, but at least the tension in the air seems to lessen somewhat. 

“They seem to have gotten it into their minds that I intend to marry this season.” He shakes his head. “Just because all of my other friends are married doesn’t mean I intend to so soon as well.”

“I wasn’t aware that Mr. Huening was married.”

“Oh, so you do pay attention to me?” Beomgyu snickers at your outraged expression but continues before you can retort. “He has returned to his home country and won’t be back for the season. Ergo, I get attention I don’t necessarily covet.”

You snort. “I wasn’t aware there was any sort of attention you did not covet.”

Beomgyu sneers. “Couldn’t I say the same for you?”

“You—I can’t do this.” You stand up and Beomgyu can practically see the anger shimmering off you in waves. “I shouldn’t be here, you shouldn’t be here, and I don’t want to be here when Mr. Thompson wakes and decides to take a pass at me again. It’s bad enough that the two of us are alone—” Your eyes widen in horror. “The two of us are alone.”

Beomgyu stands too. “I guarantee you,” he says lowly, “not a word of this will pass my lips to anyone in the ton.”

“Thank you, but that hardly matters.” You take a large step away from him. “You walked in on Mr. Thompson. Someone else could just as easily walk in on the two of us.” Your voice turns sardonic. “And I’m sure you have no wish to be married to the likes of me for the sake of propriety. Good night.”

Well, that’s certainly true. Just the thought of it makes Beomgyu shudder. If your current relationship is anything to go by, the two of you would never stop talking, never stop arguing…

Hm. 

Beomgyu’s eyes narrow as he watches your back disappear from the gardens. He would never want to marry you, it’s true. But if you’re having trouble attracting suitors, and he has too many women on his tail…

“Miss L/N.”

You turn around with a huff. “What is it now?”

Beomgyu grins. He might just be a genius. “I have a proposition for you.”

. . . . .

“This is a very, very bad idea,” you mutter. Then you look around sharply, because it wouldn’t do for anyone to think that you see hallucinations on top of all of your other less-than-choice characteristics. Even though you made sure to stray far from prying ears in this garden, it seems Lady Whistledown’s eyes are everywhere. 

An issue came out just this morning. You were relieved beyond belief that not a word about your and Mr. Choi’s accidental tryst in the garden was mentioned, though she did mention a terrible black eye and a murderous expression on Mr. Thompson when he reentered the ballroom. 

Mr. Choi had assured you a man such as he would never admit that a woman had bested him in a fight. You weren’t sure you believed him until you got the paper and Whistledown could only speculate about what had caused such a spectacular black eye—apparently Mr. Thompson had remained tight-lipped and snarly to anyone who dared ask. And as he hasn’t come banging on the door of your home demanding retribution, you can only conclude that he doesn’t plan to.

All the better for you. 

Fortunately, beyond some other vague mutterings about the other debutantes and who danced with who and who hogged all the lemonade, that was all that was said about Lady Park’s ball. Not a word about you. Not a word about Mr. Choi. 

Not a word about the idiotic deal he proposed as you were trying to leave the garden, and not a word about how you were idiotic enough to agree. 

You never quite believed yourself stupid. If you had anything to your name besides your beauty, you would say it is your wit (quite separate from your sharp tongue, which is not even close to a blessing). But when you woke up the morning after the ball, you really re-thought all of your previous conceptions of yourself, because what on earth possessed you to agree to the insane proposal Mr. Choi presented you that night?

Unfortunately, you know the answer to that too. 

Desperation. 

He’d presented his idea so reasonably. “You are searching for a husband. I want the attention of the ton’s mamas off of me,” he’d said, his tone so calm as words of madness left his tongue. “If I pretended to court you, men would take more heed of you, and the mamas would be discouraged from chasing after me.” He spread his arms in a show of his apparent genius. “Thus, the two of us might find some success in each of our respective endeavors.”

You could only gape harder the wider he smiled.

To your credit, you refused at first. “That is madness,” you had scoffed, turning back around. “Who in this ton would believe that the two of us are courting? Our arguments have become their source of entertainment. No one is going to buy that we now like each other enough to be civil in one another’s presence, let alone court.”

He was still undeterred, for whatever damn reason. So convinced it would work out by his own sheer force of will, like most men. “So we will come up with a believable cover story,” he’d replied easily, still with that unflappable smile on his lips. “Listen, Miss L/N. You are desperate, and I need an out. What do either of us have to lose from at least trying?”

Try as you might, you couldn’t cobble together an answer. Because he was right. You were desperate. You still are. If you have to live another year in your stepmother’s home, cleaning and gardening and playing maid while still maintaining appearances for the ton, you will go mad. Not mad enough to accept Mr. Thompson’s suit, but mad all the same. 

So you had agreed, and in the process lost a healthy chunk of your own self-respect. But you refused to spend another moment in the garden alone with him that night for fear of others seeing, so you two decided to meet at the outdoor musicale at the park a few days later to discuss the…logistics of this plan. There would be plenty of time for refreshment before and after the performance—plenty of time for the two of you to sneak away and find each other. 

So here you are, standing in the sunshine without the cover of night to hide all of your bad decisions. The longer you stand here, the more you’re beginning to believe this is all a major mistake.

But like Beomgyu has said multiple times, you’re desperate. You’ve tried being yourself for one season. You’ve tried reining in your sharp tongue for another. Neither worked. What’s the worst that can happen? You not being married for a third season in a row? Sick as the thought leaves you, it’s not as if you haven’t pondered the possibility many times already. 

Anyway, if your stepmother drives you too far up the wall, you’ll just have to run away. Find work as a governess somewhere, or a maid. Nothing could possibly be worse than her shrill voice ordering you to do this or that while she sits on her arse all day without contribution, your father still gone on some business call hundreds of miles away. Easier said than done, but a bad plan is better than no plan. Or so you hope.

In fairy tales, this is when the handsome prince is supposed to swoop in with a charming smile to come and save you, the poor damsel, from her distress. Unfortunately, you are not in a fairy tale, and all you have to save you is Mr. Choi and this ridiculous deal. 

What a world you live in.

“Miss L/N.”

You jerk your head around to see Mr. Choi pushing through some bushes a few feet away. A quick glance behind him confirms that no one has followed him here. “Mr. Choi,” you greet, already feeling your stomach roll. This is a terrible idea. “I wonder if it isn’t too much to hope that you have re-thought your ridiculous plan and intend to call it off now?”

He snorts. “Of course not. You should be on the floor, praising my genius.” Before you can reply with something scathing about his big head and nonexistent intellect, he continues. “Besides, no matter how ridiculous you think my idea is, you’re still here.”

How you wish you were here to just call it all off. Unfortunately, you are just as desperate as you were several days ago. “Unfortunately, my desperation is greater than my self-respect at the moment.” You look up at where he’s still standing in the grass. “Do you plan to sit?”

He sits on the green next to you, that stupid unflappable smile still on his face. You want to slap it off. “We need a cover story,” he begins. “You were right on that front. Which means at some point, one of us must have apologized first for the cake and dirt incidents from when we were children.”

“You apologized,” you say immediately. “You knocked my cake over first, ruined my new shoes, and it was my birthday.”

Mr. Choi scowls. “You threw dirt at me—”

You raise your voice over his. “It was my birthday, and you didn’t even apologize then—”

“I had dirt in my hair!”

“And my new shoes were ruined! Forever!”

The two of you glare at each other for a long, long moment. Then you stand abruptly. “Forget it,” you mutter, ready to head back to the party. “If we can’t even agree on this—”

“Neither of us apologized,” Mr. Choi snaps. “We just agreed to put it behind us.”

You turn around slowly. “…Fine.”

He gestures impatiently to the grass. You sit down again, resolutely not looking at him. Silence passes over the two of you for a long time before you force yourself to speak. “So how exactly did that happen?” you ask, voice rough. 

Slowly, the two of you hash out the details, though not without your fair share of sniping back and forth. After the last season, the two of you met at a gathering in the country. Having seen how badly Whistledown had written of you two, you agreed to put your old resentments behind you. You began exchanging tentative letters through the off-season and those letters increased in volume as time went on and you became friendlier. It was very surprising when Mr. Choi asked if he might court you at this season’s first ball, but you did not say no, and that brings you up to now. 

None of it is verifiable. That’s the only thing that makes you think this plan has even a shot at working. You two were at some gatherings in the country together, and ironically, because you did your absolute best to avoid him by hiding in different places, there are definitely some moments where the two of you could feasibly have been alone together and talked things out. As for the letters, they don’t actually exist, but no well-bred person would dare ask to see private correspondence. Hopefully. 

You work out a schedule for the next few months. He must call on you at some point, and you both agree you’ll need to be seen in public at least several times. At least one promenade every couple of weeks, and you will dance together at least once at each of the balls you both plan to attend. One call a week and if he cannot make it, he must send flowers. “A large bouquet,” you say, internally smirking at his expression. “You must act serious about it so that the other men will know they must outdo you.”

By the time you’ve argued and compromised and sniped it all out, the sun is almost directly overhead, and you need to return in time for the musicale to start. Mr. Choi stands and you don’t refuse his hand to help you up, a new grudging respect in your chest for him. If anything, he’s a good negotiator, not to mention a gentleman. “Shall we return to the musicale together, then?” he asks, offering his arm. 

You stare at him. “Already?”

He peers at you, eyes twinkling obnoxiously. “There’s no time like the present, hmm?”

While you were talking and snapping and quipping, you were able to ignore the voice in the back of your mind screaming that this is a terrible idea. But now as you look at his proffered arm, it suddenly seems to be all you can hear. 

Everything is going to go wrong. You’re going to make a gaffe because for all you can act nice and pretty around pleasant people, you cannot hold your tongue in front of people you dislike, Mr. Choi obviously included. Which means someone is going to get suspicious because of your mistakes. Which means people are going to start talking and eventually the truth is going to come out and you will be humiliated publicly more than ever before—because what idiot pretends to court their enemy in an effort to gain suitors—and bloody fucking hell, this was a mistake and you might as well run away right now—

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to yet.” Mr. Choi’s voice cuts through your spiraling thoughts, his words gentler than before as he lowers the arm. You hate that he can do that—can be going back and forth with you for hours without pause, then put it all on hold to respect you as a woman and a human being. It makes it really hard to hate him as much as you want to, and ironically makes you hate him even more. “I only thought it would at least explain our combined absence, in case anyone noticed.”

You swallow hard. “No, you’re right,” you mumble. “We should—we should start now. Sorry.”

Mr. Choi raises an eyebrow. “I think that’s the first time you’ve ever apologized to me.”

And there it is. You scowl. “Don’t get used to it.”

He laughs aloud, a sound that would be quite pleasing if you didn’t want to punch him in the face so badly. “I am sure I won’t,” he replies, a bite beneath his genial tone that ironically soothes your anxiety. Yes, even if you two go through with this, nothing will actually change between the two of you. You’ll always be annoyances to one another. “Now, are you ready?”

You take his arm gingerly. “It doesn’t quite seem like I have another choice.”

Reblogs and comments are deeply appreciated! Hope you enjoyed this, and have a lovely day :)

[cdragons]

Fuck Everything, But Mostly Fuck You - Part 5

Previous Chapter, Masterlist

Summary: You have never, EVER, in a million years hated anyone the way you hated Felix fucking Catton. And if you end up murdering your English Professor for forcing you to be paired up with him, WHO COULD BLAME YOU???

Warnings- MDNI 18+, Mention of SA/SH, BDSM (sex dream), M/M/F sex dream, Felix is a pig, Reader claws Oliver's face, Michael loves Reader so much y'all, Farleigh is on Team Michael, Oliver is delusional and awful, alternating POVs between characters, and author has spent too much time researching Oxford crap for this mess for a crack fic to be a crack fic.

Author's Note: Finals are a BITCH, but I'm finally done...except I have to do my summer classes soon. But I really wanted to put this chapter out since it's been a while. Thank you all who've been reading this fic and sharing wonderful comments! They really help push me to become a better writer!

Michael’s head was about to explode in the next thirty seconds if fucking Farleigh Start didn’t stop digging his paws through his closet and drawers. No amount of clinking and clacking from tapping on his keyboard would be enough to dull out his shirts shuffled in his chest and hangers shrill screeching against the metal bar in his wardrobe.

“Dear God,” the Yankee, stick-figured giant groaned. “How many math pun shirts do you have? Don’t you have any normal ones? Oh my god, are all the pants you own khakis or Oxfam jeans? Do you seriously not own a single pair of corduroy slacks?”

He slammed his laptop shut. God-fucking-dammit, he was going to kill this asshole if he didn’t shut the fuck up.

“Maybe,” Michael gritted out, “if you just focused on the presentation we’re supposed to be working on, it’ll not bother you.”

Farleigh Start clicked his tongue. “Now, now – it’s not nice to be so testy. Most would consider themselves very lucky that I’m providing my services for free.”

The blonde-blind nerd balked when the word ‘services’ entered his ears. Immediately his mind thought of all the rumors that latched to Felix Catton’s mysterious American cousin – who apparently sucked off every teacher in England. Not that he was homophobic or anything – kiss, fuck, marry whoever you wanted, but he wasn’t interested in that sort of thing.

“Services – are you trying to suck my cock so I’ll do your work for you?!”

“…First off, ew,” Farleigh began. “Second, if I left you to do my side of the work, I’m about…86% confident that you’ll end up tanking my grade.” He strolled to Michael’s closet, pulled out a blue gingham-checkered shirt, and grimaced. “Thirdly, I am referring to how I am going to turn–” he nodded towards Michael in disgust “–this, into an actual suitor for our dear (Y/N). Or are you two still doing this little dance of being nauseatingly following each other around like sad puppies and giving each other bedroom eyes without actually fucking?”

Don’t take the bait, don’t take the bait, don’t take the bait, don’t take the–

Michael slammed his laptop shut and tiredly rubbed his eyes. With a loud and audible groan that he dragged out, he rubbed his eyelids until he could see the kaleidoscope of stars and squiggles in the dark.

Fucking damn it.

“How many fucking times do I have to tell you?” he damn-near shouted. “It’s not like that between us!”

Farleigh quirked a brow. “The bedroom eyes or the not-actually-fucking? Because if it’s the former…yes, it is, but if it’s the second,” he brought his hands together in a slow clap, “then well done, Gavey!”

Michael shot up from where he was sitting and ripped the shirt in Start’s hands before throwing it back in his silky oak wardrobe and slamming it shut. Was it so necessary for him to be so fucking insufferable? Was he born this intolerable, or did his fucking cousin, Felix fucking Catton, infect him because being a coked-up narcissist was contagious via proximity or blood?

He heard a few clicks behind him, and the scent of Marlboro Gold cigarettes filled his room.

“So what are you going to do about it?”

Michael turned around and stared at his completely useless study partner for this stupid project for his Classics course that he needs to fulfill his fucking “General Education” requirements. Farleigh Start was leaning against his dresser and staring at him with the most judgingly empty gaze ever worn – all while holding a cigarette between his two fingers and getting ash on the floor.

Great – like it wasn’t a bloody fire hazard to cover his carpeted dorm in hot ash.

He shrugged. “What’re you on about?”

Farleigh took a long drag on his lung cancer joystick before exhaling deeply. His disappointed look made Michael’s eyes twitch in irritation.

“About a certain mutual friend we share and adore,” he drawled. “Whom just so happens to be in my dear cousin’s room right now…at night…on a weekend…alone.” He paused to take in Michael’s reaction and smiled. “Ohhhhh, so you do care.”

Michael shook his head. “Nothing’s gonna happen between ‘em. (Y/N)’s too smart for that.”

“Yes, you see – I know that…and you know that. But my cousin?” Farleigh scrunched up his face and made a wish-washy motion with his hand. “Ehhhhh…he’s more the type to think a giant, glaring red-neon sign with blinking lights saying ‘STOP’ is another giant, glaring purple-neon sign with blinking lights saying ‘Come Hither’ in porno studio 69 font.”

Michael Gavey rolled his eyes and reopened his laptop. “Whatever, I’m not worried.”

“You’re telling me that it doesn’t bother you that our friend is currently in the lion’s den with Oxford’s king?”

“Of course it bothers me,” thought Michael, “but I trust her more than I trust you.”

But Michael wasn’t going to let his forced-upon acquaintance know his thoughts, so all he said was…

“She’s not in the fuckin’ lion’s den, alright? They’re in the Bodleian. I’m going to pick her up from there in like thirty minutes.”

Farleigh cocked his head to the side. “Don’t trust our girl to make smart choices?”

“I trust (Y/N) just fine,” Michael bitterly retorted. “It’s your fucking cousin I don’t trust.”

Because he does – he trusts you so much. He knows how sweet and kind you were to everybody you thought deserved the benefit of the doubt. ‘Deserved’ being the very fine keyword in the detailing because there was no fucking way in hell you were dumb enough to think Sir Felix Catton of fucking ‘SalTbURn MaNor’ deserved your kindness.

Mary, Jesus, and Joseph – he wanted to strangle the old kook when he announced the assigned pairs.

It was Classics English taught by Professor Radcliff Michael Charles Douglas. He droned on about what materials would be on the end-of-term examinations. Everyone in the classroom, save for you and a few others, was either passing notes by throwing them across the room or staring aimlessly at the air with red-rimmed eyes.

“Ya’ ready, partn’r?”

You pursed your lips as a groan fought to escape. You would regret introducing John Sturge’s 1960 American Western masterpiece, “The Magnificent Seven,” to Michael Gavey if he kept up with that god-awful Texas accent.

You turned to your left and shot a blank glare at Michael. “Listen, Billy the Kid, we don’t know if we’re going to be assigned together,” you said.

“Come on, Professor Douglas always pairs the people sitting together as partners so far in the entire term. If it’s not broke, why fix it?”

“Melanie Brown…paired with Bryce Landon…Kemi Brown…paired with Amelia Sanders…”

You leaned on your elbow to whisper in Michael’s ear to drown out your professor’s blasé voice.

“Can we do our project on Hercules?”

He leaned back. “Why him?”

“I want to present on the glorification of toxic masculinity in mythology, and he’s the prime example.”

Michael chuckled. “You just want to piss off old Douglas up there.”

“Katie Caldwell…paired with Oliver Quick…”

“Is that so wrong?” you asked with a smirk. “You can either be one jump scare away from seeing Jesus or a product of institutionalized glorification of misogyny – but you cannot be both.”

Michael stifled a laugh. “You realize that takes away pretty much half of the English, Math, Science, and every fucking department on campus, right?”

You innocently tilt your head to the side. “Does it?”

“You’re terrible,” Michael snickered. “Completely evil.”

“Oh, please,” you swatted his arm. “You love me anyway.”

“Michael Gavey…paired with Farleigh Start…”

You and Michael turned to the front with disbelief. Wait…if Michael was paired with Farleigh…then that meant…oh, no.

“(Y/N) (L/N)…paired with Felix Catton. That will be all – no changes.”

Michael watched with wide eyes as your head slowly turned to the back of the lecture hall. He watched your face pale in disgust and horror when your eyes stopped at Felix Catton. Michael’s blue eyes narrowed at the lecherous grin Felix shot to you before he puckered his lips to blow a little kiss with a wink.

Your body involuntarily shuddered at the predatory implications. Michael watched as his best friend buried her face in her hands. He heard her say the exact same thought he was having.

These are going to be the worst few weeks of my life.

To say it bothered Michael that Felix Catton was making the moves on you, so to lure you to his sex dungeon of a dorm was an understatement. It was killing him to know that you were essentially forced into a vulnerable position, but when he brought it up to your professor, the old cunt-rag didn’t give two flying fucks.

“Professor Douglas, please,” Michael pleaded. “I really think it’d be in everyone’s best interest if you could make this exception this one time. I promise it has less to do with me and more for (Y/N)’s sake–”

But the ancient windbag wasn’t interested. “Whatever accusations you and Miss (L/N) intend to throw at Mister Catton, I am uninterested. Honestly, Mister Gavey, I expected this kind of nonsensical drivel from your friend, but to see you being caught in her schemes disappoints me greatly.”

Michael bit his tongue to choke down the tongue lashing he wanted to give. He wanted to tell this wrinkled ballsack about how the ‘fine Mister Catton’ basically assaulted you. He wanted to scream how worried he was when he didn’t see you for the rest of the day. He wanted to shout how when he knocked on your dorm and entered, he froze and paled at the sight of you crying your eyes out until they were red and puffy. He wanted to roar out the fury he felt when you revealed to him the incident with Felix Catton that morning in the empty lecture hall. The very same one where Professor Douglas taught.

