#my son has returned and I am through the Moon

[vampirepuppygirl]

You know, I grew up catholic and never experienced catholic guilt, and it still kind of confuses me

When I went to mass, the readings and the gospel were always just life lessons or stories to make you think, and what it wanted you to think about was usually humility and piety and loyalty and faith and stuff like that

Faith formation was mostly about learning the history of the church and important stories that you should remember, plus prayer memorization

I don't ever actually remember a time where they were specifically like "you must feel guilty about this" or "everyone by default deserves to go to hell and you must constantly prostrate before god to be deemed worthy"

It was "everyone sins and everyone drifts away from god and that's okay because he will never abandon you"

It was "Jesus died for your sins. To liberate you from them so you're no longer beholden to the old way, so you're no longer beholden to original sin, so you can have a clean slate without ceaseless penance"

The sin forgiveness cycle that Catholics kind of get pulled into was always described to me as a liberating cycle. It gives you the freedom to sin and the freedom to make mistakes as you bumble through the blind chaos of life without worrying about perfection or damnation

Even when I went to confession it wasn't just a blanket "don't do it again" it was "think about why that is a sin and let that experience teach you something."

If I know anything about catholics it's that they love rules and they love the pursuit of knowledge, I once had a very long conversation with a priest about why a certain rule was a rule and why a certain sin was a sin and it was a lot more complicated than just "god said so," even if I can't remember the specifics anymore

I don't know, maybe it was my specific diocese or I've just been around a lot of liberal priests or something, but I even had someone tell me basically word for word "As long as you follow the ten commandments and use the seven virtues as a framework to guide you, you're set. Use confession to scrub away the sins you can't avoid and that's it. Nobody is without sin so just do your best and that's all anyone can ask of you."

Primarily, what growing up catholic taught me was just the importance of love

Love your family, love your neighbor, love a stranger, love the Earth, love nature, and fundamentally love yourself. And forgive yourself. And be patient with yourself. Because I was taught that everyone sins and that's okay.

And that's okay.

I was taught that seeking absolution and forgiveness is meant to steer you in the right direction, yes for the ultimate goal of heaven, which was defined to me as Oneness with God. And hell was defined to me not as a multi-tiered demon filled demiplane of fire and brimstone and ice, but simply the state of separation from god.

But it wasn't just about salvation it was also about making the Earth we live in now a better place and they are rules specifically to facilitate good communication and good relationships with other people and yourself, and obviously God (but whatever.) It was always basically let God absolve you of your guilt but don't force yourself to feel guilty if you make a mistake.

I don't really consider myself catholic anymore, mostly because of other people, catholics and protestants who use their religion as a tool to spread hateful rhetoric and become their own personal left hand of God, instead of using their religion to spread love and patience and understanding and forgiveness and tolerance and all of the things that they actually fucking preach. Why y'all throwing stones huh? Y'all ain't without sin. Literally nobody is. That's the point.

But I like what I was taught. I use what I was taught a lot. Technically even if I don't consider myself catholic I still am. I have been confirmed, I could waltz right into a catholic church confess my sins and my doubts and have a long conversation with a priest and boom blank slate once more. There would be penance hoops I would have to jump through but that's literally what happens with every confession, so still

But that's always what confused me about Catholic guilt like

What were you taught?

[targaryen-dynasty]

REDAMANCY.

Cregan Stark x female Targaryen!Reader (Part 4 here)

From the very beginning on you’ve been hesitant to accept your younger brother’s offer to return to the capital for your child to receive his blessings. And when you‘re finally on the way, it’s your husband‘s duty to take care of you.

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT-MDNI; p in v, lactation kink, lactating, pregnant sex, pregnancy, slight breeding kink, praise kink, slight degrading, angst, fluff

WORDS: 3.3 K

NOTES: Redamancy means A love returned in full; an act of loving the one who loves you, and let me tell you: these two are in love. Thanks to @sylasthegrim, it‘s always good to know you help me with my zero grasp on English!

✖️ 𝐚𝐝𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭!

Ravens from Winterfell flying all the way down to King’s Landing has always taken quite some time. And therefore it was no wonder you were surprised that one of your younger brother’s ravens reached the castle not long after you'd informed him you were with child, inviting you to birth it in the Red Keep for it to receive the young king’s blessings.

Being the ever dutiful Lord of House Stark, there was no way your husband would refuse the offer, and once your pregnancy had crossed the seventh moon mark, a carriage and your husband’s entourage were sent south.

From the very beginning on you’ve been hesitant to accept the offer. Westeros’ capital has brought nothing but pain and grief to you, and you’re afraid coming back ruins the comfort and peace you’ve found far, far away from the castle in the North, in Winterfell. But a part of you misses and longs for your siblings and the part of your family that’s still left, hence it didn’t take too much convincing from your husband.

You’ve lost count of the days you spent in that damned carriage by now, solely accompanied by your maids as your dear husband rides at the front of his entourage, joining his men on horseback. But there’s one thing all days have in common: it’s you being exhausted beyond relief once night comes.

For the longest time you thought your unborn babe to be no-fussy and calm, which proved to be false just one week into the travel. It’s restless, kicking and moving especially when you finally find rest in the bed of the receptive inn you stay in for the night. Your feet are swollen, just like your breasts, and your body provides milk as though the babe has been long born already, and all you crave at this point is for the pregnancy to be over already.

As the wheelhouse comes to a stop, you rub your swollen bump with a sigh, looking toward the door with heavy footsteps approaching. Your beloved husband opens the door, and even though he won’t admit it, he looks just as exhausted as you do.

“Is it time?” you ask, slowly rising to your feet with another sigh. You place your small hand in his large one, allowing him to help you out.

He nods, bringing a hand to the small of your back. “Indeed. We have reached the crossroads. From here we are only ten days away from King’s Landing, which means the end of our journey is in sight,” he replies. “How are you and our son feeling?”

Cregan guides you away from the wheelhouse, escorting you through the crowd of his men towards a large inn sitting right where the river road crosses the kingsroad. And from old tales of your uncle you know it has to be the Bellringer Inn, a place where even your great-grandfather and great-grandmother have stayed at before.

“We do not yet know if this babe will be a boy or a girl, husband,” you chastise him in a teasing manner.

“You are right, we do not,” he says. “But I feel it in my bones. Just call it a father’s intuition.”

You roll your eyes at his words and nudge his ribs with your elbow, yet there also pulls a smile at the corners of your lips. He chuckles at that. “Careful, my love, I am not as nimble as I used to be.”

Shaking your head, you giggle softly. “Do not tell me that you are an old man now, Lord Stark.”

As you make your way through the courtyard and towards the inn, you can feel the curious glances of the passerby; a man of Cregan’s caliber always drew the attention toward him, just like your hair did. But you’re unbothered by it all. You carry a piece of your husband within you, and that thought fills you with a sense of fulfillment and pride.

He looks for the innkeeper as you reach for his hand, pulling it from your back around your frame, squeezing it softly. “Might you join me tonight? I know that you can not leave your men alone, but one night will surely do no harm. I must admit that I have hardly found sleep without your warmth for the past weeks.”

With a gentle, intimate gesture, Cregan brushes his fingers over your swollen bump, before pulling you against his side. “How can I ever be expected to refuse anything my beautiful wife asks of me? Of course I will join you tonight.” Leaning a bit closer toward you, he adds with a quiet whisper: “Your presence has been missed in my bed as well. The nights feel cold and lonely without you by my side.”

Heat crawls onto your cheeks at the proximity and the slight implication that comes with his words, solely interrupted when a stout man with a bushy beard but otherwise pleasant demeanor walks around the corner and welcomes you two.

Upon Cregan’s inquiry about the availability of a room, he hands over the keys and leads you toward your place of retreat for the night. More than once have you told Cregan you’re perfectly fine with sleeping in a tent with him, yet he always came back to your delicate condition, stating he only wants the best for you and his unborn child, and you eventually have given up and accepted it.

The room is decent. Not as big as your chambers at home, but still larger than what you’ve slept in for the last few weeks. Your maids already scurry into the room to bring some of your belongings and clothes to get you ready for the night, while Cregan leans in to kiss your temple. “Let me arrange for my man to sleep outside the inn for the night,” he mutters against your skin. “And then we shall spend the night in warm beds.”

Even with your maids bustling around you, you can’t help but feel a flicker of excitement at his words. The prospect of sharing the night with him is enough to make you forget the soreness of your swollen curves that has become a constant companion over the past few moons.

“I will freshen up in the meantime,” you say, leaning into his touch before he pulls away to take care of his men’s sleeping arrangements for the night. Once everything was adjusted in the chambers, your maids moved to help you out of your clothes, but you refused them, having planned something very special.

Standing in front of the small window, overlooking a stable with a thatch roof and a bell tower, you all but admire how quietly Cregan opens the door, and with the lock falling right into place behind him, the room grows even quieter and the atmosphere becomes charged with anticipation.

“Is everything sorted?” you ask, looking at him from over your shoulder.

“All set,” your husband replies with a low voice as he approaches you.

He comes to tower over your frame from behind, moving his hands over your hips up to your waist. Lifting your head, your eyes lock with his. “Alone at last, hm?” There’s a sultry smile on your lips now, and you gently reach behind you to cup his cheek with one hand. “Now you’re all mine for the night.”

You lean against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breaths against your back. Cregan seizes the opportunity and brushes your hair over one shoulder before he presses his lips to the crook of your neck. The touch makes you sigh, stirring something inside of you you have had to keep at bay for quite some time. When he brings his large hands to your swollen breasts, fondling them through the thick fabric of your dress, you can’t help but moan, the slight squeezing aiding against the heaviness.

But then his hands and lips leave your body, and he slightly leans around you to look at you – or rather your breasts – and you immediately know the reason why.

The gray fabric has become damp under his touch, two dark spots prominent in the front of it. While it brings a bit of shame to your cheeks, the low rumble that escapes his chest sends a fire straight down between your legs. “I should have warned you I started leaking a fortnight ago,” you admit ashamedly, biting your bottom lip.

“I quite enjoy the sight of it, you know,” he says, voice laced with a combination of awe, adoration and burning need. His hands shift to the lace in the back of your dress. “But let us put this to good use.”

The dress comes undone with ease, falling to the floor in a puddle around your feet. Damp spots are decorating your smallclothes, but this time you don’t mind the sight. Cregan’s hands now roam over your body, tracing the curve of your waist and your growing bump.

Although you know exactly what it is his words are meant to imply, you choose to tease him. “And what is it you have in mind right now, hm?”

His gray eyes briefly flicker to the bed close to you, before meeting yours again. “I have a few things in mind. But for now…” He cups your chin, tilting your head up so he can claim your lips in a slow, deep kiss that’s full of desire and passion. It makes you feel as though the air is sucked right out of your lungs by him, as if you can’t survive without his lips on yours. “How about we make the most of this night, my love?”

“I’m all yours,” you breathe against his lips.

His large hands roam your curves, helping you out of your undergarments, until they settle at your thighs, wrapping around them to effortlessly hoist you up. Although Cregan is quite the bull of a man and appears to be a brute, he possesses a tenderness you wouldn’t expect from him, gently keeping your body against his and lying you down on the bed not far away just as carefully.

Soft, gentle kisses are pressed to your collarbones, igniting a fire within you that has been smoldering for too long. As his fingers glide over your skin with featherlight touches, leaving a burning trail behind, he finds his hands drawn to your full breasts, cupping and holding them, and eventually squeezing them.

More droplets of your milk trickle into his calloused palms, wetting his skin, but he does not care–not when he has you writhing and whimpering beneath him at just the faintest of touches.

Your husband’s eagerness would have almost made you chuckle, watching him rise from the bed to rid himself off his clothes hastily, if it wouldn’t match your own desire and greediness. With his breeches falling to the ground, his cock stands to full attention, hard enough for it to almost seem painful.

His hungry gazes devours your bare form, tall frame slightly hunched forwards as his chest rises and falls with heavy breaths.

“Will you just stand there and watch, my wolf?” you tease, propping yourself up on your elbows. “What happened to ‘let us put this to good use’?”

It’s the teasing lilt in your voice that pulls him out of his stupor like a wave, the chuckle he releases low and throaty. “You are a temptress, my love,” he replies. “You are lucky I am a man of my word.”

“Then touch me,” you whine, words coming out more desperate than actually intended.

He doesn’t need any more encouragement. Slowly approaching the bed, Cregan bows forwards and grabs one of your feet. He lifts your leg and starts to trail sloppy, open mouthed kisses along the inside of your leg, occasionally nibbling on the skin of your inner thigh.

Your back slightly arches off the mattress, body thrumming with desire. Entangling your hands in his dark curls, you use the grip as reigns to where you want him most, but your husband acts completely unfazed, not allowing you to tug him higher up.

He takes his time, kissing and nibbling your thighs, before he boldly presses a kiss to the apex of your legs, tongue briefly dragging through your folds. It elicits a shudder in its wake, and you can’t stifle a moan.

Making his way up, he licks your navel, and eventually traces the curve of your full breast, circling your hardened bud. Cregan laps up every drop of milk that oozes out of your bud like nothing else than a starved wolf, the edge of his teeth applying just a faint pressure to the sensitive skin to stimulate the flow.

But when his other hand comes up to fondle and squeeze your other breast, that’s the moment you lose your composure, shamelessly smothering him with your breasts. “Gods, Cregan…” you whimper, immediately bringing you relief. There isn’t even time to waste a thought about the indecency of it all, not when it feels just so right.

It’s your mewls, your whispered whines and moans, the sound of you saying his name in such a desperate manner that drives him to continue. “You make me ache for you,” he rasps against your skin, voice thick with desire. Your husband never falters to ignite a fire inside of you with his words, especially when there’s an innuendo hidden between his praises.

Bringing his hand from your breast down between your bodies, he aligns himself with you, dragging the tip of his cock through your folds in a way that makes you bite back a moan and grind against him. You grip his dark curls harshly as he finally eases inside, pushing into you inch by inch, agonizingly slow to make sure you feel him enter you.

His suckling falters with the tightness of your walls embracing him, overwhelmed by pure bliss and a feeling he’s missed for the past few weeks.

Every gasp and whine that escapes you only serves to embolden him further, continuing to tease and taste your breast with unrivaled enthusiasm. It juxtaposes the slow, sloppy thrusts of his hips, and brings you two different kinds of sensations at once.

Cregan has made himself home between your legs, rocking his hips leisurely back and forth. He has dropped his weight on one elbow and leant his upper body to the side, determined to not put any weight on your swollen bump. His lips are firmly wrapped around your bud while his hand teases the other, pinching and squeezing it between his fingers. The proximity is unmatchable, feeding into your constant desire to be as close to him as possible.

You can practically watch him lose every ounce of self control, his suckling becoming more intense and the thrusts growing in determination. His groans and grunts are muffled, and droplets of your milk trickle idly down his chin, getting lost in the dark, coarse hairs.

You fully expect him to say something when he releases your bud, but he’s far too eager to get his fill again. Pinching the perky bud of your other breast harshly, droplets of milk run down the curve of it, only to be traced by his tongue, liking a flat stripe over your skin. He chokes on a groan as the sight has you clenching tightly around his hard cock.

“Please– do not stop,” you whimper, applying a bit of pressure to his head to urge him towards your breast again. “... not yet.”

Dark-blown eyes suddenly flicker up to meet yours, and a shuddered breath leaves your lips. “My my, what a greedy wench I have for a wife,” he chuckles to himself. You don’t take offense, but the statement does make you duck your head and bite your bottom lip sheepishly. “I do not intend to.”

Despite the teasing, it’s obvious your pleas fall upon eager ears as he heeds your command and closes his lips around your bud again. Every hungry pull of his lips draws more and more milk from you, and while relief makes itself known in your breasts, a different kind of pressure starts to settle in the pit of your belly.

Squeezing him so well, you make it impossible for Cregan to move on his own accord, and quickly take over, rolling your hips against his. It’s a race for completion, making your pearl throb with anticipation.

The coarse hairs of your husband’s beard drag over your sensitive skin with his eager suckling, tickling you and causing you to arch against him even more. You have your arms wrapped around his neck at this point, keeping him tightly against you.

A string of yesses falls past your lips like a chant, and the pace of your hips increases as far as your bump allows you to. Your mind grows hazy with pleasure, until your peak washes over you with a loud gasp.

You haven’t noticed Cregan watching you through it all, too focused on the sensations coursing through your body. His gaze is mesmerized, clearly relishing in the relief that’s etched onto your features and the way your walls flutter around his cock.

He pulls back, droplets of milk resting in the corners of his lips, and lifts his body to tower over you. The thrusting of his hips grows sharper now, determined to help you through your pleasure.

“That’s it,” he rasps, one hand resting on the mattress next to your head while the other gropes at your now relieved breasts.

“Once this pup is born,” he emphasized the words by rolling your sore bud between his index finger and thumb, drawing out just a few more droplets of milk. “I shall put another in you to keep you round with my seed.”

Your head grows dizzy, lightheaded even, and you can’t do more than whimper and whine through your peak, not fully comprehending what he’s said.

Cregan snaps his hips into yours once, twice before he topples over the edge with a loud groan, his throbbing cock spending itself deep inside of you. Cupping your breast, his fingers dig harshly into your flesh.

You continue to roll your hips against his, prolonging his pleasure. Switching roles, it’s now your turn to milk him for every drop, taking everything his cock spills inside of you. Every muscle in his body tenses, until eventually, he collapses to the side, careful not to put his weight on your swollen bump.

With his cock slowly becoming flaccid again, the sensation of his seed leaking out of your cunt is more apparent, causing heat to spread throughout your body. If it wasn’t for you carrying his child already, you would have mounted him to make sure his seed would bear fruit.

Cregan eventually lies down on his back, and you seize the chance to rest your head on his chest. It’s hard to keep your eyes open as his hand softly entangles into your hair, scratching your scalp in the manner that usually lulls you to sleep. His breath is slower now, his chest rising and lowering your head.

“I can not bear to spend another night without you by my side,” you all but whisper, bringing a hand to his stomach.

Your finger trails the contours of his muscles, before following the dark trail of coarse hairs down.

“You needn‘t worry about that,” he says. “We shall not stay in King’s Landing for too long. And I highly doubt that anyone could get me out of your chambers during the time we stay there. Once we arrive, we shall stay together.”

Nodding your head slowly, you hum a ‘mh-mh‘, too engrossed in the feeling of his hand in your hair and the other rubbing soothing circles over your back. Having trouble staying awake, you’re hardly able to process his next words, already drifting off to sleep.

“Let us sleep now, my love. We have another tiresome day ahead of us.“

Cregan Taglist: @nats-whore @aemondsbabe

[juletheghoul]

too close

a/n: Yeah. The trailer got me again. I can't help myself!!! Also - I didn't actually want to write feelings for these two but I have no say anymore. They have feelings, they are obsessed with each other and I can't just ignore it lol. Not beta’d and barely proofread- any mistakes or errors are my own. Hopefully you enjoy! (PS I did a little research on fruits in Roman times- they had no word for orange, so any shade of orange was just called red)

Warnings; 18+ no minors, vague but big-legal age gap, piv sex, dirty talk, Marcus eats pussy and I don't CARE, giving him that gluckgluck3000, creampie, Marcus gets hurt (hurt comfort), hand stuff from him because he's my precious man and he likes to give his girl pleasure, master / slave dynamic (power imbalance) he’s still pretty possessive, Marcus calls reader Girl, reader calls Marcus Dominus (for now?👀), **FEELINGS** let me know if I missed any!

This is the fic I referenced in this preview

Pairing: Marcus Acaciusx F!Reader

word count: 5.1k (whoops!)

reblogs are appreciated

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You frowned, despite your station, the confusion and slight worry breaking through the years of training your face to remain neutral. For a moment, you forgot your place.

“But-“ he turned, head tilted in curiosity instead of anger, thankfully, “I am to stay here? You do not wish me to accompany you Dominus? To pour and serve…?” You could not keep the slight hurt from your voice, much to your dismay. 

