#original female character pov | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kooffeecup · 1 month ago

Text

STILL YOUR'S

meeting your ex-boyfriend six year's later after leaving him for another man wasn’t something you were expecting!

pairing : biker jungkook x reader

genre : angst, smut, fluff ( mention of cheating )

still your's :

The wind suddenly started blowing and the rain started hitting your skin hard. You could feel your hairs sticking to your forehead. You felt cold, wet and uncomfortable.....

You feel cold as you were trying to fix your car in the heavy rain. Not until you see a bike coming over and stopping just in front of you. The men come closer. It was hard to see his face due to heavy rain and darkness. And when you finally take a good look at the person, you go numb.

"Jungkook?"You spoke his name in utter disbelief. You couldn't believe the person in front of you was your ex-boyfriend, the one you had left for another man.

The rain was pouring mercilessly now, the droplets of water adding a poignant atmosphere to the unexpected encounter. Jungkook's eyes met yours, there was a mix of surprise and hesitation etched on his face.

He slowly dismounted from his bike, the rain now making his clothes cling to him, outlining his muscular physique that you remember vividly from the past. The sound of the raindrops hitting the pavement seemed to mute everything around you except for the thudding of your heart against your ribcage.

"What are you doing here?" He asked, his voice low and laced with a hint of accusation. His eyes roamed over your form, taking in your soaked appearance.

You swallowed hard, trying to find the right words to explain yourself. The memories of your past with him flooded your mind, the laughter, the arguments, and the love that had once bound you together. "My car broke down," you managed to say, pointing weakly to the abandoned vehicle down the road. The wind picked up, a gust making you shiver from the cold.

Jungkook's eyes flicked from you to your car then back to you. There was a momentary battle of emotions on his face, something between irritation and concern. He ran a hand through his damp hair, pushing the strands back off his forehead. "Get on," he said bluntly, gesturing to the seat behind him.

You blinked, unsure if you'd heard him correctly. Get on? You glanced at the bike, the small space behind him offering little protection from the rain, but it was still a better option than waiting alone in the cold. Without a word, you stepped forward and sat on the back of the bike. Jungkook climbed in front of you, setting his feet on the pedals before glancing back at you.

"Hold on," he warned.

You wrapped your arms around his middle, your body pressed closely against his back. The familiar scent of him, mixed with the freshness of the rain, assaulted your senses, bringing back a rush of memories. As he began to pedal, the rain continued to lash down, the wind biting at your exposed skin. For a few moments, you both rode in silence, the only sound being the rhythmic beat of the bike wheels against the wet road.

The bike swayed slightly with every turn, and you found yourself clinging tighter to Jungkook, your cheek brushing against the wet fabric of his jacket. You could feel the warmth of his body against your cold skin, and it stirred something within you, something you thought you'd buried long ago.

He navigated the rain-soaked streets with expertise, his focus solely on the road ahead. You tried to keep your thoughts in check, but your mind kept drifting back to the past, recalling the moments you'd shared with him - the good and the bad.

The bike came to a sudden halt, and Jungkook motioned for you to get off. You looked up to see that you were standing outside a small, unassuming apartment building.

The rain continued to fall as he led you towards the building, his hand lightly on your elbow to steady you. Once you were both under the cover of the doorway, he quickly unlocked the door and gestured for you to enter.

Inside, the apartment was warm and surprisingly cozy. The living room was simply furnished but distinctly male, adorned with a couple of gaming consoles and some gym equipment.

“ What is this place “? You ask nervously.

Jungkook shut the door behind you, the sound of rain now muffled by the walls of the apartment. He moved past you, his footsteps soft on the hardwood floor.

"It's my place," he replied simply, his voice betraying no real emotion. He shrugged off his jacket, revealing a tight t-shirt underneath, clinging to his toned body.

His words echoed in your mind. His place. You watched as he hung his jacket on a hook near the door, his movements casual, as if hosting his ex-girlfriend in his home at 3 AM in the rain was a normal part of his routine.

"You're soaked," he commented, turning to look at you. His eyes raked over your form, your clothes drenched and sticking to your body, making you feel vulnerable under his gaze.

You were suddenly aware of how you must look, your mascara probably smudged, your hair dripping down your face. Despite your best efforts, a shiver ran through you from the cold, and you wrapped your arms around yourself.

"Wait here," Jungkook said, disappearing down a narrow hallway. You stood there, the quiet of the apartment suddenly feeling oppressive. You took the opportunity to study your surroundings. The space was tidy, a reflection of Jungkook's disciplined nature.

A few moments later, he reappeared holding a dry towel and a pile of clothes. He offered them to you wordlessly - a pair of sweatpants and an oversized hoodie.

You took them, the warm fabric a stark contrast to the cold that had seeped into your bones. "Thanks," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. Before you could protest, Jungkook nodded towards a door down the hall.

"Bathroom's there if you want to change," he said, his eyes flickering over you again. "I'll find you some blankets." With that, he turned and walked back down the hall, leaving you standing there, feeling more exposed than ever before.

You made your way to the bathroom, closing the door behind you with a soft click. The small space was clean, the countertops bare except for a few toiletries. You quickly removed your wet clothes, your skin goose-bumping visibly in the cool air.

You dried yourself with the towel, the feeling of it against your skin offering a strange sense of comfort. You slipped on the clothes Jungkook had given you, the material soft and warm against your body. The hoodie was huge, the sleeves falling over your hands, adding an extra layer of coziness.

You took a few moments for yourself, staring at your reflection in the mirror. Your makeup was smudged, your eyes looked tired, and your hair was a tangled mess. But there was something else too. A hint of vulnerability you weren't used to seeing in yourself.

Taking a deep breath, you steeled yourself to face Jungkook again. You opened the door and stepped out into the hall. The sound of rain continued its steady rhythm outside, a constant background noise that seemed to emphasize the intimacy of the situation.

Making your way back to the living room, you found Jungkook sitting on a couch, sorting out some blankets. He looked up as you entered, his gaze lingering on you for a moment. He didn't say anything, just gestured for you to sit on the other end of the couch.

You obeyed, sitting awkwardly on the edge of the couch, your hands gripping the soft fabric of the hoodie. The silence between you was deafening, filled with unspoken words and unsaid apologies. But there was something else too - a tension, a thread of electricity that seemed to crackle between you.

Jungkook finished arranging the blankets and looked at you, his expression inscrutable. "You can sleep here," he said, gesturing towards the couch. "I'll take the spare room." Part of you wanted to object, but the exhaustion of the night was catching up with you. Without another word, he got up and started towards a door down the opposite end of the hall.

You watched him disappear into the shadows, your heart beating a little faster. You settled into the couch, drawing a blanket over yourself. The events of the night ran through your mind in a loop. The broken down car, the rain, Jungkook's unexpected appearance, and now the strange situation you were in.

Despite the awkwardness, however, part of you couldn't help but feel a familiar sense of comfort. Lying there, wrapped in blankets that smelled faintly of Jungkook, you found yourself drifting off to sleep, the sound of the rain lulling you into a dreamlike state.

As you slept, your dreams were a jumble of memories - moments with Jungkook playing out like a movie. The sound of his laughter, the feel of his hands in yours, the warmth of his embrace. It was as if the years that had passed had faded away, leaving only the raw, intense emotions you had once felt for him.

You stirred in your sleep, a soft moan escaping your lips. In your dreams, you were reliving a moment from the past, a time when everything between you and Jungkook was simple, or as simple as two young people in love could be.

The images were vivid, almost tangible. You could almost feel his touch, the way his fingers would trail over your skin, igniting a fire within you. The memory was so real that when a noise snapped you out of your dream, you bolted upright, disoriented and confused.

The room was still dark, the rain had let up, leaving behind an eerie quiet. You blinked, your mind clearing slowly, and as you looked around, you realized that the noise hadn't been from your dream. It was the sound of footsteps, approaching softly from the hall.

Sure enough, Jungkook appeared from the darkness, a silent shadow in the dark room. He was shirtless, his sculpted chest and abs on display under the dim lighting. Your throat dried as you took in his appearance. He was more muscular than you remembered, the years having chiseled away any residual boyishness.

He halted at the end of the couch, his eyes fixed on you. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the wariness in his gaze. Neither of you said anything for a moment, the silence charged with unspoken words.

He broke the silence first, his voice low and gravelly. "Did I wake you?" He moved closer, his eyes never leaving your face. You could see the hint of stubble on his chin, giving him a rougher edge than the boy you once knew.

"Yeah," you managed to say, your voice thick with sleep. You sat up straighter on the couch, pulling the blanket closer to cover yourself. His proximity was overwhelming, his scent filling your nostrils and clouding your thoughts.

He perched on the edge of the coffee table, his eyes roaming over you. The silence stretched on, punctuated only by your shallow breaths and the sound of the ticking clock. He was close enough that you could see the golden flecks in his brown eyes, the tiny bead of sweat on his temple.

"Why did you come here?" He suddenly asked, his voice cutting through the silence. The directness of his question caught you off guard, the vulnerability you'd felt in your sleepy state instantly replaced by defensiveness.

"My car broke down," you answered automatically, your voice more defensive than you intended. He huffed out a cynical laugh, the sound sending a shiver down your spine.

"And where were you going at three in the morning?" He pressed on, his gaze unwavering. You fidgeted under his scrutiny, the weight of his question making you feel like a child caught in a lie.

"Home," you answered honestly. A flicker of surprise crossed his face, a crack in the impassive facade he'd been keeping up. He sat back, his arms crossed over his chest, the muscles in his bicep flexing as he adjusted his position

"Home," he repeated, his tone flat. There was a bitterness in the word, a hint of something left unsaid. He studied you intently, his gaze roaming over your face, down the length of the hoodie you were wearing.