*TRIGGER WARNING: THE FOLLOWING SCENE FEATURES PAST SEXUAL HARASSMENT AND A DISCUSSION OF THE TOPIC, IF YOU DON'T WANT TO READ THAT, PLEASE SKIP OVER*

“I couldn’t do anything,” you whimpered. “I felt like…like such an idiot! I just froze and stared and did nothing!' You started to cry all over again, and Michael wiped your tears with his thumb before holding you close to his chest. “Hey, hey, hey – it’s okay. Freezing and doing nothing are two different things. You were stunned by what happened, and your body reacted the same way – anyone who tells you differently is a liar.” You shook your head. “I couldn’t even speak…it was like my body – it ju-just shut off on its own. My brain kept screaming, ‘Let go,’ ‘Get off,’ or ‘Stay away from me!’ But I…the words and my voice just failed me when I needed them the most.” Michael blurted out the first thought: “(Y/N), you need to report this.” Your eyes shot open in fear. “Michael, no–” “Look, I know you’re scared, but this is assault. He touched your inner thigh, and you clearly didn’t consent – that’s sexual assault, or at the very least sexual harassment! If you report it, at least the campus police know about this and keep an eye out for you.” But you weren’t listening. “Nononononono—Mikey... that’s not how it’ll go down. Even if I report it, they won’t believe me.” “You don’t know that!” “But I do!” you cried. You shot up and started pacing across the room. “I do know because I’ve seen it happen! Almost every girl I knew growing up—it happened to them! At school, on the trains, some at their own homes! Whether they knew every detail of their assaulter or just saw just a patch of skin – it didn’t matter!” You weeped. “And if I tell the cops, they’ll just throw away the report because they’ll think that ‘all he did’ was touch my thigh. Consensual or not, I’ll be labeled as some fucking crazy man-hater who’s grasping at straws to ruin a fine young man’s life and reputation.” You collapsed back on your bed. “I just…I can’t deal that kind of shit right now. Not with…” you took a deep breath, “Not with everything that’s happening right now.” “…What can I do to help?” Michael hated how his voice cracked. He hated how completely useless he felt at that moment. More than anything, he wanted to march to the campus police and report it. But he knew that by doing so…he took even more control away from you by going behind your back. And then he would be a no better monster than Felix Catton. The idea of him going beyond the point of no return made him clench his fists until his knuckles turned white. But when you touched his hand, all the tension flowed out of him like a creek. “You already did the best thing anyone could do for me right now,” you reassured him. “You listened to me. You cared enough to look for me when you felt something was off. You reached out to me and stayed and listened. And most of all…you believed me.” Michael felt his throat go dry. You looked at him with so much trust, as if he were the safest place in your world. He wanted you to look at him that way forever. “I’ll believe you,” he swore. “I’ll be there for you – no matter what. I promise. Whenever you need me, I will be there.” No words can describe the relief you felt from hearing Michael’s promise. When you entered Oxford's campus, you never expected to meet someone as endlessly loyal and trustworthy as him. You were prepared to keep your head low and remain friendless for the next four years. You were ready to spend the next 1460 days crying your heart out from homesickness and imposter syndrome. But somehow, near the beginning of your first term here, you met Michael. And you were so grateful for him. You leaned in and lightly kissed his cheek. “I know. I know you will.” And you believed that with all your heart.

*TRIGGER SCENE END*

Michael promised you – gave his word – that he wouldn’t say anything to anyone. But, fuck, this asshole was making it hard to keep that promise.

“Mister Catton is a fine young man…”

No, he’s not.

“…one whom I have full faith will end up as remarkable as his father and grandfather before him.”

They probably pulled that same shit, too.

“A man with a future as bright as his does not need some upstart with delusions of grandeur to dismantle an institution as fine as Oxford blatantly spewing out trash about him.”

It’s not trash.

“Unless it was something with proof and worth my time?”

Michael looked at his Classics professor with empty but enraged eyes. “…No, professor. It’s just a personal matter between me and Felix – (Y/N) has nothing to do with it. She’s just…protective, I guess.”

This surprised the sagging skin suit. “Hmm, well, that sense of loyalty from such a strange girl is surprising, to say the least – especially when you take account of her…troubling background as an American from that horrible city. But perhaps there is a chance of decency in her, after all.”

Michael’s right eye twitched slightly. “And what do you mean by her…background?”

“Oh, come now, Mister Gavey. She’s a New Yorker. That city is full of…of…gang-bangers and drug addicts.”

“Her dad’s a professor at NYU, and her mum works for the buildings that host Broadway shows.”

Douglas scoffed. “HA! New York University – what a joke. A campus that’s filled with hippies and no class. And Broadway? Of course, Miss (L/N) is connected to the theatre community. Now, if that’s all, Mister Gavey, I have an important meeting to get to with the chairman of my department. I trust that this matter is settled?”

No, not even close.

But all Michael could do was clench his fist over his backpack’s strap. He forced an unconvincing smile and tersely nodded.

“Yep, won’t get any more problems.”

When old man Douglas replied with his patronizing smile, Michael wanted nothing more than to knock out the rest of the tenured professor’s teeth with a fire hydrant.

So…no, Michael Gavey was not at all okay with the fact that you were with Felix Catton. He was not OK with the idea that you were within ten feet of that depraved vampire.

All he could do was be reassured you were in a very safe and very public space with lots and lots of people who could serve as potential testimonial eyewitnesses if Catton tried anything.

…Provided that Catton Sr. wouldn’t be able to pay off everyone, their third cousin, and their dog.

You wanted to die. You wanted to literally sink into the ground. You wanted there to be a sinkhole to open under you, swallow you whole, close up, and you would never see the light of day again.

…Actually, you wanted all those things to happen to your useless fuck of a project partner.

“Y’know, if you’re bored here, there’s a party going on at one of my mates’ flats not far from here.”

Felix moved to the seat right next to you and limply swung his arm over your chair. “So why don’t we–”

You shot up and moved one seat over. “Considering how we’ve been working on the research for almost two hours, and you haven’t gotten any work done,” you bit out. “Getting wasted and losing more brain cells isn’t the right call.”

Taking your open hostility as a challenge, Felix continued to move closer to you. “Exactly! We’ve been at this for two hours, and nothing got done!” His face was inches from yours, and you could smell the rank stench of craft beers and rancid cigarettes on his breath. “So, what’s the harm in having a bit of fun?”

Oh my – this is getting fucking ridiculous.

You started to pack your bags and gather all the borrowed books. “Parties aren’t my idea of ‘fun.’ And I already told my friend to meet me–”

“So bring him too! The more the merrier!”

You took a deep breath and mentally counted to ten. “Our presentation is due in a week, Felix. One week to hand the paper in and present our topic to the class.” 

You swung your backpack over your shoulder. “I take my coursework very seriously, and to say it’s frustrating to have a partner who doesn’t take it as seriously as me would be a supreme understatement.”

“I think from now on–” a swift *RIP* echoed between them as you took a page out of your college-bound notebook. You quickly jotted down instructions for topics so simplified a child could figure it out, “– it’d be best if we work separately.”

Felix shot up from his seat with a panicked look. “Wait, now hold on – let’s not get hasty.”

“I already have a basic outline for the paper - I’ll type up the paper,” you continued while not looking at him. “All you have to do is find the books I’ve so nicely labeled on that sheet of paper I’ve given you.”

“Wha-what happens after I find them?” Felix stammered; his heart broke from how his time with you was so cruelly cut short.

But your tone and body language remained as rigid as it was apathetic. “You have my email, you have a laptop – figure it out, genius. We’ll meet up at a specified time and place; you hand me the books, and we move on with our very separate lives.”

You walked out of the crowded library and toward the nearby bench where you and Michael agreed to meet when he picked you up. You barely had time to sit down before you were bombarded with the presence of a much worse pest stuck to your shoe.

“You get off on bein’ a downright bitch?”

God, was every asshole trying to piss you off tonight?

You turned around with a prominent scowl that further deepened as your eyes took in the insufferable bastard who was clearly trying to pick a fight with you. You don’t know why you bothered to look for confirmation. You immediately knew who it was just by the sheer arrogance oozing from his tone.

As an artist, you had a special relationship with the color blue. In the summer, there was a point in the early mornings when it felt like the world was bathed in it. There was even a period when you were downright obsessed with it. You loved anything and everything blue: the sky, the ocean, hydrangeas, the Obrina Olivewing butterfly – but eyes, you loved painting blue eyes.

You thought of them as these warm, magical rarities that belonged to the stuff of fairies and Disney princesses. Of course, you also knew the popularity of the usage of blue with winter and death, but you never felt that duality…until now.

Because as much of a slimy bastard Oliver Quick was, you had to hand it to the guy…he was one of two people with some of the bluest eyes you’d ever seen.

Which gave you all the more reason to hate him. He made blue eyes look so cold.

 You clenched your backpack strap. “I’m not in the mood, Quick.”

Oliver scoffed. “I’d disagree – you’re always in a mood.”

“So stop talking to me,” you snarled, turning around. “And go away, Michael’s meeting me here soon.” You started to walk away when you heard Oliver speak again.

“I’m surprised he hadn’t dropped you left,” he maliciously quipped. “With you and Felix and all that.”

Your nails dug deeper into your backpack strap. “There is nothing between me and Felix – nothing at all.”

“Yeah, for now,” Oliver shook his head. “But you’ll be crawling to him with your hands and knees on the ground, worshippin’ him like he’s Hercules or Apollo.”

He leaned in closer from behind you. “And you’ll compare Gavey to Felix and look back and wonder ‘how the hell could I have missed being with Felix Catton over some pathetic’–”

Stop it. *clench*

“–unimportant–”

Shut. Up. *dig*

“– know-it-all –”

I hate you. I hate you. *pierce*

“– nobody.”

You turned around and dug your nails into his face as you poured every bit of rage and disdain for the single most insignificant person you’ve ever met in each word that came out of your mouth.

“Enough,” you roughly whispered. It was taking everything inside you to stop lashing out even further. “I don’t want to hear another word from you.”

“What? Plan to –” Oliver winced as you cinched onto his skin.

“Of all the mind-bogglingly,” *clench* “douche-like” *dig* “and despicable” *pierce* “crap you’ve spewed out,” you rasped. “Implying that I would ever choose as dull as Felix Catton over someone as rare and wonderful as Mikey has got to be one of the worst.”

“Do not push me any further, Quick,” You felt him tremble as you slowly released him from your grasp. “I’ve tolerated too much from you and the object of your obsession for far too long as is.”

You stepped back and gave the boy before you a good, hard stare. You never felt rage so deep, so demanding.

It was exhausting.

But you heard your name being called out from your left as you turned your head to see Michael waving to you with his arm high in the air. Had it been anyone else calling out your name, you wouldn’t have felt so quickly eased. You were about to move ahead to meet him halfway in the distance before Oliver’s voice stopped you.

“…What could possibly make him so special?” Oliver pathetically whimpered. “Why would you ever choose him when someone as bright as Felix is begging for you? Do you know what being with him means for you? What it gives you?”

…Was that it? Was that his best shot to get under your skin?

Looking at Michael, you answered him without meaning to.

“There’s no point in explaining it to you,” you calmly stated. “And I think you’ve wasted enough of my time.”

You picked up your stuff and left him alone with his thoughts. As you walked away to join your friend, you could feel his icy sapphire eyes digging into your back. Michael could feel how tense you were and asked if there was anything he could help with – but you waved away his concerns, stating that you had already wasted too much of your time with Felix and Oliver and didn’t want to waste anymore. Slipping your arm over his, you snuggled closer to his side and let the familiar scent of old math textbooks and coffee comfort you.

Oliver would make you pay for what you did – you’d be naïve to assume otherwise. He won’t do it directly, but it will happen. He’s the type to drink poison and expect you to die…only to learn too late that it worked as you lay on the ground bleeding and screaming your throat raw for help.

But right now, you were with your best friend; you two were going back to his dorm for a best friend sleepover, and it’d be enough.

…Yeah, it’ll be enough.

Oliver needed to make a plan – and fast.

Getting into your good graces was no longer a viable option for him; you made it annoyingly clear of that by the way you attempted to maul his face off. He gingerly touched the claw marks you imprinted on his cheeks as you tried to dig for his blood and bone with your nails. A corner of his mouth went up as he remembered your viciousness. He could practically taste the blood that nearly trickled down his cheek after you pierced his skin.

He hadn’t expected such a blatant display of violence from you, of all people, let alone on the campus’ hallowed grounds so near an establishment as ancient and crowded as the Bodleian.

For you, sweet, innocent (Y/N), to show such open hostility…to know he urged that beautiful, dormant impulsiveness to emerge…it thrilled him like nothing else. At that moment, he so clearly saw it. A darkness that was hidden deep inside you – bursting open from your carefully stitched seams. A deep desire for more in the dull, dull life God cruelly set upon you. Why else would a sweet, little all-American girl such as yourself travel all across the Atlantic to one of the most prestigious universities?

No, you were like him – exactly like him. Your reaction to his goading only proved that to him.

You weren’t used to it – that much was obvious…but that meant little to him. If nothing else, Oliver was resourceful. He’d learn more and more about what makes you tick before plucking you piece by piece into what he needed you to be for him. He’ll watch you explode before making you fizzle.

The idea of you at your fiercest – only for him to break it down bit by bit until all that was left was a more…subdued version of the hardheaded American girl from the Big Apple who loved to aggravate him during her first-year days at Oxford.

The thought alone made him salivate.

He could only dream how you’d be in bed. Your tight, hot little body would be squirming and writhing from the pleasure he and Felix bestow upon you. You, helplessly lying on your back while being fucked dumb by the two of them.

God, he felt himself getting hard at just the image alone – to make it a reality…that sort of victory, along with having Felix, would be nothing short of heaven for him. He unbuttoned his jeans as he took out his hardening cock into his hand. Not wanting to bother himself by starting slow, he immediately stroked himself with a rough and unforgiving pace. He wanted the pleasure from the fantasy to overwhelm him.

You looked perfect—replete, ethereal, and effervescent. Your entire body twitched as your eyes were blown wide, and drool dribbled down your chin. You put up quite the fight; the scratch marks on his and Felix’s chests proved that. But seeing you on your back on red silk sheets with your wrists and ankles tied to the bed posts made the struggle worth it. The red and pink bite marks that begin from the column of your slender neck down to your plush and tender inner thighs made for a prettier picture you could ever paint. “Oliver,” you pitifully rasped. “P-please, m’sorry – AH!” Your body jolted, and your back arched as he slapped your swollen clit. He struck his hand down one, two, three more times and watched as you thrashed and cried before another peak was forcefully ripped within you and came gushing out. God, how many times was it at that point? Three, four? It must have been quite a high number, judging by how tightly your cunt clenched onto his fingers when he thrust them inside you. “Look at her,” Felix cooed from behind Oliver. The Saltburn heir’s hulking frame towered over his lover as they watched their pet beg for mercy. “You almost feel sorry for her.” His hot breath panted into his ear as Oliver shivered in delight. The Quick boy gasped when he felt Felix’s large digits begin to enter his tight, puckering hole. “Take your fingers out,” he ordered. “And stick your cock inside her. You’ve been so good to me that I’ll let you fuck her sloppy cunt while I finger-fuck your arse.” Oh god, yes. Oliver took out his fingers and immediately positioned his hard cock at your leaking pussy as he spread your legs apart and forced your knees to press against your chest. “Wait,” you slowly blinked. “Wha…what’re you do–” Your back arched as Oliver pushed into you before thrusting into your cunt at a brutal pace. Tears were streaming down your reddened, flushed face as ecstasy-laden sobs filled the room. “Good boy, Olly,” Felix praised as he continued to push his fingers inside Oliver while the nails of his other hand dug into his hips. He let out a ragged gasp from how Felix deliciously stretched him out. He started out slow before moving his fingers at a faster and steadier pace. “That’s it, Olly. You’re so good – so good to me.” God, the contrast between the firm grips and harsh thrusts with gentle whispers of sweet nothings was like nothing he had ever experienced. And it only made the pleasure of Oliver plowing into your weeping pussy while you cried like a bitch in heat feel too good to be true. “Oh, you’re getting so tight,” Felix groaned. “You wanna come, don’t you? You wanna spill your cum into our pet’s little cumdump hole, right?” “Yes,” Oliver rashly answered before snarling to you. “You hear that, you dumb slut? I’m going to cum in you, and you’re going to take it.” “N…not i-inside,” you begged despite your walls clenching tighter around his cock. “P-please not inside!” Oliver just laughed. “You want it – oh, yes, you do.” He released one of your legs to grip your jaw and forced you to stare at him. “Don’t bother denying it. Your body knows how a whore like you is just desperate for me.” He chuckled as he thrusts into you even harder than before. “Well?” “Yes!” you cried out. “Yes, Oliver! Let me be your cumdump! I want your cum so badly!” Before Oliver and Felix permitted you to do so, you spilled onto Oliver’s cock, and the tightening of your walls, mixed with how deep Felix pushed his fingers inside him, made Oliver’s mind go blank – and soon, all he could hear was white noise.

Oliver slumped into his chair as a coat of sweat covered his entire body. Thick, white ropes of cum were still spurting out of his softening cock despite it coating his right hand. He ran his left hand through his dark curls as reality settled back in. Cold, bitter loneliness engulfed his body as he realized that you and Felix were not with him, and he remained as alone as before. A newfound determination to make his fantasy a reality soon took place.

His vision will be a reality. Felix will love him. And you will be their pet whose sole purpose in life is to take load after load of their pleasure.

But such things were too early to think about with how you were now. No…no, no, no…you were far too raw in your current state…too volatile…too stubborn…too American. He supposes it shouldn’t be too surprising that you latch onto fitfulness and inconsistency.

You were an artist, after all, and such was the fate of your kind to be destined to forever claw their way from the bottom as a means of survival.

But, however charming your unpredictability may have been in your concrete-paved, urban paradise that you call ‘home’ – that simply won’t do for him. He was more than confident that he could make you see things his way, but there were…problems needed to be resolved.

Namely, one in particular that came in ill-fitting apparel and bulky-framed eyewear – Michael Gavey.

Only an utterly blind idiot would miss how you pathetically secure your entire emotional well-being onto him. Oliver watched in total desolation and disappointment at how your glorious rage dissipated at the sight of him. But a part of him was equally as impressed at the mask you so expertly paraded, going so far as forcing your body language to adapt to the circumstances.

But…it wasn’t a mask, was it?

You looked at Michael Gavey the way he looked at Felix – complete and total worship. Michael Gavey, for whatever reason, was your sun, moon, and stars. The way you protected and so ardently adored him made the conclusion all the easier to reach.

Suddenly, it all became clear.

Of course…how did he not see it? The answer was so obvious. What better way to force you to his and Felix’s side…than to separate and condition you?

Isolation was a cruel and sadistic thing to thrust upon anyone – let alone who had so few friends in a foreign country like yourself. But he knew how much of an effective tool it could serve for him. Oh, it would be arduous initially – yes, it will. But it would all be worth it in the end. After all, in a way, this was your fault. If only you had complied with him when he was being nice, he wouldn’t have had to resort to such drastic but necessary measures.

Oliver darkly chuckled to himself.

Yes…everything would turn out in his favor. He’d make sure of it.

Tagging: @ethereal-athalia, @arcielee, @asa-do-your-thing, @aphroditesmoon, @axelsagewrites, @the1999kid, @poolnoodlerescuer, @aemondsbabe, @winterblu2, @abaker74, @whereismymindno, @agustdeeyaa, @iamavailablesstuff, @bonnieblue0606, @st-eve-barnes, @nyxthoughtss, @immyowndefender, @ilovemydinoboi, @ahristata, @cxp1d, @jinsoulorbitzen12, @temptation-waits, @bollzinurmouth, @jcngw0ns, @seababehh, @destinydestnation, @lankyboi4, @mindless-rock, @cassavacakes, @paradisepoisons, @pansexualpamandabear, @erikasurfer, @lissamans, @cookielovesbook-akie, @thesmutconnoisseur, @izzyisstuff, @lariisouz, @ma1dita, @jeondeluxe111, @itszzmoon, @wolfeginny, @mioshasworld, @bre99

Let me know in the comments your thoughts and if you want to be tagged when I update!

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go pray to my ancestors and beg for their forgiveness for writing Oliver's POV 🥲

[dotster001]

The Dilf Floyderverse!

Took a headache med that had caffeine in it, yesterday, and created the Dilf Floyd Leech family. Enjoy!

*picrew links at the end

CW: toxic family, hot wife (I made her too hot and now my bi ass is like 😍), she's an absolute monster btw, I wanted to make it so I didn't feel bad about killing her

Sirena Leech

Age 42. Gorgeous. Love her. She's a salmon mer in her true form. She's for sure a rich man's daughter, not satisfied with anything but she can step on me . Will yell at wait staff because the food is "too cold". Lowkey, she was hoping she was betrothed to Jade, because he's the calm one. But joke's on her, he's a master of poisons, it would not go well for her.

Side note: Just like Floyd is planning to kill her, she's been planning to kill him for a year. She's just a little too slow. Perhaps in another lifetime she succeeded, but not in this one. But in that other universe, she is sending the kids off to boarding school the second dad is dead.

I want her to kill me she's so hot

Kai Leech

The oldest, at age 15. Has his Mama's eyes, and his papa's disposition. He's starting to prep for the NRC entrance exams, but he's definitely a family man, who is not excited for college because it means he'll have to be away from papa and his siblings. He's a protective big brother, despite his eccentricities. He has been known to have a bit of a temper, and has swung at some bullies who went after his cousins or his siblings. Probably will be placed in Savannahclaw. He's very well aware of how often his parents fight about whether he should be betrothed or not, and is crazy grateful that his papa has stood up for him and his free will.