“No Girl, you will stay here, at the villa.” He saw the confusion, the unabashed anguish on your face and his expression softened, “peace Girl, it is not a matter of not desiring your presence or your service.” You listened to him with a lump in your throat, a wild fear seizing your heart that he might have grown tired of you. 

“I will not have the luxury of a tent, the rebellion is small enough that I can squash it and be back in less than a moon’s turn.” He came close, close enough to have your face tilt up to stare into his eyes. “I would not have you waiting for me in such a meagre camp, I would not have you sleeping in the dirt.” His hand settled on your arm, a soft offering, a reassurance but it did nothing to calm you. You have grown so accustomed to having him close, to ending up in his bed of a night more often than not before heading to your own, naked and pleasantly sore; to falling asleep with his seed trickling out of your puffy little cunt.

“I am comfortable wherever you are Dominus, I could still be of use, to light your fires-“ 

“I would have you here, and safe. That is my decision, and no amount of temptation will sway me from it.” He lifted your hand, pressing his lips to your fingers in silent, but firm apology. You knew there was nothing to be said, you had already pushed the matter far more than would be allowed on a normal day. 

“Your will, Dominus.” You bowed your head, despite the hurt and worry swirling around in your belly. “I will pray to the Gods for your swift victory, and safe return home.” 

He nodded, leaving shortly after. 

Time passed, and a feeling of restlessness took firm root in your being. The house felt empty, despite the attendants and sentinels left to guard them as well as the property. The days found you listless, moving through the motions of your chores and daily duties practically numb. The days were marks on the wall of your mind, praying to the Gods to send him back to you. 

Whispers travelled swiftly through the city, through the market stalls and through the villa itself, most of them rumours and it was difficult to keep your emotions in check. 

He has advanced

He has killed the leaders of the rebellion

He is victorious, already on his way home

He has been hurt

He is dead

He is victorious - Rome's favoured son has triumphed once more

The moon turned, once, and then twice, finally a third time before he was home. The all encompassing relief was short lived however, that wash of relief turned to ashes in your mouth at the sight of him. One of the rumours had been true after all. A sword wound to the side had laid him low late into the battle, it hadn’t killed him, thank the Gods, but it had slowed him down and made his journey home nothing short of agony. 

Your heart raced to see him weakened, every fibre of your being itched to run to him, to press your lips to skin but you refrained. You stood aside, dutifully, letting his trusted soldiers practically carry him to his bed. The older women got to work, bringing fortified wine with all manner of powders and potions to aid in his recovery while you stood next to him, the little half-moon marks in your palms from your nails barely felt like anything compared to the ache in the back of your throat. 

Your eyes would not leave his face. 

He looked so tired, mud and grime still marring his skin as he lay prone on his bed. To forfend the ugly thoughts swirling around in your mind, you focused on the tasks at hand. 

He needs to be cleansed, after he eats something I will boil some water and move gently, leave him to gather his strength. An offering must be made so the Gods will hasten his healing-

“Girl.” His voice was soft, and instantly you rushed to his side. 

“Yes Dominus, I am here.” You took his hand tentatively, your heart soared to feel him squeeze it. 

“Fetch me some broth, and help me to sit up–a few pillows behind me. I would sit upright.”��

You rushed to comply, happy to focus on his instructions. With soft touch, you did your best to prop him up, biting your lip to stop your eyes from welling up when he winced. Once satisfied, you set about fetching hot water and linens, as well as his broth. He sighed at the sight of it, and drank almost all of it within a few heartbeats. 

“Shall I help you cleanse now Dominus?” You brought the basin closer, showing him the steaming water and he nodded. 

Tentatively, you removed the soiled clothes he wore, ears pricked up for any sign of discomfort. He beared it with good grace, keeping the twinges of pain to himself, you imagined for your benefit, and you were grateful. It took time, but finally, you had divested him of everything, and he half sat, half laid on his bed, not an ounce of shame for his nakedness. It was secondary, to see him bare, more alarming was the soiled linens with the dark bloom of dried blood staining it on his side like some grotesque flower. 

He was pale, weak, his injury robbing him of his normal, ruddy health. He watched you, his expression somewhere between exhaustion, and a calm content. 

With gentle hands, you dipped the clean linen into the steaming water of the basin, and methodically cleaned the dirt, and dried blood from his skin. Eventually his eyes closed, soft sighs filled the air with every pass of the warm cloth across his shoulders, down the firm muscles of his thighs, his hands, until you reached the contours of his face. The lines were more defined, this battle had taken a toll on him. 

Your thumbs smoothed over his brows, wiping dust and worry away with a bone deep gratitude that he had come back. He melted into your touch, and you tried and failed to suppress the smile. 

“I must clean the wound, Dominus.” You reached for more clean dressings, giving him a chance to steel himself but he kept his eyes closed. You thought he might have fallen asleep, but he nodded, and so you did what needed to be done. 

To his great credit, he didn’t make a sound. Even as you cleaned at the angry, but healing edges of the wound. He said nothing when you packed it with the poultice one of the women had brought, when you covered it in a clean dressing, even as he drank down the no doubt foul tasting potion to help him sleep. Instead he settled back, and sighed, his eyelashes fluttering against his skin. 

You gathered all of the soiled clothing and discarded bandages, and moved to leave him to rest but his hand snatched at your wrist. 

“Wait, Girl, stay. Stay with me–” His words were almost slurred, and he didn’t finish his thought, his hand loosened around your wrist but you stayed, taking great care to lie beside him on his bed, and watched him sleep. Your heart raced with something you couldn’t–wouldn't name, something that threaded through your ribcage like smoke, wreathing its way around your lungs and taking root in your heart. You pressed the back of your hand to his brow, thankful that no fever lurked there and once satisfied that he was indeed resting, you rested your head next to his. 

Sleep took you, swiftly and without warning. 

The world outside was dark when your eyes opened, and it took a moment for you to get your bearings. His warm skin pressed to your arm and you jolted with the memory of his injury. 

“Peace, girl, I am well.” His voice was quiet, but stronger than before, “You did well in changing my dressings.” His praise squeezed at something in your belly, robbing you of any words you might have had. “You must be hungry, go and fetch something to eat and bring it here, I will share the meal with you.” The concern in his voice brought a smile to your lips, his thoughts on you, despite the pain he must have been in. 

“Yes Dominus, shall I fetch more of the potion as well? You should rest-” He raised his hand softly to forestall you. 

“I have rested enough, I would have my wits about me just now. Go on, you may fetch whatever else you need, I would have you sleeping in my bed.” 

His words rung in your ears as you moved throughout the silent house. They shone through your eyes as you piled a serving tray with olives and cheese, with bread and ripe fruits. They camped in your belly as it rolled with something when they repeated over and over like a prayer in your mind as you filled a serving jug with the wine he favoured, they strengthened your grip as you carried it with the utmost care down the moonlit halls of the house, almost sharpening your eyesight to bring you swiftly back to him. 

You set it down between you on his bed, careful not to spill anything or jostle him too much and just in time too, the hunger rung out from your empty belly loud as thunder but you ignored it, your priority was to help him sit up.

“Eat Girl, you are starving. I will pick at my leisure.” He frowned, gesturing to the food and you were grateful beyond words. It was a quiet meal, but comfortable. He usually ate by himself, most of the time while in his study and with you, it was after chores and duties had been completed. Despite all of your trysts and time spent together, it was the first meal you’d ever shared. 

“You do not favour the olives.” He said it without judgement. You shook your head shyly, covering your mouth to speak through bites of bread and cheese. 

“My desire for them is unpredictable.” He tilted his head, “Sometimes, they are all I want. Other times, I cannot stand the sight of them.” You wrinkled your nose, confirming that this time, the latter statement was true.

He smiled, huffing out an amused laugh through his nose.

“What else do you like? I see you favour the fruit, which one do you like most of all?” It was strange to be asked about yourself, no one in your life had ever wondered about what you might of preferred, for anything.

“Figs, I think. Pomegranates too, although peeling them takes a lifetime.” He huffed again, wincing slightly, “Are you in pain? Shall I fetch–” He raised a hand. 

“I am well, continue. Why do you favour them if they are so troublesome to eat?” He shifted a tiny bit, with great effort, turning to face you better. The room was dark, save for the few candles burning and the moon shining in through his window, casting stark shadows across his lovely face. 

“They are worth the effort.” 

He smiled, and finally reaches over to help himself to the food. Something about the darkness, about the quiet seclusion made you bolder.

“What about you Dominus? Is there a fruit you favour?” Your heart raced, fear that you might have overstepped grabbing hold of you but it was for naught, he merely frowned in thought. 

“I prefer plums.” He said after a moment, “I like figs as well.” It was both exhilarating and strange to speak with him like that, in the quiet dark, almost comfortable. “Although–in my younger days we fought in Spain, and there I tasted a fruit I have never seen again, I do not know the name of it but I enjoyed it very much.” 

“What was it like?”

“It was round, a strange shade of red with a thick peel but underneath it had segments like a lemon.” He continued eating, and you were content to sit with him, only moving the tray once he had eaten his fill.

“It is good to be home.” The words came out as a sigh, “I missed it while I was away, more than any other time I must admit.” He shifted slightly and winced again, “Help me lay flat, my back aches from sitting.” He held out his hand and you rushed to oblige, moving pillows and positioning him flat on his back. “That is better, gratitude Girl, let us blow out the candles and settle in.” 

“Yes Dominus.”

“Have you something to sleep in? What is most comfortable for you?” 

“I am content in this, Dominus.” You gestured to your tunic as you made your way around the room, snuffing out the candlelight.

“That is not what I asked you.” There was no bite in his words, but the expectation of truth was plain as day. 

“Most nights I sleep in the nude, it is what is most comfortable for me.” You made your way back to the bed but he did not let you get in. 

“Please, make yourself comfortable, there is no expectation from me, much as I have missed the pleasures of your body. I would have you sleep how you are accustomed.” You nodded once, undressing down to your skin before slipping into bed with him. In the dark, in the quiet, it was peaceful and the sound of his steady breathing worked it spell on you quicker than you would have thought. 

“Gratitude Girl.” He said it soft, and with a full belly and heavy lids, you questioned him. 

“For what Dominus?” The words were almost slurred, as the heavy press of sleep pushed you into the deep pool of blackness. You thought you heard him say everything, but you could not be sure, sleep had claimed you. 

-

You woke with the sun, the first few rays sliding across your skin like water and it was hard to move from your place. In the night, your body had brought you close to him, seeking out the warmth of him. He was still asleep, but his legs had tangled up with yours and it was strange to lay with him like this, both of you nude as the day you were born, yet incredibly comforting. 

You took the time to check over his wound, and were pleased to find it looking much better. The edges of it stitching together, thankfully without corruption. 

“It does not hurt as much as it did before.” His voice was sleepy, “I will be back on my feet soon enough.”

“Let me dress Dominus, and I will fetch you something to break your fast.” 

“Not just yet.” He shifted, and although you helped him, he didn’t struggle quite as much. “Come, lie with me.” He held out his arm, and you went to him, trembling like a leaf to rest your head on his shoulder. “Gods, I missed you, Girl.” He buried his nose into the mess of your hair and something inside you grew and swelled, was fed and made strong by his words and by his skin. 

“I missed you, Dominus.” Truer words had never been spoken by you, the ache for him had been unbearable.

“Did you?” There was something underneath, something desperate and had it not been so early, so peaceful, he might not have asked.

“Desperately Dominus, I feared you had abandoned me, I feared you no longer desired me.” You pressed your face into his neck, breathing him in, his scent, his warmth, him- sustenance

“Come now, Girl, you know of my desire for you, it is like a thirst I cannot quench. A hunger I cannot satisfy, despite my dark moods, despite my sour face, you are a source of joy and pleasure I have not known in some time.” His hand brought your face up, his gaze burned into yours and his words affected you so that tears welled in your eyes. He wiped them away, and the tenderness was too much, a sob clawed its way out from your throat. All of the worry, all of the fear that he might have left you alone in the world, to be sold to another bubbled up and he held you as you cried.

“Do you wish to be free of me? Is that why you cry?” Something in his voice broke your heart.

“No Dominus, no-“ you wiped at your eyes, moving to look him in the eye and the expression you saw in them was almost too much to bear. “I have never been so happy in all my life, I have never felt about anyone, the way I feel for you.” You pressed your lips to his, petal-soft. 

“Sometimes, the things I feel for you are almost too big for my body, I want to be with you always, I want to feel you always. I feared so much while you were gone that I could barely eat, barely sleep-” Your words were frantic, so many things to get out that you could barely speak and he pulled you close, shushing you softly. 

“My heart swells to hear you speak this way.” He reached down, sliding his hand towards the hinge in your knee, to pull it over his thigh. “Peace, let us just enjoy the silence.” You nodded into his neck, letting go of a great breath in your lungs. 

“If I was myself, and whole, I would be pulling every ounce of pleasure from you now.” 

You laughed at the annoyance in his tone.

“Soon enough Dominus, I would have you healthy and healed.” Your hand slid up the smooth expanse of his chest, threading through the curls at the base of his skull. “Once your wound has healed, you may have me any way you please.” 

“Any way?” His tone darkened, and your body responded, thighs clenching, heart racing, nipples hardening. “Any way I please? And what if I want you for a day and a night? What if I want you wet and spread for me in this bed until you’re so full of my gift it spills all over my linens?” The hand that had been softly stroking your back moved down and grabbed at your backside, pulling until the lips of your sex spread open. 

A moan slipped out at the feel of his hands, and he all but growled. 

“Do not make those noises Girl, not when I cannot fuck you how I wish to.” He pulled your face up, licking into your mouth with a hunger you could not satisfy, not in his current state. 

“Dominus, I beg of you not to taunt me, not when we cannot indulge.” You kissed him again, despite your words and finally he pulled away, the tremble of frustration in his grip. You shifted, and felt his manhood press against your thigh, the sight of him, leaking and hard against his belly made you sigh. 

“Do not concern yourself with that, I am ravenous for you, but my body cannot fulfill the wishes of my cock. Go and fetch something to break our fast. I will need you to change my dressing as well, if you could.” He sent you off with a kiss, and with desire dripping onto your thighs. 

“Yes Dominus.” You smiled, and rushed off to do what needed to be done. 

-

Weeks passed, and he healed beautifully. His wound knit together cleanly and with that, his strength came back. More often than not he stood and cleansed without your help, he left the safety of his bed and his chambers and sported a genuine smile as he made his rounds through his house.

You trailed behind him, your own smile in place to see him coming back into himself. 

Things were different. He was different. 

He spoke more, that was for one. Before he would keep his own council, his words were curt and his thoughts would be kept close to his chest. Some nights he reverted to his silence, but it had grown into something peaceful, something comfortable.

The biggest change though, was his attitude towards you. 

For one, he refused to sleep alone. The darkness of night found you tending to his needs and after the candles had been snuffed- he pulled your tunic off and pulled you into his bed, into his arms. 

At first, you thought it was his injury, a fear that he might suffer some setback in his sleep, but as the days passed on and he was well past the point of danger, he still refused to let you go. 

His desire had come back too, much quicker than his body could handle. Mornings would find you in the cage of his arms, with his lust pressed hard and hot at the cleft of your ass. You would pull away so as not to tease him, and he would let you at first, but as his body caught up to him, he stopped letting you pull away. 

Most mornings, he’d whisper how much he missed burying himself inside you, how he couldn’t wait to gift you with his seed while slipping his fingers between your legs and swirling them around your clit, only stopping after you’d fluttered around his fingers. Then he’d send you off to fetch food with a smile on your face and an ever-growing ache between your thighs. 

A part of you fretted as to why he hadn’t taken you yet, as the days passed it was clear that he was well enough to indulge. Another part, a hopeful, possibly quite foolish part of you thought maybe he was waiting for you to ask him. That couldn’t be, could it? You ruminated on your previous encounters, yes–he’d called you forth to warm his bed, but with every recalled memory it was clear that in his own way, he'd let you decide whether to push things or not. A luxury you knew was rare. It was an intoxicating thought though, to think that you could decide when and what you wanted him to do.

So many possibilities. 

When night came, you brought him his meal, and his wine and tried to keep the tremble of excitement out of your hands. You watched him move about his chambers, his strength back to normal as he dipped his hands into the fresh water in his basin. His hair had grown out a little, dark with silver mixed through and that thought struck you again, that he was some beautiful marble statue come to life. An emperor of old, standing before you in all his glory. 

“Dominus-” You called to him, unable to hold back any longer. His eyes raised, finding you as he dried his hands. 

“Before you take your meal, I would ask something of you.” Your voice shook, never had you openly asked him for anything before. He raised his eyebrows, more surprised than anything.

“What would you have of me Girl?” He moved towards you, eyes curious. 

“I would have you–” You stopped him, guiding him to sit on his bed, “I would have you sit here, and accept my mouth.” 

You kneeled before him, staring up at him with your lip caught between your teeth. Your hands landed on his knees, sliding up to pull his tunic up to expose his manhood. For a moment, he stared at you with wide, surprised eyes. 

“I have missed our times together, I have missed you filling me of a night and as much as I treasure your fingers in the morning, I would have you feel pleasure at my hand–or, my mouth.” He did not stop you from exposing him and heat flooded your body to see how quickly his cock responded to your words, to the soft exploration of your hand. 

“You would do this?” His palm landed on your shoulder, sliding up to cup your cheek. “You have no obligation, I would not command you to do this should you not want to.” You spit onto your palm and grasped him in hand and despite his words, he shudderred to feel the way you stroked him. 

“I dream about this Dominus, I desire you so deeply that I ache for you–” You opened your mouth and took the blunt tip of him into your mouth. He moaned, slack-jawed at the sight of you. You placed open mouthed kisses at the tip, and the sensitive underside, stroking at the base of him. His thighs spread, making room for you and you relished the warm strength of them under your arms. 

He tasted like the ocean. 

“God’s above Girl-” You pulled away, smiling as you continued to stroke him, he barely fit in the palm of your hand and with his passion dribbling out and your spit the sounds were loud and slick. Your own arousal unspooled between your legs, the ache intensifying as he tensed underneath you, hissing when you pressed soft kisses to the scar at his side, to the softness of his belly, to the firm golden thighs bracketing you to his hips. 

“Open your mouth.” His confidence resurfaced, and then his hand wrapped around yours, guiding you to stroke him the way he liked. He guided the reddened tip into your mouth. “Look at me when you take me in your mouth, open wide, I want to touch your throat.” You moaned around him, taking him deeper, breathing through your nose in an attempt to stay calm. 

“That’s it Girl, Gods be damned-” His tone was filthy as he held you there, eyes watering until you pulled away, sputtering and messy. 

“If you continue, I will spill in your mouth.” he guided your hand still, slowly stroking himself against your lips, smearing your spit and his salty arousal onto your lips. Never in your life have you felt that powerful, that beautiful, with tears spilling down your face and slick dripping down your thighs. He held himself suspended in his pleasure, awaiting your word. 

“Would you like to spill in my mouth Dominus? Or would you like to fill my cunt?” You held out your tongue, letting him rub the tip of himself against it while he decided. Your heart soared to see the conflict on his face. 

“I would fill your cunt, I have missed it terribly.” You smiled and rose with a final kiss to his cock and once you did, he ripped the tunic off your body. The loud tear of it made you squeal with a mix of shock and excitement. 

“I promise you, I will not last.” He all but tossed you onto his bed, spreading your legs wide for his gaze. “Greedy little cunt, so wet for me.” He spoke in a daze, staring at the place that ached at the mere thought of him. He slipped down and it’s with a shock that you watched him dip down to spear into you with his tongue. Never had anyone used their mouth on you and the sight of it was almost too much to bear.