There was something about his look, something that made your skin flushed. The air between you was thick with tension, and you fought the urge to fidget under his gaze. He shifted on the coffee table, the movement drawing your eye to the definition in his abs, the way the muscles tightened as he moved.

"You don't wear stuff like that at home," he said suddenly indicating the dress you wore earlier , his eyes dropping to the hoodie you wore. You felt exposed under his gaze, the way he seemed to see right through you, to the layers upon layers of emotions you'd tried to bury over the years.

“ I have changed “, you said, looking away from him.

He huffed out a non-committal sound, not completely convinced. The air was still charged with tension, each passing moment stretching it tauter. He leaned forward a bit, his forearms resting on his knees, the movement only drawing your attention further to his physique.

"Why did you marry him?" The question took you by surprise, the bluntness of it stealing your breath. You had expected anger, maybe resentment, but the question was laced with a quiet sadness, a vulnerability he was trying to hide.

“ What? “ you asked softly.

"You heard me," he said, his voice firm but lacking the edge it had earlier. "Why did you choose him over me?" The question hung in the air between you, the weight of it palpable.

“ Jungkook, “ you breathed.

"It's a simple question," he retorted, his eyes still fixed on you. "Why did you choose another man over me?" The pain in his voice was thinly veiled, a ripple beneath a veneer of indifference

“ I'm sorry “, you muttered and looked away not being able to look into his eyes which were radiating nothing but pain.

He let out a humorless laugh. "Sorry? You're sorry?" His voice was strained, a hint of anger and hurt seeping through. He ran a hand through his hair, the movement a restless release of tension.

"It's been six years, Y/N," he said, his eyes locking onto yours. The use of your name felt like a punch in the gut. "And all you have to say is that you're sorry?" The hurt in his voice was impossible to miss, his usual reserve starting to crack.

You bit your lip, feeling the lump in your throat that threatened to spill out as tears. You hadn't expected this conversation, hadn't prepared for the raw, uncensored emotions that were now on display.

"What do you want me to say then?" You asked, your voice barely above a whisper. The tiredness of the night, the emotional rollercoaster of seeing him again, all of it was taking its toll on your defenses.

He pushed off the coffee table, the sudden movement making you flinch. He started pacing, his steps restless and agitated. "I want you to tell me why!" He suddenly shouted, the sound of his voice bouncing off the walls in the silent apartment.

The outburst took you aback, your heart jumping in your chest. Seeing him like this, so unrestrained with his emotions, was a stark contrast to the stoic, controlled man you had once known.

"Six years!" He continued, his steps getting faster, his anger fueled by something deeper, something you hadn't quite tapped into yet. "Six years spent trying to get over you, to move on with my life. And there you are, married, happy, while I'm-" he cut himself off, his hands balling into fists.

He finally stopped pacing, standing in front of you, his chest heaving with every breath. The air between you was still charged, but the tension had shifted. It was now tinged with longing, with a desperate need that neither of you wanted to acknowledge.

He closed his eyes for a moment, his expression pained, as if trying to gather himself. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, the anger replaced by a raw honesty. "I spent years believing that you still loved me," he said, his eyes fixed on you. "I thought you'd change your mind, remember how good we were together and come back to me."

He let out a bitter laugh, the sound cutting through the silence. "But you didn't. You went on with your life, found someone else, while I was here, stuck in the past, waiting for you.

"And now you're here," he continued, his voice hoarse with all the unsaid words. "Sitting on my couch, wearing my hoodie, as if no time at all has passed."

The irony wasn't lost on you. Here you were, wearing his hoodie, feeling more at home in his apartment than you ever had on your own. The years had melted away, replaced by a feeling of familiarity and longing.

He dropped to his knees in front of you, his hands coming to rest on your thighs. The sudden proximity, the heat of his palms burning through the fabric of the hoodie, sent a jolt through you.

"Why?" He asked again, but this time the question was different. It was laced with a plea, a desperate need for understanding. His eyes were fixed on you, filled with a myriad of emotions, anger, pain, desire.

You looked down at him, at the man you had loved and left behind. His eyes were searching, his touch tentative yet firm on your thighs. In that moment, everything else faded away, leaving only the two of you in the quiet of the early morning.

You reached out, your hand cupping his cheek. His skin was rough under your palm, stubble scratching at your fingertips. His eyes fluttered shut at your touch, a small sign of surrender.

You broke down, not being able see is pain. Feeling immense pain in your heart. “ I'm so sorry “, you muttered.

He placed his hand over yours, holding it tighter against his face, as if afraid you would pull away. His eyes flickered open, a myriad of emotions swimming through them, pain, anger, and an underlying current of longing.

"Why did you choose him?" He asked again, the question repeated like a mantra. But this time, it was softer, less laced with anger and more with a deep, unquenchable need to understand.

You swallowed, the lump in your throat growing bigger with each passing moment. How could you explain, without hurting him even more? How could you put into words the decisions and events that had led you down a different path

“ My–my parents forced me “, that's it, you said the truth you have been hiding so well. The reason feels pathetic, cliche but this is what it is. The actual truth.

The statement seemed to hit him like a ton of bricks. His grip on your hand tightened, and his expression hardened. "Your parents?" He repeated, the word leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

You nodded, your eyes stinging with unshed tears. It was something you had never discussed before, a part of your past you had tried to bury, but here you were, forced to bring it out into the open.

"What do you mean, your parents forced you?" he asked, his voice softer now, filled with a hint of disbelief. "You're a grown woman. They can't force you to marry someone."

'' It wasn’t that simple ", you said.

He huffed out a cynical laugh, the irony not lost on him. "So you just caved in? Let them dictate your life?" His words stung, and you felt a pang of defensiveness rise in your chest. You couldn’t speak at this point. You felt a lump on your throat. You shook your head. .

"Then what?" he pressed on, his eyes searching yours for answers. "What could they have possibly said or done to make you marry someone you didn't love?"

" I didn’t know my marriage was fixed. I got to know the wedding day. They told me it was someone else's wedding but turned out it was mine ", you out.

His eyes widened at your confession, shock and confusion etched on his face. "What do you mean you didn't know?" He asked, bewilderment coloring his voice. "You didn't know you were getting married until the day of?"

" Yes...they took me there and blackmailed me. There were so many people. I wanted to run away but... ", you take a deep breath.

"But..?" he prompted, his grip on your hand painful now. The hurt in his eyes was evident, the realization of what you had gone through hitting him like a wave “

" But I didn't want to embarrass my parents. There were so many people dad said he will kill Himself if i say no "

His expression was a mix of disbelief and anger, his jaw clenching as he tried to process your words. The idea that you had been forced into marriage, that you had sacrificed your own happiness for the sake of your parents' reputation, seemed almost inconceivable to him.

"So let me get this straight," he said, his voice strained. "You married a man you didn't even know because you didn't want to embarrass your parents?"

You could only nod under his hurtful gaze.

He let out a humorless laugh, a bitter sound that echoed the pain he was feeling. "You gave up your life, your future, because of what? Fear of public humiliation? To please your parents?"

The hurt in his eyes was palpable, the knowledge that you had chosen a loveless marriage over a life with him seemed to rip open old wounds.

"You chose them over me," he said, his voice low but filled with an undercurrent of anger. "You chose to please them, even if it meant destroying both our lives."

You flinched at his words, the truth of them hitting you like a physical blow. You had never seen him this way, so filled with anger and pain. But you couldn't deny the truth in his words. You had made a choice, and it had cost you the man you loved.

His hand moved on your thigh, his touch changing from pleading to possessive. He was clinging onto you like a lifeline, his grip on your hand unyielding. "Were you happy with him?" He suddenly asked, his voice rough with suppressed emotions.

You swallowed, the question hitting you like a punch to the gut. The truth was, you weren't happy. You had tried, gods knew you had, but it had never felt right. You had never been able to shake the feeling that something was missing, that you were living a lie.

"Answer me," he said, his eyes burning into yours. He needed to hear it, needed the confirmation of what he suspected to be true.

"No," you whispered, the word barely audible in the still room. "I was never happy with him." The admission was like a weight lifted off your chest, a truth you hadn't allowed yourself to acknowledge until now.

He closed his eyes at your confession, the pain evident on his face. His fingers gripped your thigh tighter, as if he was afraid you would disappear if he let go. "Why?" he asked, his voice rough. "Why didn't you come back to me?"

“ I tried but i Couldn't " ,you cried out.

His eyes snapped open at your confession, a flicker of hope igniting in them. "You tried?" he asked incredulously, his grip on your thigh loosening a fraction

“ You nodded again, “ But the day I tried to run away He found out about you. He was abusive, he is a cheater. Every night he used to bring different girls to our house. I didn't really care, I didn't love him. Hee used to beat me”,you said... Looking straight into his eyes. Trying to show your genuineness. .

His face hardened at your words, the anger in his expression replaced by a cold fury. "He...he used to beat you.." he repeated, his voice thick with suppressed rage

The idea that someone would lay their hands on you, the woman he loved and had lost, was unacceptable to him. He had always seen you as strong and independent, and the idea that someone had violated that had his blood boiling.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked, his voice strained. "Why didn't you call me, or reach out? I would've come for you, I would've gotten you away from him."

"I didn't want to burden you," you muttered, the admission coming out before you could stop it. The need to protect him, even after all these years, was still ingrained in you.

He let out a bitter laugh at your words, his eyes narrowing. "Burden me?" he echoed. "You think I would've cared about that? I would've dropped everything and come for you, and you know it."

The rawness in his voice was undeniable. He meant every word, and the knowledge that you had chosen to suffer in silence rather than reach out to him cut him deeper than he'd ever let on.

"Do you have any idea," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper, "how many nights I spent staring at my phone, hoping you'd call or text? How many times have I considered reaching out to you, just to see if you were okay?"