Coral Leech

Age 13, and angsty. She won't take any bullshit, and she and Sirena are at each other's throats constantly. At age ten, she asked dad, "What happens if mother dies?" With dark eyes. Sometimes she leaves articles about husbands who murdered their wives around. Papa always says it's a joke (he is well aware it is not) but mother wants to ship her off to boarding school. Coral refuses to be the cookie cutter rich girl her mother wants her to be, and is doing everything she can to make herself seem scary enough to not be married off should something happen to papa.

Pearl Leech

Age eleven. She's cute and sweet, and mother's perfect angel... usually. She has her father's energy levels, and while she is very kind, her kindness is often loud and frenetic. Her kindness usually leaves a mess behind, whether it be a messy kitchen after she makes brownies, or a room full of broken items where she made a craft. But she means well.

Caspian Leech

Age nine. He's the serious one. Dedicated to his studies, wanting to be a big man so that Papa will let him take over the family business....

Most of the time.

He's close in age to Anemone, which makes them best friends. But it also means they fight constantly. One moment they'll be playing house with some dolls, the next they are breaking each other's dolls because "you aren't playing the game right!"

Mother will be so proud of him one moment, then ripping her hair out the next.

Anemone Leech

Age 8. Again, best friends with Caspian. Well behaved, until they are wrestling on the ground and destroying a store. Has her mother's eyes, which makes her mother have a little bit of hope, but Leech genes are strong. She is still young, still developing her personality. And with how boring mother is, and how fun papa is, take a wild guess about which direction she is going to go in.

Jade Leech (Jr.)

Age 5. Floyd begged to name a kid Jade. And the answer was no 6/6 times. But when Jade opened his eyes, Sirena rolled her eyes and said he could name him, but also made sure to note that she was done. Which is so fair after six kids, but the reason isn't the number of kids, or even that she doesn't want anymore. No, she's just lost hope that any will be "civilized". She entertained his desire for a big family because none of the kids so far had been worthy heirs, but she's giving up. A cruel thing to say when you're holding your newborn baby, but hey, rich people, amiright?

He's a good bean, a complete sweetheart. He just enjoys being included! Sure, he has no idea what's going on, and he knows mother is mean, but everyone else is wonderful and he's so happy!

Picrew Links 🥺

https://picrew.me/en/image_maker/1342558

https://picrew.me/en/image_maker/2151243/complete

https://picrew.me/en/image_maker/61925/complete

https://picrew.me/en/image_maker/186583/complete

[two-white-butterflies]

THE ALCOTT - a. targaryen

You tell me your problems (Have I become one of your problems?)

Description: As Rhaenyra's oldest daughter — you were expected to marry for the gain of your mother's fraction. Aemond Targaryen sees you in Winterfell, your heart feels like jumping out of your chest.

When the snow falls and the white wind blows. The lone wolf dies but the pack survives. Winterfell was colder than you expected, as a lady far used to the warmth of a dragon — it blew your mind how northerners lived in never-ending snow. The guards were cautious of your dragon. He was known as the Cannibal, who preyed on every animal — even those of its own kin. At the same time, you couldn't help but notice their lack of fear, like they were used to seeing dragons this big. "My princess!" Cregan came quick to your side.

The sides of your lips turned upwards, heart heaving with joy at the sight of the man you trusted like a brother. The sight of him made you less worried about war. "My lord," you smiled while wrapping your arms around him, aware of the fact that you stink of dragon and ash. "My mother, the Queen Rhaenyra, extends her gratitude for offering Winterfell as a safe haven." you breathed a sigh of relief, as the dragonkeepers began to usher your dragon away to safety.

Losing the war was your biggest fear. There was no doubt in your mind that your uncle, Aegon the Usurper, will execute you if you ever decide to surrender. He takes a deep breath, carrying a heavy burden on his back. "It is not much of a safe haven as you believe." he stares at you from the side, his hand was placed upon the small of your back — leading you inside of his warm castle.

"What do you mean?" you asked, eyebrows bumping into each other. Winterfell and Kingslanding were your second home, the thought of either betraying you was stupid, yet the latter managed to do so. "Fellow northerns lords have spoken about your house falling from grace. The house of the dragon does not know who rules it —" he explains but you interrupt him in annoyance.

"My mother is the Queen, my uncles are mere usurpers who stand against the throne." you correct, nose scrunching in disbelief. Shame flooded your features. The house of the dragon does now know who rules it, but you do it was fire and blood — the same two that will consume the Hightowers with avarice. "Not everyone believes that." he retorts, you take your gloves off — freezing at the sight of ... Aemond Targaryen. Your uncle, whose aided your sorrows for seventeen years in Kingslanding. Has he come to murder you now?

"My lord, if you wish to offer your loyalties to the Usurper. You are free to do so — but attempting to ambush me?" you accuse, he places a hand on your shoulder, Cregan's eyes staring deep into your own. Your mother called him 'sweet-summer boy' for he was born in the longest summer. He was sweet and kind, but also cold and dangerous. There was no doubt in your mind that he would execute you in the name of the greater good.

"I am not here to hurt you, sister. He arrived here a fortnight ago, offering his hand for one of my cousins to marry but I declined him, because I know that his brother is an usurper who does not deserve the throne. Gods be good, if I allowed a drunken charlatan to ever become king." Cregan's eyes pierced into Aemond's soft skull. He takes a deep breath, eyes trailing away from the Prince he welcomed into his home. "But my council does not offer the same sentiments." he scratches his nose, eyes pulsing with rage. Cregan Stark was loyal to your mother.

"And you thought that it was appropriate to welcome him here? When I am set for a visit?" you questioned, playing with the dagger inside your pocket. You couldn't trust anyone, not the lord beside you nor the uncle who has been with you for seventeen years.

"I am not here for him, my niece. I am here for you?" he admits, breaking the thick wall of ice. His good eye stared at you, lips puckered and pink from the cold. The man that you loved was gone, there were only mere traces of him left. "Are you still mad because of your eye?" you question, taking on a stance for fight. You were well trained in warfare, equipped enough to take his only eye.

"I've long forgiven you, but my sister?" he chuckles for a few seconds, lips smirking at the thought of Rhaenyra. "But still, we are merciful — return home. We'll imprison your mother in Dragonstone, your brothers will be cupbearers and squires for the King. And you, my lovely niece, we'll find a match worthy." he offers, laying out the terms in a way that seemed appetizing.

You stared at him. Blinking, but not thinking.

"Which side are you on?" he finishes, taking a step forward. He was a few feet away, but you could see him perfectly. He had a neat stubble, his left-eyebrow had a thin horizontal line on the center. He has aged more in three-months than he has ever had in his entire life. "The last thing I want is to be on your side." you insult through gritted teeth, Cregan stares at the both of you back and forth.

"No harm will come to the both of you under my roof. My princess, I'm sure that you are tired of all the traveling, it is best to retire. And my prince, the finest wines need your tasting down the Great Hall." Cregan tilts his head to the other door, pulling you away before you could ever start a fight.

----

The owls were chirping outside of your window, nocturnal animals prowling at night for their next prey. He knocks on your door, body standing rigid in front of your window. "My princess," he whispers, trying his best not to awake Cregan whose room was parallel yours.

Your hands reach the door, hands twisting to open the door-knob. You trusted Cregan's promise of no harm coming to you. It was favorable, for you wouldn't be hurt but the same thing couldn't be promised to your uncle.You meet his eye.

A Lavender Lazuli eye that showed you spectrums of different colors. "Aemond," you answered with no respect. No respect is given to rebels. "Go home with me." he offered and you leaned on the door-frame. His voice was low, breath stinking of ale — his eye was downcast and filled with melancholia. He missed you, but you weren't sure of feeling the same with him.

"My home is in Dragonstone. It is where I was born." you replied curtly, lips pressing into a thin line. He placed a hand on the doorframe, stopping you from shutting the door on his face. "Your mother is not the rightful heir. A woman can't hold into power, not in our times." he rasped, earning an eye-roll from you.

You are Rhaenyra's heir. The Queen after her.

"Not in this world yes, but we have always been queer with our customs. In Valyria, women can rule without fight — are you not Valryian, dear uncle?" you taunt, playing at the thought of his Hightower blood. You were not the daughter of Harwin Strong. You were either of Laenor or Daemon's. But one thing was certain, Valyria flooded your veins more than it did to him.

"That is not what I mean." he breaths.

"We waste too much time in fighting this damn war! I'm losing you, qogralbar ziry" he cursed, fist bumping into the wall beside him. Fuck it. He thought about taking you, and marrying you. "You are losing me because of your pride. Your belief of women being incapable of ruling." you rolled your eyes, walking away from him — but he takes ahold of your forearm, pulling you back in front of him.

"I do not think that you are incapable of ruling, I merely believe that your mother should lay down her arms and accept my brother as king." he asserted, keeping his hands on you. "The first thing you desire, is the last thing I could ever dream of." you scoff, pushing him away from you.

By this point, you were both outside of your room — feet barely stepping over the line that divided your room and the hallway. "That is our problem!" he raised his voice slowly. You bite the inner corner of your lips, imagining his murder. "I am one of your problems, uncle." you reply taking a step backward, returning inside your room.

You were just about to close the door, but he collapses unto you — knocked out by the strong northern ale. "I want to forget you." he mumbles before closing his eyes.

taglist: @scarwicht@nyctophilic0vitnir@witch-of-letters

[ladyodium]

One thing that really pissed me off was the way Viserys constantly talked about having his family stop fighting while actively displaying favoritism towards one single side of his family.

Let’s go down the list:

- you wanted a son SO bad you butchered Queen Aemma while HOLDING HER HAND DOWN. Then you turn away while she’s screaming bloody murder for you to save her! You LOOK AWAY! You did this LOOK!

-you then spent the entire time feeling sorry for yourself and giving no comfort to your daughter

-you banish your brother so many times, I’m surprised Daemon still returns. You allow yourself to listen to your hand who whispers lies in your ears and fills your head with lies. I don’t know how you don’t see how Otto was pushing you away from your family.

-you then name Rhaenyra your heir because you can’t have Daemon as heir any longer. Not because you believe she can rule but because you feel guilty for slaughtering her mother. This shows when in the council meeting she suggests sending Dragon riders, and you sit there and watch Otto Hightower, A SECOND SON, dismiss your own daughter! HELLO?! WHATS NOT CLICKING?! Then you don’t even discuss why that wouldn’t be a good move. YOU OFFER NO SUPPORT.

-then you start creeping around with Alicent and asking her “do you speak of our talks to Rhaenyra. I fear she won’t understand” UNDERSTAND WHAT?! YOU CREEPING AROUND WITH A GIRL YOUR DAUGHTERS AGE?! HUH?!

-then you marry Alicent after knowing how your daughter would feel about someone close to her marrying her father. You act surprised when she then becomes even more angry with you.

-you keep getting cut on the throne, I.e. the throne is rejecting you.

-for Rhaenys being your favorite cousin you treat her like you do your brother, at arms length.

-then you have the son you always wanted and it’s still not enough for you. You’re forever stuck grieving the woman YOU killed. That’s not fair.

-not only do you have THE son, you have TWO more and a daughter! You have a new family and even that isn’t enough for you!

-you constantly show Rhaenyra favoritism and never discipline her because you feel guilty. How can I dare punish my daughter when I slaughtered her mother. I need to gain her favor but not in a way that would make her ready for the throne. No, we’re gonna just smother her wrong doings and move on.

-oh, driftmark! Dear lord I thought he couldn’t get more useless. You stand there and questioned your own INJURED son like a common criminal! You then gaslight Alicent into not being angry because you just won’t punish Rhaenyra and her children. No, you want peace at the cost of everyone else’s feelings.

No wonder Viserys caught leprosy. He’s always been rotten from the inside out. He appears like this nice guy, but he’s not. He’s not a good father, husband, king or person. He’s a people pleaser with a leash and Otto Hightower is his owner.



[goodqueenaly]

This is such a niche question, but how do you make sense of the Penrose family tree during Daeron ll’s reign? We have Elaena marrying Lord Ronnel Penrose and having 4 kids with him, Aelinor Penrose who is Aerys’ cousin somehow, and the 4 sons that Quentyn Ball murders during battle. They’re mostly irrelevant but I’m scratching my head thinking how this all works

A niche genealogical-dynastic question? You’ve come to the right place! 

While Elio Garcia confirmed (here and here) that Aelinor was a cousin of her husband Aerys, he did not confirm the specific nature of this familial relationship. (And for what it’s worth, I’m supposing that Aelinor and Aerys were very roughly of an age.) If I were to guess, I would suppose that Aelinor was a descendant of either Baela or Rhaena Targaryen - a mid to late grandchild, maybe, of Baela’s marriage to Alyn Velaryon or Rhaena’s marriage to Garmund Hightower). Whether Aelinor was specifically a daughter of the ruling Lord (presumably a lord) of Parchments or the daughter of a male-line descendant of the family we can’t know for now, until and unless GRRM specifies (in Fire and Blood Volume 2, perhaps, or the Tales of Dunk and Egg), but I think the best guess is that Aelinor was something like the future King Aerys I’s second cousin once removed (again, assuming that being Aerys’ cousin didn’t mean that Aelinor was, say, descended from one of Aemma Arryn’s half-siblings, or one of Queen Alyssa’s Velaryon nephews, though I doubt GRRM intends Aelinor to have been so distantly removed a relation). 

If we can say very little about Aelinor’s place in the Penrose dynasty, we can say even less about her relationship to either Ronnel Penrose or the unnamed “Lady Penrose” whose youngest son Quentyn Ball supposedly spared, much less the relationship of the latter two to one another. Clearly, from both the Targaryen family tree and from Elio’s statements referenced above, Aelinor was not a daughter of Ronnel and Elaena themselves. If we are to guess - admittedly rather a thin guess, but not totally illogical - that Ronnel was closer to Elaena’s age than Aelinor’s (and so more obvious a marriage partner for the roughly 30-something Elaena, then perhaps Ronnel belonged to the generation of Aelinor’s father (presumably father, given the Westerosi patriarchal tendency to identify dynasts along male lines), maybe born, at an extremely rough estimate, around the 140s or 150s. 

So my guess is that Aelinor was a granddaughter of one of the twin daughters of Daemon and Laena (perhaps Baela more likely, given the relative geopolitical advantage of uniting Parchments and Driftmark, compared to Parchments and Oldtown, a consideration of cross-country marriage making I discussed), and a daughter of the unnamed Lord of Parchments. Maybe because Daeron II liked the fact that Aelinor was a cousin of himself and his children (just far enough, perhaps, from religiously objectionable degrees of relation while still having that familial connection); maybe he thought that Aelinor, coming from a family with at bare minimum a heraldic respect for the written word, would be an attractive partner for his bookish second son (as Jaehaerys so badly failed to understand with his son Vaegon); maybe Daeron felt the Penroses were a worthy ally in the Stormlands to draw more would-be or actively anti-Dornish families away from the pro-war, and perhaps increasingly pro-Daemon, camp; maybe for any combination or none of these reasons - but whatever the rationale, King Daeron decided to betroth Prince Aerys to Lady Aelinor. Then, I think, when Aerys failed or refused to consummate his marriage, Daeron II tried to save face with the Penroses by offering Ronnel - who I think may have been Aelinor’s paternal uncle - to his eligible widowed cousin, Princess Elaena. The “Lady Penrose” of the First Blackfyre Rebellion may have been Aelinor’s (unnamed, because of course GRRM) mother, with the boys nearly all slain by Fireball perhaps Aelinor’s younger brothers - a heartbreaking personal loss, if so, for a war which saw other bitter personal losses for figures like Eustace Osgrey and Bloodraven.)

These are all guesses, obviously, very much complicated by the extremely limited information we have and the lack of clarity provided by what is there (not only the historical error on Jeor Mormont’s part, but also the vague reference to the First Blackfyre Rebellion’s “Lady Penrose” - seemingly the wife or widow of a Lord of Parchments, but complicated by the sometimes overbroad use of “lady” as a title in Westeros, as seen for example in references to Sybelle Locke as “Lady Glover” despite being only the sister-in-law of the Master of Deepwood Motte). All we can say is that Aelinor was in some fashion related to Aerys, but not through Elaena, and that we’re probably bound to learn more in Fire and Blood Volume 2 or future Tales of Dunk and Egg.

(It me, so I have to wonder if GRRM used “Aelinor” as her name not only to add a little dose of Valyrian-ness to her, but also because of its similarity to “Alienor”, the spelling used by Maurice Druon in The Accursed Kings for the woman most of us probably know better as Eleanor of Aquitaine. I don’t find Aelinor, to the very limited extent we know her, similarly either to the historical Eleanor or Druon’s typically misogynistic pseudo-historical references to her - but then I also don’t see the similarity with Alysanne, for what it’s worth.)

[dangermousie]

oooooh nooo. did they actually fuck up Jing or is he just one of the characters you're annoyed they removed important scenes with?

If they knew they couldn't have CX actually kill Jing because of censorship, they should have worked on restructuring his arc up to this point so that made sense. They can't just give him the same arc and then change the logical conclusion.

I wasn't annoyed with Jing per se but I was annoyed at the removal of a lot of his arc - like when he literally gate crashes her ceremony of becoming a nun (!!!!) and I just think that the second half of s2 put him into background to such a degree he ceased to be interesting to me - he was barely there and not given much to do when he was - that reunion scene was just so abrupt and filmed so randomly, I didn't even have a chance to care. A lot of second half of s2 felt like Cliffs Notes version in general but it got really bad by the end and I think Jing was hit by that along with most of the rest.

He's lucky he wasn't Cang Xuan - what they did to that character and that arc are utterly criminal! I agree if they knew they couldn't have him be a killer, then rewrite it way earlier - as is, it is like building building building and then NOTHING.

But also, in wrecking his arc, it wrecks Xiao Yao as a character. In the novel, it made sense she peaced out never to be seen by CX again - the person closest to her killed her love AND also confessed he was in love with her and etc etc - in fact before Jing comes back, she was planning to become Holy Mother ie be in one place where CX could never gain admittance. She felt blindsided and betrayed by the person she loved most (even if as a family only.) By the time Jing came back and she got married, the relationship between the cousins was irrevocably broken.

But here? She NEVER finds out CX loves her romantically. He is not in any way responsible for Jing's death. Sure, he can't execute Xinyue for the murder because she's the queen and it will start a war, but especially after Jing comes back alive, it makes NO sense for XY to just peace out in such a fashion that CX can never see her again - like why how - he's her beloved brother who approved of her marriage and where there are good reasons why he didn't punish his queen who ultimately did not murder anyone (and owed her nothing) - none of it makes any sense! It makes her awful tbh. (They try to do the thing where he says if he could choose the crown or her, he'd choose the crown but she is not shocked and it's not treated as a reveal because it obviously isn't.)

The whole structure falls apart.

(It also makes Jing weaker because it's one thing to not be able to guard against the freaking emperor of the world and another a fellow clan and plots by idiot Xinyue.)

Honestly, demon boy is the sole character who emerged from this with any semblance of a coherent character.

The title doesn't even make sense any more - it always came across to me as largely about CX losing XY forever (and vice versa.) But why does he lose her forever here? It makes zero sense.

It's like if they made Goodbye My Princess and at the end "psych!!! it turned out FL's fam were all alive and protected by ML and she got her throat stitched up and they lived happily ever after." It's not that it's a bad twist in a vacuum but it makes no sense with these characters and this story.

[oliveee-star]

Imagine if Sirius got back from Azkaban early and met Draco for the first time.

Everyone was under the impression that Black had just recently escaped Azkaban and was trying to murder Harry Potter, a third year student at Hogwarts.

Of course, this wasn't true. Sirius had been let out of Azkaban and proven innocent when Harry was five, around Lily's birthday. For a whole month after he was released, he was a free man and all seemed to be well. That was before he ran into Lucius and Narcissa in Diagon Alley, where he had gone to find a copy of Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them—he wanted to read up on werewolves again since he had forgotten most of his Hogwarts days in Azkaban, where he originally learned about werewolves, obviously.

"Sirius," Narcissa said, in shock, hatred, and despite the latter—a hint of happiness as she saw her cousin for the first time in five years. To the side, Lucius lightly grabbed a young boy's shoulder—around five as well, at the time—and pulled him behind him. The boy was blonde, with grey eyes the exact color of the bars blocking Sirius from the world when he was in Azkaban; a spitting image of his father, though Sirius recognized the innocence and slight fear in the boy's eyes to be the same as Narcissa's.

"You never told me I had a second cousin," he said, his voice suddenly a bit hoarse.

Narcissa inhaled sharply, stiffening slightly before she swallowed and looked to Lucius. He was staring daggers at her. She turned back to Sirius, using the best 'you're dead to me' voice she could muster to say, "You don't."

The boy peeked out from behind his father, holding onto his hand which was also holding his cane. He tugged on his mother's cardigan. "Mum, who is that?" He babbled, pointing to Sirius.

"No one, Draco," Lucius interjected, putting an arm around his son in a protective manner.

"Yeah... No one," Sirius said, though his heart had dropped to his stomach. He quickly grabbed Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them on the shelf and took it out. "I should be going now. Andy needs to be fed and Remus always forgets"—Andy was Sirius's and Remus's cat, named after Andromeda.

Sirius began to walk off. "Nice to see you, Cissy. Best wishes," he mumbled, buying the book and apparating away.

Back home, Sirius fed Andy and cuddled with Remus the rest of the afternoon. He didn't bother to say anything about his exchange with the Malfoy family.