It’s with a greedy, filthy groan that his lips dragged up to latch around the pert little pearl of you, his tongue stroking, stroking, stroking while his mouth suctioned around it. Your body was a taut string, legs shaking under the strong grip of his hands, holding you to him tight enough to hurt. Your breathing came in pants, the climax was already there, balancing on a knife's edge, so close you could almost taste it.

His hands moved, sliding up to pinch at your nipples and the wave crested. Your hands gripped into his curls, both holding him close, and desperately pushing him away while you fluttered into his mouth. 

You felt the strong muscle of his tongue slide down, drinking you from the source. 

He made his way back up, your slick shining on his face and on his whiskers. You’re almost too shocked, and too shy to look into his eyes. 

“I confess, I have wanted to do that for a long time.” He pulled his tunic up and off as you lay under him, boneless. “I know it’s not something commonly done, but I enjoy it. Did you enjoy it? I felt you flutter.” He raised your leg, wrapping it around his hip while his cock slipped inside you without any resistance. You let out a relieved sigh, finally, he was home. 

“Yes Dominus–” You almost whispered, half-shy as he dropped down, his arms holding himself up on either side of your skull. “No one has ever–Oh–” He snapped his hips hard, unable to hold himself back and already, the need built in your core, robbing you of any coherent thoughts. 

“No one but me ever will.” He kissed you, making you taste yourself and it was so perverse, so exhilarating you held him close, wrapping your arms and legs around him to feel as much of him as you could. His cock pushed and pulled, hitting that special place he owned and with a handful of thrusts, and a punched out groan he filled you with his gift. Finally. 

He watched himself pull out of the mess he'd made, watched in silence as his gift dripped out and onto his linens. 

Things felt different this time, there’s a vulnerability, an intimacy that is almost overwhelming. You pulled his face up, and pressed your lips to his softly, praying that you conveyed the feelings swirling in your chest. He kissed you back, his hand gliding up to wrap around your neck. When you opened your eyes, his brow was furrowed, the same feelings shining back at you through his dark eyes. 

Seconds passed, and the feeling did not disperse. Before he would have sent you away, but he held you close. Wordlessly he pressed his lips to yours over and over, he stroked at your skin, your shoulder and your thigh high on his ribs, your breast, your lips. He moved off, and went about dampening a cloth to clean himself off of you. Once he was done, he brought the food you’d served him and fed you from his own hand. 

You accepted the food, smiling shyly as he watched you, something like affection, like love shining out through his eyes. 

“Thank you Dominus–” He shook his head, a small frown at your words. 

“Call me Marcus.”

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[amjustagirl]

chapter 4

pairing: hoshina soshiro x f! reader

genre: romance, angst

wc: 5k

summary: you've loved soshiro since you were seven. he will always place his duty above you.

chapt 1 / chapt 2 / chapt 3 / chapt 4 / chapt 5

When you blink open your eyes, you find yourself back in the Hoshina family estate. 

The garden is exactly as you remember it. Bonsai trees, neatly manicured. The white gravel ocean raked with ripple lines. Heat shimmers off the ground, harsh summer sun bearing down on the tiled roof. A young man with dark hair and sad, violet eyes sits across you. 

“Soshiro”, you cry, fumbling to your feet. 

He looks right through you even when you’re standing right before him. 

He’s wearing the navy hakama he reserves for formal occasions, the family crest embroidered in gold thread on the back, a ceremonial katana strapped to his hip. Something’s about to happen, you realise, the compound bustling with servants carrying paper lanterns. No one pays you any notice as you float behind him down the familiar corridors of the house, a ghost. 

His father approaches, severe lines running through his forehead. “You know your duty”, he claps his son’s shoulder with a heavy hand. 

Soshiro’s shoulders slump, an invisible weight bearing down on him. 

His duty awaits outside the estate’s gates. 

A young woman, clearly noble born, waits for them to greet her with her chin in the air, dolled up in matrimonial white, surrounded by a retinue of servants. She tilts her chin higher to assess her groom as he offers her his arm before bowing her head demurely, letting him help her up the stairs. 

The sun in your eyes forces you to turn away. Another woman catches your gaze, the profile of her face backlit in the blue-grey dusk. Rough hands, a cheap, cotton yukata, she hides in the shade. Her anguish is apparent in the defeated curve of her mouth. 

She’s you, you realise, with even sadder eyes. 

This is a dream, you tell yourself. A shitty, crappy excuse of a dream that you probably caused by drinking one too many cans of beer. You really should take better to maintain a healthy REM cycle, maybe pick up some meditation or exercise, because heaven knows your psyche will suffer if your subconsciousness decides to torture you in your sleep too.  

You close your eyes. 

You still don’t find yourself back in your bed. Instead, the stench of manure hits you, then the scratch of straw under your feet. That sad girl - you, in another life perhaps, kneels before the same dark haired boy, Soshiro, still as a statue.  

“The horse is saddled. We can ride somewhere, far away where no one knows either of our names, leave all of this behind. You don’t have to get married to a woman you don’t love -” 

He’s carved of marble in the moonlight, doesn’t move to meet her gaze, not even when she tugs at his sleeve. “I am but a second son, but even I know my duty to my clan.” 

“And what about love?” she asks. “What about me?” 

Neither of them notice you when you tumble out of the stable into the night. But there’s nothing but darkness looming before you, the moon nowhere to be seen, and when you turn back, the stable has disappeared. In its place, a familiar, wooden hut, where a fire grows. The heat of the forge stings your face, ash flying, the smell of burning steel in the air. 

This time, Soshiro’s in the lacquered leather of a samurai warrior from centuries past. “Is it ready?” he directs his question at the woman in the forge. 

Wordlessly, she hands him the sword in her hand, red hot from hammer and tongs. He weighs it in his hand, swings it once, twice, flashing quicksilver in the dim light of the blacksmith’s forge. You recognise the blade. You’ve seen it hung up in one of many sitting rooms in the Hoshina estate, captioned as belonging to a Hoshina ancestor who never returned home. 

You understand why her voice quivers when she calls out to him before he leaves. “My lord”, she says. “Will you ever lay down your sword?” 

“Perhaps in another life”, he replies. 

In the shadow of the forge, the violets in his eyes wither and die. 

You cannot bear to watch this play out before you again and again, a twisted loop you’re powerless to stop. There is nothing you can do to shock yourself awake, a ghost in every lifetime you freefall through, so bone weary, you stop running, sink to your knees. Wherever you are, the nightmares stop once you close your eyes. The damp grass is cool against your back, the darkness becomes soothing. It’s easy to lose yourself to a deep, undisturbed sleep. 

(wake up) 

The thrum of your heartbeat starts to still. You think you hear a faint echo. It sounds like Soshiro.

For the first time in your life, you hesitate to answer. 

(please, wake up)

“But it’s comfortable here”, you say to no one at all. “I’m so tired.” 

The neverending grind of work, of long hours spent hunched over glowering flames and complicated weapon blueprints. The dull ache of heartbreak, the painful lesson of learning to be okay alone. 

“Let me sleep”, you whisper. 

The darkness holds you close, blankets you. It’s too easy to let yourself just be, no one to disappoint, no one who disappoints. You let yourself be pulled beneath the tide, the endless ebb and flow lulling you into a dreamless slumber. 

Perhaps you could be content like this. 

Perhaps not. You think of the menagerie of plants you’ve gathered, they depend on you for food and water. There’s a pottery class on Sunday that you’ve been excited to attend, an abstract pot that you want to attempt. You’re supposed to meet your mother for tea, you’re looking forward to feasting on peaches, in season in the dying weeks of summer. 

Your eyelids are still heavy with the weight of sleep, but you force them open. A streak of pain that shoots through your right side, but you slowly sit up anyway. A sea of hydrangeas,  shimmering violet-blue in the early morning light stretches before you.

An achingly familiar voice calls your name. You lift your face to meet the rising sun, feeling its warmth flicker through you. 

Your heart begins to hum. 

You’re not in your own bed when you crack your eyes open. 

The room is too white, too pin-neat. There are clear tubes running from your arms, bandages restricting even your slightest movement, not that you really can do much other than shift about the too-narrow bed you’ve found yourself in, the sudden brightness disorienting you. 

“Oh!”, an unfamiliar voice exclaims. “Call the doctor, she’s awake!” 

Your head threatens to split open. It hurts too much to stay awake. 

You fall back into a dreamless sleep.

You drift in and out of consciousness after that, the pull of sleep still irresistible, but you stay awake for longer periods of time. Doctors poke and prod at you, nurses fuss over you. It’s hard to recall any conversations you have during this time, your memories melding almost into your dreams. 

People ask you questions about your name, your age, where you’re from. It feels as if you’re stuck underwater, it’s a struggle to gasp for enough air at times to answer them, but you think you find enough brain cells to rub together in the cotton wool jumble in your head, mumble the right answers so they go away. 

Your parents show up to visit you. 

‘’Llo”, you mutter. Your father looks strangely old, your mother tired. 

You’re pleased that your mother brings chopped peaches for you, less so when you realise you have no ability to swallow solid food just yet. They disappear for a hushed conversation with the doctors, leaving you with little distraction so you drop back off to sleep. 

The next time you wake, the room is dark. 

Even in the dim glow of machines beeping, you make out the faint outline of a boy you know too well, curled up uncomfortably in a plastic chair. “S‘ro”, you mumble, half asleep. 

A flurry of movement. He appears by your uninjured side, staring at you wide-eyed, as if he doesn’t believe you won’t disappear. You wonder if he’s another figment of your dreams because he stands so still drinking his fill of you, until he remembers to breathe again. 

“Hey”, he says hoarsely.

“Mmph”, you grunt. In your vague, rambling train of thoughts, you register surprise that he’s even here. “S’ work?”

His laugh is wet. “Are you seriously askin’ me ‘how’s work’ right now?” 

You frown. Why - why is Soshiro even here? 

“I’m here for you, silly”, a warm hand settles on your left arm. “Go back to sleep. I’ll seeya later.” 

You start to stay awake for longer stretches at a time. 

Your parents gently fill you in on your situation. You were touch and go for a while, your mother recounts tearfully, your head injury making the doctors doubt you’d ever wake. You had to be cut open to stop internal bleeding in your gut, fix a multitude of shattered bones in your right hip and leg. Burns, on your shoulder and arm which required skin grafts, extensive medication to keep infection at bay. 

Everyone treats you like you’re made out of glass even as your condition steadily improves, aided by the wonders of kaiju regenerative technology. Your parents fuss over you like a child, tucking you in too tight beneath starched hospital sheets. The nurses refuse to let you shower, only allowing you sponge baths which you detest. 

Soshiro’s the worst of the lot. 

At first it's endearing how protective and sweet he is. The doctors give him a wide berth, most of the nurses terrified of him, though he swears that he’s been utterly polite when you question him about it. He doesn’t allow you to do anything yourself, not even hold your own cup of water when you drink. Your bedside is overflowing with colourful greeting cards, half of them signed by him, and he brings you a fresh bouquet of flowers during each visit. 

“That boy is besotted with you”, one of the nurses who isn’t intimidated by Soshiro trills in with her unsolicited opinion. “It’s adorable.” 

He’s not”, you deny, frowning. “We’re just friends.”  

It’s a little too much. The only visitor who doesn’t smother you is Sochiro, who snaps back to his usual self the minute you show a little of your usual snark. “Did you break your head too?” you ask, when he arrives bearing a hamper of fruit. 

“Impertinent brat”, he snaps back. “I’ll have you know my father put me up to this.” 

You grin. “I suppose that’s where your brother got his manners from. Pity you don’t have any.”

He glowers at you, but doesn’t storm out of the room. Instead, he brandishes a small, silver knife and starts peeling fruit. “I never wanted a younger sibling”, he grouses. “Should’ve dropped Soshiro in the drain the minute he was born, then I’d never have to deal with your smart mouth -.” 

“Aww”, you coo. “Hoshina Sochiro, Captain of the Sixth Division, getting soft in your old age.” 

“Shut it”, he snaps, while stuffing perfect wedges of fruit into your palm. 

It reminds you of the easy friendship you had with Soshiro, not the way he’s behaving, almost as if he feels anything more than friendship for you - which he’s confirmed to your face that he mostly does not. It confuses you, the tender way he treats you, the lingering stares when he thinks you’re asleep, and you much prefer him to go back to the way he was before. 

“Stop it!” you finally burst, when his smothering becomes too overwhelming. “Treat me like your friend - not like I’m some glass figurine you’re trying to keep safe.”

A plastic chair screeches back. He stares at you. “Do you even realise how close you were to dyin’?” 

“Sorta”, you reply, though some gaps remain empty in your memories, “but I’m okay now, and ‘sides, what happened was just bad luck -”

“No it wasn’t just luck”, he replies. “It wasn’t. It wasn’t.” 

“What do you mean?” 

Something shutters behind his eyes. “It’s my fault you’re hurt.” He angles himself away from you. “I crashed into your building.” 

“The kaiju threw you into the building”, you correct. “It wasn’t your fault.”

He lunges forward to grip your bed rail, his sudden intensity scaring you. “I could’ve been the cause of you dyin’-”

“My head’s pretty hard”, you try to diffuse the building tension with a joke. “Would take more than a fallin’ building to kill me.”

He makes a strangled sound of outrage in his throat. “Don’t. Just - don’t.” 

His tone is devoid of its usual lightness. He’s - he’s angry, scared, face twisting into a scowl, body coiling, as if preparing for an attack. “You’re upset”, you murmur. “Don’t be.” 

“You could’ve died.”

“Hey”, you beckon him forward, lifting your uninjured hand off the bed to place it on top of his. He grasps at it, a drowning man clutching at a lifeline. 

“It’s okay”, you say gently. “I’m okay.” 

“Promise me you’ll stay safe.”

“I’ll try my best”, you offer. 

An angry sound escapes through his clenched jaw, his face strained. You brush the skin of his wrist with your thumb until the too-quick staccato of his pulse steadies. 

“Go to sleep”, he finally says. “Just stay safe.” 

After that, something shifts. Soshiro resumes the mantle of his chaotic, goofy self. 

“I’m gonna yell at you when you’re better”, Soshiro huffs the next time he visits. “A daikaiju -it was a nine on the fortitude scale, y’know - decides to attack near you, and you not only choose to stay put, you run back into a collapsing building for whatever reason -” 

“I was trying to save some of the blades -” 

“How about you focus on savin’ your own damn skin -” 

You sniff, deliberately closing your eyes. “I’m going back to sleep.” 

“Oi”, he grounds out. “Stop pretendin’.” 

The reappearance of the playful banter you’re used to sharing with him puts you back at ease. “Don’t you need to sleep too?” you ask, staring pointedly at the purple smudges beneath his eyes. “In a bed, not a hospital chair that’s going to give you a crooked neck.” 

“S’fine”, he always replies. “Still way more comfortable than sleepin’ out in a forest durin’ kaiju hunts.” 

“Still”, you insist. “You don’t have to visit me so often. I know how busy you are with work.” 

He squints at you. “Do you not want me to be here?” 

“That’s not what I’m saying and you know it -”

“Sometimes work can take a backseat.” 

You beckon him forward, place a hand against his forehead. “No fever”, you pronounce. “That’s odd -  the Hoshina Soshiro I know would never say that unless his mind is addled by illness-” 

He pulls away with a splutter, cheeks a furious pink. 

But awkward moments like this remain, no matter how much you try to keep your conversations light, breezy. There’s a tension Soshiro carries, especially apparent in the broad lines of his shoulders. He’s nervy, jumpy almost, the unguarded hitch in his breath when he draws in just a little too close. There’s something he’s keeping in, deep inside his chest that keeps trying to explode out of him whenever he’s not careful. 

There’s a glimpse of that when you tell him of your plan to move back to Osaka to continue recuperating under your parents’ roof. You’ll miss your apartment where you navigated much of your young adult life, the routines you’ve built for yourself. But you’re tired of living in the hospital, sleeping on a too-hard bed, without much privacy from nurses who pop in and out of your room at odd hours at all times. Your parents agree to ferry you to check-ups and appointments, and they even got your brother to transport your plants to make you feel more at home. 

“You’re not leavin’ for good, surely”, he frowns. 

“I’m not sure”, you shrug. “Izumo Tech does have offices in Osaka, and there isn’t much tying me to Tokyo anymore. 

There’s a sudden lull in the conversation as Soshiro falls silent, face stricken. He opens his mouth as if to speak, once, twice, before shutting it deliberately,  Then his face slackens into a childish pout. 

“Don’t go”, he whines. “Who would I hang out with when I’m off-duty?” 

Caught off guard from this sudden change in mood, you refrain from pointing out that you’d each taken turns to studiously ignore the other before. “You’ll survive”, you pat his hand. “And, on the rare occasions you actually find the time away from work, you’re always welcome to visit me in Osaka.” 

“I will”, he replies, so seriously that your traitorous heart skips a beat. 

“I doubt you’ll get enough time off work”, you brush him off lightly before changing the subject. 

You don’t expect him to visit, not when Osaka is two and a half hours away from Tokyo on the shinkansen, but he turns up at the doorstep of your parents’ apartment with roses, dusty pink like the flush up his neck. 

“Hoshina-kun”, your mother exclaims. “Come on in!”

Something is up. Your mother bustles around, ushers him into your room, lays out before him an offering of cut fruit. Surprised at the tableau before you, you blink, looking up from your book. 

“Don’t you have to work?” 

“I do have days off, y’know.” He says, easing you into your wheelchair. 

“Thought you said killing kaijus isn’t a nine to five job”, you remind him pertly. 

He tweaks your nose. “Don’t be smart”, his eyes crinkle as he laughs, rolling you out of the confines of your parent’s house to a nearby park to enjoy the crisp cool autumn breeze, settling you down in the shade beneath a sprawling gingko tree. 

“Well, how’s work?” 

He considers you with a sideways glance. “I refuse to answer”, he says primly. “If I do, you’ll make use of it to accuse me of being obsessed with my job.”

“Aren’t you?” 

“This is exactly what I mean”, he throws his hands out dramatically. “Shouldn’t you just be happy I’m here -” 

“Actually”, you tease. “Isn’t the train fare really expensive? Can you afford that on your pay?” 

“The Defense Force’s generous enough to give me food, clothing and a roof over my head”, he replies drolly. “So I think my bank account can take the occasional hit.” Then, he shoots another mock glare your way. “Anyway, I don’t wanna talk about work or anything related to work.” 

“Then I guess there’s nothing else to talk about”, you tap your chin thoughtfully. 

“Idiot”, he wrinkles his nose. “We haven’t even talked about how you’re doing.” 

“Me?” 

Exaggeratedly, he takes a look around. “I don’t see anyone else I could be askin’ about -” 

“You wanna hear about my boring doctor appointments?” 

His eyes are wide, earnest. “I wanna hear about everything.” 

The sudden seriousness of his demeanour catches you off-kilter. Haltingly you tell him about the long check-ups that take hours, the doctors being optimistic about your progress, the physiotherapy sessions you’ve started. You’re slowly starting to walk again, a few steps at a time, giving you hope that you’ll be on your own two feet by the time of your brother’s wedding at the end of fall, even if you have to rely a little on crutches. 

“I’m talking too much”, you say, looking down at your lap. 

“Don’t stop”, he urges. “Keep talkin’.” 

A snort. “You’re gonna get sick of the sound of my voice”, 

“What a silly thing to say”, his gaze holds yours, steady, sure. 

There’s something impossibly soft in his eyes, a tenderness in the curve of his mouth. You don’t dare to put a name to it yet, don’t even dare to look too closely at it lest you lose yourself to daydreams that can’t possibly be true. Yet, in the purpling dusk, even though the seasons dictate that there be no summer flowers this late in the fall, there’s a bud of hope in your heart that starts to unfurl, petal by petal, twining itself between the ribs of your chest. 

(i like you)

(i’m sorry)

You remind yourself that your heart is not quite healed. Stitches remain, fleshy scars pink and raised. Ventricles working overtime to compensate for the damage he’s wrought just months prior. Mercilessly, you prune those hopes like unwanted weeds, chopping away at errant stems and leaves. 