You were silent, your eyes stinging with unshed tears. You had thought cutting him out of your life would spare him the pain of seeing you with another man, but in doing so, you had caused him even more suffering.

"And now," he continued, his voice gaining strength, "you show up at my doorstep, wearing my hoodie, smelling like you, looking like you...and tell me you stayed in a loveless, abusive marriage because you didn't want to embarrass your parents?"

The anger in his voice was laced with something else now, a raw, visceral hurt that had been bubbling beneath the surface. He seemed to be at a loss, his grip on your thigh loosening as he grappled with the storm of emotions raging inside of him.

"You've always been too damn stubborn, you know that?" he suddenly blurted out, his words tinged with anger and anguish. "Always trying to shoulder everything alone, never letting anyone in, even the person who loves you the most."

The mention of love hit you like a physical blow. He was talking about himself, you realized. The person who loved you the most, the one person you had pushed away, leaving him to suffer in your absence.

"I would've helped you," he continued, his voice cracking slightly. "I would've protected you. Hell, I would've killed him for putting his hands on you. But you didn't give me a chance, did you? You just shut me out and married a man you didn't love."

His words were like a slap in the face, a brutal honesty you had tried so hard to avoid confronting. He was right, you had shut him out, choosing the easy way out over a life with the man you loved.

"God, the thought of you with him..." he continued, his jaw clenched as if physically repressing the thought. "Of him touching you, kissing you...it makes me sick."

The jealousy in his voice was undisguised, the thought of another man having you, touching you, when he had been deprived of that privilege for years, was intolerable to him.

He suddenly pushed himself off the floor, standing up, his movements filled with pent-up frustration. He raked a hand through his messy hair, tousling it further, his eyes never leaving yours.

"I should've fought for you," he said, his voice tight. "I should've forced you to talk to me, to listen to me. But I didn't. I let you walk away, and now....now, it's too late."

The weight of those words hung heavy in the air, the finality of them echoing through the silence. Too late. The idea that the window to repair what had been lost, to regain the love and happiness you had once shared, was closing, was a harsh truth to swallow.

A long, heavy silence fell between you, the only sound the ticking of the clock and your ragged breathing. He continued to pace back and forth, a restless tiger caged in a too-small enclosure. His face was a mask of conflicting emotions, anger, hurt, yearning, warring for dominance.

You felt a tear escape, trailing down your cheek. He had always been so passionate, so intense with his feelings, and seeing him like this, vulnerable yet unyielding, was a painful reminder of what you had given up.

He stopped his pacing, his gaze flickering to the tear on your cheek. His eyes darkened, the sight of your crying fueling his anger and his anguish. He moved closer to you again, his steps measured, as if drawn to you against his own will.

He reached out, wiping the tear off your cheek with his thumb. His touch was electric, sending a jolt through you. The gesture was tender, at odds with the raw anger that still simmered beneath the surface.

"Don't cry," he whispered, his voice strained. "Don't you dare cry. Not after everything you've put me through." His thumb lingered on your cheek, his touch gentle yet possessive.

His proximity was overwhelming, the scent of his skin, the familiar warmth of his body sending your senses into overdrive. You were suddenly hyper aware of his presence, the way his body leaned into yours, the slight hitch in his breathing.

He suddenly leaned closer, his words a whispered demand in your ear. "Who is he?" he asked, his voice low and filled with a mixture of anger and possessiveness.

You felt a shiver run down your spine at his proximity. His breath was warm against your skin, his body, which was almost touching yours, a source of heat and comfort that you had longed for for years.

You knew he was talking about your husband. The man you had married, the one who had hurt you, the one who had taken your place. You swallowed, the name on your lips feeling like a betrayal.

"His name is..." you began, the words sticking in your throat. Saying his name in front of Jungkook felt like a sacrilege, as if you were giving him a place in your life that Jungkook had once occupied.

"Say it." He prompted, his voice stern. He was determined to get an answer, to acknowledge the reality of your marriage, however much it pained him.

“ Minho ", you muttered.

His reaction was immediate. The name, uttered in your soft voice, seemed to hit him like a physical blow. His body went taut, his fingers that were gently caressing your cheek suddenly gripping your jaw, almost painfully.

"Minho," he repeated, the word sounding foreign on his tongue. He was looking at you intently, his gaze fixated on you as if trying to burn the name into his memory, as if by doing so he could somehow make it less real.

His grip on your jaw didn't loosen, he held you fiercely, possessively, as if trying to anchor you to him physically as well as emotionally. The pain and anger were still there, but slowly morphing into a desperate need, a raw need to possess you, make you his again.

You could feel the heat radiating from his body, the tension in his muscles as he held you in place. His eyes were darkened, the usually sparkling irises almost black with a mixture of fury and desire.

"Did he touch you like this?"

His voice barely above a murmur. His fingers, still on your jaw, moved lower, tracing the line of your neck, lingering on the pulse point at your throat.

You shivered at his touch, your body responding to him involuntarily. No, you wanted to say. No, he never touched me like this. But the words stuck in your throat, replaced by a whimper that escaped your lips against your will.

His eyes flickered at the sound, a low growl escaping his lips. He understood, without you having to utter a word, that Minho had never touched you like he was touching you now. The knowledge seemed to fuel his need, his fingers trailing lower, tracing patterns on your collarbone.

"Did he kiss you here?" he suddenly asked, his fingers lingering on the sensitive skin of your collarbone. His hot breath ghosted over your skin, his lips almost touching, yet hovering a mere centimeter away.

You couldn't form words anymore, your mind foggy with a wave of sensations that were overwhelming in their intensity. The proximity of his lips, the heat of his body, the possessive touch of his fingers - it was all too much. You let out another small, needy whimper, your eyes fluttering shut. No.

He chuckled, the sound a low, rough rumble that sent shivers down your spine. He was well aware of the effect he was having on you, the way your body had responded to his touch, the way your breath hitched and your pulse sped up.

He tilted your chin up, bringing your face closer to his. His eyes were dark, pupils dilated, and you could see the struggle in them. He was fighting a battle within himself, torn between anger, hurt, and the deep, raw need to claim you as his again.

"Look at me," he ordered, his voice low and commanding. When you met his gaze, he leaned even closer, his lips hovering above yours, a breath apart.

His breath was hot against your skin, the faint scent of his cologne filling your nostrils. The proximity was electrifying, the anticipation of his kiss almost too much to bear. But he didn't close the gap, he was drawing it out, making you desperate for his touch, his lips.

His breathing was ragged now, his chest rising and falling with each labored breath. He was barely holding onto his restraint, and you could feel the tension in his body, the way he was forcibly restraining himself from capturing your lips in a wild, almost feral kiss.

"Tell me," he murmured, his lips just barely skimming yours, "did he kiss you like this?" His fingers moved lower, tracing the soft skin of your décolletage, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

You were completely flustered, your mind refusing to form coherent thoughts. He was so close, his body pressed against yours, his touch igniting a fire within you that had been dormant for years. But that question, that simple question sent a wave of shame through you. You knew the answer, and it pained you to admit it.

You shook your head, the gesture small but significant. No, he never kissed me like this. As soon as the word left your lips, he captured them in a bruising kiss, claiming your mouth with a sense of urgency that bordered on desperation.

The kiss was fierce, primal. He claimed your mouth like a man starved, every stroke of his tongue, every nip of his teeth, filled with a passion that was bordering on feral. Your body reacted instinctively, arching into him, your hands coming up to bury themselves in his hair.

He groaned into your mouth, the sound rough and guttural. His hands, still on your body, roamed over your curves, caressing, possessing, as if he was trying to reacquaint himself with every inch of you.

The kiss was relentless, as if he was trying to erase any trace of another man's touch from your skin. He was devouring you, taking what he perceived to be his, unapologetically, passionately.

Your mind was swimming, your thoughts consumed by the pleasure of his kiss, the taste of him in your mouth, the feel of his hands on your body. It was all too much, the years of separation, the pent up emotions, the need, the desire, all coming to a head in that moment.

He finally pulled back, panting heavily, his eyes wild, his lips wet and puffy from the intensity of the kiss. He didn't let you go, keeping you close, his body still pressed against yours, as if he was afraid you would slip away again.

His chest was heaving, his heart pounding against your own. You felt his hardness, evidence of his desire for you, pressed against your hip, and it sent a thrill through you, a wave of need and want that was almost primal.

He watched you for a moment, his gaze flickering across your face, taking in your flushed cheeks, your half-lidded eyes, your swollen lips. The sight seemed to excite him even more, and he pulled you even closer, his hands gripping your hips tightly.

"You're mine," he muttered, his voice hoarse. "You've always been mine. I don't care if you married him, if he touched you, I don't care. You're mine." He repeated the words as if he was trying to convince himself, his possessiveness bordering on possessive.

Your heart ached at the possessiveness in his words, but deep down, you found it comforting. You had missed the way he claimed you, the certainty in his voice, the way he made you feel desired and wanted, even after all these years.

He suddenly dipped his head, his lips finding the sensitive skin of your neck, just below your ear. He sucked gently on your flesh, his teeth grazing the area, leaving bruises in his wake.

He continued to lavish attention on your neck, his lips, teeth, and tongue working together to drive you crazy. "You have no idea," he mumbled, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine. ""No idea how many nights I've dreamt of this, of having you in my arms again."

His words were making it difficult to form coherent thoughts. His lips were hot, his tongue was torturous, the scrape of his teeth on your skin a delicious blend of pleasure and pain. You were trapped in a haze of sensation, unable to do anything but feel, but experience the onslaught of his affections.