Around 8 years later, Remus had landed a job at Hogwarts. Before this, he had had much trouble finding a job, so he was incredibly grateful for Dumbledore's kindness. Though he wasn't sure people wanted a werewolf teaching their children... they didn't need to know if he was. As he taught a class, he let a few words slip. "You know, this is the spell my husband uses when he's trying to protect the house-"

He was suddenly cut off by a chorus of students exclaiming, "husband?!"

"Er... Sorry, I didn't-"

"Who're you married to?" Ron Weasley asked.

"Oh, well my darling Sirius-" Remus started, before realizing he wasn't supposed to be telling them this. He and Sirius had decided to keep their marriage and where they lived on the low—mostly because Sirius was an "escaped convict" (as said by Lucius Malfoy after the exchange 8 years ago, to which the Ministry agreed out of fear of what Lucius could do), and the fact the Remus was a werewolf teaching at a magic school. The same magic school Sirius was supposed to be sneaking around in order to kill Harry Potter. In reality, Sirius had been staying with Hagrid and helping Remus with transformations in the Whomping Willow.

"Sirius Black?" Both Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy asked at the same time, and then the class went completely silent.

[aebi12]

"Resentment" - Chapter 20 [AemondxRhaena]

Summary

He is the cause of her sufferings. He took her dragon, her betrothed, and her father. Now, he will also take away her future by having to marry him.

With so much history and bad blood between Rhaena and Aemond, their forced union has everything to fail, except that the proximity will make them discover that perhaps they have more in common than it seems.

AU - the Greens win the war.

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10 - Chapter 11 - Chapter 12 - Chapter 13 - Chapter 14 - Chapter 15 - Chapter 16 - Chapter 17 - Chapter 18 - Chapter 19

Masterlist of my other works.

Tags: enemies to lovers, slow burn, romance, angst, drama, eventual smut, hurt/comfort

Please remember that english is not my first language, so I'm sorry for the mistakes...

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“Fine, if you insist on acting like a whore, then I’ll treat you like one.”

The words Aemond just told her echo in her mind as she watches her betrothed step away from the door he just closed and walk purposefully towards the bed.

Towards her.

The mattress dips as the prince climbs onto it, advancing on his knees towards his cousin, like a predator stalking his prey.

This is what you wanted, isn't it? She wonders internally, her eyes unable to tear themselves away from Aemond, who is soon on top of her, though not crushing her with his weight.

Rhaena opens her mouth to say something. What? She does not know. And besides, she cannot manage to verbalize anything, not when Aemond's hand suddenly lifts the skirt of her dress and begins to slowly move up her leg, his knuckles reaching her knee and back down again.

His touch is electrifying, the feel of his warm hand on her skin sending shivers down her spine, and as the prince basically lies on top of her, the feel of his body weight, his heat, and his breath almost on her lips, creates a sensation of pleasure that travels throughout her core, focusing especially somewhere between her legs.

You should not be enjoying this, the rational side of her mind thinks. Not when he's said such horrible things, accusing her of acting like a whore and threatening to murder…

The thoughts leave her head as Aemond buries his face between her neck and shoulders, nuzzling her exposed skin as if he were breathing in her scent. Rhaena's hands grip the sheets as she feels her cousin's lips place short kisses along the edge of her cleavage, and she closes her eyes, pressing her lips together to keep herself from being heard. What is this pleasure she is feeling? How could it all be so…? An involuntary moan escapes her lips as the prince's lips suckle the swell of her breasts.

And that's when Aemond pulls away from her.

It takes a few seconds for Rhaena to process the loss of his warmth and closeness, her eyes fluttering open to see the prince now standing, though still by the bed, watching her in anger and… pain? Rhaena gulps, suddenly ashamed for even suggesting to her cousin the foolish idea of ​​testing her chastity for himself.

“Did you make those sounds for him too? Did you enjoy his hands touching you too?” he asks, contempt evident in his voice.

“I’ve told you, he did not touch me.”

“How foolish do you think I am to believe that?” Aemond’s voice rises again, his good eye glaring at her and his hands, which just a few minutes ago were caressing her, are now clenched into fists, clearly trying to contain his temper, “You were together all night.”

Rhaena walks to the edge of the bed and stands up before answering, “It was not like that, I only agreed to see him because…” she trails off. She can't reveal to him the suspicions that motivated her to meet Corwyn, not without involving her sister and basically accusing her of treason, “I left the Vale so suddenly that we did not get a chance to talk, and he was my friend, just my friend, we wanted…”

“To talk,” Aemond finishes for her, letting out a mocking chuckle, “And you had to do that alone and in the middle of the night?”

We were not alone, she wants to scream, but she is not about to drag Marianne into this.

“We just talked, Corwyn is an honorable man,” she repeats, even though she knows it is pointless

“How honorable could he have been to dare suggest a clandestine rendezvous with a lady who was meant to be a princess of the realm? With a lady who was to be the mother of the future king.”

“He is…” Rhaena cuts off her words abruptly, “Why are you referring to me in the past? You cannot…” confusion clouds her brain, leaving her for a moment at a loss for what to say, “You cannot break the betrothal.”

“Of course I can,” he replies with malice in his eyes

“No, no, the kingdom would not accept it.”

“Everyone will understand if I repeat what I just heard,” his voice sounds hard and pleased at the same time, clearly reveling in Rhaena’s desperation, “Do you think anyone will plead for you knowing you meet with men in the middle of the night? Your reputation will be destroyed.”

“Nothing happened,” she shakes her head, “My virtue remains intact, I am a maiden.”

“Even if that were true, it would not matter. Your name would be sullied by your brazen actions, you would be unfit to be the mother of the royal heir.”

No. No. No. That could not be true, could it? The kingdom was not going to turn against her, they could not… Rhaena gulps, her eyes beginning to fill with tears at the prospect Aemond is laying out for her. They could not call off the betrothal. They could not take this away from her as well. They could not just take her away from Aemond. She could not lose him. She didn’t want to lose her future with him. She was going to be his wife. Her heart races and a sick feeling settles in her throat as panic takes hold. Panic at being called vulgar, and panic at the realization that what she fears most is losing her cousin.

Breathe, Rhaena, breathe. She forces herself to repeat and inhale slowly until she calms down again.

It is not going to happen. She is not going to lose Aemond. Especially since, as her mind reminds her once the panic has passed, they can't afford to lose her.

“You need me,” she retorts, suddenly emboldened by her reasoning, “You and your family cannot simply cast me aside no matter how much you wish to. I am the daughter of Daemon Targaryen, granddaughter of King Jaehaerys, and the only chance all of you have of reuniting this country and having the support of the noble houses that stood by my side of the family during the war is if you take me as your wife. Peace will only be achieved when our sides unite, you and I, producing a legitimate heir for both blacks and greens.”

“That is not true,” Aemond retorts, his face pale and his nostrils flaring from what he surely considers an audacity on her part.

“Oh, but it is,” Rhaena takes a step towards him, anger welling up within her as well, “You need me. And whether you like it or not, we are in this together and you will not get rid of me so easily. You say the realm would cast me aside, do you really believe that? They love me, while they barely tolerate you out of necessity”

Rhaena knows she must measure her words. She must not play with her cousin, not when he clearly feels hurt and betrayed, but her anger is greater and clouds her better judgment.

Aemond clenches his hands so tightly that he feels his nails digging into his palms, surely leaving marks. His cousin’s insolence seems to know no bounds. And the worst? Although her words leave him with a bittersweet feeling, he knows they are true.

“It seems I will have to bear with you then,” he finally answers, almost spitting out his words in anger, “One more sacrifice for the realm, sharing a bed with a used good.”

Rhaena acts instinctively upon hearing the insult, her hand rising and crossing his face with a slap. The sound brings her satisfaction, as does the livid expression of clear surprise on Aemond’s face.

“I will not tolerate your offenses,” she warns. And, although she fears for a moment the prince's reaction, she continues speaking, unable to contain herself, “You, of all people, what right do you have to insult me ​​when you dishonored yourself by keeping a mistress at Harrenhal throughout the entire war?”

“Do not talk about that again,” Aemond hisses.

“No? Then let’s talk about the whore you visit regularly at a brothel on the Street of Silk.”

Clearly her cousin isn’t expecting this turn in the conversation, because he takes a couple of steps back, though he continues to stare at her, “How do you know about that?”

“People talk, Aemond. Your affairs are not as secret as you imagine. Don’t I have the right to be angry that my future husband prefers the company of whores over his future wife? Huh?” Rhaena walks back until they are very close once more. She raises her face to his, her index finger digging into his chest, pointing at him, “Is that who you spent your hours with while ignoring me? Do you not dishonor me by not having regards for my…?”

He doesn't let her finish and grabs her by the arm, "What about you? You speak so easily of dishonor when it was you who ran into your friend's arms," ​​he spits the word out mockingly, "You say you two only talk, what did you have to say to him? What conversation was that?" he doesn't let her answer, "Were you going to tell him how much you would have preferred to marry him? That you had hopes of being his wife? That you dreamed and hoped for that while you lived in the Vale?"

He looks at her, expectantly, and Rhaena doesn't deny his gaze. She wants to be able to deny it, she wants to be able to assure him that it wasn't the case, but she would be lying. She had, at some point, considered marrying her old friend. She had, albeit briefly, mourned the truncated future they would never share. She knows this is all reflected in her gaze and she knows that Aemond interprets her silence as confirmation of his suspicions. “I am going to kill him,” he replies, his face twisted in rage.

Aemond lets go of her arm and turns his back, walking to the door.

“If you do, if you hurt him in any way, you will lose me,” she dares to say, desperate.

The prince doesn't even turn to face her before replying, "You give yourself too much credit if you think that is going to change my mind."

***

Fool, fool, you are a fool.

Her heart aches as she walks through the halls until she is back in her room.

Marianne had warned her and she knew it too. It had been stupid to meet Corwyn. And it had been even stupider to stop and talk to him in the halls when she knew he wanted something from her that she could never give him.

You should have run in the opposite direction, you should have done something. Anything. And you wouldn't be in this mess.

Rhaena slams the door to her room hard, causing the maid, who is currently stoking the fire, to jump.

“My lady, I…”

“Call Lady Westerling immediately,” she orders.

The young woman, still frightened, just nods before taking the bucket at her side and leaving her room.

She had staked everything on maintaining a friendly relationship with Aemond, on getting her cousin to respect her and count on her, on making their future marriage not be a complete torture. She had put up with his arrogance, his slights and initial coldness until she had managed to get him, somehow, to feel interested in her.

And now you lost him.

She destroyed her only chance when she trampled on Aemond’s ego and pride. Because she knows that is what hurts the prince the most, the feeling that someone who belongs to him chose someone else.

You did nothing wrong. You did not…

It does not matter. She was a noble lady and there were expectations of her. Standards for her behavior. Decency and good manners. Was it unfair? Yes, but that was the world they lived in. No one would look kindly on a meeting between a man and a woman in the middle of the night.

“Rhaena? Did something happen? The maid seemed scared when she insisted that you wanted to see me.”

Her lady finds her pacing back and forth near the bed, clearly desperate.

“He found out.”

Marianne doesn’t need to ask what she means, “How… what did the prince say? What did he do?”

Rhaena proceeds to tell her about her encounter with Corwyn in the hallway and how Aemond had interrupted them. The threats, the insults. Her proposal and the conversation that followed after they had locked themselves in one of the rooms.

“He is going to kill him,” she ends by saying, her voice filled with fear and guilt, “And it will all be my fault.”

“No, you cannot blame you for this,” her friend takes her hand and leads her to the bed, both of them sitting on the edge, “Ser Corwyn should not have sent you the letter, he was negligent and…”

“That does not justify Aemond killing him. Nothing happened, you know that.”

“I know, but the prince is clearly hurt. He cares about you and…”

“Oh please, Marianne!” Rhaena lets out a humorless giggle, “All he cares about is his reputation. Plus, he is angry because he forbade me from getting close to Corwyn and I didn’t listen to him. There is nothing but pride involved.”

“I do not agree with you.”

“Well he basically told me so before he left me alone in the room.”

There is a minute of silence until she speaks again.

“What am I going to do?” she asks, “How can I fix this?”

“I suppose… could you speak to Queen Alicent?” she suggests, “If anyone can convince the prince not to participate in the tournament, it is his mother.”

“No, I cannot go to the queen and tell her that Aemond decided to fight tomorrow. She would ask too many questions, she would like to know what motivated him to do so, and I would have to tell her the truth. I could not bear it.”

And besides, she does not trust the virtuous queen dowager to take more drastic action regarding the betrothal It was better not to risk it.

“You are right, though…” Marianne bites her lip, “Technically you were not alone when you went to the godswood. I was with you, you can tell Queen Alicent that we both spoke with Ser Corwyn.”

“No, I avoided mentioning your name to Aemond because I do not want you in the middle of this mess.”

“But I went with you precisely to help you if something like this happened.”

“No, Marianne, no, your presence there will stay between the two of us,” her voice is almost an order, “I do not want your name associated with any suspicion, you do not deserve to have doubts cast against you or to be said to have been foolish.”

“But…”

“Nothing,” she repeats and adds, “Perhaps Daeron can help me.”

Marianne sighs, “He was injured during the jousts and drank milk of the poppy. I wanted to visit him, but the grand maester says he needs to rest and probably won’t wake until tomorrow.”

Rhaena holds back a moan and covers her face with her hands. Tears sting her eyes, but she refuses to cry.

There has to be some other way.

But really, who could help her? Her friends and connections in the Red Keep are not the same as the prince's. There are only a couple of people who might be able to change his mind, and none of them are a viable option at the moment.

Marianne keeps her silently company for a while until she excuses herself, saying she wants to be alone.

“What about tonight's banquet?”

“I cannot bring myself to go to any banquet.”

“What if the prince demands your presence?”

“Then let him come and force me to go,” she replies, “Make something up for me, please?”

“Of course.”

Her lady hugs her tightly before abandoning her to her thoughts and recriminations.

A maid enters a while later with food, but Rhaena doesn't touch it, too nervous to eat.

The hours pass and, although she tries to sleep, it is impossible. Her mind keeps creating scenarios where a bloodied Corwyn staggers in the arena while Aemond delivers the final blow with a Valyrian steel sword.

In the end, exhausted, she simply sits in front of the fire, watching the crackling of the flames as she waits for morning to come, her dragon curled up at her feet.

When the sun rises in the sky, she washes and tidies herself as best she can before stepping outside and walking in the direction of the Tower of the Hand. She does not go up, however, for fear that the prince will not want to receive her and avoid meeting her. So, she remains standing at the only entrance and the one that knows Aemond will have to go down at some point.

The soldiers guarding the Tower watch her curiously, but do not comment, nor do they offer to let Aemond know of her presence as the minutes stretch into hours.

He has to appear at some point, she thinks, fiddling with her rings.

And so, he does.

Aemond Targaryen seems mildly surprised to see her waiting for him, his neutral expression turning to one of indifference as he ignores her, walking confidently in the direction of the fortress courtyard.

Rhaena follows, hurrying to his side and trying to keep up with his long strides.

“Aemond, please listen to me,” she says quietly.

“I know what you are going to ask, and I have no intention of giving up on letting Corbray know his place.”

“I will do whatever you want, but please do not hurt him. Do not kill him.”

“Is that all you care about? His well-being?”

Rhaena thinks she can detect pain in his voice despite how harsh his words sound.

“It is not just for him,” she says quickly, “It is for you too. You cannot just kill a noble man.”

“It is a tournament, Rhaena, every knight knows what they are up against when they choose to participate.”

“But it will not look good on you,” she insists, “It is a tournament in your honor, there is no point in participating, it does not dignify you. The people still whisper about your actions during the war, do you want them to think of you that way again?”

“So what if they do? As you said, they will have to continue to tolerate me,” he retorts, throwing her words back in her face.

Aemond walks faster and heads towards one of the carriages. When Rhaena finally reaches him, he speaks again, “You can ride with me if you wish, but keep quiet. I do not feel like listening to you.”

Rhaena is tempted to answer and find another ride, but she eventually climbs in after him and sits on the opposite side. They make the journey in silence, the girl not daring to speak, and when they reach the arena, Aemond does not go up with her to the platform, but instead heads to the participants' tents.

Rhaena watches him until he enters one of them, and then makes her way to the royal box, slowly climbing the stairs, grateful to be the first one there.

The place is slowly filling up and, although she greets the dowager queen accordingly, as well as the members of the council, her mind is elsewhere.

“The Prince Daeron?” she asks Alicent

“Still recovering,” she replies, “I insisted for him not join us today.”

There goes your only chance to stop Aemond.

Rhaena nods.

“Lady Westerling said you had a headache yesterday, are you better this morning?”

“Quite better,” she replies in a small voice, “I needed to rest as well. All the hustle and bustle of the wedding left me a little…”

Rhaena leaves the thought hanging in the air and the queen seems to understand, nodding as well, “Where is Aemond?”

“I do not know,” she lies.

Alicent frowns, “It is not like him to be late.”

The girl does not know what to say and thankfully Alicent does not press her further.

Minutes pass and when the trumpet sounds, the arena falls silent to watch the entrants.

Rhaena spots him immediately. His armor, as ornate as his brother Daeron’s, stands out from the others. His hair is tied back in a braid and his expression is a mask of coldness as he takes a step ahead of the other men.

“Oh god,” Alicent speaks up from beside her, “What is he doing there?”

“It seems Prince Aemond intends to fight today,” Lord Lannister replies

“Did you know about this?” Alicent asks the man, who shakes his head. Her gaze turns to Rhaena, “Did he mention anything to you?”

“Nothing at all,” she lies again.

And her pale face, apprehensive expression, and teary eyes must be convincing enough because Alicent seems to believe her.

The Dowager Queen whispers something else that she can’t quite make out.

“There is nothing we can do now,” Lannister reasons, “Besides, I have confidence in the prince’s abilities. Nothing will happen to him.”

Lord Tyland’s words make her heart race. She has not considered, until this moment, that some other participant might hurt Aemond. What if, because of her lack of good sense, she ended up causing her cousin’s death?

The action begins almost immediately. The knights are split up and Aemond is paired with some northerner whose name escapes her.

When the fight begins, Aemond draws his Valyrian steel sword and circles around his enemy, examining him. The northerner eventually tires of his actions as he charges at him, but Aemond easily evades him. The fight continues for a couple of minutes until the prince has the opportunity to wound him, which he does with a quick swing of his sword, plunging it into his opponent's side. The crowd chants the prince's name and servants drag the northerner away, who as Rhaena finds, is still alive.

The fights follow one after another. Corwyn defeats a man from the Stormlands, and Aemond defeats another from the Reach. Swords clang, bodies fall, the sand fills with blood.

And then comes the moment she has been dreading.

By chance of fate or - surely - because Aemond has made sure of it, he and Corwyn are paired together.

They both stand in the middle of the arena, their armor showing some dents. Rhaena, unable to contain herself, covers her mouth with her hands to prevent herself from letting out a little scream, when Corwyn runs towards the prince sword in hand. Corwyn is not a bad warrior and his skill is palpable as the minutes pass, both of them hitting their swords and trying to knock the other down.

His old friend's sword passes dangerously close to his cousin's neck and Alicent gasps. Aemond quickly steps back and switches the sword from one hand to the other, holding it in his left and still wielding it with skill. This switch, Corwyn clearly doesn't expect, because the edge of the blade cuts into his side.

Corwyn staggers back and Aemond seems on the verge of winning. The prince advances on his opponent, standing in front of him and wounding his hand, causing him to drop his sword. The crowd shouts Aemond's name as Corwyn is left weaponless. Only, suddenly, Corwyn charges at the prince, using his body to push him and throw him to the ground.

The attack is so unexpected that it succeeds. Corwyn uses his good hand to throw Aemond's sword to the other side and begins to beat him with his fists. Beside him, Alicent seems on the verge of fainting. Rhaena wants to close her eyes, wants to look away, wants to do something, but she can do nothing but ask the gods to protect her cousin.

Please, please, don't let him die.

And perhaps they take pity on Rhaena, because when everything seems lost Aemond uses his strength to throw Corwyn off of him and roll him over, this time having the advantage and closing his hands around his neck, dominating him and clearly suffocating him.

The common people go wild with excitement. The nobles chant their prince's name.

And she... she knows this is it.

It is now that Aemond is going to kill Corwyn.

A tear rolls down her cheek and, unable to contain herself, she stands up and goes to the edge of the platform. The movement seems to catch the attention of her cousin, who looks away from Corbray to look up at her. Their eyes meet for a second and Rhaena does not know what she sees in them, only that Aemond has a moment of hesitation before his hands leave his opponent's neck, giving him one last blow to the jaw that manages to knock Corwyn unconscious before he stands up and leaves the combat arena.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I tried to write the fight scenes as best as I could, but I'm clearly no expert. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed them.

Thanks for reading!