“I’m tired”, you break away from his gaze. “Shall we call it a day?” 

He makes it difficult for you to safeguard your heart. 

Once a week, he makes the trek from Tokyo to Osaka without fail, appearing at your parents’ door with a bouquet of flowers and a bag bursting with fruit, whatever is in season - peaches and peonies, apples and chrysanthemums. Picnics when it’s sunny, cafes or supermarkets when it rains. Your mother has a sudden change of heart regarding him, always asking you when he’s coming to take you out next.  

“Seriously, don’t you have work?” you demand. “You can’t keep coming down here, it’s ridiculous.” 

“Is it?” he asks quietly. 

“It is”, you reply. “It’s a waste of your time and money.” 

With careful, calloused fingers, he tilts your chin up to meet his gaze. “What must I do to make you believe it’s really, really not.” 

You flinch, cramming your thrumming heart back into the confines of your chest. “You’re ridiculous”, you say as calmly as you can. If your leg weren’t still broken, you’d flee in the other direction, put as much distance as you can between you and Hoshina Soshiro, for fear of losing your heart again to him. 

He’s relentless, a quality that makes him an excellent swordsman and soldier, though it does not bode well for your heart. You spend the next few weeks keeping your conversations light, unsentimental, refusing to allow that unnamed emotion budding  in his eyes flourish any further, he remains undeterred. You catch him watching you sometimes, with something you don’t dare to name that bleeds into you, spreading the seeds of hope deep in your gut.  

“I’ll be back next week to see you”, he always says. “Stay safe.”

You should tell him to leave you alone, let you replant your heart in another pot, give it a chance to learn to stop looking towards him for his light. But the words choke in your throat, and it’s all you can do to look the other way. 

You don’t get any respite even at your own brother’s wedding. 

It’s too large, too crowded an occasion, your parents booking out a banquet hall in an upscale hotel to cram in their swarms of guests. As the younger sister of the groom, you’re expected to greet each and every guest, thank them for their attendance even if you’d much rather be at home, warm and snug in bed. Instead, your head threatens to split open, your hip’s on the verge of falling apart. You curse your stubbornness in insisting against bringing your wheelchair, the crutches you lean on cutting into the tender flesh of your underarms.  

“Did anyone tell you that you look beautiful tonight?” 

As it was in your dreams, he’s in a haori, deep blue with golden thread, but this time he looks right at you. Your mouth goes dry and you can’t seem to swallow your heart back down your throat. 

“Save your flirting for my cousins”, you retort, turning away. “They’re all aflutter at meeting you tonight.” 

He doesn’t let you flee. An arm loops around your waist, sears through the silk layers of your kimono and smoulders. “You’re cranky cos you’re tired, so let me help you.” 

You blame your capitulation on the absence of your wheelchair, not because you’re light headed from the sudden surge of helpless affection in your gut, as much as you refuse to allow yourself to believe his words. You let him steer you into your seat, palm flat against your back, heat suffusing into your skin. 

“I’ll be here if you need me”, he says simply. 

You don’t need him, you want to say, you can’t, but your mouth can’t seem to form the words when he leans in, tucks a stray strand of hair behind the shell of your ear, his touch feather light. 

“Vice Captain Hoshina!?” As you foresaw, a gaggle of younger cousins goggle at him, drag him away for selfies and autographs. You don’t get a chance to speak with him again once the wedding starts, the seating plan placing him with his parents and other business associates of your parents, a few tables away.  

The sheer scale and grandeur of your brother’s wedding isn’t what you’d have chosen for yourself, the cavernous ballroom feeling too large and impersonal, speeches dragging on for too long, but your brother and your new sister seem to radiate contentment, though you suspect the champagne toasts might have helped. 

As the sister of the groom, you’re the target of your older aunts’ inquiry as to ‘when it’s your turn next’, never mind that you burrow into your seat, trying to disappear from sight, and when that fails miserably, try to divert their attention to anything, anyone but yourself. If you had full use of your legs, you’d make a hasty retreat by now, but you’re so painfully slow on your crutches that you’re sure even the oldest grandma questioning you on your dating status (or lack thereof) would be able to catch up with you. 

“Ladies”, a smooth voice cuts in. “How are you all doin’ tonight?” 

A boyish smile with a cheeky snaggletooth works wonders on elderly ladies, you learn. It gives you the chance to slip away to the bathroom, splash water on your face, shackle your heart back in place. 

This brief reprieve doesn’t last long. Soshiro emerges from the shadows, pushing off the wall to pad quietly behind you. 

“What are you doing here?” you demand. “You should be back inside -” 

“I’m here to make sure you’re safe”, he replies. “Unless you don’t want me to make sure you don’t fall and crack your pretty head open?”  

“Stop it”, you say crossly, your crutches clacking loudly on the floor as you speed up, trying to put some distance between you two. “You’re giving everyone the wrong impression.” 

He follows right on your heels. “Perhaps I’m givin’ the right impression -” 

“Just  - just stop, Soshiro.” 

You burst through glass doors to push your way onto the open rooftop in the hope that the nighttime air will cool the heat rising in your cheeks, but you miss your step, crutches sliding on marble tiles and oof - 

Warm arms wrap tightly around you. You tell yourself it’s the shock of your almost-fall that makes you sag against a broad, lean chest, compliantly allowing Soshiro to tuck your face into his shoulders, settle an arm beneath your thighs, carrying you over onto a seat. A thick, rich fabric rests on your shoulders - his haori, you realise, the warmth from his body seeping into your skin. 

“Are you hurt?” he drops to one knee in front of you. 

The intensity of his gaze flays your chest open, exposing your beating heart, its stitches frayed. The spectre of the girl with sad eyes haunts you, leaving you terrified that you’ll suffer the same fate as her in this lifetime too. 

“I need you to stop”, you shove him back, a trapped animal brandishing its claws. “I want you to leave me alone. I don’t want your pity -” 

“Pity?!” he falls back on his haunches, gaping at you, incredulous. “Is that what you think it is?” 

“What else could it be?” you demand wetly, eyes stinging. “Nevermind, I changed my mind, I don’t want to know -” 

“Haven’t I made it obvious these past few months?” he asks, and you shake your head stubbornly, no. “What I feel for you - I’ve been goin’ crazy from the moment they told me a buildin’ fell on your head, so fuckin’ terrified I was goin’ to lose you just as I realised how stupid I’ve been -” 

Your head swims. “I don’t -” 

“I’ve loved you since I was eight. I just didn’t realise it til I nearly lost you.” 

You push aside the clouds of anger and fear blurring your vision. You see Hoshina Soshiro kneeling before you, slicing his chest open with your blade to reveal his heart, pressing it bloodied and beating into your waiting hands. 

In this lifetime, in this moment, he is yours and you are his.  

There is no guarantee that this will remain. Duty will always call upon him, and he will answer without fail. That is his destiny, as much as he is yours. Realisation crashes into you, relentless waves pulling you underwater. You will have to share him with the rest of Japan, possibly the world. This too shall end, be it tomorrow or years down the road if fate smiles down on you both. 

But even if his heart belongs to you for no more than a day, it’s enough. It’s all you’ve ever wanted. 

“You love me.” 

“Yeah”, he murmurs, moving so impossibly close that you see the violets in the depths of his eyes in full bloom. “And I kinda think you love me too.” 

Instead of answering, you tug him towards you, tangle your fingers in dark hair, let your lips press against the seam of his lips. He doesn’t give you the chance to breathe, arm curling around your waist, his hand cupping your face so he can tilt your chin up to pour himself into you. You drink him in, greedy to take what you can get, mouth open against his, lost to the raging current of want, of love that pulls you beneath the waves. 

“I think I do”, you say softly.  

Hoshina Soshiro smiles at you, wider and brighter than the moon. 

a/n: i hope this chapter soothes the anxiety from last week heh :>

squeal at me pls! muacks always <3

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 16

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: I didn't sleep very well but I'm here.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

As you move North, the sunlight fades sooner and rises later, the nights cooling with each mile. Nearly a fortnight on the road, and you return to the service of the queen. Bryce escorts you between the carts, gesturing in passing to his comrades, other times letting past another body on their own mission. You reach the front of the train where men with swords pace and keep watch over the surrounding lands. 

“Evenin’,” Bryce greets the guards outside the queen’s tent and they grumble back. The weariness of travel has overcome many of the travelers. 

You dip your head down and approach the tent flap. Before the card can pull it back for your entrance, it sweeps open from the other side. You step back as another figure falters before you. The king keeps hold of the silk and his eyes skim over you. He tilts his head and moves to hold the fabric open, beckoning you through with his large hand. 

“Your highness,” you murmur. 

His jaw squares but he says nothing. As you enter, the fabric falls heavily behind you. The king’s expression lingers in your mind, his silence even more. The tick in his cheek was hard to miss and you can hear his heavy footfalls as he stalks off. 

Within, the queen sits on a bench, playing with the tassel of her belt. Her father, Lord Dustan, stands to the side, arms crossed as he makes small steps back and forth. He tuts and chews his thumb. 

“Your husband does not behave as son-in-law,” the duke gripes lowly, “he would have let Debray fall to those vandals. He cares only for his frost lands.” 

“Father, he is only eager to be home. As much as I dread the cold, I cannot help but feel as such. I tire of this endless road,” Queen Jazlene yawns into a cupped hand. 

“Ah, but you must be a loyal wife. What of mine? What of your mother? She was alone in the castle.” 

“And you rode out to save her, didn’t you?” Jazlene prompts. 

“I am a lord of the summer lands, I am past my warring days,” Dustan snarls, “he would risk my flesh on an uprising he could crush with his left hand. He tests me!” The duke circles around as he jabs his finger in the air, “I deserve more dignity, more respect. I delivered him his kingdom.” 

“Yes, father, he is a frigid man,” Jazlene bemoans, “as icy a husband. He does neglect us both.” 

“Neglect?” Dustan faces his daughter, “does he not see to his contract?” 

She frowns and bats her doey eyes as she looks away, “it isn’t that he doesn’t fulfill his duty, it is only... how might I get an heir if I lie with my husband only once in a moon?” 

“Does he mean to deceive us? A son will bind us. A son is what we need. Does he think the summer lands will follow a king who does not sow his seed?” 

“I do not know, father. I... I have tried all I can think of.” 

“Mm,” the duke hums darkly, “that won’t do at all. Not at all. When I married your mother, she was swollen with you almost as soon as the vows were said. No, no, it won’t do. I will have word with the king, make certain he does not treat my daughter, his queen, so coolly.” 

Dustan stop and twiddles his fingers. You try to imagine him confronting King Geralt. Surely it is bluster for the sake of his daughter. 

“...we are ruined without an heir...” he mutters. 

Jazlene sits forward on the bench, “ruined, father? I am queen--” 

“Yes, yes, you are queen, but a queen has her duty too,” Dustan insists, “and it cannot be done with a negligent king. Leave it to me, daughter. The next I see the king, I shall handle our business. As I have ever done. Do you believe in me? For I did deliver you a fine marriage, didn’t I?” 

“Yes, father.” 

The duke goes to his daughter and rubs her shoulder. He leans in and you shrink against the tent wall, making yourself small. 

“Should it prove poor judgment,” his whisper scratches from his lips, “I will figure a way out.” 

He kisses her hair and turns to march out. He takes not notice of you though that is expected. Jazlene sighs as the flap falls and she leans back on her hands, swaying her leg. 

“Ah, the maid,” she cheeps, “you will fetch hot water for my feet. They ache.” 

“Yes, your highness.” 

She grins, a catlike expression and sits up straight, “yes, that is right. I am a queen and soon, the king will be certain to treat me as such.” 

You flit off to your duty. As you emerge, your chest stirs with unease. Something about their conversation has you unnerved. Though they said nothing outright, it feels as if there is more laced between the words. The queen and her father hardly sound as allies to the king. 

You try to wipe the apprehension from your mind. You are but a maid and not so well-versed on noble matters. It isn’t your place to unpiece their declarations or untangle their riddles. You are to get the water to sooth the daughter of Debray’s feet, it may yet save you a box to the ears. 

⚔️

You shiver as the cart bounces over the hard ground. You count a month or so since your departure from the capital though the days blend in a fog. The gradual creep of the chill has advanced upon the part, slowing the wheels, and sending the riders to pause and cover their horses. You keep the fur cloak over your lap as you lean into the corner of the cart though Bryce seems enlivened by the atmosphere. 

The dim sky harkens the crossing of the intangible barrier between the summer and winter lands. Sprawling plains and rounded feels give way to rocky passes and jutting mountains, interspersed with lumpy tundras speckled with patches of mud. Several times, your soldierly escort has had to help yank free the wheels from some rut or another. 

“Are we there?” You ask through as chatter, blowing into your hands. “The Hinterlands?” 

“Mm, by my guess, we are at the Fox’s Tail. You see, it is the little strip of land where no man lives, summer or winter,” he explains, reaching to scratch his beard. You envy the warmth it must give to his cheeks. “Isn’t so cold yet, mouse, better brace yerself.” 

You nod and look ahead at the grey, brown expanse. There are dustings of frost but not snow, only on the distant caps of rugged mountains that shadow the horizon. You hug yourself as Daisy’s breath plumes in misty clouds around her head. 

“Why does no one live here?” You ask. 

“There are no trees, no grass to feed the livestock or game,” he shrugs, “it is barren...” he sucks his teeth and thinks, “there was a war. Hundreds of years ago, maybe more. The summer folk spilled upon the winter lands, some squabble over a slain lord... they put salt to the earth. They did not only want vengeance on the living, they wanted their descendants to suffer for their misdeeds. Starve out an entire people.” 

He snorts and shakes his head, “what the summer people didn’t understand is that the winter skinned do not stay still. They move with the winds. You’ll see, mouse. You haven’t done the last of yer scurrying.” 

You huddle down as another cold breath sweeps through the air. You’re not used to it but you will be. That’s how it always is. You just have to take what you get and make it work. You can’t complain for what you have; a warm cloak, a cart, and a kind companion. 

⚔️

Your teeth chatter as you hold closed the front of the fur cloak, the hood over your head as you walk the frozen earth. More often than not, you’ve left the prized cape in your cart for your return. It is too heavy to wear while serving the queen but the weather permits you no mercy. It is far too bitter to forgo the extra layer. 

Bryce is unbothered in his mail and the simple fur trim the collar of his wool cloak. He only seems to thrive in the dipping temperatures, stoking a fire for your nocturnal return so that you may sleep in its warmth. His constancy keeps you from mourning the lost summer sunshine. 

He stands behind you as you cross to the queen’s tent, now raised with several layers to insulate the walls. You enter as you do every night, unnoticed as Queen Jazlene mindlessly stares into the pages of a book. She’s grown quiet these last weeks as the travel wears on her, even her wardrobe showing the effects. 

You feel a gust from beneath the tent wall and step away from it. You watch the queen, huddled beneath a blanket on a stool, shaking as she tries to warm her hands in each other. She wears several satin cloaks layered over each other but the fabric is too sleek to garner much heat. 

She puffs into her palms and groan.  

“Damn this cold,” she mutters, then sits up, “maid, tea!” She demands, “Something warm! Anything!” 

You utter a small “your highness” and spin away to your task. You step out into the cold and go off to find a fire and a pot. The queen has some berry tea in her chests.  

You acquire a cup of steaming water from a cluster of servants around a flame. You linger for a moment to absorb some of the fire’s haze then set back toward the royal tent. As you near, a shadow nearly collides with you. You keep the cup balanced as you scramble around the figure. The torch light catches the king’s golden eyes as they meet yours. 

“Your highness,” you murmur. 

He grunts as he stops fully. He stares down at you wordlessly. You cannot read his expression as shadows dance around his features, flickering various emotions across his face. He bows his head and presses on. You turn to watch him go as concern rolls up your throat. 

In those last weeks, months you believe, you’ve not seen much of the king. You’ve wondered after his elusivity. At first, you thought it might be due to the combat at Debray, perhaps he was disheartened by the last act of resistance. Then you surmised it might be evasion of his own wife. Alas, you could not guess and fathomed it was not your place to do so. 

This brief encounter further perplexes you. You can’t help but question if it is you. You recall the last day in the capital, the grit of his voice casting you out. Go. The memory ripples through you. 

You think much of yourself. It wouldn’t be anything to do with a paltry maid. You focus on the hot water in your hand and continue on to the queen’s tent. 

You enter and wrap the dried berries and leaves, steeping them in the steaming water. You hover over the cup, waiting for the water to deepen in hue and cool enough to drink. When you bring it to the queen, you feel her gaze upon you. 

“Your highness,” you hand her the cup. 

She hesitates to take it, only doing so after deep consideration. She holds the tea in one hand as her other tugs on your cloak. She makes an ugly noise. 

“And where did you find this, maid?” She sneers. “Hmm, I sit her in my summer garb and you wear a bear’s skin?” 

Your lips part and you raise your shoulders. You look at the tent wall and frown. You poke your hand outside the cloak and touch the soft fur.  

“Your highness,” you look down at the cloak then at her trembling grasp on the cup. “Would you like it? You look awfully cold.” 

“Yes, I want the damn cloak!” She yanks it hard, “I am the queen and you did not think to offer me a proper cloak? How stupid are you.” 

You bow your head and reach to unbuckle the cloak. When it is loose, you shrug it off and hand it over. You will find a spare blanket. There must be some left among the luggage. 

She shoves the cup at you and stands. She swings the cloak around her and hums as she pulls its snug around her figure. She sits again and rubs her chin against the fur. 

“Much better,” she says, “I’ve been suffering this damnable place for far too long.” 

She takes the tea back, spilling a drop on your hand. You back away, the liquid cooling and sending a new chill through you. You cover one hand with the other and clutch tightly, locking your jaw against the tremor that crawls up your spine. 

The queen slurps from the tea and makes a face. She sneers, “I want wine,” she pouts, “how long must I be deprived? Wine!” She snarls down at the cup, “but I must drink this bile. Oh, but the king bids it,” she raises her voice mockingly, “you must obey your husband.” She shakes her head and takes another gulp, “at least it is warm. At least--”  

She holds the cup away from her suddenly as her face twists. She drops it and recoils, panic washing over her. She keels forward, holding her skirts out of the way as she spews onto the rug spread over the hard ground. She wretches loudly, spasming with the horrid sounds snagging in her throat. 

The smell of her vomit permeates the tent. She stays bent over her lap as she pants. You come forward and offer her a handkerchief to wipe her mouth. She sits up and gulps tightly, her features drawn. She pats her lips. 

“Well, clean it up,” she turns her feet away from the puddle between them. “Stupid maid.” 

She pokes a sharp nail into your arm and you wince.  

“Your highness, are you unwell?” You ask, “shall I fetch a physician? Or some ginger?” 

“No, you stupid cow, I am not unwell,” she flicks her fingers at you before waving away the stench of her bile. She stands and walks away from it, her hand settling on her middle. She faces you and smiles broadly, “I am carrying the king’s son.” Her face darkens as she wrinkles her nose, “I told you, you twit, to clean that up. You best do so before I make you eat it.” 

You nod and bend your neck, “yes, your highness, I will fetch water.” 

“I don’t care, just do it,” she snaps and rubs her stomach. She lets out a shuddery groan and turns her back to you. You watch as she draws tight the cloak and sways with a trill, “I will be a true queen now. He cannot deny me any longer.” 

[winter-soldier-101]

I will take what is mine-1

Summary: (Y/N) Baratheon will have to face a dragon that now sits on the iron throne and what will become of her.

(Y/N) Baratheon was the wife to Aemond Targaryen they had wed days before Prince Lucerys was killed, (Y/N) had become pregnant with twin boys named Aeneys and Maegor Targaryen second of their names, moons later Aemond had flew back to meet his loyal wife and sons along with his niece, as Aemond laid naked with his wife for the last time as the morning light came Aemond flew off to battle his uncle and this time he did not return.