He suddenly moved lower, his lips trailing over your collarbone, then the valley between your breasts, still covered by your shirt. You arched your back involuntarily, a gasp escaping your lips as he found a particularly sensitive spot. He chuckled, the sound low and filled with satisfaction.

This is wrong, Jungkook,“, you say but the truth is you don’t care anymore. HHis fingers found the hem of your shirt, slipping underneath and tracing patterns on your stomach. He didn't reply, his focus entirely on your body, on each gasp and shiver he caused.

You were rapidly losing control, your body responding to his touch with a mind of its own. His fingers were slowly, torturously, inching higher, trailing up your ribcage, sending sparks of pleasure through you. But his words echoed in your mind, this is wrong.

You knew it was wrong, but your body didn't care. It had been starving for his touch, his attention, for what felt like an eternity. You wanted him, you needed him, and all thoughts of right and wrong had flown out of the window.

He suddenly pushed your hoodie up, exposing your bare stomach to his gaze. His hands gliding over your skin as if memorizing every contour, every dip and curve.

You gasped as his hands found the edge of your inner, his fingers lingering there for a moment, as if asking for permission. You were so far gone that you didn't think, you just acted, arching your back in a silent invitation.

He quickly removed the rest of your hoodie, discarding it on the floor. His eyes roamed over your body, taking in the sight of you in just your inner and pants. He let out a low, guttural sound, his fingers tracing a path from your stomach upwards, over the fabric of your bra.

"So beautiful," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. "God, you have no idea how long I've waited to see you like this again." His hands moved down to your hips, his grip firm as he pulled you flush against his body.

You could feel every hard plane of his body against you, the heat of his skin, the evidence of his arousal pressing against your hip, igniting a fire within you. You were both breathing raggedly now, the air around you thick with tension and need.

He suddenly lifted you up, as if you weighed nothing, setting you on the edge of the desk. You gasped at the sudden movement, your hands automatically gripping the edge to keep your balance. He stepped between your legs, his body pressing against yours, trapping you against the desk.

His lips found your skin again, his teeth grazed your shoulder, his tongue traced the valley of your throat. His hands were everywhere, roaming over your body, caressing, claiming. You were lost in a sea of sensation, your mind overloaded with the sheer intensity of his touch.

"I swear to God," he muttered into your skin, "if you had let him touch you like this, I would've lost my mind." His hands were on your thighs now, moving higher, his touch leaving a trail of heat in its wake.

You could only respond with a small, needy whine, unable to form coherent words. His touch was driving you wild, each graze of his fingers sending jolts of pleasure through your body. You were completely at his mercy, your body arching into his, desperate for more.

He pushed your legs open wider, his hands gripping your thighs, his lips finding your earlobe. "Tell me," he whispered, his voice a rough murmur, "tell me he never made you feel like this. Tell me he never made you shiver and moan and beg like this."

You couldn't deny it, even if you wanted to. No, Minho never did this to you. He was too formal, too cold, he never made you feel the way Jungkook did. You shook your head, the movement making your hair brush against his cheek.

"That's right," he murmured, his lips moving down your jaw. "That's my girl." His hands pushed up your skirt, his fingers trailing over your inner thighs, getting close to the place you needed him the most.

You were a bundle of nerves, each touch sending waves of pleasure through you. You were so close to begging, so close to pleading for more, but you knew he wanted to hear it. He wanted you to admit that you wanted him, that you had missed him just as much as he had missed you.

You tried to speak, but all that escaped your lips was a strangled moan. His fingers were so close, but not quite there, teasing you, driving you insane. "Jungkook, please," you finally managed to gasp out, your voice shaky, breathless.

His reaction was immediate. At the sound of his name, pleading and desperate from your lips, something snapped inside him. His fingers moved, finding the edge of your underwear, slipping beneath the fabric. You couldn't help but arch your back at the feeling, a gasp escaping your lips.

"God, you're so wet," he groaned into your ear, his fingers finding the most sensitive spot, rubbing gently, coaxing a gasp out of you

You were coming undone, your body responding to him in ways you didn't remember it could. You felt like you were on fire, your skin burning under his touch, your mind hazy with pleasure.

His lips found your neck again, and you could feel his breath in your ear, ragged and hot, his voice a low growl. "You're mine. You always will be. I don't care who you marry, who you lie with, who you kiss. You're mine, and I am never letting you go again."

His words were possessive, almost feral, and they only heightened your pleasure. You were lost in a whirlwind of sensations, the feeling of his body against yours, his touch on your skin, his words in your ear. You were his, completely and utterly

His fingers moved, his touch rougher now, more desperate, as if he was trying to claim every piece of you, every thought, every feeling. "Tell me," he demanded, his voice low and urgent, "say my name. Say I'm the only one who makes you feel like this."

"Jungkook," you gasped, your voice a shaky whisper. "You're the only one. No one else. Only you." The words were torn from you, a confession that you had been holding back for so long.

He let out a guttural sound, the sound filled with a mixture of triumph and satisfaction. "That's right," he murmurs, his lips moving back to your neck. "You're mine. Always have been, always will be."

His mouth found yours again, the kiss demanding, possessive. His tongue tangled with yours, his hands roaming over your body. You were completely overwhelmed, the room filled with the sound of ragged breathing, the rustle of fabric

You felt him suddenly pull your legs further apart, positioning himself between them.

His body was pressed against yours, his hardness a stark reminder of his desire for you. His hands were on your hips now, holding you in place as he rocked against you, the friction sending sparks of pleasure through you.

"I'm going to take you," he mutters, his voice a low, urgent whisper. "I'm going to make you scream my name until you forget who you are." His hands moved to your buttons, roughly undoing them, his movements impatient, urgent.

You let him, too gone to resist, too lost in the feeling of his body against yours. The room was filled with the sound of buttons popping, fabric tearing, and your own gasps and moans.

He was stripping you bare now, his eyes darkened with desire, his touch relentless. "You're mine," he repeated, his voice thick with need. "And I'm going to show you that every night, until you never even think about pretending to be another man's wife.

You barely registered his words, your mind overcome with sensation. You were burning up, your body a pool of molten pleasure. You wrapped your legs around him, a silent plea, a silent invitation.

He reacted to your movement instantly, his hands gripping your thighs, his body pressing against you. "You want me," he growled in your ear, "you need me. Say it." His voice was rough, filled with domination, a stark contrast to the gentle, kind boy he had been years ago.

You didn't hesitate, the words slipping out of you in a gasp, "I need you. I want you. I've always wanted you." And it was the truth, the raw, primal truth that you had kept buried for so long.

He didn't waste a moment. His lips captured yours again, his tongue claiming your mouth. His body moved against yours, his hardness rubbing against you in just the right way. You were on the brink of losing control, and he knew.

He suddenly pushed you down onto the desk, your back hitting the wood with a thud. His body followed, covering yours, trapping you beneath him. His lips found your neck again, his teeth scraping across your skin. "I'm going to give you everything," he growled, his voice low and rough, "everything that other men couldn't give you, everything you've been craving."

You could only respond with a moan, trapped under his body, overwhelmed by his presence, his touch, his scent. He was wild, untamed, animalistic in his need for you, and you were helpless to do anything but surrender.

His hands were everywhere, roaming over your body, leaving trails of fire in their wake. They found your undergarments, a thin, lace fabric that was all that separated you from him. He paused, looking down at you, his eyes smoldering. "These," he muttered, "these need to go."

You could only nod, your mind too hazy with pleasure to form words. He didn't wait, his hands impatient, rough as they tore at the fabric, ripping it away from your body, discarding it on the floor. His hands were immediately back on your skin, roaming over your exposed skin, as if trying to claim every inch of you.

"God, you're so beautiful," he whispered, his hands gliding up your thighs, his touch gentle despite the desperation in his voice. "I've dreamed about this, about having you like this, for so long."

His lips found your stomach, trailing kisses down your skin, his tongue darting out to taste you. You arched your back involuntarily, a gasp escaping your lips, your hands finding purchase on his broad shoulders.

His hands were on your hips now, holding you in place, as he worshipped your body with his mouth. He was gentle, yet possessive, his touch rough but reverent, as if he was trying to convey all the months, all the years of waiting and longing in his kisses.

"Please," you finally gasped out, your voice a strangled plea, "please, I need you." You were burning up, desperate for more, your body begging for release.

He didn't respond with words. Instead, he shifted his body, positioning himself between your legs. You could feel him there, hard and ready, the tip of him just brushing against your entrance. He paused, his eyes meeting yours, his gaze filled with a mix of need and something else, something more primal, more intense. "You're mine," he muttered again, his voice rough,

His words sent a shiver down your spine, his possessive tone only adding to the intensity of the moment. You were both too far gone, too deep in your need and desire to resist any longer.

He gripped your hips tightly, his eyes locked on yours, as if asking for permission one last time. His restraint was hanging by a thread, his body taut with tension, ready to snap at any moment.

You met his gaze, your eyes dark with desire, your body burning with need. "Yes," you whispered, your voice a needy gasp. "Please, Jungkook, take me."

His name on your lips was his undoing. He let out a guttural growl, his control snapping. In one swift movement, he pushed into you, filling you

You gasped out loud as he filled you, the feeling so overwhelming, so intense.

Your body arched against his, your hands gripping his shoulders, anchoring you to reality. This was more than you'd ever felt, more than you'd ever imagined. It was everything and nothing at the same time, a raw, intense need that consumed you both.

He started to move, his pace wild, his movements desperate, as if he was trying to claim every part of you, to erase any hint of the other man in your life. His lips found your neck again, his teeth grazing your neck.

His movements were relentless, possessive, as if he was trying to make up for lost time, for the years you'd spent apart. Your hands were on his back, your nails digging into his skin, leaving trails of red, marks of your own to claim him as yours.