@user05152535456 @pugetprincess @draftswriting @hopefulnovelwritingland @maymunahar @niocel @goldenjoyboyy @gracelessbeach @jenmakeusin10 @dagma18 @atargcvnt @iidontgiveafuckuniverse @ammo23 @qyburnsghost @ithoughtulikedme @avidreader73

Let me know if you want to be tagged

[soxcietyy]

Temptation

Chapter 4 -> Chapter 5

Your dad is tired of you bringing home these unworthy men. None of them being fit to take care of you or to be given the family business since you are the only daughter. He decides to find you someone fit to be your husband and receive help from the father of the church. That’s when you meet Yuta, though just because he goes to church doesn’t mean he’s much of a saint

Mafia, murder, violence, mentions of religion, (will contain other things in the next chapters)

" Yu!! You won’t believe what I got at the store today!" You shout as you look for him around the house.

He could believe what you got because he was right there with you! He would have sent a guard to watch you but he couldn’t have you thinking something was wrong right off the bat. He had to pretend to live a normal like for the meantime. At least when you guys are married you wouldn’t be able to run so easily.

The second he got in the house he speed walked into his office. It seemed to be his only safe spot from you because you knew you weren’t allowed in there. He couldn’t handle another "what I got for my wedding haul". You did this every day and he felt like he was about to start throwing things. He didn’t know having a woman in his home would be this hard.

The other girl before you was more quiet, scared, and did everything he asked of her but you were the opposite. Every time you entered a room it’s as if the dark and lonely atmosphere vanished and transformed into bright blinding happiness. He wasn’t used to this type of thing. He just slept with woman and threw them onto the streets right after. He never thought about marriage until now because his cousin talked him into this.

"Yuta, this business is all about family. About caring for one another and helping each other out. You’re too harsh on our people. You don’t even consider them family, it always more like "your men"" Gojo holds a cigar in his finger as he admired the fat object. He sat in his abnormally big office with a huge grin on his face. He never failed to wear it no matter the situation.

"I’m just not a family type of guy." Yuta leans back into the chair he sat in.

Gojo has been nagging him about the same thing over and over. All of this because Yuta always decides to resolve situations with violence instead of terms. His cousin swears up and down that getting a woman would soften him up more and if he got kids it would be even better.

So he sent him down south to a middle class area. He gave him the address to a church so he could find himself a good girl with morals and values.

"Yuta dinner is almost ready! Hurry up so we can say grace before the food gets cold!" You yell to grab his attention.

Unfortunately it seems like he got a girl with too strong of morals and values. Letting a heavy sigh out he stands up to leave. How do normal people do this? How does his cousin get with so many girls if they all act somewhat like this?

Maybe asking for advice wouldn’t hurt but his ego would be scratched. Would he rather get help from his lovely friend Hakari who will most likely make fun of him? Or should he just learn how to deal with you. He contemplated last week to call him after the bathroom situation but he thought it was too soon. Now though he felt like it was needed so he could keep his sanity.

Grabbing the phone he drags the rotary dial to the numbers. He waited a few minutes as it rang, immediately being connected his his friend.

"Hello?" Hakari speaks.

"Come over for dinner, also bring Kirara."

"What? Is there an emergency?!" He ask concerned.

"No, but I need to drink and I can’t even leave the house unless it’s an emergency. I just can’t be alone right now with her." Yuta says before hanging up.

He’s been around women a good amount of times but seeing you walk around in your tiny tight clothes made him feel a type of way.

"Sweetheart we’re having guest over for dinner." Yuta says as he turns the corner to see you in a small slim dress. Your behind and breast protruding beautifully under those cloths.

Yes you were annoying time by time but he couldn’t resist looking at you when you dressed that way. He found himself turning around to avoid looking at you so he could control himself. He just wanted to rip that dress off and have his way with you. He wanted you under him so he could see if that smile you always wore would fall off. Fuck, why was he acting like a horny teenage boy? He’s slept around with a dozen girls so why were you so different? What made him want you this bad when he basically already had you? Was is because you were playing hard to get? Because he was restricted to only look at you?

"Visitors at this hour?" You say

Turning around to look at you he sees you taking something out the oven. Though when you did you bent over and he could see everything you had under there. Quickly turning back around he grips onto the chair in front of him. He must wait a two more weeks.

"Yes darling, why don’t you go upstairs and get dressed into something more modest." Yuta says as he takes the chicken out of your hands.

Running up stairs you scurry to get ready leaving him to his thoughts once again.

He needed to talk to Hakari about the recent negotiations with the police. They’ve been acting a bit weird lately. It might be time to give them a new bribe. The only reason they been able to get away with lots of things was because they were in good terms with the police. They couldn’t just let their relationship collapse like that. Maybe it was time to work the the Zenin too. They had a huge influence with the police and own half of the station somehow. The Gojo family was in tight cahoots with them because of past situations. They might have to put differences aside if Satoru wanted this mission to get done.

Hakari got here in no time. He arrived in a casual suite and his lovely significant other in a casual dress. Letting them inside he grabbed Hakari by the arm pulling him back. He needed to talk to him before dinner so he wouldn’t throw it up later.

"We need to have a serious discussion about Heart." Yuta whispered in his ear.

Hakari rolled his eyes and waved Kirara off.

"Can it be after dinner? I can already smell the food from here and I’m starving." Hakari said with a long face.

Yuta glares at him for saying such a thing. He nodded him to the direction of his office. With a loud sigh Hakari began walking towards the double door. He wasn’t much of a thinker but he knew how to get the job done. If you ever need to get on someone, always bet on him.

"Boys arnt you guys going to eat?! The food is going to get cold!" You say stopping them from taking a further step.

Hakari turn around with a smile on his face. "Of course Ms-"

"Darling we’re kind of in the middle of something. How about later?" Yuta tried to shoo you away.

You stood by the entrance of the dinning room with your arms crossed. "Absolutely not Yu, Hakari is it? You must be hungry. Come on and eat I made such a delicious roasted chicken."

"Sorry Okkotsu but I won’t deny the your soon to be bride." Hakari laughed as he walked into the other room.

Yutas left eye twitched in what he didn’t know was anger or annoyance. He dragged his hand down his face before walking into the dinning room. As he entered he could see that the guest had made them selfs comfortable. Their eyes glued to all the dishes you were setting down. The chicken, bread, corn, mashed potatoes, and more. Ever since you got here you liked to spend most of your time cooking. You liked to try new recipes and make them all at once.

Yuta sat down at his usual seat and watched you serve his food for him. He couldn’t lie your cooking was so good. Sometimes when you irritate him really badly you’ll serve him dessert and his mood would change entirely.

Putting his plate infront of him you serve everyone else and finally take your seat. Yuta watched as Hakari grabbed his fork and was about to dig in.

Yuta gave him a harsh kick in the shin making his friend drop his fork back down. He did this for revenge and because he knew what you were about to do.

"Alright guys let’s give grace!" You say as you hold your hands out.

Kirara gladly accepts your hands and gets ahold of Hakari. Yuta hesitate but grabbed Hakaris because why I’m the world would he want to hold his hand.

"Alright Yu it’s your turn." You say smiling at him.

"Lord god, heavily father, bless us and these thy gifts-" when Yuta finished he quickly lets go of Hakari’s hand. Though he planted a kiss on yours and thanked you for making such a wonderful meal for everyone.

As everyone ate Yutas temper seemed to have vanished. Maybe he was just hungry and needed to eat a bit. Everytime he took a bite of his food he was reminded why he hasn’t made his men kill you. He could always make it seem like a accident and look for a new bride. But you were special some how.

When everyone was done Yuta excuses him self and dragged Hakari into his office. He made sure the door was shut before grabbing two glass cups and a bottle of whiskey. Setting them down In front of Hakari, he took his seat and rested his elbows on the desk.

"You know about the Heart situation, it’s getting more dangerous." Yuta says. "Ever since he’s been all friendly with the mayor things have gotten harder for us to transport. Iv gotten reports about him being in my territory. Not only that but he’s been in yours multiple times." Yuta continues. "Why do you think he’s snooping around?"

"It’s kind of obvious he’s going to rob some of our production. Wait why don’t I know anything about him being in my area?" Hakari raises his brow.

If Yuta had to differentiate the two groups he would simply put it on the perspective of professionalism. Hakari was more in the underground side of the mafia. He hired hooligans and people with bad reputation. He didn’t care much about getting caught because nobody knows how he looks. Not even his own men knew unless they were his right side but that would have to be Kirara. Yuta on the other hand was the face of the organization. Also he had a role in the Gojo franchise. He had to keep his image clean but be good at his job at the same time. His people were made up of big politicians, lawyers, and anyone who owed the company even a penny. All they had to do was sign a contract saying that they’ll be given what they want but in return they will need to present their loyalty to them.

"Maybe you need to keep your men in check. Do you know how many things slip under your radar? You need to keep an eye out or we’ll be fucked. What’s going to happen when you’re dead? Who’s going to run your group? You don’t even have a heir for down the line." Yuta says trying to help his friend open his eyes.

"You don’t have one either! Trust me I have this all under control. Hey let’s just invite the don’ Zenin to your wedding. Let’s shape a good friendship with him." Hakari takes the top off the glass bottle.

"I’m getting married to have a heir and because Saturo told me to get one. Also don’t let that name slip out if your mouth again. He doesn’t go by Zenin, it’s don Fushiguro." Yuta watches as Hakari pours an even amount of liquid into both glasses.

"Your stressing too much man, I know your nervous about your wedding. You’ll do great trust me. Speaking of it seems you have found someone who won’t back down easily." Hakari snickers.

"Nothing a little teaching and discipline can’t do. I’ll have her acting like she should be in no time. The only reason I’m letting it slide for now is so she’ll have no problem getting married."

The phone starting ringing making them both turn towards that direction. Picking up the phone Yuta waits for them to speak first.

"Hello? Is the Yuta Okkotsu?" A woman spoke.

"Yes, who is this?" Yuta shrugs at Hakari who was trying to listen in.

"I need a favor from you and was wondering if I could make an appointment with you?" She said.

"Why of course you can, how about tomorrow morning."

"No I need to do it now please, I don’t know if I’ll be able to make it tomorrow." Her voice cracked at the end.

"Yea come on over, my address is-"

Hakari sat in the chair with his arms folded. "Wasn’t this supposed to be a guys night? We’re talking about business here. You need to keep ya clients in check, they’re walking over you."

Yuta put the phone down and took a sip of his drink. He could feel it running down his throat. "Don’t tell me how to run my business. Get your gun ready."

Usually the ones that run in late come looking for trouble. Last time someone tried to ambush him but luckily his men were on stand by. Tonight he was on his own with Hakari. The house would usually be buzzing. People running in and out and guards would be posted up. They had to go away for the time being. The second the wedding was over they would be back in business. He saw how you acted when he had his men in the back of the car, couldn’t have that again.

Walking out the office Hakari pulled Kirara to the side and whispered into their ear. She gave him a firm nod and ran to grab you from the living room. From the looks of it you seemed to be showing her the wedding plans.

"Girls why don’t you go upstairs in the room. I’ll bring you some tea and …" he turns to look at Hakari who looks at him confused. "Some pastries?"

"Oh Yu that would be wonderful!" You look at him with thoes big doe eyes.

Yuta smiled as you and Kirara walked upstairs. He waited till he saw you guys shut the door to drop the act. Walking to a table that held a big vase he reached his hand under it and pulled a gun out. Hakari pulled his out from his fat coat and loaded it up. The both of them sat in the living room watching the time go by until there was a nock at the door.

Hakari informed Yuta that he made sure Kirara would keep you out of sight no matter what. That lifted some sort of pressure he had on his chest.

The both of them walked to the door and opened it. Outside stood a petite woman with blonde hair in a bob. Her green eyes glistened with tears and her pink lips quivered. Yuta couldn’t believe his eyes, the person who stood in front of them was no other than Ms.Heart.

This had to be done sick joke. Pulling his gun up he aimed it at her head. He wasn’t a fool to fall for something like this. Hakari jumped seeing Yutas action. Usually men would hesitate to kill a woman but Yuta was different.

The woman back up slowly trying to avoid the gun. "Please Don Yuta listen to me, I have an urgent request." She said with a pleading look.

Yuta looked at her dead in the eye, trying to make sure this woman wasn’t deceiving him. When he had finished evaluating her he put him gun down and let her into her office. Hakari followed along pretending to be one of Yutas workers.

"How may I help you tonight." Yuta said dryly.

"I need you to kill my husband." She said immediately.

If Yuta were drinking he would have spat everything out. That was such a wild request especially coming from his wife. He was confused on why she would want that if she lived such a perfect life because of him. He had so many questions running through his mind but kept his cool.

"Why is that?"

"He’s a stone cold murderer. Don I just connected the dots to everything. I know who he really is, I know who you are. You guys arnt just ordinary business men, you guys are people who kill for what they want."

Hakari looked nervous. He could see his forehead beginning to damp. If this is how she reacted about the truth then how were you going to react?

"Okay but I don’t understand why you want to set a hit on Hearts."

"Last night I overheard him talking in a meeting. He killed my family because my father didn’t want me to be with him. I thought they got into a freak accident! I also overheard his plans and he’s up to no good Don." She said as she started to breath heavily. "Yuta he’s going to come for you. On your wedding day he’s going t-"

With a blink of the eye she went from talking to having a bullet in the middle of her head. Her jaw went slack as her body became limp. Yuta snapped his head towards Hakari who had his hands up.

"It wasn’t me man, look." Hakari pointed at the window that now had a hole in it.

Yuta ran his hand through his hair. This was starting to get too exhausting. Just when he was about to find out everything but at least he knew were to start. "Get the girls." Grabbing the phone he dialed a number. It rung once, twice, three times until someone picked up the phone.

"Father, I hate asking for favors but you need to move the date to this week."

It didn’t take him much convincing to get everything in line. He then called a group of men by to clean up this mess. He needed to dispose of this body quickly without you seeing but he also needed you near by. Someone had just easily shot a bullet into his house. He had to keep you by his side no matter what. Walking out he finds you sitting in the living room with a concerned look.

"Oh Yu, did you hear that loud gun shot?" You said standing up.

He quickly approached you and sat you right back down. He rubbed you back trying to ease you. "It’s okay, it was just near by." He whispers.

It was absolutely not fine. It was embarrassing knowing that a fool could get so close to his property to do that. That means that people always had the opportunity to kill him in one shot. He would have to build a concrete wall rather than the bar one he had. Maybe some more plants so they could cover the house a bit. More guards on stand by to keep watch.

"I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep on my own tonight. Do you think you can sleep with me?" You say squeezing his right arm.

Maybe this situation was not so bad after all…

Yuta had sent you to help prepare the guest bedroom. Yuta had offered his friend to stay over if they like and well they were scared of getting shot at on their way home. While you occupied yourself with that he let the cleaners in. He also told them to stand guard tonight and they would receive a bonus. Since he had offered his men a month off work and managed to interrupt it.

Leaving the work to them Yuta went upstairs to find you laying in bed already. A genuine smile spread across his face when he sees you laying there with an empty spot for him. If people would have witnessed this they would have thought he was happy because of you, but he would say it was because he finally get to sleep in his bed again.

[the-desilittle-bird]

Hello my darling! If you don't mind, I'd like to ask for something similar to "For a Better Future", but for the prince Daemon. Maybe even a little more tragic... Thank you very much! Love you!

AN- Took me some time but here it is... set after Rhaenyra's wedding to Laenor; with the assumption of Rhea still being alive and Daemon not marrying Laena (My fearless love ❤)...

Thank you and Enjoy your reading!

For Them

Daemon Targaryen x Sister!Reader

Summary- The ghost of past never leaves; it comes back to haunt, in a way or the other...

Tag List- @minaxcarter, @eliseline, @blackhoodlea, @little-moonbeam-666, @neenieweenie, @omgsuperstarg, @avalyaaa, @shopping, @bbgmonsay, @michelle-26, @krokietinio, @hc-geralt-23, @chevelledahuman, @thekayarlene, @narcy, @helloitsshitzulover, @muushwrites, @daringboba, @bi2simps, @issybee0611, @yariany02, @agathe, @5moremin, @candypurplebutterfly, @saraelizabeth26, @moon-light1415, @targaryenmoony, @stargaryenxshelby, @instabul, @shine101, @hyacinthus007, @mcam623, @eudximoniakr, @carissa_griffin7777, @marvelescvpe, @severewobblerlightdragon, @deltamoon666, @thatgirlthatreadswattpad, @ultrav0lence, @savagemickey03, @sunmoon-01, @literishdegree99, @watercolorskyy, @Lady-Juliettes, @cherryaemond, @chaotic-fangirl-blog, @nats-whore

Warnings- Quite Angsty and Daemon v/s Otto

GIF Credits to @leave-me-colourless

Life has been a living imprison of hell for Daemon in the last few weeks. His claim on the throne is gone and now, his niece becomes the claimant of the Iron Throne and his brother's titles once he leaves the world to join their ancestors in fire.

His bronze bitch has written to him; threatening that if something is to come to their daughter than she shall have his head for it. The audacity she possessed to write those words to the Lord Commander of the Gold Clocks.

His daughter. The sole good thing in his life, is busy dancing and laughing at something amusing; lively and happy in her own little world, with her selfless cousin.

(Y/N)'s eldest son.

He and his little sister have always been close, since her birth honestly. Their parents always content with how Daemon would stick to her side; protecting her from everything. Viserys found it amusing but who cared?

The closeness turned into a sweet relation between them where love manifested underneath sarcastic comments and eye rolls. But then, Daemon found out of the pleasures he could experience in the Flea Bottom. The pleasure houses and taverns became his second home; and (Y/N) grew distant to him.

It was to no surprise that she wished to protect her dignity and reputation in the court of Jaehaerys, their dear grandfather. She was his favourite, also their grandmother's. And why would she not be? She was a great lady, with sharp features of Old Valyria and wits to match them.

After the Old King dies and Viserys ascends the throne, Daemon proposes to marry his sister in the traditions of their house and of Old Valyria and continue their bloodline as a man and wife should; but he was far too late.

Otto Hightower, the cunt of man and the Hand of the new King, had already asked for the princess' hand in marriage; unifying their houses with a holy union.

Daemon had almost murdered that son of a bit h that day, if only the King's Guard hadn't restrained him and (Y/N) hadn't asked him to stop. Tears slipped past her cheeks as she assured him that all was fine; that she was fine, everything was.

And soon after that night, he found himself marrying Rhea Royce and consummating their marriage in a drunken haze; moaning his sister's name instead of his lady wife's. That night was enough to make her bear his child; his daughter.

He had watched silently from the shadows as the Hand married his sweet sister; consummated the deed on their first night and impregnated her with his seed. Three children, he counted, and fourth on the way.

The eldest of them, a boy bearing the name of their father, had took an interest in his daughter, Alyssa. They made a beautiful couple together, Daemon had to admit, but they resembled them in the worst way.

Alyssa had took after her father, inheriting nothing from her mother but her sharp wits and bold statements. On the other hand, Baelon had nothing of his father; everything in him was his mother's, everything (Y/N)'s.

"They look beautiful together."

Tears brim up as he turned to the serene face of his sister, heavy with the Shittower's child... again. Daemon had noticed that the Hand wasn't as blind as his brother; letting (Y/N) recover fully from her previous pregnancy before moving on to another.

At least something isn't bad about him.

"They resemble us." The grunt was loud, capturing the attention of all who sat on the table. Alicent. Otto. (Y/N)'s third child, Saera and Viserys. But all the lady did was dismiss them with a smile as she turned to her dear brother; a protective hand on her bump as she spoke.

"Isn't it the beauty of it?" She queried, wisdom lining each word of hers, just as their grandmother. Daemon had always loved that about her; how she took a small piece from their dead ancestors. May it be their mother's rebellious nature; or Alyssane's wisdom.

"I see no beauty in it; but only tragedy," he whispers, reaching for his cup of wine which he gulped down in three huge sums. Turning back to his sister, he only focused on her face; one which was turning much identical as their mother's as she aged.

"We can change their fates, Dae. We only need to fix our broken relationship," she replied calmly, placing a hand on his shoulder as he rolled his eyes. From his peripheral view, he saw Alyssa grab Baelon's collar, leaning up to place a chaste kiss on the corner of his lips.

"How can we? Your husband won't let his son marry Alyssa," he growled, watching as Otto kept a vigilant eye on their children. "Baelon isn't just his son. He is equally mine and he will marry whosoever he wishes to."

A silence fell upon them and Daemon was catapulted back in the times when they would ride their dragons together; acting to be Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wife Visenya. Those were the times of delight; where they were just themselves.

"For them, Daemon."

"Fine," he grunted, his eyes burning into hers as she smiled brightly at him. Her fingers squeezing his hands reassuringly, before standing up with a slight groan.

"I would have loved to go riding with you, but this little one has made walking hard for me," he hears her say, which only made him laugh as he shook his head. His hand hovered over her enlarge stomach, eyes glancing up in a silent permission.

"Go ahead."

Caressing her bump softly, he felt the baby move inside her; a light sensation of it kicking just beneath his hand had him tear up as he smiled. During the time Rhea was with Alyssa, she never let him come near her, lest touch her bump. To feel the sensation father's expect to feel the most; it filled him with ecstasy.

Standing up, he turned to watch their sweet children together. His eyes softening as he saw the reflection of young Daemon and (Y/N) dancing in front of him; happy and beside them, was a Lord and Lady. Both old and happy.

The scene was almost metaphorical; a past they had and a future they could have had if he had been quick in front of him. And while he would forever mourn the future he didn't have, Daemon was grateful for the moments spent in her arms; of peace and solace and love.