“(Y/N) Baratheon we thank you and your sons for coming to Kings Landing,the journey must have been long?” Jacaerys asks (Y/N).

“Yes your grace it was a long journey but we are happy to be here” (Y/N) says softly.

“Congratulations to you, I heard you gave birth to twin boys?” Jace asks (Y/N).

“Yes your grace two beautiful sons” (Y/N) says.

“Your sons are with you?” Jace asks.

“Yes your grace my sons Aenys and Maegor are here with their wet nurse” (Y/N) says to Jace.

“Bring them in then” Jace tells (Y/N) as she makes her way to get her sons as (Y/N) walks in Jace smiles at her and the twins.

“How old are they?” Jace asks (Y/N).

“They are about to have their first name day your grace” (Y/N) tells Jace.

“(Y/N) Baratheon you shall become my wife and your sons will be raised with my brothers and your sons will be raised as mine” Jace announces to the masses, all the lords in his court look at their King surprised.

“Your Grace, you are already married to Lady Baela?” A lord asks Jace.

“Yes me and Baela are married but I have decided that I will take a second wife like my ancestor Aegon the Conqueror did and Lady (Y/N) will be my second wife” Jace says to the masses and leaves everyone to talk as (Y/N) is taken to a room to sleep as Jace makes his way to his room he shares with Baela.

Jace walks in and sees Baela sitting on the bed waiting for him to walk in.

“Were you ever going to tell me?” Baela asks Jace.

“Tell you what Baela?” Jace asks.

“That you plan to marry (Y/N) Baratheon and have her as your second wife and that you will claim her sons with Aemond!” Baela yells at Jace.

“Baela I am King. I will do as I please and I will take what is mine!” Jace yells at Baela.

“No I forbid it Jace I am to be your only wife!” Baela yells.

Jace walks over to Baela and grabs her by the throat and chokes her slightly and holds her against the wall as Baela hits Jace to get him off of her as he lays her go Baela falls to the floor coughing and breathing in air fast as she looks up at Jace.

“Know your place Baela, be happy that you are my first wife, but know that she will always have my heart and my love. It has always been (Y/N) and it always will be, do you understand me Baela?” Jace asks Baela.

“Yes…… Yes….. I……. Understand” Baela says roughly through her hard breathing.

“Good and get dressed we have a small council meeting to attend” Jace tells Baela as he leaves their room.

Small Council Meeting

(Y/N) sits next to Jace as Baela sits on the other side of Jace.

“Your Grace word form Storms End the Lord Baratheon wants his daughter and grandsons to come back home and he will give you King Aegon’s last living child the Princess Jaehaera Targaryen” the maester reads the letter.

“Write back to Lord Baratheon and tell him to bring the princess back home or he and his family will burn” Jace tells the maester.

“My King….. please let me send word to my father he will listen to me” (Y/N) pleads with Jace.

“Very well, dear wife write to your father and make him come to King's Landing” Jace tells (Y/N).

“ King Jacaerys Targaryen and his wife’s Queen Baela Targaryen and Queen (Y/N) Targaryen” Ser Steffon announces.

(Y/N) looks at her father and sister’s with tears in her eyes.

“Lord Baratheon we are happy to have you and your daughters here. It was sad that you could not make the wedding but that is alright you are here now and where is Princess Jaehaera?” Jace asks.

“The princess is with my wife and son,” Lord Baratheon says.

“Bring them in now!” Jace says loudly.

The princess was brought in and placed in front of King Jacaerys.

“Princess Jaehaera it is good to have you home. I know everything is a bit different but (Y/N) is here” Jace tells the young girl.

Jaehaera looks up at Jace and then behind him and sees (Y/N) standing there as Jaehaera runs over to (Y/N) and holds her tightly.

“It is okay my sweet girl I have you know” (Y/N) whispers to Jaehaera softly.

Wonderful…… now onto other news my wife (Y/N) is with child” Jace announces happily.

One moon before the wedding (Y/N) had went to the maester and he told her she was with child once again (Y/N) cried as Jace walks in and the maester tells him she is with child.

“She is with child, how far along is she?” Jace asks the maester.

“She is four moons along your grace it would appear that the babe is Aemond’s” the maester says.

“This is good then we will marry tomorrow and we will say the babe is mine” Jace says looking at (Y/N).

Taglist: @solkara @hc-geralt-23 @snh96 @bunny24sstuff @aemondwhoresworld @immyowndefender

[ddreamywitch]

Chapter Three - Swan upon Leda

knight!benjicot blackwood x princess!reader

word count: 3.8k

a/n: things are warming up between princess and benji :)

warnings: the king is a terrible dad, mentions of complicated childbirth

song: Swan Upon Leda - Hozier

Marion is exasperated. Her hands fling through the air like a nervous little bird, desperate to get their point across and yet failing all the same. 

“You are out of your mind,” she cries. 

The jewels she’d been threading through your braids are long forgotten, a sparkling disarray on your vanity. You pick up a dark red ruby and roll it back and forth between your fingers. “If I don’t go, they’ll think I’ve abandoned them.” Your lips, painted a lush berry colour, pull into a pout that once worked exceedingly well on Ser Rodrick. “Please, Marion.”

Your handmaiden shakes her head. 

“It was a risk under the watch of Ser Rodrick,” she leans in closer, nervous eyes flitting to your door. “But with bloody Ben as your protector? He’ll have me impaled when he finds out.”

She whispers his name with fear, as though he would appear like some mirage at the mention of it. 

You’ve grown quite tired of this whole bloody Ben debacle. Benji, as he’s allowed you to call him, is less of a sword pointed at you now, but he still sulks, barely speaks. 

He doesn’t pose a threat, in this state he is in. You wonder if he would even notice if you let somebody else take your place. 

“He won’t find out,” you say, determinedly, even though you know it is to no avail. Marion is loyal and sweet but she is headstrong enough to not give leeway to every idea of yours. You love that about her, even if right now it is giving you a headache. 

She takes the gem from you and loops it into your hair with her magically talented fingers. “Maybe in a moon or two, when that lad doesn’t give me the collywobbles anymore. If that does ever happen.” 

“Alright then. But will you get word to them that I shall return soon?” You ask. Whenever you ask for things with Marion, you feel a bit childlike and silly. 

She smiles at you, the little scar in her lower lip stretching as she does. “Of course, your grace.” 

And then after a moment’s silence. “I am certain they forgive you.” 

You nod, but still you decide on a plan. A stupid one, irrational at the very least but a plan nonetheless and you were not really the kind of woman who enjoyed changing your mind. 

Though you had on Benji. In some ways. But that is different. 

You throw a glance at your reflection, decorated and done up. Your father is slowly losing it these days, his festivities growing in both frequency and size, one more ridiculous than the other and you cannot stand it.

You’d be a fool to live so lavishly and in such luxury and turn a blind eye to continue the pursuit of the only thing of substantiality that you’ve ever done in your life. 

Rubies to match the fiery shades of your dress today. 

Rubies found somewhere far away and shipped across stormy seas to find their place somewhere as ridiculous as your hair. 

You cannot stand it, your presentation at the high table next to your family, for everyone to gawk at and soon to be auctioned off to the highest bidder. 

As though she reads your mind Marion pipes up. “The son of Lord Whent is here tonight,” she says. “I hear he has great hair.” 

You scoff. “Yes, great hair and a great hunger for the brothels of the realm.” 

“You may find my lady, that such behaviour may prove itself of use to you.”

A low laugh rumbles from the door and both of you snap around, cheeks flushed and eyes wide. 

Benji stands, hands resting on the pommel of his sword and looking rather amused. 

“I do believe that is an improper topic of conversation,” he says. 

Your arm wraps around Marion’s midriff. “That you should speak of impropriety of all people,” you say. 

He is still a mystery to you. You do not know if he would not go and tattle on your friend if given the chance. 

But he shrugs. “Your brother says that you are to meet him in the court before sunset. Your sister is arriving.”

You gasp, sharp and loud, the quick inhale like a whip to your lungs. “Cordelia?!”

Your maid claps her hands together in excitement.

Benjicot looks a bit confused but he doesn’t scoff or roll his eyes so you presume that he really has decided to move on from his rather aggravating bit. 

“My god, she will hate my dress,” you say but the sheen of joy your face is dipped in betrays the negative nature of your words. 

“Out, Ser Benjicot. Womanly work is afoot in here,” she orders him, too fast with her tongue to worry about fearing him and forces you the other way again. 

He obeys. You see him bow in the mirror and  a small smile tugs at your lips. 

Maybe he wouldn’t be the biggest of your worries. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Marion is done with you at a speed that should be deemed witchcraft. 

Your hair is neatly pulled out of your face and braided, gleaming with red jewels like a dying fire. 

In general, you look like the roaring fireplace in the banquet halls, layers of shimmering red fabric falling around you. 

There’s a nice breeze today, it tickles at your neck and kisses your cheeks softly, as you await your sister’s arrival at the castle’s main entrance.

Your father is not here, occupied with what he claims to be kingly duties but you suppose is more likely related to the royal wine cellars. 

Your brother speaks in a hushed tone with one of the council members, no longer an oddity with the king occupied so frequently.

Your feet hurt in your new shoes.

Benji shuffles a little bit next to you.

You’ve noticed that he’s never still, a consistent motion in your periphery.

“How do you like my dress?” You ask him, quietly enough that your brother wouldn’t hear, though you doubt he would care to listen.

Your knight hums a little, almost laughs. You expect the jab, twist the sigil ring on your hand, pull yourself together waiting for it but it never arrives. 

“Red’s my favourite colour, Princess.” 

It’s not a compliment. It’s a statement and he says it with all the nonchalance he should have, because it isn’t a compliment. 

But the little flutter it sends down your spine has all the characteristics of being complimented. 

You almost thank him but then you think better of it and just nod to yourself. You would tell him what your favourite colour is, or that you enjoy red as well but it feels too friendly. You’re not even sure if anybody knows your favourite colour. You’re not too certain if you have one at all, now that the matter has crossed your mind. 

But you are certain that it is not the colours of your house, as it is the case with Benjicot. 

What a foolish thing to be racking your brain over, you think but luckily the horn serves as salvation from your faults. 

The gates creak upon to reveal your sister and her entourage, all of them in a royal shade of dark green. She married into the neighbouring kingdom, her blood now runs in their colour. It has been over half a decade but you cannot get used to the sight of it, her days spent draped in your house’s symbols are all gone. 

The courtyard is almost empty. Good. No need for formalities.

You fiddle with your fingers as the carriage swings open, lightning running through your veins. 

Her face is just as it always is and your sister, after stepping down with caution, at the sight of you, immediately opens her arms. 

Your brother laughs, wholeheartedly as you plunge forward, like a horse nudged on, gravel flying up beneath delicate heels. 

She smells different and she is older but she feels all the same to you, just as she had when you were a little girl hanging onto her skirts. 

Your giggling melts together, a vibration of both your chests. 

“Oh darling girl, how I have missed you,” she whispers, soft kisses pressed into your hair. “You’ve grown into a wonderful woman.” She cups the side of your face and you lean into it. 

“Alright, what about me,” Tristan calls out, arms out by his side. 

Cordelia grins at him and steps past you. “I imagine the heir to the throne gets enough attention as is,” she taunts but she greets him nonetheless, with the same affection she had for you. 

“There is never enough,” he says, before he says something into her ear. Quietly and quickly. 

She nods and then she regards your knight, now solely left behind, waiting to accompany you. “Ser Benjicot Blackwood, I gather?”

He bows his head, looks at her through that tousled mop of hair of his. “Yes, your highness.” 

She laughs. “Goodness, such decorum. I am Cordelia here. My queenship leaves me within the walls of my home.”

Benji nods but he does not correct himself. It would be odd, you suppose. He doesn’t even call you by your first name, why would he do so with a Queen. 

Cordelia gives your side a nudge with her elbow. “Quite handsome,” she says, much to your dismay loud enough for him to hear. 

Your cheeks begin to burn. “He is sworn to protect me, sister.” 

She just shrugs, indifferent to your embarrassment as siblings tend to be and then steps along. 

“I do hope there won’t be a scene made over my arrival,” she calls over her shoulder, you and Tristan hurrying along. “The maester recommended I do not subject myself to much ruckus, at my old age.”

It would be slanderous to refer to your sister as old. Your brows pull together. “What do you mean? Are you ill?” 

She whirls around to face you, one hand clutching her belly. “You could say so.” 

Your jaw drops and Tristan recoils next to you. 

Her face drops a bit. “Well, at least pretend you are happy for me.” 

“But with your last-.” Her hand flies up, in hopes of silencing your brother. 

“I will not dwell on the past. My husband wishes for an heir, as any king, any noble man would and I can only pray that this one will be a boy.” 

The sweetness of her visit is immediately tainted, it itches on your tongue to utter something at the monstrous prospect of having to witness your sister bear more children for the King of Arbormere near torturous but you do not speak it. 

You clear your throat. “It is good news. And we are happy that more babes will come into the world carrying your kind nature, are we not?” 

You look at Tristan, whose face has drained of colour but he nods still. 

Such is the fate of noble women. Made to squeeze out heirs for their highborn husbands. 

And such will be your fate one day as well.

Cordelia presses her lips together and inhales deeply. “Yes, I shall stay in our kingdom until delivery. My king thought it might help for an easier birth.” 

The good in this gleams through and you find it in you to be joyful. “At the castle?”

She nods. “Yes, a few weeks and then I thought I might go north, to mother's home.”

You clasp your brother’s arm. “Might I go with her then?”

Benjicot shuffles. Sometimes you think he is trying to speak this way, as though encoded. 

“No. Father won’t allow it. There are no suitor’s to be met in the north.”

You roll your eyes. “There are no suitor’s to be met,” you mimic, voice squeaky and high. 

Behind you, you can hear Benjicot fail to stifle a laugh. 

Cordelia extends her hand toward you. “We have a few weeks together, don’t we?”

Not enough. Never enough. 

“That dress of yours is ridiculous,” she adds, but she says it fondly. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The atmosphere at the banquet is odd. You cannot quite place it, but your brother won’t cease his whispering with various members of the court. 

Cordelia, though you’ve spent the better half of the evening dancing, has now begun watching everything the way a predator may watch its next meal. She does not look happy. 

Though, your father is as reliable as always. King Alexander is doing a wonderful job as presenting himself as the drunken decadent rake he is known to be, though Lady Cathcart has been brazenly replaced with what you can only assume is a common whore. 

You feel bad for her, you cannot imagine that it must be fun to spend one’s days entertaining men, let alone men such as your father. 

Benjicot is excused from his services for the night at your father’s command, he had lingered in a corner of the room for a while but he disappeared a while ago. 

You are pining for a good moment to slip out of the room, Cordelia’s power to protect you from annoying princelings and highborns only going so far. 

Lord Whent, despite having stayed true to Marion’s promise of having great hair, had spent his time talking to you staring down your corset and otherwise seemed to like himself a bit too much. 

“Cordelia?” You whisper.

She does not look at you when she replies, eyes still trained on someone in the crowd. You cannot figure out who it is when you follow her eye line. “Yes?”

You get up. “I shall be right back.” 

She nods. 

You do not stop for the formalities of bidding goodbye or greeting anybody you pass, the doors close behind you and with one quick scan, you begin to run. Your foot is bleeding, warm liquid gathering and you curse the cobbler behind your pain. 

Your feet carry you deep into the basement of the castle, the scent of darkness and dampness strong in your nose and then you finally reach your chamber.

Marion’s fiance had helped you set it up over the course of the past few years.

Scandalous as can be, you reach into your cleavage where your key is hidden and swing the doors open. 

You must hurry. It is much more difficult to find your way out of the castle without your maid by your side to guide you and you cannot waste time. 

You are a flurry of red rushing around the room, collecting all the herbs you need. A jar bangs to the ground and you wince at the noise it makes, wince even more when you realise that the last of your melted bear fat now seeps into the dirty floors. 

“Bollocks,” you curse but you cannot do anything, except hope that there will be a hunt soon. Though Ser Rodrick would no longer be able to retrieve it. 

“What in the name of god is this?” A voice rings through the small room and you almost cause more distraction, just quick enough to stop yourself from screaming. 

Your knight stands in the door, looking at you both confused and enticed. 

You swallow thickly. “Uh.”

Words have blipped from your head, your mind suddenly a blank sheet of paper.

Benji walks in, looks around behind him and closes the door. “I can’t imagine that this is part of your royal duties.”

Surely, there are some words you could say now. Anything really, would do. Just anything to defend yourself. 

He snorts. “Not in the talking mood?” He looks around. 

Dried plants hang from the wall, a cauldron stands in the middle of the room, jars are filled with various concoctions.

Oh this looks horrible.

“I do not practise witchcraft,” you croak out. 

“Sure does not look like it, princess.”

You set down the ingredients clutched to your chest. “It is medicine.”

He picks up a small vial, admires the brown liquid in it. “For who?”

“Nobody. For fun.”

He doesn’t believe you. “It gets boring.”

“So you go after your hobbies after nightfall? During banquets?”

You nod and go to take the vial from him, but he is quicker, arm raising above you. “Does the king know? Your brother?”

A scowl etches onto your face, your arms crossed. It is quite annoying how tall he is. “I don’t believe it is proper to keep my belongings from me, Ser Benji.”

“Is it proper to brew potions in the dungeons?”

“Why would you follow me?”

He shrugs. “You looked quite distressed. And it seemed unnecessary to spend a moment longer with those highborn leeches.”

You raise your eyebrow, grasping for some sort of higher ground. “Not even the ladies?”

Benji chuckles, a low rumble. You are close enough to think you feel it. “Do not take it to heart, princess, but I do not care for those puppets who care for nothing but appearances.” 

You huff. “Only a man would make such rude assumptions.”

“And yet it is a man who has discovered your secret.” He tilts his head. “Now who are you making this stuff for? Your maiden?”

You attempt to jump for the vial but it is no use. “I do not trust you.” 

“Who would I tell? I do not wish to have your surveillance become more intense. It’s annoying as it is.” 

The broken blister hurts now, and you are glad the shoe is red, otherwise you’re certain it would have been ruined by now. Frustrated, you step back and sit down on the nearest chair, lean back, arms dropped at your side and legs stretched out. 

It is a question of luck, but you don’t think he would let these matters rest without plausible explanation. 

“There’s a family on the outskirts of the city. I met them on one of those horrible charity visits. They couldn’t afford to pay for these aids and so I took matters into my own hands. And then they told people that there is a way to help and it kept going.”

You meet his eyes and you are suddenly struck by their warm hue of green. 

A beat of silence passes. “So you are…a secret apothecary?”

You shrug. “Maybe not adept enough to call myself such. Sourcing knowledge about it is quite tiresome and tedious. And I must do it in secret. It is frowned upon for women, but even more so for a princess. And I do not wish to be accused of doing devil’s work.”

“Well, the dungeon isn’t doing much to alleviate that connotation,” he says. 

Is he joking? 

A small smile tugs at your lips. “I suppose so.” 

You draw in a breath. “Please do not speak of this with anyone.” 

He nods and gives the vial back to you. That one is for Marion, womanly matters. You are glad now, that you’ve never taken up to label the things in here.

“How do you get them to the people?”

“Ser Rodrick and Marion.” The lie comes to you quick and easy. It is only half a lie. 

You bend down and take off your shoe. Normally, you would not, but having exposed perhaps your most vulnerable secret, you do not see any reason to feign dignity and suffer for it. 

“I must finish this tonight. There’s a case of colic rushing through town.”

He is watchful, like your sister had been, but with much less disdain, as you go on with what you had started. 

Diligently you powder up anise and cumin and add it to the broth that you had let simmer over the last few days. You do not have cormorant blood at hand but alas one must make due with what they have sometimes.

You walk barefooted, careful to mind the shards and to your surprise, Benji begins gathering them, lips curled as he does. “What the fuck did you keep in that?”