The room was filled with a chorus of ragged breaths, moans and muttered curses. The desk creaked beneath you, the force of his movements enough to rock it against the wall. He was wild, untamed, a stark contrast to the boy you had grown up with.

And yet, beneath the wildness and possession, there was something else, something tender and gentle. You could see it in his eyes, in the way he murmured your name against your skin, his voice thick with emotion, as if he couldn't believe you were finally back in his arms.

"You're mine," he muttered again and again, his breath hot against your ear, as if he couldn't say it enough, as if he needed to remind you, and himself, that you belonged to each other.

"Yours," you echoed, your voice a shaking gasp, your body arching in response to his touch. "I'm yours, Jungkook. Only yours."

He groaned at your words, the sound deep and guttural, as if they had unleashed something feral in him. "Say it again," he demanded, his voice rough, his movements getting wilder, more desperate.

"I'm yours," you repeated, your voice a breathy moan, your thoughts swirling in a haze of pleasure. "Only yours, always yours."

He didn't reply, his mouth finding yours again, his kiss deep, possessive, as if he was trying to claim you, body and soul. His movements started to lose their rhythm, becoming wild, frantic, as if he was reaching the edge of his control.

"Don't stop," you gasped against his lips, your hands clinging to his shoulders, your body burning with need. "Please, don't stop."

His pace quickened, his movements wild and desperate, as if he was chasing something, pushing you both towards the edge. "I'm going to make you forget," he growled in your ear, his breath hot against your skin, "make you forget everything except me. Only me."

You were on the verge of losing control, your body a maelstrom of sensations, your mind a blur of pleasure and need. You were teetering on the edge, about to free-fall, and you knew he was right there with you.

"Jungkook," you moaned, his name a desperate plea, a prayer on your lips. "Please, I can't...I need..." You didn't even know what you were asking for, what you were pleading for. All you knew was that you needed him, needed more, needed all of him.

He understood, his own control hanging by a thread. "Let go," he whispered, his voice a rough, urgent plea. "Let go, baby. Let go for me."

You didn't know how to respond, your body already on the edge, ready to snap. His words, the raw, possessive need in his voice, were the final push you needed. Your body convulsed, your back arching off the desk, your hands clutching onto him, as if he was your lifeline, the only thing keeping you grounded in the storm of sensations. He followed you over the edge moments later, your name torn from his lips in a guttural

You were lost in the onslaught of sensations, your body trembling, your mind blank. Slowly, the room came back into focus, the sound of your ragged breaths filling the room, intermingled with the sound of his own breaths, just as ragged, just as spent.

He was still holding you, his body pressed against yours, his face buried in the crook of your neck. You could feel his heart rate slowly returning to normal, the rapid beat slowing down, the rhythm evening out.

You felt wrung out, spent, as if you had run a race you didn't realize you were in. You were wrapped up in each other's arms, your bodies intertwined, your hair and clothes messy, as if you had been caught in a whirlwind..

He didn't pull away, his embrace still protective, still possessive. His fingers traced slow, gentle circles on your skin, as if he was mapping out every inch of you, as if he couldn't bear to let you go.

"You're mine," he repeated, his voice a low murmur against your skin. "You've always been mine. And tonight, I won't let you forget it."

You didn't respond, your mind still murky from the intensity of what had just happened. You were too spent to argue, too sated to do anything but lean into his embrace, letting him hold you.

He seemed to sense your fatigue, your body's need for rest. He shifted his weight, lifting you gently into his arms, as if you weighed nothing at all. He carried you over to the couch in the corner of the room, settling down with you cradled in his lap.

You let him tuck your head into the crook of his neck, his arms around you, his presence soothing, comforting. You were too exhausted to speak, your body and mind in a state of blissful exhaustion. All you could do was nuzzle into him, seeking the comfort of his warmth, his touch.

He didn't speak either, content to just hold you, his fingers tracing light patterns on your back. You could feel his breath against your hair, a steady, soothing beat. The room was quiet, the only sound was the soft rustle of fabric and your combined breaths, evening out in synchronization.

Eventually, your eyes started to flutter closed, the exhaustion taking over. His arms tightened around you, as if sensing that you were drifting off, as if he was desperate to keep you close, even in sleep.

"Sleep," he whispered, his voice a gentle command, a tender plea. You felt his lips brush against your forehead, a soft, affectionate gesture. "I'll watch over you. Rest."

You were too tired to protest, your body succumbing to the call of sleep. Your eyes closed, your breaths deepened, and you felt yourself falling into the welcoming arms of oblivion. The last thing you heard was his voice, a comforting murmur.

He held you close, his arms never letting go, his body a solid, protective presence. He didn't move, didn't shift, just stayed there, holding you as you slept, watching over you like a silent guardian.

The night slowly gave way to dawn, the faint light of the morning sun seeping through the window, casting a soft glow on the room. Yet, he stayed, his embrace unwavering, his watch over you unbroken. You slept deeply, undisturbed by the changing light, safe in his arms.

As the room gradually grew brighter, the sunlight slowly chasing away the shadows, you began to stir, awakening slowly, reluctantly leaving the peaceful realm of sleep. You felt the slight soreness in your body, the after-effects of the intensity of the previous night, but there was also a warm, soft comfort, a sense of being encircled, protected.

You opened your eyes slowly, adjusting to the faint morning light. You were still in his lap, his arms securely around you, his chin resting on your head. He was wide awake, his gaze fixed on you, as if he had been silently watching over you the whole night.

His eyes met yours, a soft, warm smile curving up the corners of his mouth. "Morning, sleepyhead," he said, his voice a soft rumble. His fingers traced a gentle line down your cheek, a tender gesture.

You smiled back, still drowsy, still not fully awake. But you felt a sense of peace, of contentment, as you sat there in his lap, his arms around you, his gaze on you. It was as if you had come home, after a long, tiring journey, and finally, you were where you b

He gently pushed a strand of hair away from your face, his fingers lingering on your cheek, as if he couldn't bear to let go. "How are you feeling?" he asked, his voice a low, gentle murmur.

You thought about the question, taking stock of your body, your mind. You were sore, but it was pleasantly sore, a reminder of what had happened the previous night. "I'm okay," you replied, your voice still sleepy, "just a bit sore."

He chuckled softly, his eyes sparkling with a mix of amusement and possessiveness. "You'll be feeling sore for a while," he teased, his grip on you tightening slightly, as if he was trying to emphasize his point.

You laughed softly, not denying that he was right. You leaned into him, savoring his warmth, the solidity of his body. "Worth it," you muttered, your cheek resting against his chest.

"Damn right it was," he murmured, his voice low and gruff. His hand moved up to your hair, his fingers tangling in the unruly strands, as if he simply couldn't keep his hands off you.

You closed your eyes again, enjoying the feeling of his fingers in your hair, the familiar rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your cheek. You could stay here forever, you thought, in this moment of peace, this brief bubble of time where it was just the two of you, the world outside forgotten.

He was silent for a few moments, his hand still in your hair, his other arm wrapped snugly around you, his chest rising and falling with each steady breath. You could almost feel the thoughts running through his mind, the things he wanted to say but hadn't yet.

Finally, he broke the silence. "Last night..." he started, his voice a low murmur. "Last night was...it was everything, baby. You have no idea what you-" His voice trailed off, as if he couldn't quite find the words for what he was trying to say.

You opened your eyes again, tilting your head back slightly to look up at him. His face was a mix of emotions - possessive, tender, loving. He was struggling, trying to convey something that he couldn't seem to verbalize.

"Last night," he tried again, his voice still thick with emotion, "last night just...just made me realize how empty the years without you have been. I forgot what it felt like to hold you, to touch you, to feel you respond under my hands. I forgot...I forgot what it was like to feel alive."

His words were spoken so quietly, as if he was confessing something he'd been keeping hidden for years.

"Jungkook," you whispered, your voice catching in your throat. His words, his raw, unfiltered feelings, were overwhelming. This wasn't the confident, cocky man you had grown up with. This was a man stripped bare, a man who was finally pouring out all the pent-up emotions, all the years of longing and need

"Don't leave again," he said suddenly, his voice a low, urgent plea. His arms tightened around you, pulling you closer, as if he was trying to meld your body against his, as if he was scared to let you go. "Don't ever leave again. I wouldn't survive it."

Your heart ached at his words, the raw, desperate plea. You knew he was putting himself out there, exposing his vulnerabilities to you. You reached up, your hand cupping his cheek, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw. "I'm not going anywhere," you assured him, your voice soft but sure. "I'm here, Jungkook. I'm staying."

His eyes met yours, his gaze intense, searching. It was as if he was trying to assure himself that you were real, that this wasn't some dream he was about to wake up from. "Promise me," he whispered, the simple command infused with an undercurrent of fear, of insecurity.

You held his gaze, your thumb still stroking his cheek, your mind filled with determination. "I promise," you said, your voice firm, steady. "I won't run. I won't leave. I'm here, and I'm st

A sense of relief washed over him, the tension in his body easing slightly. He let out a shaky breath, as if he had been holding it in, as if he had been waiting for your promise. His hand that was tangled in your hair tightened, his grip possessive, as if he was trying to anchor himself to you, to reality. "Good," he murmured, his voice regaining some of its familiar, confident tone. "Because once I have you, I'm not letting go. I'll never let you run again, baby."

You smiled at his words, your heart swelling with affection for him. You knew it was a veiled threat, a subtle warning, but you didn't feel threatened. Instead, you felt a sense of comfort in his possessiveness, in his desire to keep you close. "I'm not going anywhere," you repeated, your voice firm, your eyes never leaving him. "I'm staying, Jungkook. I'm staying with you."

He gave a satisfied nod, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He seemed to have calmed a bit, the earlier tension and insecurity replaced by a more familiar, cocky attitude. "Damn right you are," he said, his voice a low, almost teasing rumble. "You're mine now, baby. And I don't share what's mine."