"For them."

[themotherofblood]

Dear author, you don't know how happy I am to see that your ad requests are open. That said can I get an extremely romantic, overwhelming, passionate and rough smut with Daemon x Martell fem reader inspired by the song "Ang laga de", please?

you have no fucking idea how happy this ask made me, like kicking my legs and smiling like a lunatic happy. I have envisioned this very smut scene at least a hundred times. It is a little dark, both Daemon and Y/N are kinda crazy in this. Madly in love, literally

masterlist

smut, talks of murder, blood, loss of virginity, oral (f), more blood, fingering and evil daemon being a softie.

Daemon Targaryen x fem!Martell Reader

“I refuse to be your mistress!”

That is the last thing you had said to your beloved dragon prince.

The Dornish were said to be a shameless lot regardless, and here you fell for a married man.

The Rhoynish gods were laughing at your stupidity, there wasn’t even a lure placed for you to catch. You simply fell for him, hard.

What had been a month long endeavour to see your younger sister wed a distant Targaryen cousin. Turned to your own nightmare. You had never craved for something as much as you had Daemon Targaryen. His flirtatious deeds, bringing your flowers and trinkets had bouncing like a little girl. It was frustrating, you had tried courting before and yet it felt flat, you truly believed that men simply were not capable of pleasing you. Until he came along, him and that stupid red dragon that made you want Daemon even more

He became the thing you wanted to cry to the gods about, the sweets yours parents wouldn’t let you have or that fine silk dress that was far too big for you to wear. His niece Rhaenyra, also egged this fire further and not once had either of them mentioned that he was married! It was painful, really fucking painful, learning that his loyalty was sworn to another.

You’d spent nights unable to sleep on foreign beds, awake in the royal gardens of the Red Keep, where the prince kept you company till the sun graced the horizon and you had succumbed to slumber with your head in his lap. There was serenity, shared comfort that dwelled between the two of you. You had heard stories, counted first hand of the nights he’d spend in brothels with his whores. You didn’t care, you wanted him.

“I refuse to be your mistress.”

It was a lie, you would happily become his salacious secret should he have asked a second time. There was no dignity, no obligations or customs, to you there was just him and the one truth that boiled your blood hot. You had already given him a piece of you heart as you boarded the ship to return home. You wanted him to ask again, to whisk you away on his dragon and yet he allowed you the curtesy to return home with your honour intact.

“If there is anything the crown can provide for Dorne, do not hesitate.” Viserys coughed his words out as he presented his farewells to you in a crowded court

“Should I ask, you wouldn’t be able to provide it your grace.” You wandered, keeping your head low in respect for the man and your wants

“What is it that a king cannot provide,” Otto Hightower questioned, taking offence to your wording.

“Daemon Targaryen.” You stated, gasps echoed across the throne room. You had committed a crime, stained your honour for good. You didn’t care nor did you give Daemon a last look before boarding your ship.

Honour- what was it compared to feel of being in his arms? What was devotion if not sound of his voice relaying Valyrian poetry? What was love, if not your heart that drowned in his blood?

What was love- if not the letter of his wife’s untimely injury?

Rhea Royce, bedridden of her paralysis, remained frozen and useless to her husband.

There was much that Daemon Targaryen was capable of, much that you were capable of. The sheer fire that burned your passions would have soaked your own hands in Rhae Royce’s blood.

She didn’t love him.

You did.

Then came your brother, his stupid alliance and vengeance against the Targaryen’s was costing you your sanity, you had pleaded with him for weeks and then you succumbed to the insanity that perhaps there was venom in your heart for whoever kept you from your dragon prince.

It festered for days, the mirrors in your room painted with clay. Refusing to look at yourself until he laid eyes upon you as his wife.

You had sat at supper with your brother, his disappointment was clear. You wanted to lay with the enemy, if loving Daemon was treachery then you would happily lay your hands forwards retribution. There should have been sorrow, a searing burn of guilt- he was your family, your blood. You shared a cradle and a mother; nothing more. Your sweet brother, for now was thorn digging into your palm as you admired the flourishing bud of devotion. He had to be plucked out.

The forbidden subject was brought up once more, there wasn’t a request in sight but a demand from his brazen sister.

“Let me be his, let him have me.” A prayer, Qoren grew irate over your insolent behaviour.

He loved you dearly, his sweet sister who was blinded by the rage of love. He wouldn't allow it, claiming to chain you to your chamber if you made an attempt to contact him. You said nothing as you nibbled on your food, spatters of blood dripped onto your pie. You could feel your throat constricting and yet it was nothing compared to the agony you had been in without Daemon.

Qoren coughed profusely, blood dripping from his nose as his eyes widened at your betrayal. In truth he had betrayed you first, choosing to keep you away from the one thing you had ever truly wanted. You could taste the copper on your lips, corners of your eyes welling with tears as you ripped the small pendant from your neck; even with the antidote to the poison in your system. The despair never stopped.

An unpleasant event truly, yet what was anyone to do, Qoren had no heirs and your blood-bled mustard. In the true picture of your house’s words, you remained unbent; raging on in sheer will for one man.

Even tainted in blood, you wore white for him; to remain pure, awaiting him to paint you in the colours of his house

He will return for me, for my love

There was no assurance that he would fly to you, no evidence that Rhae Royce’s accident wasn’t a mere coincidence; yet your arrogance had you rubbing rose oil onto your skin.

My dragon would return to me, you were sure of it.

For days the men sworn to the Martells had sighted the skies day and night, all in hopes of seeing a red dragon looming over the palace. The very ladies that had dressed you since you were a child urged for you to see reason, men often toyed with naive noble ladies for their amusement. He hadn't toyed with you, you were his cherished doll, one he stole because he simply could.

“Princess,” A young squire heaved, a folded parchment in between his fingers. Sealed with a three-headed dragon.

Your wish was my command princess.

Even without a name, the curls on his lettering were indicative enough an answer for you.

He had indeed harmed Rhea Royce for you, just as you had killed your brother Qoren for him. In your heart, you knew he would find you soon; just as your orders for exotic flowers and wines were distributed to merchants, people in your household began to whisper of your delusions.

Then the black skies graced your hopes, almost taunting all those who questioned your faith in him. The moon, full as is lit the ocean in its milky glow, from those very black skies came your faith. Loud whistles of a dragon echoed through Old Palace. Yet another young squire mumbled out in laboured breaths.

You smiled to yourself as your ladies sat in silent shock, their efforts in dressing you in white and gold would bear fruit tonight. Their feet sprung to action, the jangles from their anklets were muffled in your ears, and you just smiled to yourself. You hiked you skirts up as you skipped down the corridor, the jangles on your gold anklets seemed to have been cursing everybody who questioned you.

The doors to the Old Palace opened as Daemon Targaryen rode in on horseback, and along with him came a small entourage. He sat tall atop his horse, finally a Targaryen worthy of conquering Dorne. You were sure your ancestors were screaming bloody murder, shunning you and wishing you ill will, and yet as you stood at the enterance of the Old Palace, your father’s name meant nothing infront of the man you loved.

“In a bustling court you asked for me, may all see; I have arrived.” Daemon proclaimed as he stood with his arms out. You feet hurried down the steps, hoping to grace him with an eternal embrace and yet he raised his hand to stop you dead in your tracks

“I applaud you, for a devotion even I was unknown to. You stripped yourself bare of your honour and dignity for a relationship you had no right over.” He retorted, you couldn’t understand was her perturbed? Is that what he was here for, to lecture you?

“What reasoning do you have for this madness?”

“Love.” You stated, even the word in itself felt lacking for the true tempest that swirled in your environs. It had to be bigger, all consuming.

“The one revolts against the mightiest of dragons, that love,” You walked towards him “The one that fearlessly professes her devotion at court, that love.”

“When she sees her beloved and forgets her family, that love.” You eyes glossed over, consuming your skin in wild fire, begging him to claim you already

His hands harshly grasped your forearms, shaking sense into your as he spoke.

“The Faith and my brother’s court will never see you as one of theirs,” He warned.

“I accept.” You smiled.

“Marrying me would have you walking on fire!” He reasoned, hoping you would back away; a flower far to delicate for him to touch. He would give his life for you to not wither.

“I accept.” You nodded.

“I have a wife, Rhea.” He grimaced at the thought of his bronze bitch “I shall never be able to provide you the title of my first wife.” His hand trailed up to hold your cheek, stroking away the moisture that had looked below your eyes.

“Taking my name as yours will bring nothing but notoriety.” He kissed you cheek.

“I accept.”

“Then let it be known, the world would remember us as one,” He moved backwards gesturing towards the priest in his entourage.

“The Watergardens,” You stated, gesturing your servants to lead the priest to the location.

Daemon had allowed you moments alone, your household torn over what was happening. While many sighed in relief, perhaps you would finally eat; let life make your skin glow yet again. The storm gave away and your lamp was still burning bright. He presented you with a head piece made of khaki cloth, amber and rubies with stray pieces of shells. You handmaidens were quick with it, pinning it onto your hair as Daemon made his arrangements. Caraxes looked over the Watergardens, whistling just as ecstatically as his rider as he perched himself on the beach mount.

The universe seemed to have been in agreement of your emotions, the wind on the beach picked up; cooling your overwhelmed and hot skin. The skies were clear, twinkling in stars and the full moon as the complimented the low tided waves crashing ashore. Your own servants had been quick, decorating the gardens with yellow and red candles and exotic Bravosi flower arrangements placed on vases. Daemon awaited you by the shore line.

Your hands held a dhanuchi, clay burners that held sizzling coal pieces accompanied with sandalwood. You hiked your skirts up, walking towards Daemon, counting your steps as your bare feet hit the sand, you were trying your hardest to breathe; he stood their awaiting you looking as galant as the day he received you at the Blackwater ports, it was from that day you knew your fate would be painted black in his name.

Daemon turned, toying with a black obsidian dagger as his eyes softened the second he saw you. He held his hand out for you take as you stopped next to him, placing the dhanuchi at the alter.

“This will hurt,” He whispered, gesturing to the dragon glass daggers. You shook your head, no pain would compare to the three moons you had spent without him. He lifted the edge against your bottom lip, drawing blood as he gently slashed a cut, he guided your hands to do the same. The taste of copper filled your mouth, a stinging sensation ran through your lips; one you knew would only soothe once you felt his lips on yours.

Blood of two, joined as one

You cut a gash on your palm, wincing as blood trickled to the surface; Daemon did the same with his before grasping your bloodied palm within his. The priest wrapped a silk across your palms, your lover’s lilac eyes held concern for your pains and yet wild adoration. You were to be his. Blood began to trickle into the cup of wine placed under you as the priest continued.

Ghostly flame and a song of shadows

Daemon marked your forehead with his blood, you followed his lead as the priest instructed the symbol you drew, he then offered you the cup of wine laced with your blood. You eyes never once left Daemon’s as you sipped on the strong wine before giving him the cup to do the same.

Two hearts as embers, forged in the fourteen fires

His hands came to rest at your cheek, both growing restless of the vows as he wiped the dripping blood from your lips.

A future promised in glass, the stars stand witness.

You pulled yourself closer to him, one might say you were dazed from the blood loss, in truth it was Daemon’s lilac eyes, how his hands caressed your skin. The wanting fires that engulfed the alter seeming leave everything in ashes but the two of you.

The vows spoken through time, of light and darkness.

He whispered along with the priest.

There was no shame in the way your lips crashed against one another, you tasted his blood on your tongue and yet his hands scorched your skin, almost consuming your body whole as his hands wandered everywhere as his lips claimed you. A stray tear fell from your eyes as your held onto his face, letting his tongue explore yours. You couldn’t breathe from the passion of it all, not that you cared; you life was now his to do with as he pleased.

You rested on Daemon’s lap as he lounged on your window bed, working a healers poultice on the cut of his palm, still lingering in the after effects of wedding. His hands gently returned the favour as he wrapped yours in gauze, you prayed that it would scar; it was a testament for your devotion.

“There- all fixed sweet wife.” Daemon whispered, nudging his nose against your cheek. Heat immediately rose to you cheek as you looked away, you were his wife.

You shuffled off of him, you walked to the steaming dhanuchi that you had carried back to your bed chambers, you bed chambers smelled sweet from it aroma. You had lit in hopes of being blessed by the fertitly goddess, that your marriage remaind pure and secure for eternity. You pushed you skirts always as you climbed onto your bed, letting the steam grace and bless your bed with your unconditional wish.

You dropped the burner on the floor after, letting it submerge the room in its sweet smoke. You awaited your husband as he rid himself of his tunic, you shuffled closer as you sat on your knees. Admiring his toned body and taking account for every battle scar on his skin that you would spend the rest of your life healing with your love.

“Will- will you bed me now, husband?” You whispered, your lips dangerously closer to his, begging for another kiss.

“Oh, I plan to do more than just bedding you.” His lips moulded against yours once more as his hands tugged on the ties of your blouse.

“I conquer Dorne tonight,” He teased, peppering kisses to your temple down to you cheek. He pushed you back on the bed, almost immediately pouncing on top.

He grasped your wrists with one hand, pushing them above your head as he laid siege upon your neck. Laying warm- wet kisses and bruising nips at your neck; his hair tickling at your bare skin as your squirmed underneath him. There was no reasoning to the gentle throb that began pulsing at your core- you rubbed your thigh closer to make it halt. He pushed aside your unlaced blouse, your chest heaved as he suckled on your breast, pulling and licking the hardening pebble in his mouth.

You back arched if the bed, pushing your chest into his mouth, small open mouthed gasps left your mouth as his fingers danced past your navel; yanking on the fastening strings of skirts. His hands pushing your skirts and small clothes down at once, unwrapping you like present as your laid in his ordered positioning.

You succumbed to your exposure, you moved your head in shame, opting to look out at the glaring moon as it witnessed your de-flowerinng. Daemon took offence to your actions, using his fingers to guide your chin towards him as he groaned in disapproval.

“Three moons apart and you dare look away from me?” Daemon cocked his brow at you, freeing your hands as he ventured lower on your body.

“I- forgive me, my prince.” You whispered, your lungs refraining you from speaking any louder

“Husband,” He corrected as he pushed you legs apart.

“Husband.” You mewled in shame as his fingers stroked your folds that looked by the minute. His lips latched onto your inner left thigh, sucking and nipping at the skin.

All the while his eyes remained devious yet absurdly comforting, the two fingers that drew circles on your thighs or a small groans he left against your skin, indicative of how much he was truly enjoying himself. Just for his own satisfaction he marked your thighs at several spots, leaving darkening marks for you to reminisce over in the coming fortnight.

You felt intoxicated, revelling in the way his tongue wet your outer folds before indulging in the saccharine delight that was your cunt, a shameless moan echoed through your bed chambers as you felt his tongue flicking at a much sensitive spot. He moaned against your mound the second your taste hit his tongue.

His palm, large enough to lay flat over your soft belly to hold you flush a against the bed as he took his liberties, lapping at your like his last meal had been consumed days before. His eyes bore into yours, his own demeanour turning to command, strumming the pleasures of your body to his own rhythm.

“Such a sweet delight,” He complimented, mostly to distract you from his finger easing into your tightness. You immediately clenched down on the intrusion. “This shall ease the discomfort.” He elaborated before spitting onto your folds

Your head fell backwards in shame, focusing on the comforting caresses in your torso as Daemon plunged his finger in knuckle deep. You couldn't take the prolonging tasks no longer. You whined, pawing at Daemon’s trousers.

“Please, please have me already.” You begged, you wanted to feel him within you. You could careless of the pain or discomfort, you just wanted to be one

“Take them off,” He instructed, your hands immediately worked on unbuttoning his pants, before digging your fingers into her rear to pull them down. His cock- that thing hung pliant between his legs. Part of you looked up at him curiously, and the other half wondered how your envious would engulf such a monstrosity. Your eyes silently asked for permission, to which Daemon simply stroked your hair as your wrapped your hand around the warm appendage. You were unsure of what to do.

“Stroke it, gently.” He guided you as you followed, feeling his cock twitch in your hands as you moved your hands back and forth. His tip soon glistened in moisture leaking from within. All Daemon could think of were your sweet lips wrapped around his cock and yet there was an eternity to teach you of the pleasures of the flesh. “Good girl,” He cooed.

He urged you to lay back against the pillows, working his length to harden to its full potential. He hesitated, having taken many maiden heads before, he needed this to be delicate as he tore through yours. He circled his tip at your sensitive rose bud before pushing at your entrance. You gasped out loud, letting you arms wrap around his shoulders as he inched forwards.

The stretch of his efforts shot a stinging sche through your pelvis, and he halted. Kissing your cheek and cooing at you in an attempt to alleviate even a fraction of the discomfort you were in. He advanced all the way in, hoping to let your ride out the waves of pain; you cried out louder and yet there was a little more left to go

“Look at me, just me. I shall make it better.” He groaned, hoping to suppress his own pleasures that coursed through his body, your tightness strangling his cock with threats of nearly milking him dry before anything had even begun. He felt selfish for feeling bliss as you silently wept underneath him, he caressed your cheek, the thing he held onto as his lips kissed your face. Peppering kisses to your forehead and your lips, over and over again as he inched forward

“Dae-” You shrieked as he finally bottomed out within you, the pressure of the stretch making your eyes well in more tears. You pulled yourself closer to him, trying to muffle your weeps on the crook of his neck. His arm reaches under you to support your neck. His deeper voice whispered encouragements as he awaited you to adjust to the pain.

“Look at how well you take me,” He whispered in between kisses that he pressed in your temples “Made just for me, aren't you? My sweet little wife.”

“Just for you,” You sniffled, letting yourself rest back against the pillows.

There was a humiliating familiarity in the way your aches encouraged your actions, you shuffled underneath him. Hoping to get him to move and yet he solely focused on doting on your body.

“Husband-” You whimpered, making his eyes shoot to you as they were focused on where the two of you were connected just moments before. He hummed in acknowledgement

“Can you- um please.” You stuttered, almost frustrated at yourself for losing your wording this easy.

“You have to tell me sweet wife, show me what you need.” He asked, urging his will into your answer.

“Please move- I need you to move.” You requested, he smiled before angling his hips backwards; hissing wantonly in the process and you mewled under him. There was pain within the first few thrusts and yet the deranged tendencies of your blood milked pleasure from the pain that subsided to a subtle pressure in your belly.

Daemon lost his composure, uttering vulgarities in your ear; the most obscene of sentences paired with the sweets of names he had picked for you.

“Perfect little hole, taking me so well,” He’d compliment one minute.

“Should have fucked this cunt the first day I laid eyes on you sweet girl,” The next he’d complain of the things he’d regretted.

He held your jaw, a feral smirk adoring his lips as he took your apart, your bangles clicking as your body bounced with his determined thrusts.

“Daemon!” You shrieked, such hurtful pleasure causing you to bed for such sinful things

“Just like that, scream your husband’s name.” He grunted, “Let all of Dorne know who owns this pretty body. Go on tell me.”

“You do, you do.” Cries poured from your lips as you held onto his forearms. “My Daemon,” You moaned as pulled yourself up to kiss his lips.

“Yes, yes sweet girl. All yours.” His deviant smile widened. Your cunt began to flutter around him, such flattery could mean just one thing as Daemon pushed his pelvis against yours, his thrusts grinding at your nub.

“That’s it, just lay there and take my seed,” He growled, his playing again harshly grasping your jaw to make you look at him.

“Dae- Daemon!” The ever impending storm began to paw at your insides,

Not long now- “I want it, I want babes and so much more. Please, please.” You begged to hope that itch would finally give way, and so it did. With no warning and only a scream of your husband’s name, your body erupted in ecstasy.

Daemon groaned out loud, muttering praises of your name, good girl, his sweet girl. Yes, you were. All for him as you loomed on a cloud perched high above the ground, you only registered Daemon’s thrusts faltering and warm filling your core, and then you felt Daemon’s caresses on your skin as you coaxed your heaving body to stability.

“Still with me?” He whispered against your hair and all you could muster was a lazy nod against his chest. You hissed feeling his cock leave your opening, he pushed you through it all. Letting his body weight do the work for you as he pulled himself to sit up along with you.

You finally opened your eyes, blinking away stray tears as he wiped at the trails of moisture on your cheeks. He bundled your exhausted body against his as he lifted you off your bed, walking you along to your chaise before wrapping a spare blanket against both your bodies, almost rocking your vulnerable body to a humming under his breath.

Maids poured into the clear martial bed, they all frowned at the image of their beloved Lady Martell curled against a dragon without a care as you nuzzled against him. Daemon snapped his fingers at them as they began to carry the bloodied sheets away, gesturing to the corner of the room for them to leave it behind. He planned to gift it to his brother’s council, as a warning.

There was nothing anybody could refuse Daemon Targaryen from- that and that he had a new wife. A wife of his choice, a wife he intended on loving until his death bed.

[darkestspring]

Bronze and Silver

a/n: upon popular request i’ve decided to make an expanded second part to my rhea x daemon daughter little blurb which you can find HERE! I was so excited to write the first part so i loved writing this so much.

words: a little over 2k words

It had come from a drunken night between Lady Rhea Royce and her husband (as much as it made her nearly vomit to say that word) Daemon Targaryen. One single night of drunken stupor and only weeks later was it comfirmed that Lady Royce was pregnant.