You offer him a bemused hum. “Fat from a strong bear.”

“Has it been there since the dawn of time? Why does it smell so terrible?”

“Only since the last hunt. Four moons ago.”

He shudders and tosses the gathered glass into the fireplace. Remnants of its content sizzle in the heat. 

Silence befalls you again and he stands closer now, right next to you, as you begin to fill five separate flasks. 

“Should I take it to them then?”

A stray hair falls into your face, like a curtain between the two of you. “That would be wonderful.” 

You don’t like the idea. It is not a happy freedom you got by sneaking out of the castle to tend to the frail, but it was a taste of true freedom nonetheless. And you do not like giving out the medicine without clear instructions. 

But there is no choice for you to make. 

“The last chapel before the city walls, behind it you will find Theo. He will distribute it. Tell him they who receive it, must take three spoons in the morning with a bit of bread. And then the same again at night, until they feel better. And if they have some left even though they are healthy, they can keep it, in case the disease returns. There’s wine in it, it won’t turn bad.”

“As you command, princess.” 

You tuck your hair back. “If you wish, you can call me by my name.”

Benji steps back and leans against the wall. He ignores your offer. 

Too soon. Too friendly. 

“Take that satchel. We don’t need the court thinking you’re a drunkard as the king is.” With the nod of your chin you point to where it rests on a shelf. 

Something flits across his features, the shadow of something left unsaid but it is gone before you can place it. 

He takes it and slings it across his chest. You hand him your work and the tips of his finger brush across yours but this time it feels different.

You stand before him barefoot, vulnerable, your faith put into his ability to be true to his word. It makes your skin feel raw. 

If he recognises the delicacy of the situation, he does not show it. 

“I should accompany you to your chambers,” he says. And you want to protest, but you do not. Instead you lean forward, close enough to feel the rise and fall of his breaths and pull at the bookshelf behind him. It swings open and reveals a narrow staircase. 

His brow raises as he turns his head. “Impressive. Though I am less and less convinced that you are not a witch.”

“Do not make such jests,” you chastise, but you say it with warmth. 

taglist:

@dancingbaek

@jhepolie

@knight-of-flowerss

@majoso12

@rebeccawinters

@poppyflower-22

@nixtape-foryou

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@xlittlefiend

@vqmpyrecult

[ai-manre]

Hang on king, a true warrior queen is coming

The strength he admires:

Val stood on the platform as still as if she had been carved of salt. She will not weep nor look away. Jon wondered what Ygritte would have done in her place. The women are the strong ones. - Jon III ADWD

Drogon roared. The sound filled the pit. A furnace wind engulfed her. The dragon's long scaled neck stretched toward her. When his mouth opened, she could see bits of broken bone and charred flesh between his black teeth. His eyes were molten. I am looking into hell, but I dare not look away. She had never been so certain of anything. - Dany IX ADWD

The shared loneliness:

Even with Ygritte sleeping beside him, he felt alone. - Jon V ASOS

She sat up with her hair disheveled and the bedclothes atangle. Her captain slept beside her, yet she was alone. - Dany VII ADWD

Lonely lovely lethal:

All the same, the wildling princess was not beloved of her gaolers. She scorned them all as "kneelers," and had thrice attempted to escape. When one man-at-arms grew careless in her presence she had snatched his dagger from its sheath and stabbed him in the neck. Another inch to the left and he might have died. Lonely and lovely and lethal, Jon Snow reflected, and I might have had her. - Jon III ADWD

Xaro took another bite, chewed, swallowed. "Daenerys, sweet queen, I cannot tell you what pleasure it gives me to bask once more in your presence. A child departed Qarth, as lost as she was lovely. I feared she was sailing to her doom, yet now I find her here enthroned, mistress of an ancient city, surrounded by a mighty host that she raised up out of dreams." - Dany III ADWD

Silver hair:

Beyond, the haunted forest waited, dark and silent. The light of the half-moon turned Val's honey-blond hair a pale silver and left her cheeks as white as snow. She took a deep breath. "The air tastes sweet." - Jon VIII ADWD

Dany's skin was flushed and pink when she climbed from the tub. Jhiqui laid her down to oil her body and scrape the dirt from her pores. Afterward Irri sprinkled her with spiceflower and cinnamon. While Doreah brushed her hair until it shone like spun silver, she thought about the moon, and eggs, and dragons. - Dany III AGOT

Wish for a dragon/wish for a rider:

We should have twenty trebuchets, not two, and they should be mounted on sledges and turntables so we could move them. It was a futile thought. He might as well wish for another thousand men, and maybe a dragon or three. - Jon VIII ASOS

The dragon has three heads. There are two men in the world who I can trust, if I can find them. I will not be alone then. We will be three against the world, like Aegon and his sisters. - Dany VI ASOS

Wishing for a dragon/wishing for someone to love a dragon:

"The Lysene pirate? Some say he has returned to his old haunts, this is so. And Lord Redwyne's war fleet creeps through the Broken Arm as well. On its way home, no doubt. But these men and their ships are well-known to us. No, these other sails … from farther east, perhaps … one hears queer talk of dragons."

Jon: "Would that we had one here. A dragon might warm things up a bit." - Jon IX ADWD

She was the blood of the dragon. She could kill the Sons of the Harpy, and the sons of the sons, and the sons of the sons of the sons. But a dragon could not feed a hungry child nor help a dying woman's pain. And who would ever dare to love a dragon? - Dany II ADWD

Shared prayers

Gods of the wood, grant me the strength to do the same, Jon Snow prayed silently. Give me the wisdom to know what must be done and the courage to do it. - Jon VII ADWD

Gods, she prayed, you took Khal Drogo, who was my sun-and-stars. You took our valiant son before he drew a breath. You have had your blood of me. Help me now, I pray you. Give me the wisdom to see the path ahead and the strength to do what I must to keep my children safe. - Dany V ADWD

Winter rose/flowers instead of violence:

If I could show her Winterfell . . . give her a flower from the glass gardens [...]

Ygritte: "Then I'd push him in a stream or throw a bucket o' water on him. Anyhow, men shouldn't smell sweet like flowers."

Jon: "What's wrong with flowers?" - Jon V ASOS

A blue flower grew from a chink in a wall of ice, and filled the air with sweetness. . . . mother of dragons, bride of fire . . . - Dany IV ADWD

"No heads," Dany insisted. "Once you brought me flowers." - Dany VII ADWD

Ruler of ruins:

He stalked across the yard, into the teeth of that wind. His cloak flapped loudly from his shoulders. Ghost came after. Where am I going? What am I doing? Castle Black was still and silent, its halls and towers dark. My seat, Jon Snow reflected. My hall, my home, my command. A ruin. - Jon VI ADWD

I am queen over a city built on dust and death. - Dany I ADWD

Turned off by their crushes due to violence against innocent:

"North of the Wall it is. Hemlock is a sure cure, but a pillow or a blade will work as well. If I had given birth to that poor child, I would have given her the gift of mercy long ago." This was a Val that Jon had never seen before. "Princess Shireen is the queen's only child." - Jon XI ADWD

Daario: "Better the butcher than the meat. All kings are butchers. Are queens so different?"

Dany: "This queen is." - Dany IV ADWD

Compassion and desire to save an entire people:

"Thousands of enemies. Thousands of wildlings."

Thousands of people, Jon thought. Men, women, children. Anger rose inside him, but when he spoke his voice was quiet and cold. - Jon VIII ADWD

"When Aegon the Dragon stepped ashore in Westeros, the kings of Vale and Rock and Reach did not rush to hand him their crowns. If you mean to sit his Iron Throne, you must win it as he did, with steel and dragonfire. And that will mean blood on your hands before the thing is done."

Blood and fire, thought Dany. The words of House Targaryen. She had known them all her life. "The blood of my enemies I will shed gladly. The blood of innocents is another matter. Eight thousand Unsullied they would offer me. Eight thousand dead babes. Eight thousand strangled dogs." - Dany II ASOS

Warrior princess:

Val looked the part and rode as if she had been born on horseback. A warrior princess, he decided, not some willowy creature who sits up in a tower, brushing her hair and waiting for some knight to rescue her. - Jon XI ADWD

Dany mounted her silver. She could feel her heart thumping in her chest. She felt desperately afraid. Was this what my brother would have done? She wondered if Prince Rhaegar had been this anxious when he saw the Usurper's host formed up across the Trident with all their banners floating on the wind. She stood in her stirrups and raised the harpy's fingers above her head for all the Unsullied to see. "IT IS DONE!" she cried at the top of her lungs. "YOU ARE MINE!" She gave the mare her heels and galloped along the first rank, holding the fingers high. "YOU ARE THE DRAGON'S NOW! YOU'RE BOUGHT AND PAID FOR! IT IS DONE! IT IS DONE!" - Dany III ASOS

No one was calling her Daenerys the Conqueror yet, but perhaps they would. Aegon the Conqueror had won Westeros with three dragons, but she had taken Meereen with sewer rats and a wooden cock, in less than a day. - Dany VI ADWD

A coppersmith had fashioned her a suit of burnished rings to wear to war. She accepted it with fulsome thanks; it was lovely to behold, and all that burnished copper would flash prettily in the sun, though if actual battle threatened, she would sooner be clad in steel. Even a young girl who knew nothing of the ways of war knew that. - Dany I ADWD

Ten years ago I would have sensed what Daenerys meant to do. Ten years ago I would have been quick enough to stop her. Instead he had stood befuddled as she leapt into the pit, shouting her name, then running uselessly after her across the scarlet sands. - The Queensguard ADWD

Wildling/no southron lady:

"And yes, I will take your women too. I have no need of blushing maidens looking to be protected, but I will take as many spearwives as will come." - Jon V ADWD

The carcass was too heavy for him to bear back to his lair, so Drogon consumed his kill there, tearing at the charred flesh as the grasses burned around them, the air thick with drifting smoke and the smell of burnt horsehair. Dany, starved, slid off his back and ate with him, ripping chunks of smoking meat from the dead horse with bare, burned hands. In Meereen I was a queen in silk, nibbling on stuffed dates and honeyed lamb, she remembered. What would my noble husband think if he could see me now? Hizdahr would be horrified, no doubt. But Daario … Daario would laugh, carve off a hunk of horsemeat with his arakh, and squat down to eat beside her. - Dany XI ADWD

Shared pet plays!

Jon squatted to let the direwolf close his jaws around his wrist, tugging his hand back and forth. It was a game they played. But when he glanced up, he saw Ygritte watching with eyes as wide and white as hen's eggs. - Jon VI ACOK

Drogon looped his neck around to nip at her hand. His teeth were very sharp, but he never broke her skin when they played like this. Dany laughed, and rolled him back and forth until he roared, his tail lashing like a whip. It is longer than it was, she saw, and tomorrow it will be longer still. - Dany IV ASOS

Add more please!

[lonniemachin]

URGENT: HELP AHMED AND MARAM ESCAPE GAZA WITH THEIR 3 LITTLE CHILDREN

A generous donor has recently given €100, bringing my friend Ahmed and his wife Maram's fundraiser past €27,700, but the campaign continues to crawl and is at constant risk of stagnation with only 3 donations in total today. I don't know what to say to convince others to please help them escape -- with the uncertain nature of the situation, the border could open before they're ready, trapping them in Gaza at risk of dying with hope for evacuation taken away because their campaign didn't manage to get lucky, or their GFM could get shut down without warning, or worse. Maram has struggled with both potentially lethal liver disease with only painkillers to soothe her and malnutrition which has impacted her ability to feed her infant son. Their family has been displaced 11 times and is currently staying in an actively dangerous area to avoid the spread of diseases in densely populated camps. Ahmed frequently tells me that danger follows everywhere. This morning he sent me a photo of a line of people nearby where he is staying getting water in jugs, something his 4-year-old daughter Habiba has had to do.

Please donate directly to their GFM using the link below or enter my jewelry raffle benefiting them and 2 other Palestinian families in need. Can we at least, PLEASE get them to €28,000 before the weekend is through? That's only €265 to go.

I have been in contact with this family since April and we have become friends. I have set them up with their beneficiary, who shows us proof of the movement of all funds. I have also been given various methods of verification by Ahmed for donors who require it. Please DM me if this would secure yours. On top of this, they have been vetted by @/el-shab-hussein and featured in a video by YouTuber Ro Ramdin.

Their first transfer of €16,000+ is being delayed due to banking issues, so it is IMPERATIVE we raise an equivalent while searching for a solution so they can be registered to leave ASAP.

€27,735/€40,000.

For the price of a coffee, help these beautiful children and their parents live in safety until they can return home, and grow up to celebrate many more birthdays in peace.

Tagging for reach under the cut

@malcriada @appsa @buttercuparry @ahaura

@timetravellingkitty @briarhips @akajustmerry @wellwaterhysteria @rhubarbspring

@schoolhater @pcktknife @transmutationisms @sawasawako @feluka

@opencommunion @irhabiya @3000s @sharingresourcesforpalestine @batmanego

@brutaliakhoa @aristotels @watermotif @stuckinapril @chanafehs

@psychotic-gerard @mavigator @communistkenobi @socalgal @chilewithcarnage

@ghelgheli @determinate-negation @papasmoke @deepspaceboytoy @omegaversereloaded

@xinakwans @givemearmstopraywith @loombreaking @killy @deathlonging

@palms-upturned @blackpearlblast @littlegermanboy @loveaankilaq @sar-soor

@fridgebride @27-moons @tamarrud @familyabolisher @fleshdyk3

@el-shab-hussein @decolonize-solidarity @heritageposts @palipunk @gothhabiba

[huramuna]

a maid's folly - epilogue. end.

dark aemond x maid ofc

work is 18+, minors do not interact, lest ye be smited.

previous | next

word count: 2k

follow & turn on notifs at @huramuna-fics for my fic postings!

a new maid from the Vale arrives at the Red Keep during a tumultuous time and becomes ensnared in the One-Eyed prince's web.

thank you for sticking with me while i struggled to get through the epilogue. i hope it tickles the itch that chapter 8 left with you and ties up everything with a nice bow. thank you for your patience, as always.

warnings: smut, power imbalance, religious guilt, dark Aemond, canon typical misogyny, canon typical violence, Aemond being a touch starved weirdo, possessiveness, jealousy, this is going to be ANGSTY

am i dreaming of sunflowers - post malone & metro boomin, a$ap rocky, roisee

“Dracarys, Robyn.” 

“Dwa… caways.”

“No, no. Dracarys!” 

“Dwacawuys!” 

“... good enough for now, little one,” Aemond hummed, picking up the toddler with his good arm and holding him to his hip. “Now, how do we greet mother?” 

“Muña,” Robyn babbled, his chubby arms outstretched as he and Aemond approached Rosemary, who had an apron tied taut around her rounded belly. Her hands were dirtied with flour, which she pat down the front of her dress. 

“Very good, little bird!” Rosemary exclaimed, darting over to her two boys, a gentle hand laid on Aemond’s arm, to which he leaned in slightly.

“What’s for dinner, then, muña?” Aemond purred, pressing his lips to Rosemary’s neck, eliciting a giggle from her. 

“Venison stew and parsnip mash,” she responded. “‘Tis no sea bass, but it will do, shouldn’t it, husband?” 

“I suppose it will.” he responded swiftly, placing Robyn down onto the floor as they walked into the small cottage. He stretched his arm and shoulder before perusing the kitchen table. “More letters?” he asked, thumb flitting over parchment that was strewn across the table.

“... yes. She is begging for your return.” Rosemary avoided his gaze, stirring the mash that was still cooking on the stovetop. 

“I don’t understand why– I am useless to them like this.” he pulled out a chair with one arm, his only arm– the other one was amputated at the elbow, long healed and scarred over. His eye scar was speckled now with burns, the sapphire gone from his socket. He didn’t care to wear an eyepatch these days, his hair shorn short. He looked ghastly to everyone in the village besides his wife and son. He looked like his father now, how his face was sunken and the eye socket unadorned– just… there, with only one arm. When going to town, he wrapped a silken sash over the sullied side of his face, just so he wouldn’t scare the children. It was the least he could do.

“The war has been over for six moons, she says– they… they pray for you to come back to King’s Landing, Aemond.” she pointed out, taking the pot off from the heat.

“I have no dragon, I can’t fight– what use am I?” 

“You don’t have to have a use, husband– you merely need to be alive. Your mother and brother think you dead still.”

“I’m better off to them dead–”

“Don’t,” Rosemary snapped, hands on her hips. “Do not ever say that to me, or around Robyn either. I won’t have talk of that in this house.” 

Aemond bit his lip and tongue, eye lazing over the letter that was pursed between thumb and forefinger. 

Dearest Marigold,

I cannot wait to meet my nephew, he sounds like the most wondrous little boy. But we are still not able to leave the nest. The folk are in uprise at the lack of food and resources.

Mother mourns him. Brother has erected a statue in his honor.

You must convince him. We need him here. 

Please.

If you are unable to and do not return before the turn of Spring, I shall saddle up and get you all myself. 

Best,

Lady Orbweaver

His brow furrowed as he read it over and over again until his lone eye strained and watered from not blinking. “You should burn these.” 

“Aemond.”

“I don’t want to speak of it any longer.”

–

Spring had turned, the coldness of the nights bleeding into warm days as the flowered fields of the Riverlands finally began to recover from the war that had ended two years ago now. It had been two springs since Helaena promised to come visit– but she had not yet.

“Vaelaena, please don’t run so far ahead!” Rosemary called as she tottered down the wooded path towards the lake. Aemond was at her side, arm around her to steady the two of them as they walked. She was once again swollen with child, hoping for an early summer delivery date. 

Robyn was now five years old, helping his sister along the path. Vaelaena, now two, was the spitting image of her mother with wide brown eyes and wonderment at everything. 

“Okay mumma!” Vaelaena squeaked as she continued to do the opposite of what her mother asked.

“Vae, hold my hand!” Robyn smushed his fist into his sister’s, making her slow down. 

They reached the pebbled beach of the God’s Eye lake and Rosemary sat down on a flat rock. Aemond had fishing poles strapped to his back, fiddling with getting them off with only one hand. 

“Robyn, come help your father.” Aemond asked, much to his own chagrin. He hated to ask for help– especially from a five year old, but this was his life now.

Robyn took the fishing poles from Aemond and baited the hook– they had mulled around in the dirt a few hours earlier in the garden for worms. Mostly Robyn and Vaelaena, but Aemond kicked the dirt around, too.

“Now, cast it like I taught you, boy,” he sat down on the shore, knees bundled up in front of him as he watched his son cast the fishing line out into the lake. He blinked, remembering all too well when he had been bleeding out, dying on this very spot– his arm shredded to nothing but muscle and sinew, and his dragon drowning, sinking to the bottom of the lake. He had watched when they fished Vhagar’s corpse out of the lake, now nothing but a host of bones. They were looking for his body, he knew– they found Dark Sister and Caraxes, too. But they did not find Daemon’s body, nor did they find his. When he looked up at the sky above the God’s Eye, he was there again, swirling in a fight to the death against his uncle– it was suicide, it was… stupid. The despair he’d felt seeing them haul up Vhagar’s remains was immense. He was the cause of her death, a dragon who’d survived from the Conquest and beyond. Only to be brought down by an ugly bloodwyrm.  

But it had won the war, in short. Rhaenyra had surrendered after she heard of her husband’s untimely death and fled to Essos with her remaining children. Aegon and Helaena remained in the Keep and Jaehaerys was named heir. It seemed things were finally as they should be– and to them, Aemond was dead. At least, to everyone but his wife, children and sister. Helaena knew the entire time that Rosemary was alive and did not say a thing, and mayhaps Aemond was still cross about that. He had been furious at Rosemary for weeks after she saved his life. He was a terrible patient, in truth. All the while being angry at Helaena and Rosemary, he couldn’t be mad at Robyn, who aided in his recovery, the best a toddler could, of course. He didn’t even have to ask if he was his son, the boy was a spitting image of himself, of the portraits that had been done of him as a child, still hung in his mother’s rooms, he guessed. 