" But minho ",you muttered.

At the mention of the other man, Jungkook's demeanor changed in an instant. His hold on you tightened, his body tensing under you. His eyes darkened, his jaw clenching, and a low growl escaped his throat.

"I don't want to hear about him," he growled, his voice a low, threatening rumble. "I don't want to hear his name coming from your lips. You're not his. You're mine."

You could feel his possessive grip on you, the way he was holding you as if he was claiming you, marking you as his. You knew his words weren't a request, but a command. And despite the possessiveness, you couldn't help the way your heart skipped a beat, your stomach fluttering with a strange mix of fear and pleasure at his assertion of o

“ But he is still my husband legally “, you said. As much as you hate to admit it this is the truth.

Jungkook's eyes narrowed at your words, his jaw clenching even tighter. He seemed to bristle at the reminder, his possessive instincts rising to the surface, making his grip on you almost painful. "Not for long," he growled, his voice harsh, almost menacing. "You're mine, and I'll be damned if I let him stand in the way of that again."

You felt your heart skip a beat, his words sending a strange mix of emotions through you. There was fear, yes, but there was also a thrill, a sort of perverse pleasure at the depth of his possessiveness, his determination to have you, no matter the cost.

"Jungkook..." you began, but he cut you off, his voice a low, harsh whisper. "No. Don't even try." His arms were still wrapped around you tightly, his body coiled tight, as if he was ready to pounce at any moment. "You're mine. You've always been mine. I'm not letting you go this time. I can't. I won't."

There was something wild, almost feral in his eyes, a raw possessiveness that was both terrifying and thrilling. He pulled you closer to him, his body flush against yours, as if he was trying to eliminate any space between you. "You understand, don't you, baby?" he murmured, his voice low and rough. "You understand that you belong to me. No one else, just me."

You felt a rush of heat flood your body at his words, his possessive tone seeping into your skin, making your heart race, your breath catch. You were trapped in his arms, his body surrounding yours in a tight, overwhelming embrace. And even though there was a part of you that was scared, there was another part that was undeniably stirred, aroused by his intensity, his determination.

" Let's run away ", he said.

You paused at his words, your mind swirling with conflicting emotions. He was asking you to run away, to leave everything behind and start anew with him. It was a proposition that both excited, and terrified, you. There was a thrill in the idea of being with him, of building a life together. But there was also a nagging fear, a sense of duty and obligation that was holding you back.

"Jungkook..." you began, your voice hesitant, uncertain. "I...I don't know...I can't just-"

He cut you off, his eyes darkening with impatience. "Don't think about it, baby. Don't overthink it. Just say yes. Say yes and let's run away together. Just you and me, starting over."

His voice was urgent, desperate. There was a pleading edge to it, a hint of vulnerability that you'd never seen before. He was pleading with you, his eyes boring into yours, searching your face for a sign, any sign, that you'd say yes.

"We could have everything, baby," he persisted, his arms tightening around you again. "We could have a fresh start, a new life together. No minho, no drama, just us."

You could feel the heat of his body against yours, his words echoing in your ears, his presence drowning out all rational thought.

"Just say yes, baby," he murmured again, his voice dropping to a sultry whisper. "Say yes, and I'll give you everything you've ever wanted. I'll give you the world, baby. Just say yes. Say yes and let's go, right now, just you and me."

You could feel your defenses crumbling, your rationality slipping away under the onslaught of his words, his touch, his presence. He was overwhelming you, his intensity drowning out your doubts, his possessiveness stoking the fire within you.

"But...what about...everything else?" you managed to whisper.

"Everything else can burn," he said, his voice rough and determined. "Everything else can goddamn burn, baby. All that matters is us, the two of us together. You and me, baby. We'll build a new life together, a better life. Just say yes."

The room seemed to spin around you, his words echoing in your ears like a siren's song. He was offering you a chance to start over, to be with him, to build a life together. The fear, the obligation, all of it seemed so trivial compared to the intensity of his plea, the raw, burning need in his eyes.

"Jungkook..." you whispered, your heart hammering in your chest. "I..."

"Say yes, baby," he pleaded, his voice urgent, his arms pulling you closer still. "Say yes and let's go, now, just you and me."

He was so close now, his body pressed against yours, his face mere inches away from yours. You could feel the heat radiating off of him, could almost taste the desperation in his breath.

Your heart was racing, your mind a chaotic mix of emotions. But through it all, one clear, burning need was rising to the surface, fueled by his intensity, his single-minded determination.

"Y-yes," you heard yourself saying, the words almost a gasp. "Yes, Jungkook, I'll go with you. I'll run away with you."

His eyes lit up, a feral, possessive gleam in them. A savage, almost feral breath escaped his lips as he claimed your mouth in a hard, possessive kiss. It was a kiss that was more a mark than a kiss, a claiming gesture that sent a shiver down your spine.

"Thats it ," he whispered against your lips, his voice raw, his breath ragged. "You're mine, baby. You're all mine now. We will send divorce papers to that bastard soon."

He pulled you even closer, his body pressing you into him, his lips trailing down your neck, his hands beginning to explore your body with a fervor. Everywhere he touched, everywhere he kissed, was claimed, marked as his.

From that moment on, everything changed. With your decision to run away with Jungkook, you had stepped into uncharted territory, leaving behind your old life, your old obligations, your old identity. You were no longer a wife, a person with ties and responsibilities.

You were now a fugitive, a partner in crime, a woman who belonged wholly to Jungkook as he is still yours you have nothing to fear about.

188 notes · View notes

flowerandblood · 11 months ago

Text

The Fall from the Heavens (26)

[ canon • Aemond x Strong • niece female ]

[ warnings: mention of sex, incest, smut, angst, swearing ]

[ description: A cool distance turns into friendship and more when two children see that they can find refuge and understanding in each other. However, naïve dreams collide with the reality in which every event has consequences and what once could have been love becomes a dark, newly painful obsession. Angst, sexual tension, obsession, violence, madness, very dark Aemond. ]

The story in this series is an alternate reality from the oneshot Stay and love, leave and die, in which Aemond reads the letters his niece has sent to him over the years. They are the same characters and it shows what would have happened between them − I have changed the background story from their childhood slightly for the sake of the plot.

Characters & Series Moodboard Lady Strong Moodboard Aemond & Lady Strong Moodboard Aemond & Lady Strong Childhood

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

Jace remembered perfectly the day his little sister was born. Laenor had led him into his mother's chamber that day, holding his hand, saying that she was very tired and they couldn't spend much time with her − he had insisted on seeing her because he was delighted to finally have a sibling, a brother to play with and be friends with.

His mother, the future queen, smiled softly at the sight of him, her white hair loose and in disarray, her face red from sweat and exertion.

She held out her hand to him and he hugged her, peering curiously at the infant she held clutched to her chest.

"He's so tiny." He said in disbelief, brushing the baby's finger with his own − he smiled when he saw the baby's hand clench into a small fist with its quiet purr.

"She. You have a little sister." He heard his mother's amused voice; he furrowed his brow at her words and rose, angry and disappointed.

"− wait, comrade −" Laenor called out after him, but he refused to look at her.

She was a disappointment to him.

For the first few months, he had pretended not to hear her cries or squeals from their mother's chamber − even though Rheanyra had spoken to him and encouraged him to meet her, he had refused to do so, recognising that no little girl interested him.

"It was supposed to be a boy." He muttered regretfully while playing with his large, wooden, black dragon, pretending that the stacks of books were the great hills over which he flew on Balerion. His mother smiled at his words and combed her hand through his dark curls.

"That is what the gods have decided. She may be your future wife."

Jace put down his toy, looking at her in surprise, not understanding what she meant.

"Am I going to have to kiss her?" He asked in disgust, recalling the stories Laenor sometimes read to him before bed, in which great knights freed beautiful women from the paws of monsters, only to fall in love with them later and be bestowed a kiss by them.

His mother smiled involuntarily.

"Don't think about such things until you're a grown man. No kissing for now." She giggled, pinching his cheek. He smiled lazily seeing her warm expression, the motherly love that beat from her.

That night he went to the chamber where she slept for the first time; he leaned over the cradle, glancing at her plump little figure wrapped in a white robe and a small headpiece. Her eyes opened suddenly and he was terrified that she would burst into tears − she, however, merely clutched her small feet and began to rock from side to side, looking at him curiously.

He smiled involuntarily at this sight and tickled her belly with his finger. Her squeal and loud giggle answered him, her eyes lit up in joy, her little body all the way up in euphoria. He laughed seeing this, repeating his gesture, thinking she was like a small animal, a puppy or a kitten.

He decided that at the end of the day she wasn't so bad and stopped pretending she didn't exist.

Until Luke was born he had treated her as if she were a boy, driving their mother to despair every time they both returned sodden with mud and sand after another battle with Aegon and Aemond.

He had always felt that his uncles disliked him, and even though they were of a similar age to him, he did not feel comfortable in their company − nor could he hide his jealousy at the sight of their snow-white hair, proof of who they were.

Looking at his father and mother, he could not comprehend why his hair was not that shade.

Rhaenyra explained to him that it was surely because of the Baratheon blood that also flowed through their veins, and although he was disappointed, the sight that he was not the only one, that his sister and Luke looked similar to him, comforted him.

The first time Aegon laughed sincerely at what he said occurred when he called his sister a hamster. The comparison came to his mind when she took air in her mouth and furrowed her brow − he uttered it thoughtlessly, and his uncle burst out laughing and patted him on the back.

"− gods, you're right − and those big eyes of hers −" He sneered, and although he saw that his sister lowered her gaze, embarrassed, he continued, eager to hear more words of praise from his lips.