The maester had gently suggested contacting her husband which she had scoffed at, this baby is hers. Nothing of his, why should she inform her ever so absent and estranged husband.

As she placed her hand on her stomach, a rare smile came over her face. Her baby. Her blood, her child.

At first the pregnancy wasn’t easy, she cursed out everyone who irritated her and her child’s craving for fruit never left, she was amazed by it.

The birth was difficult, the pain overbearing as she screamed her way through it with the help of the maesters.

After nine hours, her child was here. The placed her blood in her arms and she was amazed by her daughter. White hair and bright purple eyes but she had the shape of her nose and the same face as her mother.

Rhea trailed her finger down he daughter’s little nose, in something akin to awe as she cradled her daughter.

“My lady, what name have to thought of. The king gifted you a book of Valyrian names a long time ago. Shall I fetch it?” The servant asked, as the maesters tended to the Lady and her newborn child.

Rhea had scoffed, irritation flashing through her. “This child is a Royce, my blood. Their name shall be fitting of it,”

“Diana.” She declared, looking to the maester. “My daughter shall be Diana Royce, after the goddess of the moon, the hunt and protector of women. My little huntress.” She cooed the last part as her daughter made little sound, her purple eyes staring up at her mother with interest.

Years later, those same purple eyes fill with tears as she clung to her cousin’s clothes. “No, mama can’t be gone! How could such an injustice be served!”

How could Gerold comfort a child who had just lost their mother to the father they never even knew? His little cousin of six.

At the age of six, Diana was talented with a bow and arrow, taking after her mother, the mother she loved that was now dead.

After the funeral processions, Gerold headed to King’s Landing to attend the wedding of Princess Rhaenyra (they had all agreed to keep her existence a secret from her absent father) and Diana snuck into Dragonstone.

She would claim a dragon and take her revenge. She would avenge her mother, who had done nothing but what was expected of her. Let her father learn that there are always consequences for the actions he takes.

As Gerold Royce accuses Daemon Targaryen of Lady Rhea Royce’s murder, Lady Diana Royce-Targaryen sneaks into dragonstone and claims the monstrous Cannibal as her own.

She returns home with a bonded dragon and victory on her tongue as she orders them to bring three goats for her beloved boy.

She’s thirteen when she gets the news that her father’s wife is dead, and then her cousin’s husband is dead, and then her cousin and father marry. She laughs the loudest when she hears what they’re saying about her father. She’s always known he was a murderer, and now others know it too.

She’s fifteen when the call to court comes, they have discovered her existence and wish to see the truth with their own eyes.

“Prepare my things.” She ordered the servants as she sets the letter down. “Back a light back and run me a both. I wish to wear my black riding clothes.”

“Yes, my Lady.” The servants rushed off to get started as smile started to tug at the lips of Lady Diana Royce.

“Oh, this is too funny!” Diana laughs as she leans back into her chair, her purple eyes filled with amusement. “This is getting so much more interesting!”

As she dressed in blackened thick riding leathers, she climbs onto Cannibal’s black. She pets his neck gently with a smile. “It’s gonna be a long ride, boy.” She looks forward to all of it. “Soves!”

The dragon keepers are terrified when she lands, its been years since they’ve seen the cannibal. “He won’t be in the dragon pit.” She reassures them before turning to her dragon. “Soves, Cannibal!”

Cannibal lets out a roar that shakes the foundations around them as he leaps into the sky and disappears from view.

“My Lady.” The knight before her bows and she nods, clasping her hands in front of her. “I will guide you to see the Queen and Lord Hand, your uncle is too busy to entertain today.”

Sick, they mean. Diana knows everything, as any good Lady would when they plot the downfall of their own father.

Diana smiles, tilting her head and her white hair tilts her. She doesn’y say anything as she walks ahead.

“Lady Diana Royce-Targaryen!” The guard at the door announced and with her head high, Diana walked forth. Her eye caught white hair and she turned to look as a boy around her age, with an eyepatch over one eye looking at her with intrigue.

She turned her face back around and stopped in front of her supposed aunt and the hand.

“I welcome you to King’s Landing, Lady Royce.” Alicent greeted the girl, a strained smile filling her face. She had no idea that Daemon had actually had a daughter with his first wife, it was news to her father as well.

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Diana bowed her head to her as she stood still. “I admit, I fear I do not understand why I have been summoned away from my home, The Vale.”

“We were not aware of your existence. None of us were. Not even the king.” Otto stares at the girl of fifteen in front of him as her eyebrows furrow and her eyes narrow. “One might be curious as to why.”

“It was never deemed necessarily. My mother, may the gods protect her departed soul, never deemed it necessary to inform anyone outside of the vale, including my... father.” The word tasted like acid in her mouth and her mask dropped for a second, allowing Alicent and Otto to see her disgust and resentment.

“After her sudden death, we decided to keep this knowledge limited to the Vale. I am a Royce after all.”

Sick satisfaction settled in Otto as he was clued in to the fact that Daemon didn’t know this child existed. This child that they could influence and that they could take under their wing. “Yes, but we know now and you are of marrying age.”

“Yes, and I am also the Lady of the Vale, rider of the monstrous Cannibal. I am many things. I want many things.” Diana spoke, her kind act dropping as she stared at the both of them with irritation.

Aemond was stunned at the words, The Cannibal? No one could tame him because he ate humans and dragons alike but his cousin had? He wanted to talk more to her. His mother and grandfather had told him of the possibility of a betrothal.

“If you wish for me to marry your second son, say so. I tire of games. I want my father’s head. I don’t care about anyone else.” Diana declared, trying to keep a hold on her irritation.

“Lady Diana!” Alicent tried to reprimand her, even if she did feel bad for the girl. She hadn’t had a female figure to look after since she was six.

Otto found amusement in this girl, she knew what she wanted and didn’t hold back. A good asset indeed. “The king has agreed to a betrothal between the lady Diana and Prince Aemond.”

At his name, Aemond stepped forward until he was right next to Diana and she didn’t move an inch.

Diana stared for a minute with her hard gaze before nodding. “The Vale accepts this proposal. As you are all aware, when I come of age, I will rule the Vale as its Lady, that means that Prince Aemond will become the Lord of the Vale alongside me, any children we have will be our successor.”

“We are aware of that.” Alicent nodded, sending a soft look at Aemond who was surprised but also not against the agreement.

“My betrothed.” Aemond held out his hand and Diana finally turned to him, he was struck by the vibrancy in her eyes as she placed her hand in his.

“My betrothed.” She said in return, nodding to the queen and hand as Aemond guided her away.

As he guided her down to the dragon pit, Cannibal landed nearby, startling Aemond and making a smile appear on Diana’s face. “I’m sure you’ll introduce me to Vhagar later but if Cannibal approves of you, I’ll honor our agreement.”

Aemond’s eye darkened as he looked at her. She would honor it anyways, their betrothal was already set. He was already impressed by her. As a dragon, he was known to be possessive over what he considered his.

Cannibal growled as he approached his rider and the other targaryen. His toxic green eye glared into Aemond as Diana walked closer, her hand petting his jaw with soft strokes. “Oh, my best boy.” She whispered before peering over at Aemond. “Come here.”

He, without hesitation, walked over and she grabbed his hand. “Gently.” She warned him and placed his hand where hers had been, moving it back and forth gently. “That’s it.”

Cannibal ceased his growling and instead started making soft purring sound as his eyes slowly blinked.

Diana laughed, a sound that made Aemond’s attention drift to her, unable to look away. “He likes you.” She smiled at him. “That settles it, we’ll be uniting our houses, my prince.”

Two years went by quickly, faster than she would had liked. Diana, who had moved herself to King’s Landing to begin her courting period with Aemond, had grown much closer to him. Their first kiss shared in the dragon pit not even a year ago. She had left to take care of a matter in the Vale.

“I’ll be back in time for the audience.” She had told Aemond as they walked together, arms linked. “Don’t miss me too much, my love.”

“I always miss you, my dragon.” Aemond’s eye had glittered with fondness as he reached down to kiss her. His world have filled with so much brightness when you had entered it.

Everything had been normal, no one had breathed a word of your existence to the blacks. Not even blabbermouth Aegon.

The audience was just starting, everyone but Aemond was inside, He was waiting by the doors for his betrothed to return.

Diana rushes in, her white hair trailing behind her and Aemond’s eye trails down to her black and gold dress. “You’re almost late, my love.” He teased, a smile on his lips.

“Hush you! Let;s go.”

“Wait.” Aemond stops you with a frown on his lips now. “Your father is here, we didn’t know he was coming with my sister. We took extra care to not mention you to him but, do you still want to this?”

A vindictive glint entered her eyes as she linked her arms with Aemond’s. “I do, you’ll never let me fall.” She said confidently as Aemond nodded towards the guard.

“Lady Diana Royce-Targaryen, first of her name. The Lady of the Vale.” The guard announced as the door opened. “As well as her betrothed, Prince Aemond Targaryen, first of his name. Future Lord of the Vale.”

Many sets of eyes peered at him, some relieved. Some shocked.

Daemon peered at his newly announced daughter as she entered with the one-eyed prince. She was all him. White hair, purple eyes just like his. But she also had some of that Bronze Bitch in her.

Anger grew in him as well as fear and apprehension. How could he not have been told. She looks not much older than Prince Aemond and Prince Jacaerys.

Diana felt eyes on her and she walked forwards with Aemond, taking her place next to Helaena as she kissed the princesses cheek. “Good afternoon, sister.”

Helaena had smiled at her, relieved before glancing forward and turning away with distress. “He is watching.”

Diana looked up from her place and her purple eyes connected with identical ones across from the room.

She smiled at him, wiggling her fingers at him tauntingly.

I win.

[sweetainwen]

ᴍᴀʟᴇᴅɪᴄᴛᴜᴍ [JJK]

Summary: trying to break free from a witch's curse was daunting, especially if it was a charade that would last until he had her to himself, but nothing was left unpunished by the rampage of a true walking curse, for every sin had to be atoned for.

Pairings: yandere duke witch hunter!Jungkook x fem!witch hunter?OC (you can think of her as Y/N)

Genre: made up world!au, supernatural!au, witch!au, yandere!au, smut

Disclaimer: this story is fictional, so each character is not as described in it.

Warnings: slight age gap (Jungkook 22 OC 26), obsession, manipulation, violence, blood, supernatural themes, burning at stake, major character death, murders, unprotected sex, fingering

Word count: 7.2+k

A/N: happy Halloween!

Tragic was life, bringing with it unexpected events that no one could prevent. The injustice of this filled hearts with sadness and helplessness, eyes that wanted to express them with tears but it was now useless.

Like her now gazing at the coffin of her third and brave husband being buried, passed away shortly after their wedding. People around her paying their condolences for the ill-fated event.

But she knew, knew how fear and judgments were hidden beneath them. She knew of the derogatory epithet that had been hung on her.

Their voices were loud, their looks piercing, their gestures blatant.

“She doesn't even shed a tear.”

“I wonder how it happened this time.”

“What a curse.”

The abyss dragged her down, shrouding her with its darkness.

However, his gentle hands brought her back up, firm and decisive, cutting that black thread that twisted overbearingly and undisturbed around her body.

As soon as she looked up, Jungkook’s tender smile calmed the turmoil that was taking over her, a hand squeezing her shoulder in comfort while the other was outstretched towards her.

“Let's get going, Minji. The air is getting very cold.”

She returned his smile with a more faint one and a slight nod of her head, resting her hand on his and letting him guide her out of the graveyard and to their carriage.

Her desire was only to marry and live happily, an accomplishment of almost every woman. She coveted that love as special as it was magical, for she had been deprived of it from an early age.

However, something prevented her from doing so.

The death of her first husband had been considered an accident, but that of her second husband a suspicion, and that of her third a confirmation.

Harbinger of misfortune, one glance was enough to cloud the poor unfortunate man's rationality, who acted rashly with a marriage proposal.

Whereupon those who fell victim to her beauty were cursed and perished.

The cursed woman.

That was what she was called by the townspeople, for there was a witch's hand in all these nefarious events.

A certainty due to the trails of magic found at the murder scene of her third husband.

“I am truly dismayed that you have been involved in this reprisal, my dear. We should have foreseen such an action.” The middle-aged man's sad voice reached her ears after they entered their mansion, being helped by the maids in freeing themselves of their coats.

“Do not blame yourself for this, my dear cousin,” she reassured, her palm brushing against his arm. “We are aware of who is really guilty. And I am confident that we will be able to find them, given our hunting abilities. The witches will not be able to escape for long.” Her hand rested gently on the cheek of the younger man beside her, whose doe-like eyes looked at her with concern and affection, before a sigh escaped her lips, “Now if you will excuse me, I shall retire to my chamber. I... need to be alone for a moment.”

The two men watched her as she made her way to the stairs, lifting her dress with her hands to prevent it from getting in the way of her steps, until she disappeared from their sight and they heard the door open and close.

The oldest cursed in a low voice, gritting his teeth, “Damn witches! If I could I would kill them all in one shot!” His gaze fell upon Jungkook, whose lips were pressed together. “Do everything to track down who it is.”

“Yes, father.”

“Just focus on hunting down these bastards, I will take care of the other family business.”

Jungkook nodded and before he began his task, his eyes drifted to the spot where his cousin had disappeared, and a sigh came out, his heart tightened with anguish at the memory of her worn-out appearance.

The fierce fury against her was personal, dictated by revenge in wanting to afflict of the same pain of losing comrades to the witch hunters.

What better way than to have a member of the Jeon, main duchy of the witch hunters' organization, as a victim?

And they had achieved their goal, with Minji pressing her lips together and tightening her grip on the reins of her horse at yet another shake of the head by one of their best hunters, Jin.

She could well hear the taunting giggles of those beings echoing through the forest even though they were concealed from their eyes, driving her frustration and anger almost to the edge. She was getting weary of the whole situation. And if she had to resort to different help, she would, even though she was reluctant.

She exhaled, "We will continue tomorrow. Going any further now will not yield any success. We will try another method."

Jungkook had not looked away from her for a second until he saw her pull the reins to turn around, followed by their second-best hunter, Namjoon.

"I knew they would curse us someday, but not that they would only come after one person,” Taehyung’s voice, another hunter, and the sound of the hooves of his horse on the ground to his left caught his attention, “They seem quite interested in your father’s cousin.”

Jungkook's gaze ended on her again, a knowing smile on his face, “They should never play with fire. It will burn them to death.”

Despite saying those words, hoping they would be heard by the tormentors, they were not getting their way, for the following days were a continuous search for them without success. And the one who suffered the most was Minji.

The frustration that was being shown on her face was not at all concealed, even if she tried to not let it get under her skin.

Her eyes that were slowly losing their vitality worried the most, for it was they that most captured people, that captured him as the first time he had seen her.

“This is Jeon Minji, a distant cousin of mine. She will stay here with us from now on. This is my son, Jeon Jungkook.”

He saw her get up from the sofa in their drawing room, walking in front of him.

The meeting was unexpected, since he had never heard of this cousin.

She curtsied, a smile tugging at her lips before stretching out her gloved hand, "Pleased to meet you, Lord Jungkook."

His hand moved on its own, taking hers and lightly placing his lips on her knuckles, “The pleasure is mine, Lady Minji.”

And the never-breaking eye contact allowed him to notice a gleam in her eyes that dazzled him.

That feeling had grown over time and did not appear to fade. It was as if he was enchanted and subjugated.

Like now as she watched the moon and stars, standing in the garden, the moonbeams over her figure making her ethereal and almost mystical.

“Can’t seem to sleep?” he asked, pulling a blanket over her shoulders to protect her from the chilling night.

She sighed, “Who would?”

“Would you like me to sing you a lullaby and stroke your hair?” he joked, a half-smile making its appearance.

She pressed her lips together to keep herself from laughing, the back of her hand lightly smacking his clothed chest.

He feigned hurt, pouty lips and knitted eyebrows, clutching the injured part.

“You big jester! It’s too late for that. I am no longer a child, but you have my gratitude.”

“Honored to be your jester, my lady.” A slight bow followed the last words, taking a small chuckle out of her.

A pleasant silence greeted them.

After the death of her first husband, their meetings had increased to be as close to her as possible and offer her all his support.

The more time they spent together, the more curiosity, affection, and attraction worked its way into him.

Her trust in him had improved so much that she was even able to tell him how her family had been exterminated by witches in an ambush.

She was the only survivor of part of his father's family.

There were many members of the Jeon family, but she had never been heard of except before that misfortune happened, in which news of an illegitimate daughter spread fast and unstoppable.

She was still a Jeon, it was a duty and right to help her.

“Worry moves your actions,” she spoke. Now face to face, Minji moved as many steps as it took to have their chests brushing against each other, “but you need not worry.” A tender smile graced her lips, her fingers caressing his cheek. “Despair will never cling to me, because I have you.”

A flutter came at those words and a pleasant warmth embraced his heart.

And he wrapped his arms around her waist, feeling her body heat through their fabrics of clothing.

"After losing everything, you and your father are really the only people I have left. My family."

He sighed, a glint of sadness in his gaze, “However, we are not enough for you.” Her features softened more, her heart throbbing restlessly at his reaction. “I am aware of the difference, yet you acted hastily. I know you want to get married, how you would like to create that family you could not have, but you did not even know them.”

“I would have as time went on.”

“It doesn't imply loving them.”

She did not argue back, mindful of the truthfulness of his words. Not all marriages had that happy ending. There were many different endings that could be reached. She knew that, but if she was held back by all these ifs and buts, she would only live in fear and paranoia.

The loss of that comforting warmth on one of her hips awakened her from her thoughts, finding it now on her cheek, his thumb gently stroking the skin of it.

“For that reason, you should look closer to you. And your eyes will see that the right person is precisely the one on whom expectations were nil.“

Silence fell. His eyes wanting to convey without more words what he wanted to say, and when they reached their destination, Minji almost lost her breath.

“I love you.”

She was completely taken aback, so much so that she could not find the right words.

Heart racing, thoughts jumbling together. She was happy.

She beamed and covered her mouth with one hand to hide it from the eyes of the young man, who, however, noticed it immediately.

And she decided to answer his silent question.

“This is outrageously embarrassing,” a little ashamed chuckle left her lips, “I… had a desire to get married so that I could forget what I felt, since… I believed that you could never reciprocate my feelings.” She began to speak swiftly, “I am aware that throwing myself into the arms of those men without having any knowledge of them was wrong, but I was sure it was the best solution to avoid a possible unintended consequence of my unrequited lo-“

Voraciously her lips were assailed by his, moving them gently and slowly, savoring and devouring with ardor that first impulsive kiss of theirs.

His fingers brushing her cheeks, her hands on his hips for support.

Pulling a short distance away, their eyes met, chests going up and down.

“You were totally in the wrong. Because I love you and long for you as if you are my breath. Marry me.”

“Your father-“

“Oh, my father would gladly approve of our union,” he chuckled. “His confession about me being the best husband for a woman like you was quite telling.”

She blinked in surprise, “Did he really say such a thing?”

“He says many things that are to your advantage, my dear.” He pecked her lips, making her smile. “We will find that witch and get married. I promise you.”

She nodded, her arms circling his waist and her head resting on his chest. He pulled her close to him, his chin on her head and a victorious, sly smile adorning his face.

Happiness was overtaking him.

Who would have expected such a turn of events? It was an opportunity he would not waste.

However, if he had realized it earlier, she would have been his before those bastards interfered with marriage proposals.

Resorting to this charade had been worth it anyway; he had been wanting to get rid of the worthless scums who had immediately ogled her shortly after her arrival for too long.

Witches were the enemy of humans. Evil beings who deceived you with their human guise. For that reason, the Jeon household became witch hunters for the salvation of humanity.

Making use of the grimoires taken from those beings, they succeeded in creating tools that allowed protection against them, to trap and execute them.

Even if they still existed after centuries, the Jeons would still fight. And Jungkook, now, was the successor to that duchy.

So, no one would notice that a human was to blame for those incidents if you tainted the crime scene with evidence against witches. Least of all Jeon Jungkook himself, the witch hunter.

“What’s the meaning of this?!” the young man on the ground shrieked in a strangled voice, the rope net that had opened from the ball attached to an arrow shot from a crossbow blocking his movements with electric shocks.

They had invaded his house, turning it upside down in search of something he didn’t know about.

His own friends were treaking him like a criminal, like a witch.

“They are here!” a hunter notified from one of the rooms.

Quick steps on the wooden floor before his gaze ended on Jungkook and Minji, the latter holding a grimoire and a voodoo doll, features distorted by betrayal and disappointment like the rest of those present there.

With glassy eyes and his heart pounding, he began to shake his head, “They're not mine! I could never!” Minji’s lips were quivering. “Lady Minji, believe me! I’m not a witch! Please!”

“Take him.”

It was the last thing he heard from Jungkook before he was dragged ruthlessly out of his own house toward his last breath, screaming and trying to wriggle out even against that net-like trap that thwarted him with pain.

His pleas would go unheard and the answer to his question about the reason for this dogged and unfair framing against him never given.

Loss of sanity and restraint was there when it concerned witches, and the Jeon's young successor was aware of this.

Finding someone as a scapegoat was not difficult either, finding someone else who had allowed himself to look at her more than he could as the culprit of the curse, fitting in manufactured evidence, had been easy.