Rosemary and Aemond had wed shortly after he regained most mobility, about six months after he arrived in her cottage. They had paid a septon in the town in fifteen copper stars to wed them in the Sept– the Sept of the small village just being a one-room hut with a dirt floor. 

In town, they were known as Marigold Rivers and Torrhen Waters. They were nameless, just two bastards in love– and Aemond wished for it to stay that way. Despite his love being alive, his son– he couldn’t help but feel this was his punishment. To lurk in the shadows as a nameless bastard cripple while his mother and brother thought him dead. It was his punishment for starting the war, for being a Kinslayer– 

“Papa, look!” Robyn squealed, hauling up a small trout from the lake. “Papa!” 

“Good job, son,” Aemond hummed. “Bring it here, let’s see.” he gestured with his one hand as his son wrestled the tiny trout with two hands to bring it over. Despite it all, despite his despair he felt at his current state of being, he still wanted to be a good father. Better than his father was, at least. He had to be. He made every effort to be there, to teach, to nurture, to do what his own father never did. His son would never know that his father was a prince and he wouldn’t know he had the blood of the dragon in his veins– but he would be loved. 

Rosemary had Vaelaena on her lap, combing her fingers through her unruly blonde curls, wrestling them into a braid, humming a tune. Her tune was muted, suddenly, as the sound of wing flaps echoed through the air. 

Aemond’s chest bubbled in panic and elation, half expecting to see Vhagar from over the horizon. ‘Twas not Vhagar– of course.

It was a giant blue dragon– Dreamfyre. Atop her was Queen Helaena. She landed gracefully upon the pebbled beach. Robyn was frozen in fear or amazement, Aemond could not tell– Vaelaena had her face buried in her mother’s bosom, sniffling. 

Aemond rose to his feet, legs shaky like a newborn fawn’s. His sister was here, as she had promised– two years late, perhaps but… 

“Aemond!” Helaena called, trotting across the beach in her blue and black riding leathers. She looked radiant, hair windswept from the ride. Her face was plastered in the biggest, dumbest smile ever. 

“Hel…” Aemond echoed softly, trudging across the rocky terrain and meeting Helaena in the middle, wrapping his one arm around her. “Hel…”

“I’ve missed you so– my dear brother,” she sniffled. “We’ve all missed you terribly.”

“... how is mother?” 

“As well as she can be, considering the circumstances…” 

“Aegon? The twins? Maelor?” 

“All very good.” 

“... Helaena?” 

“Yes, brother?” 

“Why are you here?” 

“To ask you to come back. And I will not take no for an answer.” 

Aemond opened his mouth to speak, but saw a flash of white go past him as Robyn walked towards Dreamfyre. “Robyn, don’t!” 

Dreamfyre trilled a soft noise at the tiny human coming towards her, who stopped about three feet in front of her snout. Robyn reached out his hand, offering the fish he had just caught. The dragon looked at the little boy, letting out a huge sniff (which almost knocked over the poor boy) and opened her maw, slurping up the fish in a fell swoop. Robyn giggled and was thrilled, despite his hand now dripping in dragon slobber. He trotted back to his father, clinging to his pant leg. “Who’s this, papa?” 

“This is… your aunt. Helaena. She is my sister, just like Vaelaena is your sister.” 

“Vaelaena?” Helaena asked softly, brow perked. 

“... Mayhaps named after you and Vhagar.” 

Rosemary approached with the aforementioned toddler on her hip, already teary eyed from seeing Helaena. “Vae, this is your aunty Helaena– this is Lady Orbweaver I talked about.” 

“Lady… Owbweaber…” Vaelaena repeated, astonished. “Like in… my stories?” 

“The very same!” Helaena exclaimed. “I see that you haven’t given up your talent as a storyteller, Rosemary?” 

“Rosemary? … I thought mumma’s name was Marigold.” 

–

Fifteen years after the war between brother and sister had ended, the infamous feud dubbed by historians as the ‘Dance of the Dragons’, the realm was peaceful and quaint, still ruled by King Aegon II Targaryen, and his wife, Queen Helaena Targaryen.

By his royal decree, Aegon had bestowed the ancestral island of Dragonstone upon his brother Aemond Targaryen, who had returned five years after the war, thought to be dead after the battle over God’s Eye. 

Dragonstone is resided by the prince, Aemond Targaryen, his wife, Rosemary Targaryen, and their five children. Robyn Targaryen, Vaelaena Targaryen, Baelon Targaryen, Daehaerys Targaryen, and Mheya Targaryen, the last of whom was supposedly named for Rosemary’s late mother, who had ancestral roots in the Mountain clans of the Eyrie. 

The lamb survived the dragon– the lamb, in fact, saved the dragon.

[margowritesthings]

The Greatest Gift III: She Sleeps

SERIES MASTERPOST

pairing: Arthur Morgan x f!reader word count: 1017 words warnings: teeth-rotting fluff, tbh this made me cry a/n: just a cute lil drabble for my favourite family in the world

taglist:@cowboydisaster@inkandbloodbound@beea-nie@cloudynoiire@punctillous@missvanderlinde@twola@pine4pple-b0i@alice-vanderlinde@photo1030

The newly appointed Uncle Dutch stays for a little while, admiring his new goddaughter until he and Arthur notice you struggling to stay awake. You’ve drifted off completely by the time Dutch hands Jade back to her father and congratulates the pair of you once more, returning to his tent to gush over the new addition to the gang.

Sleep overtakes you completely and utterly, your body so exhausted from the last nine months you could probably sleep through a riot. That much is proven about an hour later, when Jade stirs in her cot and begins to cry, the very first time in a long, long period of sleepless nights for the three of you. Her little screams pierce the formerly tranquil air, the trauma of waking up in the real world seemingly alone not really agreeing with her.

You’re normally not such a heavy sleeper, where the snap of a nearby twig or Uncle’s less than melodic singing, no matter how far away, is enough to wake you. But exhaustion doesn’t begin to cover how your body aches right now, how it longs for rest and clings onto it with a mighty grip when you finally get it. You don’t even stir.

Arthur, on the other hand, is woken instantly, paternal instincts already setting in ferociously. He looks down to you, smiling to himself when he sees you’re sound asleep, just about managing to untangle his limbs from yours without waking you and pressing a kiss to the top of your hair. When he gets off your shared cot, he makes sure to wrap the blanket back around you. 

“Hey, little lady…” he whispers, almost apprehensively as he walks towards his daughter, hands raised in the air as if he’s approaching a spooked horse. Force of habit. “It’s all right, baby girl… Daddy’s here.”

To Arthur, Jade is made of glass, and he lifts her into his arms as such. His precious, fragile little masterpiece, who makes him feel bigger and more brutish than he ever has before. He sits in the chair at the foot of your cot, Jade settling in his strong arms like she was made for them. She was, Arthur thinks, he just never realised until this moment. That’s all it takes for Jade to stop crying: her daddy, who would lasso the moon for her if it meant she could see the stars a little brighter. 

Even in the dark of your tent, Arthur can see her eyes glistening up at him, and can still make out her tiny features. She’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, save for you, of course. 

He thinks of Isaac for a moment, and how he held him like this precious few times, vowing that his memory will live on in the way that he will protect Jade from the evils of the world no matter what stands in his way. He will do for Jade what he failed to do for his son, in his honour. 

Breaking the silence settling around your little family, you moan softly in your sleep, turning onto your side. It draws Arthur’s attention to you again- not that it would ever be too far away- and he smiles to himself, entranced by how peaceful you look, how beautiful you are.

Jade reaches up to Arthur’s chin, pressing tiny fingers against his stubble and capturing his attention once more. The quietest of chuckles escapes his chest, a smile so pure stretching his lips. 

“Ain’t she beautiful, baby girl? I’m so damn proud of her…” Arthur physically winces when he realises he just cursed to a 4 hour old baby, but will later realise he should be the last of his own troubles, what with her having a dozen outlaws for aunts and uncles. “Sorry…” he hums, glancing between his wife and daughter to direct the apology to both of you.

“But I am. Proud of her, that is… We’re the luckiest two people in the whole world, little lady, cause we got her…” 

Apparently finding her father’s chin to be a little scratchy (with Arthur making a mental note to shave first thing in the morning), Jade reaches out into the open air, and Arthur can’t help but reach right back. He adjusts his hold on her, freeing one hand to let her grip her tiny digits around his singular finger. He feels like a giant, but he’ll be damned if his heart isn’t pounding right out of his chest at how happy he is right now. 

“You’ve got the best momma in the whole world, you know that? And I… Well, I’m gonna do everything I can to be a good papa, baby… Everything I can.” 

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t terrified. Arthur has owned a fair few front row tickets to displays of how not to be a father, from his own Pa to how easy it has been for Marston to mess up again and again over the years. And hell, he’s never seen anyone raise a little girl before. But as he promises, with his entire heart and soul, he is going to do his absolute best to be everything he can be to Jade. 

“Hey, and I hope you know how loved you are, little one. Your momma and I… God, I can’t even tell ya’, baby… You were a surprise, I’ll tell ya’, but we love you so much…” She’s squeezing around his finger as hard as she can, leaving the tiniest crescent moons from the smallest fingernails Arthur has ever seen. 

“You both did so well today… you were both so brave, huh? My brave girls…” He whispers, his words riding a content sigh. Jade’s eyes begin to flutter shut, her eyelids too heavy for her little self to fight. “You get some sleep, darlin’... I’ll be here when you wake up, I promise.”

The moon is falling fast, and it’ll soon be sunrise, but Arthur just can’t bring himself to sleep and miss one second of this night, watching his girls and silently promising them the world. 

[mrs-willow]

"A Raven and a Falcon" benji x oc

Disclaimer: I am not familiar with the Dance of Dragons books or the accurate storyline, so I have decided to change it to fit this story. I could not find an exact or reliable family tree for either House Blackwood or House Arryn, so I just made my own characters.  

The dance never actually happens!!! Viserys doesn’t die until he reaffirms Rhaenyra as his heir, and after that big family dinner, Rhaenyra returns on Dragon back, and she and Alicent talk out everything. There are mutual apologies, tears, laughter, and everyone lives. 

This is a sappy slow burn with angst, fluff, smut later, and everything I make up when I disassociate.  

This is literally my first post on here or any other website, so please be nice. I am writing this solely for my own enjoyment… there needs to be more Benjicot Blackwood material on this app.  However, I would still love feedback, and if there is something that you think would add to the story, message me, and I’ll see what I can do. 

Summary: Lady Lillian of the House Arryn reaches her eight and ten in a fortnight and has yet to be wed or promised to another Lord. After returning from Kings Landing for the coronation of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, she is informed of her Father and brother's plans to wed her to a man she has only seen glimpses of and whose reputation is insanity and bloodlust. Lillian learns to love this new stranger, or will she be forced into a life of loneliness and solitude and made to produce heirs until she dies?

Warnings: smut (later), blood, violence, cursing, period typical sexism, alternating POVs, (idk lmk if I should add more stuff)

Chapter 1

As Caelan strode through the corridors of the Eyrie he pondered the rumors of the castle being haunted just as Harenhall is. The man had grown up running through these halls with his siblings, escaping the septas and playing games of war and duels, and yet he could not remember the strange sound of wind whistling through the columns and doorways, creating the strange feeling that someone was trying to speak with you. That fate awaits one as one grows from boy to man. 

Caelans riding boots echo on the dark stone as he makes his way to the Arryn family's apartments. The decorations adorning the walls turn from mosaic replicas of the vast mountain range the Castle was built in, with striking figures of falcons soaring through twenty-foot billowing clouds to soft tapestries displaying a man, his wife, and four beaming blonde children. Metalwork of falcons and moons adorns the tall arches of doorways, and vases of flows rode in from the reach sit colorfully in vases. 

This deep into the castle, the man and the flowers are protected from the harsh rain and winds whipping through the outermost corridors and open rooms. Still, as he enters Lord Arryns personal study, Caelan finds all four hearths of the great room lit as the aging man cannot escape the chill of a month's travel on the King's Road during winter.

At the sound of someone entering the great room, the old man looks up from the pages he had previously been contemplating. It's funny how a few words can cause so much stress. Robert Arryn was a kind man, loved by his bannerman, and respected in court and on the battlefield. His Knights of the Vale were among the fiercest armies in the Seven Kingdoms and were recently praised by the new Queen Rhaenyra when Robert matched them south as a show of support for the true Queen and a warning for those who mean to harm her. Among his Knights, the Seasnakes Armada, the Blackwood host, and the Northmen showed formidable support for their true queen. Yet, Robert is no longer a twenty-year-old man poised for battle and all manner of foolish, daring adventures, and this long trip has taken its toll on the man's bones.

He muttered as he met his son at the table. 

“The realms delight should’ve lived up to the title and held the coronation in spring to spare all us old men the pain of the cold set into our bones.” 

The young man subtly rolled his eyes away from his disgruntled father. “If you had listened to my warnings of the rain while on horseback, perhaps you would not be in such discomfort, Father,” Caelan teased with a small smirk. 

Robert sent the young man his most fearsome glare, “I will not be laughed at in my own home, boy. Now go get your father a pelt so he might not freeze to death in the damn winter.” 

Calan rose, joking that the “bloody Starks are always right at some point. Winter is Here.” 

The two men sat side by side momentarily, gazing into the crackling fire. One old man sat grateful that he had not been called to fight another war, “so much death and cruelty in the world,” he thought, “thank the old gods and the new that my children will not know war.” The younger man sat gazing at the flames, contemplating his father's reasons for calling him here at such a late hour with the castle all but asleep. His mind immediately drifted to the worst reasons for the summoning, and he prayed his worries would soon be eased when his Lord Father stopped being such a dramatic old crow.

“Father, why have you summoned me at such an odd hour?” Caelan questioned. The man knew better than to press his father for answers and thus sat patiently like a little boy waiting for his father's commands. 

Robert sighed. He then rose and retrieved the papers he had been studying when Caelan first arrived in the study. Wordlessly, Robert handed the letter to his son and resumed his place at the table, once again falling silent.

As Caelan reads the letter addressed to Lord Robert Arryn of the Vale, the reality of getting older becomes present and clear as the childhood he once knew begins to fade into blurry memories filled with love and laughter.

Caelan reaches his father's eyes, “Lillian is to be…” he pauses and lets his father's eyes answer his question. 

“She is to be Married,” Robert affirms. “She is nearly ten and eight; the time has come, and it would do her more harm than good to shelter her here until it truly is impossible for us to let her go or her to let us.”

Caelan leans back in the oversized chair he adorns, “She will be livid,” he warns his father. 

“Aye,” Robert agrees, “but that is the way of things and she cannot hide in these mountains forever.” 

“Father, I agree, but truly to that man?” Caelan questions. “You cannot possibly think that giving Lillian to a psycho would be wise?”

“Mind your tongue, boy,” Robert warns. “His father is one of my oldest friends and closest allies.” Robert reminds his emotional Son.

“Yes, of course, but that does not discredit the news we hear of his son. We mu-”

Robert rose swiftly from his chair, “I will hear none of this. Samwell Blackwood and I were raised side by side. We learned to shoot, ride, and wield swords together, and I trust that the man I grew up with raised a son who is equally honorable and just as he is.”

Caelan slumped forward, defeated. “At least allow me to inform her of this change to her life?” the man asked. “She will be more forgiving if it comes from me rather than you.”

Robert sighed. He felt pride swell in his breast for his eldest son and his three younger children. He was proud to have raised them in a manner that made them friends and confidants rather than enemies. He knew then and there that his eldest son would be equally loved and honored as Lord of the Vale when death came for him. 

“I will allow it, but it must be done in the morning. She will leave the day following her name day.” 

“Thank you, father. If I may retire to my chambers, I sense tomorrow will be a trying day.” 

Robert raised his hand and bid his son a good night, then called after him, “Caelan? Please tell her that I’m sorry.”

Caelan paused and sighed, “Father, you must tell her this yourself. Soon, she will no longer be a short walk from your own chamber.”

With that, the heir to House Arryn headed back toward his chambers and noticed that the howling in the halls sounded sweater, slightly more musical and feminine.

Back in the study, Lord Arryn stood in front of the hearth in contemplation. He reminisced about the times his family was still whole and couldn’t help but feel that he was chipping away yet another piece of his soul in allowing his daughter to leave the safety of her family.   

[quitealotofsodapop]

Sin embargo a pesar de la obvia diferencia entre el reino de Shihua y el de Wukong hay que destacar que Wukong logo surgir su reino desde las cenizas del fuego verdadero, y tambien el gran reconociemto de que logro que Alolai fuera una nacion por derecho propio mientras que los demas demonios solo son meros terratenientes con su terrenito...

Mande una pregunta dando mas detalle sobre el reinado de Wukong pero parece quer se ahogo con muchas otras mas ;v;

translation via google;

"However, despite the obvious difference between Shihua's kingdom and Wukong's, it should be noted that Wukong managed to raise his kingdom from the ashes of the true fire, and also the great recognition that he managed to make Alolai a nation in its own right while the other demons are just mere landowners with their little plot of land… I sent a question giving more detail about Wukong's reign but it seems that it drowned with many more ;v;"

+ relevant anon ask;

I found the ask you mentioned! Apologies if it's taken a while.

I can imagine after a day or two of just living in the alternate world's Flower Fruit Mountain, the Matriarch notices Wukong acting very sullen and asks about it.

Wukong, distracted by the sights: "I'll admit, seeing the Mountain how it is now makes me feel inferior about my own." Shihua: "Why is that?" Wukong, face painted with guilt: "When I found the Stone Palace, I had just been a cub. Someone completely unaware of how vast it's history spanned before the Flood separated me from it. And when I angered Heaven, Samadhi Fire rained down from above, destroying much of the wildlife. When I returned after my imprisonment, I discovered that my people were decimated by hunger and poachers. It was only through many years of labour that I was able to get even the most basic needs of my people met once more." Shihua: "Even without knowing who you are, even when our island damaged by flood, fires and famine... you still rebuilt our kingdom?" Wukong: (*almost shy look on his face*) "Yes?" Shihua, adoring smile: "By the Earth Mother, you are my child. Anyone else would have abandoned our kingdom after such losses, but you did not." (*places hand upon shoulder*) "You should be proud of your reign, as I am." Wukong, tearing up again: "T-thanks ma- Matriarch." Shihua: "Of course, my gem."

Wukong will not go a single day without his alternate family telling him how much they think of him and what he's managed to accomplish without them. They also give thanks to his Stalwarts for their undying loyalty.

And surprisingly... Macaque;

Macaque: "Why are you thanking me?" Ye Lin: "If what he says is true, one of his leading motivations in life was to ensure you would never want for anything. He speaks highly of you, even if not in words." Luzhen: "It is really sappy. He calls you his Moon and everything." Macaque: (*blush creeps over his face as realises Wukong has been talking about him through poetic terms, as he did around the Brotherhood when they were young loves so that the Six Ears could not tell who he was referring to.*) Macaque: "Tch. Dumb peaches."

[sweetbonniebel]

Jaes's hen jēdar

God's of the sky

Seven

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

Synopsis: Rhaenyra's wedding takes place, y/n and her husband return to the capital.

Masterlist <-previous , next->

113 AC Sunspear

"Mother can I see Vermithor?" Derran asked as you held him in your arms.

"Perhaps on the morrow, I feel quite tired now." You answered kissing the top of his curly black hair.

"Because of baby?" He asked delicately patting your swollen belly.

"Yes my sweet boy... Where did you loose Aegon?" You asked, knowing that whenever Darren was Aegon was around.

"Eggie in lessons. Didn't interrupt." Your son mumbled playing with your silver hair.

"You did good, my love."

"What a sight to see." Qoren said entering your shared chambers. "Hello my love." He said and kneeled in front of you, pressing a kiss to your lips and to your son's forehead.