"− she has just as much sense too −" He added, seeing his uncle throw him an amused, mocking look suggesting that he agreed with him.

He felt a squeeze in his heart when he noticed out of the corner of his eye that his sister had turned and walked away, passing through the cloisters towards their quarters without even giving him another glance.

He turned around and noticed to his surprise that he was not the only person to notice her leaving − his other uncle, Aemond, led her away with his eyes and then threw him a look full of despise, from which he felt discomfort.

He pressed his lips together at the thought that he was the heir to the throne and, unlike him, had his own dragon.

Who was he to look down on him with such superiority?

He decided to remind him of that and share that thought with his brother.

Aegon's involvement in their little joke surprised even him − his uncle thought it was an excellent idea. He argued that his younger brother was too sullen and serious for his age, that he was sapient and could use a little lesson.

As he listened to Aegon convince him that they had found a dragon for him, as he saw the hint of hope and the shy, embarrassed smile of excitement on his uncle's face, he felt for a moment that perhaps they should not do this.

However, it was too late to retreat − Luke ran deeper into the cave, and came out a moment later, leading by a rope a large pig to which they had attached self-made wooden wings early on.

"Behold! The Pink Dread!"

He saw that his uncle froze and turned pale as they burst out laughing, swallowing this humiliation with difficulty − his eyes glazed over and reddened, his gaze again blank and distant.

He knew they had broken him.

That same day he mentioned it to his sister, and her reaction angered him.

"You are cruel." She said resentfully.

Which side was she on?

"He's forever looking down on us because he has white hair. He's constantly making excuses and bragging about what he's read in those silly dusty books of his." He snorted, playing between his fingers with the gold coin their grandfather had brought him from another of his trips overseas.

He blinked when his sister simply rose from her seat and walked out, leaving him in a state of shock and displeasure − he decided, however, that these were just normal female emotions and would surely pass her until supper.

He loved his father, but he also greatly valued and respected Ser Harwin Strong. He was a stocky, tall, handsome man who could fight very well. He often spoke to him or helped him practice by sharing stories of his duels in tournaments and hunts.

He thought then that he would like to be like him one day.

He knew that he was a close confidant of his mother and often saw them together, however, his father seemed not to mind, so he considered this condition perfectly normal and did not bother.

After a few weeks, the will of their King fell upon them like a bolt from the heavens, and their mother informed them of it during one of their suppers together.

"− your grandfather and our King has decided today that, to strengthen our lineage, we will betroth your sister to your uncle, Prince Aemond − let us raise our cups for this −" She said, glancing towards her daughter, his sister smiling broadly at her words, happy.

What?

"− what do you mean? − why? −" He asked, feeling discomfort in his stomach and a cold sweat on his back.

They wanted to gift him his sister as a consolation because he didn't have a dragon of his own?

"− your grandfather wants peace to reign in the kingdom after his death − such a marriage in his eyes will strengthen our family and our bonds between each other − of course, the marriage will only happen when your sister is of the right age −" She said calmly, looking at her daughter with tenderness, taking an unruly strand of her dark hair from her face.

"− did you agree? −" He asked his little sister in disbelief, and she nodded quickly, as if it was the happiest day of her life.

"− yes − I'm very pleased − I'm fond of our uncle −" She said quickly, putting a piece of roast on her plate, describing how worried she was that she would have to marry someone much older than herself.

He stared blankly ahead, clenching his hands into fists, bitter and disappointed.

Had she really never considered him as her husband?

After all, he was her elder brother; in their lineage such marriages were obvious.

He dared not, however, defy the will of the King himself.

His resentment towards his uncle increased with each passing week seeing that, against his wishes, he was not being harsh and unpleasant to his sister − on the contrary, he seemed to have softened in her company, his face, though still pathetically proud, also expressing curiosity and affection.

He felt rage in his heart at the thought that they could really have wished to bring about this marriage.

However, the cup of bitterness overflowed the moment he saw his sister kiss him.

They were both too certain that no one could see them − he watched them from the corridor through a window overlooking the library.

His sister was standing by the bookcase, saying something to him, and he stood up and walked lazily over to her. He rose on his tiptoes and apparently reached for a book that stood too high for her. She smiled broadly as he handed it to her, her hand traveling to his shoulder.

He swallowed hard as her lips pressed against his, and as soon as she pulled away, her uncle grasped her cheeks in his hands and kissed her again, deeper and longer.

He fled to his chamber and burst into tears with rage, dropping all the objects standing on his table, disappointed and humiliated that although he was to become King in the future, someone else was taking away something that in his mind was his right.

He never wondered what kind of love he had bestowed upon her and whether it was the form of affection that usually bound married couples; he knew that he would care for her and be good to her and that was enough for him.

She was his sister and he would never hurt her.

She, however, looked only to her uncle and it was to him that she gave her heart and mind.

He didn't know what he felt when Luke slashed his face that night when their uncle stole Vhagar − horror, shame, satisfaction and relief all mingled in his mind into one.

On the one hand, he was overjoyed that he had taken back what in his mind should have been his, on the other he was embarrassed and distraught at the confirmation of his fears that had long smouldered in his mind.

It was Harwin Strong who was their father.

To his seed he owed his dark curls.

He was a bastard.

He tried to turn his thoughts away from considering what this meant for them, focusing on the fact that his sister would surely no longer want her uncle for a husband, and their paths would part.

This is exactly what happened.

Still, what he had planned did not happen, and his mother decided to change her plan and marry her off to their cousin, Lord Arryn's son, to strengthen her support in the North of the kingdom. Again, he felt a wave of disappointment, however, this time he was not so jealous − he knew that she had no love for their cousin and that he was certainly no threat to her.

"What's my little sister doing?" He asked with amusement, startling her completely, sitting bent over her desk − she quickly grabbed the parchment she had just been writing something on and tucked it under the table, looking up at him with wide eyes.

"Are you writing a letter to someone?" He sneered, raising an eyebrow, standing over her with a smile. She swallowed hard and looked down, thoughtful.

"I write poetry. But I don't want anyone to read it." She muttered, and he sighed quietly and nodded, acknowledging that he wasn't going to force her to do anything.

"Would you like to go for a walk along the beach? It's beautiful weather." He encouraged her; she, however, shook her head, no longer bestowing a single glance on him.

"No, forgive me. I'm tired."

He pressed his lips together at her rejection, which he had faced again and again since they had moved to Dragonstone.

Even though he tried to get close to her, to understand her and comfort her, she still didn't want him.

He was ashamed to speak of his feelings with his mother or stepfather, much less Luke, however, to his surprise, his closest confidant turned out to be Baela.

"I don't understand her. It seems to me that she still misses him, even though he has certainly forgotten her by now. I have heard that he is a cold, vain, self-obsessed man. He's always been that way, treating her only as an object, a consolation prize. Now that he has a dragon he doesn't need her." He said angrily − his cousin sighed heavily at his words, looking at him with understanding.

"When people part in anger and don't close a chapter, it's hard for them to move on. Perhaps she knew him in a way that is unknown to us. He's always been withdrawn into himself." She muttered disapprovingly, fiddling with the wine cup in her hand, gazing thoughtfully into the blazing fire.

He smiled at the thought that he was certain she recalled the impetuosity with which her uncle had punched her in the face with his fist that night when he lost an eye. Baela looked at him, raising her eyebrows.

"What's that look?" She asked and kicked him under the table with her foot. He giggled at her reaction and shook his head, lowering his gaze to her fingers.

"I would have been better for her. I would have really cared for her. Maybe I wouldn't have given her everything she needed, but at least with me she would have been safe." He said with a tiredness from which his companion sighed heavily. He lifted his gaze to her as her hand grasped his and squeezed it.

"I know." She replied softly.

He swallowed hard, feeling a pleasant warmth in his lower abdomen as he saw her soft, misty gaze, feeling her warm thumb stroke his palm. He grunted as he felt his manhood pulsate in his breeches at the thought that, indeed, his cousin was a very fine woman.

He had always liked her sharp tongue and confidence.

"Have you ever lain in bed with a woman?" She asked him suddenly, and he drew in the air loudly, shocked, feeling that his cheeks had certainly turned red with shame.

He didn't know what to answer.

He didn't want to humiliate himself with words that he had absolutely no experience in these matters knowing that she had a more liberated approach to these affairs.

Daemon, as her father, had expressed no dissent, so who was he to lecture her?

She sighed quietly, seeing his reaction, or rather lack thereof, and rose from her seat, turning her back to him, gripping the ties of her bodice with her hands.

"I need you to help me."

Baela was a calm and patient teacher − it seemed to him that she took great satisfaction in his lack of understanding of what she was actually doing to him as she sank down on his swollen manhood again and again with a moan of delight − her brown naked skin glistened wonderfully in the light of the blazing fire, her white curls falling over her shoulders in disarray, her full lips parted in obvious desire from which he felt his fulfilment approaching embarrassingly fast.

She made sure he didn't fill her with his seed, letting him instead come down on her abdomen with his low moan of pleasure, his length pulsating and twitching in her hand for a while longer. He licked his lower lip dry with emotion, looking at her in disbelief, a soft, shy smile on her face.

"− you're beautiful −" He whispered, and she giggled under her breath and kissed him in a way from which he felt hot in his heart.

She made him forget, at least for a moment, what was happening around them, finding in her both friend and lover, the confidante of all his secrets.

She was not jealous of his sister − on the contrary, he had the impression that she understood the source of his anger and disappointment, herself having no intention of explaining to him what she was doing and with whom.

It seemed to him that their relationship and its freedom suited them both.

Of course, they both knew that in the end they would experience a marriage that would inevitably be purely political, and they understood what that entailed.

Then their grandfather was injured on one of his expeditions, and Vaemond Velaryon challenged his younger brother's rights to the throne of Driftmark.