If he had known his place, he would not have ended up at the stake, undergoing pain and pleading he was not a witch.

The shock the townsfolk had experienced in knowing that Jung Hoseok, such a kind and shy young man who had just moved from afar, had actually turned out to be one of those monsters had been severe.

For Minji, who had welcomed him gently to put him at ease and had even grown attached to him like a sister, it had been another loss.

She still recalled how he lowered his timid gaze and played with his fingers while talking, the selflessness he showed if someone needed some help, and the small smile of when he was asked or considered in conversations and jokes.

And as she and the others watched the flames that had now devoured him and left only a burned body, she wondered who she might or might not trust around her.

“My love…” his soft, gentle voice and his fingers intertwining with hers as a sign of comfort led her to look at Jungkook, “This view destroys our hearts, but you’re free now.” She flashed him a half-smile and was immediately engulfed in a hug. “I’m here. All is well. You’re safe.”

She held him close, the feeling of safety and warmth embracing her once again, “You are right. I have you. My soon-to-be husband.”

Ah, how he loved those words.

He was at the mercy of this victorious enthusiasm.

It seemed to him to be an illusion well devised by a witch for how much he still could not believe that he would finally make her his for eternity.

The fear of losing her had been swept away by the knowledge that he had her in his grasp.

She could not escape; he would not allow it.

She would have no reason to, either, for nothing connected the situation they had gone through with him.

Their lives would run smoothly. They would have children, see them grow up, and would tell them and their grandchildren about how magnificent their wedding day had been.

That white dress had made her look like a goddess come down to earth to tempt a man and enchant him for life with sweet words, gentle caresses and breathtaking smiles.

He had not resisted and with vows of love and a kiss, they had sealed that long-awaited union.

Her gasp of surprise and giggle when he had taken her in his arms had stirred his heartstrings into more chords of love and devotion.

And it shone through his eyes that did not leave Minji's for a moment as he removed the veil from her hair and then caressed one of her cheek.

“I still cannot believe that you are here, as my wife.”

She leaned her face into his hand, on which she placed her own, “Believe it. For I will be here with you until death do us part.”

Without another word, Jungkook pressed his mouth to hers harshly.

Her hand gripped the back of his neck, pulling him closer towards her. His hands quickly made their way around her waist and she could feel her breasts brush tightly against his chest as he continued to deepen their kiss and led her back towards the bed.

Both crawling up onto the middle, her back resting now on the mattress, Jungkook’s mouth continued to work against her own, his kisses becoming desperate, her fingers running through his dark locks. He groaned against her, lips finding the skin of her neck and trailing kisses up and down slowly.

She arched her back and spread her legs, his hips now comfortably against hers and the feeling of his hard bulge in his pants against her obvious. His hands lifted the skirts of her dress, fingers trailing on her skin light enough to send sparks and goosebumps down her body.

But a sense of stiffening was detected by Jungkook, leading him to break their lips apart to give her a questioning gaze.

“What is it, my dearest?”

A tint of red colored her cheeks in embarrassment and shyness, head lowering and hands tightening around the fabric of his clothing.

She was so adorable that he wanted to tease her.

“I… It won’t hurt again, will it? My former husbands had not been very… gentle. I’m afraid I…”

Silence fell in the room, but the rage lurking in Jungkook did not stop growing after those words.

They had been fortunate enough to have such a delicate and special flower in their arms and had instead decided to fill with pain and sadness that important bond between spouses.

Ungrateful pieces of shit.

A soft smile tugged at his lips, “Look at me.” She did. “I would never hurt you, in any way. I love you too much to commit such obnoxious actions.”

A slight nod of approval from her was all he needed to kiss her again, his hands shoving her dress up to expose her bare skin before trailing his fingers over her thighs and rubbing against her sensitive spot over her undergarments. She let out a soft gasp, goosebumps all over her body.

Taking advantage of this, his tongue swept in between her lips, playing with her own.

She gripped his hair as he tore her undergarments off, helping him kicking them off with her legs and hands. Pulling away again, her dress was next, pulling it up and leaving her completely bare under his gaze.

Lust filling their eyes and patience vanishing, he undressed himself quickly of his wedding suit, leaving his hardened dick on display.

Minji couldn’t help but look at him, almost losing her breath at how handsome he was. That hungry, dazed gaze made Jungkook completely insane.

She was looking at him.

Loving him.

A surprise gasp left her lips as one of his fingers slipped inside of her slowly, body hot and labored breaths.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered breathlessly, drinking in her beautiful face contorted with pleasure.

Leaning over, he bit down on her shoulder as he worked his finger inside of her, a moaning escaping from her.

“I’m gonna make you feel good,” he said in a dark voice, another finger starting to slowly push inside of her. “Make you feel how much I yearn to make you mine.”

She shut her eyes, his hot breath fanning over her neck, overwhelmed by his movements and hot body against hers.

His thumb pressed against her clit, sending more shivers down her spine as her hands gripped his hair and her back arched, hips rocking up toward his fingers.

“Jungkook-“

A breathless chuckle was his reply, “You’re so wet. You’re clenching so much.”

“Please- I’m-“

“Want to come right now? Or you want my cock to fuck your pussy? Mmh? Would you like that? Look at you, so ready to get fucked up.”

His vulgar words made her whimper more, his fingers bringing her close to her own release.

“Please, fuck me up, fuck me-“

The loss of his fingers made her grunt in disappointment, but a gasp of surprise left her lips as soon as she felt his cock pushing into her slowly.

He grabbed her wrists and brought them over the sheets, near her face, intertwining her fingers with his shortly after and kept rolling his hips back and forth as he was now buried deep inside her.

She looked at him, eyes half-lidded and everything around her disappeared.

She could only hear his fast breaths and see drops of sweat falling undisturbed along his temples, neck, chest.

His arms muscles flexing as they supported the weight of his body, eyes watching her with a glint of pure and primitive ecstasy

He was shuddering above her, showing how much she was making him feel fucking good. Bare. Hers.

A shift in his movements caused something inside of her to sent shots of electricity through her limbs and whimper in pleasure.

“You’re so good. Taking me so well.”

Pulling back from her body and then slamming into her roughly, it almost made her cry out in bliss.

Her legs hugged his hips, pulling him deeper inside her.

Clenching around his cock, she flashed him a lustful smile and his quiet grunts turned into moans as his thrusts became more erratic.

Dizziness invaded their senses and spasms ran through their bodies as Jungkook filled her with his seed, reaching their release.

Trying to catch their breath, he collapsed onto her, his face in the crook of her neck and her hand now stroking his hair.

He held her close, rubbing his nose against her neck, which made her giggle as she reciprocated the squeeze with a happy sigh.

The night was quiet while they enjoyed their proximity, but a sudden muffled noise caught Minji’s attention, her gaze ending on a black cat on the window sill glaring at her.

She reciprocated with a curious glance, but did not give it much thought.

The next few days she began to see him more often; he followed her wherever she went as if he were her shadow. So she decided to take care of him, eventually waiting for his arrival so she could cuddle and play with him. He was very affectionate for a stray cat.

Her heart melted like snow when the cat snuggled up on her thighs for a nap or just to be close to her, as he was doing now. The trust he placed in her filled her with joy. Getting it from an animal was not always easy, hence she was proud of it.

If she spoke to him, he understood. If her mood changed, he sensed it. A little moral support.

Her fingers passed gently through his fur, his purr widening her smile.

“You love that cat very much.”

Her cousin's voice rendered to a whisper brought her back to reality, the cup of tea between the fingers of her other hand now cold, sitting on a chair next to his bed.

Her gaze landed on him, seeing his softened features as he sipped his tea with his back resting on the back of his bed, the pillow making the resting comfortable.

“I do.”

She placed the cup on the undercup placed on the small nightstand to her right before reaching out her hands toward the cup and undercup he was holding out to her, the black cat coming down from her legs to wonder around the room.

"And Jungkook is still displeased."

She let a small chuckle escape her lips, "He is not some witch's familiar, the sphere would have reacted otherwise. Besides, Jungkook is displeased by anything that takes my attention away from him," she reminded him amusedly, setting the undercup and cup down next to hers.

“Oh! That young man is beyond smitten with you that he even wants to get rid of a cat! I wouldn't be surprised if one day he made all the animals around disappear.”

The man laughed wholeheartedly, enjoying the way his son was behaving out of his usual character. But coughing fits interrupped him, his hand over his mouth now smeared with his own blood.

Minji widened her eyes, concern again evident on her face as she knelt at the edge of the bed and handed him a handkerchief, wiping his hand with another.

He looked at her, a soft smile adorning his face, “You are such a kind soul, my lovely little cousin. I don’t see myself worried about leaving my son in bad hands. I’m glad you accepted to be his wife. It’s the best gift I could ever receive.”

She stood still, pain and sadness piercing her heart yet a sense of pride and gratitude followed those emotions at his words.

“Thank you, father-in-law.”

He caressed her cheek, tenderness and affection guiding his gesture, “Take good care of each other, all right?”

“Of course. Always.” She gave him a weak smile, “It’s better if I let you rest, I think I have stayed too long. I will visit again tomorrow.”

“I will wait for you, my precious daughter.”

And off she went, taking with her the tea cart carefully prepared by herself after placing the cups on it, the cat following suit.

After closing the door, she let out a sigh.

A few weeks after their wedding, as Minji and he were having their usual tea hour together, he had brought a hand to his chest before passing out.

Panic had risen, and when they had called the doctor, it was discovered that an illness had struck him.

It was incurable and nameless.

The despair and destruction she had seen pass across Jungkook's face had broken her heart more than the news had already done.

His complexion was pale, dark circles under his eyes, strength weakening, and some of his nights were sleepless.

Her cousin was dying and nothing could be done. Their helplessness was unbearable, but other than spending time with him, they could do nothing else.

He had taken care of her when she was left alone, welcoming her and engaging her immediately as if she was not a mistake of her father's with another woman. He had showered her with love, becoming a father and a brother.

She almost lost her mind.

But the appearance of that cat – which she had named Sese – had been a distraction. Jungkook was busy with family business in his father's stead, so he spent a lot of time in his office room. Caring for an animal helped keep her mind off that unforeseen tragedy, ignoring Jungkook’s disapproval.

The black cat was the witches' familiar. Deception and malice were part of them. Having one in the house brought bad luck, he had even come to believe that he was to blame for his father's illness.

This, however, was not possible, since if he had really been the bearer of misfortune, the protective sphere of the house placed on a pedestal in the basement would have counteracted his strength and prevented him from entering.

He was a normal black cat that she had chosen to take in.

Footsteps could be heard and she looked up, finding Jungkook coming her way with slow, tired movements.

“Is he sleeping?”

She nodded, “Likely. I left to let him rest.” He hummed and Minji approached him, her voice soft as she asked, “Do you want me to make you some tea?”

“What you have already prepared will be fine for me.”

“But it's cold.”

“It's still tea.”

“Alright, alright,” she exhaled before giving him a peck on his lips. “Go and relax a bit too. You need it. I'll join you right away.”

He gave her a weak smile, “Thanks, my dearest.”

Tired voice, slumped shoulders, dull eyes. His pain was palpable even now with his back to her.

She could understand him; he had lost his mother when he was young to a fall from a horse while hunting witches, and now he was losing his father to a disease.

She clenched her hands into fists.

It was not fair. They had begun happy days, their laughter filling the house, their fellowship with each other and even with the household employees.

She thought it would all end with the killing of the witch, but their family still seemed to be in the arms of a curse.

The organization was already mourning one of their important members, but when he actually died a few days later, no one could still believe that they were looking at his grave in the cemetery.

The rain and fog made the event more somber and unbearable.

Condolences and words of prayes were adressed to them with sympathy and compassion.

And the title of Duke had passed to Jungkook.

His obligations had increased and with them the pressure he perceived on himself because of the expectations other members now placed on him and the family business.

The incessant pounding in his head caused distraction and slowed his work.

And today was one of those days.

His vision was blurring and the hand that was holding the pen was trembling, the writings on those papers placed on the desk only meaningless ink.

He let go of the pen and with a sigh leaned back on the chair, rubbing his face with his hands to try to shake off the weariness.

A clink of something contrasting a surface awakened him, seeing his usual cup of tea on his desk and Minji at one side of it.

"Here's your tea, dear."

He reached out a hand toward her and Minji took it between hers, drawing her closer before wrapping his arms around her waist. His head resting on her stomach.

Her fingers began to run through his hair, slightly relieving his headache at which he breathed a sigh of relief.

He rubbed his face against her stomach.

She smiled, softened by his behavior considered childish, and let him be.

“Are you done with your work for the day?”

“Not quite. Unfortunately, I have a headache.”

She blinked, “Again?”

“Again.”

“Then drink, don’t waste time. You said it helps you get over it.”

“I will. Just let me stay like this a little longer.”

She snorted a chuckle and his heart skipped a beat.

He was so lucky to have her.

She supported him with simple gestures, understood when he needed something and assisted when he couldn't continue certain things himself.

She also declined every letter of invitation to tea parties to have a simple chatter with friends because she wanted to stay with him.

Everything about her was soothing. Her touch, her breath, her closeness. She was his main pivot. His life. His.

He couldn’t stop admiring and loving her.

And he was often caught staring at her like a fool and hearing her laugh every time she told him to stop was a cure-all.

For her he was also trying to like Sese, even though he was taking up too much of Minji's time. And she gently scolded him not to be jealous of a cat.

He probably was.

Normality was setting in again in their lives and he was over the moon.

However, something began to crack once again.

Minji was on the alert, often distant and silent. Whether at home or during meetings between members of the organization, or simply walking through the streets of the central city. Especially with him.

Anxiety and terror had mixed, shaping thoughts and theories that were taking root in his mind.

She was terrifying him. He was afraid she had grown tired of him. That she had a lover.

Just thinking about it sent him into a frenzy.

He had started having nightmares and the sleepless nights did not allow him to think properly.

And the discovery of her nocturnal outings fed his fear that was getting out of control even more.

She was not betraying him. She was not leaving him. She couldn't. She had no chance.

He had tried, he had tried to communicate, to understand the problem, but he had received no answer.

Every excuse was used to avoid confrontation.

This time he would wait for her to face the situation once and for all.

He saw her as she crossed the threshold of their bedroom with light steps so as not to make noise.

Her gaze had immediately focused on him, sitting in the chair by the window set at the left side of the bed. There was no surprise and fear of being caught red-handed; no, it was as if she knew someone was waiting for her.

Doubts crept more into him.

"Where were you?"

"I was thirsty, I drank some water."

"You were thirsty, you drank water,” he was mocking her as he got up, walking slowly up to her. “In your walking dress.”

He was so close that she could feel his breath on her face, the silent expressiveness in his eyes exposing his anxious thoughts.  hands shaking and slightly labored breathing.

He was so close that she could feel his ragged breath on her face. The quiet expressiveness in his eyes baring his anxious thoughts.

She tilted her head to the side, weirded out and irritated by his behavior.

“I put on the first dress I could find. Finding a suitable one would have taken time.”

“Can… Can we talk about it?”

“About what?”

“About how you’re lying to me.”

The snort she gave him left him stunned, the rope of sanity permanently snapping.

His heart began to pound faster, his trembling hands cupping her face. Despair clouded his mind at her faint mocking smile and no definitive answer.

He couldn't stand it. She was kind. She was loving. She loved him.

“What’s happening? Why are you reacting like this? Is someone bothering you? Threatening you? You don’t have to hide things from me. I’m your husband! I can help you!”

He was a mess.

He spoke fast, his voice quivering, and he felt like he was losing his mind.

It was exploding. He felt suffocated.

He took his head in his hands, his knees ending up on the ground, another headache suddenly occurring. This time heavier and more persistent.

His stomach burned, a lump forming in his throat until he vomited blood before falling sideways, a few splatters reaching Minji's dress.

She had moved a few steps closer, looking down on him.

Bent over, panting, shivering, frail.

“The tea has finally had its effect. Did you enjoy the nightmares? Probably of me leaving you alone. The twist is… you were always alone. I’m not your father’s cousin. I’m not part of your family. I am not a Jeon. Spreading rumors of an illegitimate child was a child’s play.”

Jungkook was gasping for air, tremendously shocked by what was happening. He looked at her, pupils shaking, face pale, jolts sweeping through his body.

"Too many questions you're asking me!” she chuckled, her arms behind her back with the fingers of one hand intertwined with the other. “My amazement at observing human greed will never end. Tearing books from witches and using them against them to feel powerful, killing them with no mercy whatsoever. Creating massacres and making children orphans. You have no respect for what you have. Truly deplorable.”

Anger was audible in her voice, her face disfigured with disgust.

“In two of those many massacres were the three most important people in my life. I am sure that the memory of a big wolf protecting a woman is not easily forgotten, as the sight of such a wolf is not every day occurrence. They were my parents. And I was watching with my husband and brother, hidden from your eyes under my parents' request. Shortly afterwards I lost my husband as well." A sinister glint appeared in her eyes, bending her upper body slightly toward him, "The pain I felt had been so immeasurable that I was burning with the desire to make you feel the same. You should have seen your father's face the day he died, when I revealed myself as a witch. My smile must have scared him a lot.” She smirked, “How do you feel?”

Betrayal was the only thing that was piercing his lungs and heart, immobilizing him from regular breathing and opening his mouth to respond.

Bitter tears began to stream down his cheeks.

“Nevertheless, I must admit that your obsession with me was a great benefit; you made access easier for me, and getting rid of those other lousy hunters didn't bother me at all.”

“Do you really have to tell him everything?”

The interjection of a dissatisfied male voice made her straighten up, but she didn’t take her eyes off Jungkook, whose attention was now on the young man who had stopped beside Minji with the black cat on his right shoulder.

“Where is Sese, brother?”

“On my shoulder.”

Jungkook saw the pet jump down and walk behind Minji.

He thought he would see him popping up from the other side, but what appeared before his eyes were boots. Looking up, he noticed pants, a shirt, and finally a face.

A face he had last seen burning at the stake.

“We should leave, I can't stay one more minute in this shitty place,” Hoseok grumbled, his arm resting on Minji’s shoulder. “I can still smell that damned burning smell and my skin being roasted.”

“You'll get over it.”

“You go to the stake next time, Yoongi.”

“What do we do now, Minji?” Yoongi completely ignored his  annoyed comment, addressing his sister.

Silence crept in.

They were watching Jungkook like a fucking prey. Like a trapped animal. And he was.

He couldn’t do much. He had been deceived.

“Burn everything down.”

As Minji uttered those words, his hand clutched her skirt in a desperate gesture, shaking his head.

He didn't care. He wanted his wife. His love. He didn't give a fuck about her being a witch or something else. He loved her. He fucking loved her!

“Don’t… Don’t leave me, please…”

“This bastard is desperate. Apparently, you left a deep mark,” Yoongi sneered, followed by a giggle from Hoseok.

Minji extended her hand in front of her brother, and he pulled out a hunter's knife taken from the house to give it to her.

“I told you destroying them from the inside would be more satisfying, brother. My role has more impact than yours. Even though women are witch hunters, they are still viewed differently than men. Taking advantage of this was essential. Look how they collapsed like a sandcastle. I hope you had as much fun as I did, Jungkook.”

The knife was held in mid-air above Jungkook, at heart level.

His fingers tightened on her skirt, pleading with his eyes not to, but she didn't listen. Instead, she released her grip on the knife.

And as if moved by an invisible force – her power – it cut through the air and pierced his chest, reaching his heart.

His eyes lost their vitality, his body stopped moving.

And the room fell silent again.

Some time later, the house began to catch on fire.

Yoongi hid and Hoseok took on the appearance of a cat again, while she warned the employees who lived in the house to get out.

It had been a wonderful sight in her eyes.

The flames that enthusiastically enveloped the Jeon house.

Bright, big, lightning up the night.

Like the witches who were burned at the stake.

It had all been so simple that it bored her.

When she discovered that her mixed blood could somehow nullify the effects of the witches' spells used by those humans, she realized that she could do something to destroy them.

And she was succeeding. After carefully studying the methods, observing the hunters, and strengthening herself, she had taken action.

Her brother was against it, he didn't want her to put herself in danger, but she assured him that it wouldn't happen. And here was the wonderful result.

She was thanking her father for being a werewolf, and the human stupidity in not having yet discovered the existence of other living beings with different abilities.

On top of that, the compassion they were showing her after this misfortune was truly hilarious.

Talking about how her late husbands, father-in-law and her distancing from society were the work of the successor to the dukedom, his obsession and fear of having someone take her away from him, how he started a fire and she ended up having to shove a knife in his heart in self-defense, it had been a theatrical show.

The Kim family even offered to host her. A kind family indeed, she had to admit. However, they had too much faith in the witchcraft that they detested so much, and she had once again entered another house of witch hunters without repercussions.

Humming as she sat at her dressing table in her new room, she looked at herself in the mirror, fixing some messy locks in front of her face.

"Jin, Namjoon or Taehyung? Who should I go for first?" she asked, eyes fixed on her reflection before showing an interested and pleased expression. "Oh, all three? Naughty."

After smiling one more time, she stepped out of her room, her reflection still adjusting her hair through the mirror.

Then she smiled, getting up and disappearing from the mirror.

A victorius and sly giggle echoing within the walls.