"Good morrow, Qoren." You answered.

"A letter arrived from the capitol." Your husband said and passed you the parchment, he took Darren into his arms and pressed kisses on his chubby cheeks. You read the letter carefully.

"Shall we prepare for travel?" You asked.

Rhaenyra's and Laenor's wedding has arrived.

"I would assume so."

"I love you." You murmured and pressed a kiss to your husbands lips.

"As I you. How is our little one doing?" He answered, caressing your cheek.

"Good, I would assume. I am tired without a reason." You answered rubbing your pregnant belly.

"She will be strong then, since she's taking yours."

"I would like a girl, it seems you do as well." You mused noticing that your husband oft referred to the babe as she.

"Could we name her after my grandmother? I think the name Arianne would suit her."

"And if it's a boy?" You questioned tangling your fingers in his curly, thick black hair.

"What do you think we should name our son?"

"I like Nymor, after Nymeria the warrior Queen."

"A fine name, princess." He looked fondly at your growing belly. Caressing the swell through your pale orange dress.

You were excited to go back to King's Landing, you missed your family terribly. After all it has been three years, six moons after your wedding you conceived and then bore a son, Derran. He was born strong, with violet eyes and black hair. Two years later you fell pregnant again.

You along with your son and Aegon would depart on dragon back. Nothing compared to the feeling of flying with your steed. Vermithor was not overly fond of the hot temperature of Dorne so he was excited to come back to the Crowlands.

Sunfyre was able to lift Aegon, and per his request he flew on his own, next to your mount. Vermithor took off, his wings threw shade at the city below. Derran was strapped to the saddle with leather belts while Nymor was tied to your chest.

The flight took a few hours, the bronze fury flew on his own remembering the path. Sunfyre flew circles the elder dragon. Vermithor screeched in dismay at the energetic young dragon. The bronze fury landed on the hills near the dragon pit, the dragon walked towards the gates to the caves he once called home. 

...

The streets were clean and decorated with Targaryen sigils, the wedding of the crown heir was a huge ordeal and rightfully so. You smiled as you saw the familiar red bricks of the place you grew up in.

Rhaenyra along with the rest of your family awaited your arrival in the courtyard. You stepped out of the carriage, the stench of the city invaded your nostrils.

"y/n!" Rhaenyra smiled and ran up to you, she engulfed you in a bone crushing hug. You smiled and hugged her back, you heard the little footsteps of Haelaena and Aemond. They hugged your skirts smiling and laughing as you caressed their silver locks.

"Sister it has been far too long." Viserys smiled, you approached your brother and smiled sadly at his condition. You placed a kiss on his cheek and bowed your head at Alicent. Ever since you started taking an interest in her children she could not stand you. Even though you have done nothing wrong she knew how much her children loved you.

"There is someone I would like you to meet, brother." You mused and walked into the carriage picking Derran into your arms. "Brother this is my son Derran."

"Adorable babe." Viserys mused picking up Derran into his arms. "He looks like our father. The same brows, nose and eyes."

"I will take your word for it, then." You answered, servants approached taking your belongings to the chambers that once belonged to you.

"Mother!" Derran whined in his uncles grasp.

"This is your uncle Viserys, Derran." You answered, Rhaenyra fawned over her cousin and took him into her arms, he giggled in delight.

Soon enough your child was taken away from you, and you were left with Daemon.

"Brother" You said, the man smiled and kissed your cheek pressing his forehead against yours.

"Sister" He answered, his violet eyes stopped at your pregnant belly. His large hand rested upon the top he smiled gently as he felt the babe kick. "What will you name it?"

"Nymor if it's a boy and Arianne if it's a girl." You answered in common tongue.

"Dornish names." He responded taking you by your arm, the two of you walked to the gardens.

"They will be princelings of house Martell, it is only fitting." You mused and leaned on Daemon's shoulder.

"Do you love him?" Your brother suddenly asked. You took a deep breath and glanced at his violet eyes.

"I do." You whispered, you could see the evident anger in his orbs. The happy atmosphere soon soured, not wishing to spend another moment like that, you departed for your chambers.

...

You awoke feeling the babe press itself onto your spine, you sighed leaning towards your sleeping husband. A small smile graced your lips, you pressed a kiss to his dark curly hair.

"Is it the babe?" Qoren mumbled still half asleep, you smiled caressing his naked back.

"Don't worry it is nothing." You mused and left your shared bed to the chamber pot. "Your child however presses itself against my spine and bladder."

Qoren laughed.

"Our child are they not?"

"Of course but only one of us has to carry it for nine months and then push it out of my body."

"That is true and I am eternally thankful for your sacrifice." Your husband mused kneeling in front of you and pressed his ear against your belly. "Hello little dragon." He said and pressed a kiss.

"Could we stay here longer? As much as I and Aegon enjoy Sunspear I do miss my home" You asked your husband.

"As you wish dear wife." He answered "With having a flying beast there come some perks." You laughed at his jest a comfortable silence falling between the two of you. Your body leaned into his as you laid comfortably on the bed.

"I love you." Qoren muttered into your silver hair, you looked up at him kissing the bridge of his nose.

"As I you."

...

Your maids tied the red and silver dress as the others combed through your long silver locks.

"How do you feel your highness?" One of your maids a young girl of only four and ten asked.

"It is bearable, Annora. Though I cannot wait once it's out of me." You mussed caressing the swell of your belly.

"It is good the pregnancy is at its end." Annora smiled and tied the knots of your sleeves. "I pray to the gods everyday for a safe delivery."

"Thank you my dear." You thanked the red haired girl. "Come now I intend to visit my niece."

...

You watched as the maids helped Rhaenyra put on her dress, when they moved towards her silver locks you interrupted.

"Please leave us." The maids bowed and left the two princesses alone. "I always did your hair, I will do so as long as we're together." You caressed Rhaenyra's cheek and begun to brush her hair. 

"Thank you, y/n" The princess of Dragonstone mused caressing your palm. "I missed you so much."

You answered back and braided her hair in comfortable silence, embedding rubies and obsidian into the hairstyle. A Valyrian song leaving your lips.

Ser Steffon and Ser Criston escorted the two of you to the great hall where the celebration for Rhaenyra's wedding took place. Ser Harrold announced the two princesses.  

You smiled as you noticed your husband already seated at the high table you took your place next to him as Rhaenyra sat next to her father. The guests begun arriving, ser Harrold announcing their presences. You chuckled quietly as lord Lannister embarassed himself in front of Rhaenyra and Viserys

"Lord Corlys of house Velaryon, lord of the tides and master of Driftmark and his lady wife Princess Rhaenys Targaryen and their son and heir Ser Laenor Velaryon the future king consort!" Ser Harrold announced the powerful house. All of them dressed in gold and teal, a true Valyrian house. You smiled as you saw them enter, the crowd applauded their arrival. They bowed before the high table. Rhaenyra abandoned her seat and met with Laenor half way.

"My bethroded." She smiled, Laenor kissed the palm of her hand and the court once again applauded. The Velaryon's took their place on Viserys's left side of the table. But the peaceful moment has been interrupted by Daemon making his appearance soon after the Velaryon's.

He strode proudly through the great hall, the crowd whispered at this sight. He smirked as he approached the high table, an extra chair placed on the tail end of the table.

"Be welcome, as we join together in celebration. Tonight is only it's beginning we honour the crown's oldest and fiercest ally, House Velaryon. Reaching back to the days of Old Valyria and the Age of Dragons with House Targaryen and House-" Viserys stopped his speech mid word, he intensely gazed at the entrance to the great hall. The crowds eyes soon followed.

Queen Alicent dressed in Hightower green has arrived. The courtiers stood up to honour her grace. You exchanged a look with your husband, the green beacon of Hightower you thought.

"Congratulations stepdaughter. What blessing this is for you." She spoke the new way that she addressed Rhaenyra did not go unnoticed.

"Please be seated." Viserys asked once Alicent took her seat. "With House Targaryen and House Velaryon united, I hope to herald in a second Age of Dragons in Westeros." Viserys finished his speech the court applauded and banged their hands on the table cheering for his grace. "And after tonights small affair... Seven days of tournament and feasting. And at the end of it all, a royal wedding between my daughter, my heir, your future Queen and Ser Laenor Velaryon the heir to Driftmark." You clapped and smiled as Viserys confirmed Rhaenyra as heir.

The first dance was started by Rhaenyra and Laenor the two of them moved gracefully to the sound of music. An old Valyrian dance, to display the two houses origins. You watched with your husbands the two smiled and talked. Soon the rest of the courtiers decided to dance as is the custom in such celebrations. Alicent moved from the table to where house Hightower was sitting.

"Shall we dance, my dear?" Qoren proposed and you agreed taking his hand. From the corner of your eye you saw ser Gerald talk with Daemon. The tragic incident that befallen Rhea Royce was no accident. Laena skipped towards the dance floor and Daemon followed after her. The two seemed engaged in conversation, as your feet ached you walked to the table.

"Cousin I am so glad to see you in King's Landing." You said to Rhaenys.

"As am I. I believe congratulations are in order." She said and her husband Lord Corlys agreed.

"Thank you, it is rather tedious to be with child." You muttered and Rhaenys chuckled.

"It is, isn't it? I remember when I was pregnant with Laenor. I could not sleep for the death of me." Rhaenys told her memories.

Your pleasant conversation has been interrupted by various screams. You stood from your seat searching for Rhaenyra. She was carried by Ser Harwin breakbones. The crowd stilled and Ser Criston rose from the floor, his hands and armour bloody.

...

"The love of the seven is holy and eternal. The source of life and love. We stand here tonight in thanks and praise to join two souls as one." The septon spoke "Father, Mother, Warrior, Smith, Maiden, Crone, Stranger. Hear now their vows."

"I am yours and you are mine." Laenor spoke through tears "Whatever may come."

"I am yours and you are mine. Whatever may come." Rhaenyra held back her tears. You watched with sadness in your own your husband caressing your back in comfort.

"Here in the presence of gods and men, I proclaim Laenor of House Velaryon, Rhaenyra of House Targaryen, to be man and wife. One flesh, on heart, one soul now and forever." The high septon said the vows. Viserys fell to the ground, the crown of King Jaehaerys rolling on the stone floor.

...

"AHH!" You screeched crushing the bedpost with your hand as another contraction paralysed your body. Sweat drenched your cotton tunic, you could feel the anger and pain of your dragon. His roars shook the Red Keep.

"Princess-" One of the midwives approached your curled form.

"Don't touch me!" You seethed, baring your teeth. The servants watched as you suffered on your own.

"My wife! Where is my wife!?" Qoren burst into the room to see you scream and cry with pain. He stared in disbelief at the midwives who did nothing. "Why are you not helping the princess?!"

"S-She refuses our help." One of the maids whispered.

"Leave then!" He screamed and rushed to your side kneeling next to you. "My love, I'm here."

"Qoren..?" You asked absentmindedly "I can't-" You breathed, your face contorting in pain.

"Yes you can! You already did this once, our boy. He cannot be without you! I cannot be without you." Qoren cried as he helped you stand.

"Get it- Get it out of me." You pleaded leaning on your husband.

"No child should grow up without parents, remember?" He pleaded "Please, my love."

You stared up at his worried face, placing your palm against his cheek. You squatted taking your husbands hand the other leaned on the bed.

"Urghh!" You groaned and pushed, pushed and groaned. Qoren kneeled between you, his hands under your tunic helping you.

"The head..!" He whispered hopefully.

You placed your hand in between your legs to feel the babe make its way into the world. With a final push, it slid out of your body into your husbands arms. A loud cry pierced the silence that befallen the chamber.

"A boy" Your husband breathed in relief handing you the newborn, tears streamed down your cheeks. This time from happiness.

"Nymor, my son. Oh my sweet boy." You cried cradling the crying infant. One of the midwives walked in, helping you with the newborn. Swaddling him in cloth and cutting the cord.

"He's beautiful." Qoren mused pressing a kiss to your sweaty brow. The midwife placed him in your arms and you latched him to your breast. Wisps of blonde hair and eyes a light brown bordering on red.

...

The Grimm beginning of the union between Princess Rhaenyra and Lord Laenor became a subject of superstition. A bad omen for the future Queen and her royal Consort. But a fortnight after Princess y/n delivered a healthy son, lifting the sour mood.- From the dragon bringer by the feather and quill of Grand Maester Roland.

[aries-rp-corner]

The time has come…night has finally come. Aries was at the front lines as she looked up to the sky…watching the Moon slowly turning red by the second. She can feel a heavy pressure forming in the air, until the Moon was now devoured in red. Looking out to the sea as it reflected the red color of the moon, it looked like someone stained the ocean in pure blood… The heavy pressure returned as a screech broke the silence as something swift grabbed a grunt, Aries in a quick response threw one of her Sickles to the figure. Making it cry out in pain as she now sees the grunt fall back on deck, confused and terrified from what the poor soul had experienced ... but the poor man felt like he'd been stabbed…and stabbed he was as he looked over to see the puncture wounds began to leak out blood and something else… Aries knew what that was as she ordered the others who were holding the antidote to quickly help their fellow grunt.

Aries meanwhile, looked around to find the “Pokémon” that landed the first attack, seeing a shadow swiftly flying by. Until feeling a strong breeze behind her, looking up to see a different type of Wyvern Pokémon. Landing down as dark energy gathered around the Wyvern until it shrunk in size to see a silhouette of a man. Finally it was revealed to be Durai, glaring down at Aries as she felt something sharp smacking her in the face.

“You had the nerve to cut my Wife, not once, but twice you stupid fox. Now, where is that leader of yours? I hope he made the right choice to spare the lives of his…“men”…from a bloodbath.” Durai spoke heavy with anger, along with curiosity of what Ghetsis chose his answer… The sound of speakers echoed all around the ship. “Ghetsis.~ I hope you made the right choice to give me Kyurem and now for that bastard of your son to give me both of the dragons. Now…I know you are in no condition to fight, so what answer did you choose?” Durai waited to hear the Lord of Plasma, until hearing dark chuckle from the PA.

“I am not giving up Kyurem without a fight. Fight us if you dare, but we will not bow to anyone to the likes of you!!” Ghetsis roared out, Durai gave a look of annoyance from the answer. Standing tall as he examined the grunts, Aries, and the Plasma Frigate. Until finally glaring down at the souls in front of him. “If you want them so bad, fight me for them! Even if I fall, I will not give them up!!”

“You all made your grave. Cipher! Show no mercy!! Leave no living soul alive!!” Durai roared out as he snapped his clawed fingers. Instantly, the Peons quickly climbed on board through the ocean and some in the air landing down as Cipher attack with full force. Aries staggered back up, holding her mouth as she tasted blood and her hand confirmed it, yet thanks to that Durai is now looming over Aries with a look that’s full of rage and annoyance…but fear as well? “If your family didn’t help Nasrin in the past, you wouldn’t be here. I don’t know how you survived my wife’s attack but I WILL make sure you stay dead!” He opened his claws in an attempt to slash her, but the only thing he felt with ripping what remained of her scarf and a Moon Sickle cutting his cheek.

“My family has been doing this ever since she found us, it was our kindness and urge to protect others is what led us here now! I’m not sure she saw my family’s future, but she knew how to pick ‘em!” Aries then grabbed her knife as she placed it between her jaws and whipped back her Sickle. “And she is making sure you fall tonight.” Durai looked very confused until he looked up to the sky. Seeing a yellow star and clouds forming in a shape of a fox consuming the moon. Even as rain descend from the sky, making Durai feel a familiar chill running through his body as he sees the woman’s eyes glowing piercing gold-yellow. All he saw was a ghost from his past returning one finally time to make sure he stays buried. “You wanted to fight, now stand and fight! If you want Kyurem, Zekrom, and Reshiram you’ll have to pry them out from ALL of our cold dead hands!”

“So be it….If you think you’re a hero, then die like one!” Durai roared with fury as he reformed back into a Wyvern like beast, delivering his roar across the entire Frigate. He and his Organization will not falter.

[humanpurposes]

I Have Always Been A Storm, Part 1

Read the full chapter on AO3 // Main Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen x Floris Baratheon

In the year 128AC, Floris Baratheon weds Aemond Taragryen, a daughter and a son both driven to duty, now bound to each other when the realm is on the brink of war. Floris is enamoured by the Prince, but love is something she can only hope will bloom once her vows have been said before the eyes of the Seven- AU where Aemond and Floris marry before the Dance of the Dragons.

Warnings: 18+, smut, pregnancy, arranged marriage, canon divergence, angst, possibly quite a lot of angst, hurt/comfort

A/n: Surprise!! It's the Florismond fic no one asked for :) Planning on this being a 3 part mini series.

“A terrible coincidence,” my husband says.

Head bowed, he kneels before me where I sit on the end of our bed. Thunder and lightning rage beyond the windows but he has brought the storm inside with him. The rainwater that has drenched his hair and his riding leathers soak through my nightgown. I keep my jaw tight and my teeth pressed together to stop myself from shivering.

He has discarded his gloves to hold my hands in his, leaving a trail of kisses and tears on my skin. He circles the pad of his thumb over my fingertips, over the callouses left by my years of devotion to the harp. His hands are calloused too, from his sword, from the reins on Vhagar’s saddle.

He lifts his chin to look at me. I scarcely recognise him. My husband is a proud young man, always poised, never loud, often cold and stoic, gentle around the right people, his mother, his sister, me.

His single eye is glistening and glassy, the blue of his iris vibrant despite his distress. His breaths are laboured, his lips parted. I see nothing but hopelessness in him, but even like this, I wonder if the gods will ever manage to create a person quite so beautiful as Aemond Targaryen.

I slip a hand out of his grasp and, as gently as I can, pull on the eyepatch that covers the left side of his face. He lets me do it, as he has done many times before. A burst of lighting catches in the uneven edges of his sapphire eye. The twisted flesh that frames it is red, I wonder if it is hurting him.

I asked him once, why he was so reluctant to display this part of himself, why he wanted to hide it from me when we were first married.

His reply was always that he did not wish to frighten me.

What reason would I have to fear a scar? I’ve seen plenty of blood in my life, hunts, tourneys, accidents in the training yard. I see my own blood every moon. How could I fear my own husband?

He’s stuttering, sobbing, choking on his words. “I didn’t– I– I tried to stop her– but I was so– I just wanted him to…”

Heat rises behind my eyes. My skin is cold, my limbs frozen, but the shock is starting to wear off. I cannot listen to any more or I will surely break. 

I hush him, curling my whole body over his head. If he sees my face he will think I fear him, he will think I am horrified by him. I run a hand over his damp hair and he rests his face against the swell of my stomach.

Before he left, only a matter of days ago, after he had kissed my lips sore and stolen all the air from my lungs, he had come down to his knees to kiss my belly. By Maester Orwlye’s estimation, I only have a month left of my term. By tradition, I should be in confinement, but Aemond had ordered against it. He could not bear the thought of being apart from me, and I him. He has his own books and correspondences with Maesters across the continent. In Dorne, expectant mothers are encouraged to exercise as much as they can, to breathe fresh air and feel the sun on their skin. This would be best for our child, Aemond decided, rather than keeping me a dark bedchamber with only midwives and septas for company. 

Queen Alicent had said from the start that Aemond would make for a devoted husband, that he has always been a man of duty.

An awful sense of dread runs through my blood.

I should be glad that he has returned to me, and I am, I am .

“I wanted the boy to fear me. I did not imagine that I might…”

What can I say to him? What can I do to ease his suffering when I cannot stand the feeling of his body so close to mine? 

I am bound to him, through vows, through witnesses. I have given him my body and he has given me his. I carry his blood in my womb, my child as much as it is his. Most irreversibly of all, my heart is twined with his. I love him, and yet...

When he places a palm against my stomach, over the space where our babe grows, all I can think is that this is the hand of a kinslayer. Whatever fate the gods have for him now is my fate also. If he has cursed himself, then I too am cursed.

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