Knowing the truth about his parentage and at the same time refusing to accept it, he became enraged, sad and depressed at the same time − Baela's words of comfort that they would find a solution and not allow themselves to be intimidated did not reassure him.

Once again, his uncle and his family were trying to take their inheritance from them.

His return to King's Landing was a shock to him; to his disappointment, he felt like an intruder there, and it seemed to him that was exactly how he was perceived by everyone.

He felt a drop of cold sweat run down his neck, his stomach twisting with discomfort when he saw his uncle in the distance, wielding his sword as if it weighed nothing, easily defeating Criston Cole, pressing its blade against his neck.

He was tall, muscular, his long white hair, proof that he was in fact a Targaryen partly tied at the back of his head with a black ribbon, his jaw long and sharply defined, his gaze wild and cold, terrifying.

He smiled mockingly at the sight of them, playing with the hilt of his sword between his fingers as if he wanted to devour them.

He felt ashamed at the thought that he was terrified.

And then his uncle spotted their sister in the distance − his heart beat harder at the sight of their expressions.

It seemed to him that this reunion years later had caused them pain, as they both froze, breathing heavily, looking at each other as if there was no one else around.

His uncle hummed under his breath and turned away, nodding at Ser Criston, taking another swing with his sword.

Even though he hadn't cared what happened to her for so many years, even though he had humiliated her at supper by calling her Lady Strong, she had confessed in front of everyone that her place was with him.

He looked at her in disbelief, wondering what she was doing, why she had stooped to courting him when it was obvious that her uncle had neither respect nor affection for her.

After a moment, he heard his uncle's cold, trembling, deep voice.

"So it is decided, father. We will marry."

"How could our mother agree to this? How could she let her stay there?" He asked furiously, circling around his chamber in Dragonstone; Baela sighed heavily, turning her head away. She looked at him finally, hesitation in her gaze.

"I didn't tell you because I knew it would only enrage you and you wouldn't leave her alone." She said tiredly − he halted in half-step, looking at her over his shoulder, feeling his heart pounding like mad.

"You didn't tell me about what?" He asked dryly, frustrated and concerned.

Baela let out a loud breath, shaking her head. They were now betrothed, and although he thought they both seemed to have accepted their families' decisions with relief, he couldn't rejoice.

"My father told me that she had been sending him letters all these years. That the same night we arrived in the Red Keep she spent the night in his chamber."

He stared at her dully, feeling that it made him sick to his stomach, as if he were about to vomit, his face taking on an expression of disgust.

So she didn't write any poetry then, he thought with regret and pain.

"− how could she do this − expose our mother to humiliation and gossip −"

"Jace. She never stopped loving him. I think she's naive too, but you'd have to be blind not to see that she never really accepted it all. I don't know what I think about it myself." She admitted, running her hand over her face.

"You don't know what you think about it? I'll tell you. Our uncle will play with her and take advantage of her, and then he will put her up to ridicule and hand her over to us. He won't marry her." He growled angrily, burying his face in his hands, wondering how she could be so foolish, how she could believe that he had sincere intentions about her.

"The matter of succession is on a knife-edge. Perhaps our grandfather is right? A union between our mother and the Queen could really ease the situation." She muttered, clearly looking for anything comforting in the situation, which he completely failed to understand.

Had everyone around him lost their minds?

"My uncle who thinks we are bastards is supposed to alleviate the situation? He will never agree to let me sit on the throne and I am supposed to give him my sister?" He asked in disbelief; Baela tightened her lips at his words, frustrated.

"You speak of her as if she were an object. It's always been that way."

He felt an unpleasant shiver run down his spine at her words, every muscle in his body tensing like a string.

"What do you mean?" He asked coolly.

Baela sighed heavily, clearly trying not to explode and form her thoughts so as to be honest but not cruel.

"You think she was born to fulfil your whims? That the fact that you are her eldest brother gives you precedence to lie in bed with her?"

He felt himself blush with shame at her question, shocked.

Discomfort and arousal surged through his lower abdomen at the thought.

"Do you think that's what I mean? I'm just trying to…"

"Yes, Jace. I've never witnessed you ask her how she feels, what she needs. I am fond of you, but you are a selfish boy, not a man."

He felt ashamed at the thought as tears gathered under his eyelids at her words, a terrible, cold shudder shook his body, his heart began to pound like mad.

You are a selfish boy, not a man.

Her words so offended him that he stopped speaking to her despite her pleas, and then the thing he feared most happened.

The King was dead, Aegon had stolen her mother's throne and his uncle had imprisoned his sister.

They had made a mockery of them.

He had been right all along, but no one listened to him.

"Forgive me, Jace." Baela muttered, placing her hand on his shoulder. She knelt beside him, sighing heavily, laying her head on his thigh, and he involuntarily stroked her hair, feeling superiority, feeling strength.

He was going to fight for his mother's crown and bring his sister home.

In order to do so, at the behest of their mother, he flew to Winterfell to ask Cregan Stark for his support in this cause, reminding him of the oath his father had taken before her.

The North seemed to him a beautiful and wild place, so far from what he knew − the snow-covered hills, the austere fortresses of dark stone, the robes that looked only grey, black or brown around him gave him a sense of modesty and space.

Lord Stark's nature appeared to be similar to his, and the few days he had spent in his company hunting and riding horses had actually made him feel good − he felt like someone worthy with him, a true heir to the throne, not a bastard.

It was this feeling that, seeing the young Lady Snow from afar, he allowed himself to be enchanted by her charms and lay in bed with her.

Like a real man.

When he arrived back in Dragonstone he learned that Luke had just returned from Storm's End and that he had seen their sister.

"You flew after him? You flew after him knowing he could imprison you, use you as your mother's weakness? Fucking fool." Growled Daemon, shocked and horrified by his naivety, burying his face in his hands, unable to look at him.

"Daemon." Their mother rebuked him, all pale, her hand clenched on her womb. "What happened next?"

"He brought her. Someone hit her, mother, and I think she tried to take her own life. There were cut marks on her wrists." His brother muttered, and he felt his heart stop, he and Baela looked at each other quickly.

She had tried to take her own life.

Because of this bastard, his sister could be dead.

His hands clenched into fists at that thought.

"And then?" Pressed Daemon in an impatient voice.

"I told her to run away with me, but she didn't agree. She told me to tell you that she loves you and that she remains faithful to you, mother." He mumbled and he slammed his fist on the table, feeling fury and rage boiling up inside him.

"That fucking bastard purposely made her stay. He planned this, he never had any intention of marrying her!" He growled red with anger − Daemon threw him a single, drawn-out look.

"And then what? He let you just walk away? No one else saw you?" He continued, pretending not to have heard his outburst.

"N-no, I was surprised, but no. Forgive me, I had to see her, make sure that she is still alive." Luke said. Daemon sighed heavily and leaned over, placing his hands on the top of the stone table, thoughtful.

"Bring me a parchment and a quill. I need to speak with my nephew."

Baela followed him into his chamber in an attempt to calm him down.

"How can he want to pact with that fucking traitor? His brother stole my mother and his wife's throne!" He shouted in her face − his betrothed dropped her hands in a gesture of helplessness.

"Since he let them meet, maybe there is something to it. My father knows what he's doing, I trust him. I believe he will bring her home."

"You're naive. You always have been."

"And you're vain. You always have been."

He pressed his lips together at her words, feeling his heart pounding like mad, feeling like something was about to explode inside him.

"I met a woman in Winterfell who I took to my bed." He muttered finally, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye.

Part of him wanted to hurt her, and part of him wanted to be honest with her.

That was what they had promised each other.

Baela laughed at his words in disbelief and shook her head − he had a feeling he saw a shadow of regret in her gaze, but he wasn't sure if it was because of his confession or because she understood why he said it now.

"If you wish, I'll relate to you how I spent my time in your absence, but I'm not sure you'll be able to look into this guard's face afterwards." She sneered, lifting her chin high, looking at him defiantly. He felt a wave of hot shame and anger surge through his body.

"After we're married…are you going to continue this?" He asked uncertainly and she cocked her head to the side.

"If you are not faithful to me, I will not remain faithful to you. You are dear to me, but don't think I will cry for you. Certainly not like your sister cried for her uncle. Part of me has always envied her that she experienced such a deep feeling in her life even if it burned her from the inside for so many years." She said with a kind of regret from which he felt a squeeze in his stomach, but he answered nothing to her words.

He knew that they did not love each other.

They were close and felt comfortable together, but they weren't mad about each other.

He believed it just had to be this way.

He waited impatiently along with his mother and the others gathered for Daemon to return from his meeting with their uncle, simultaneously terrified and angry that they were speaking with traitors instead of fighting.

When they heard the squeal of Caraxes in the distance his mother stood up, pale, holding her hand on her womb again, as if remembering the time when she had carried her only daughter under her heart.

His other sister had died before she was even truly born.

When Daemon stepped into the main hall everyone was already waiting for him; he sighed heavily, placing his Dark Sister on the table top, folding his hands in front of him, straightening.

"Your daughter married her uncle of her own free will. My nephew has conveyed to me that his brother-cunt will relinquish the throne he stole from you if it is your daughter's children and his who become heirs to the throne or, in the event they do not conceive a son, ours − Viserys and Aegon. He demands the exclusion of Jace, Luke and Joffrey from the succession." He said dispassionately. He looked at his mother seeing that she had run out of words.

"− mother − this is −"

"− leave us − all of you −" She ordered.

"− mother − this is my inheritance − mine −" He began, but felt Baela's grip on his arm.

"− Jace − that's enough −"

He sat in his chamber thinking only of the fact that his mother was just contemplating whether or not to agree to deprive him of his inheritance, to acknowledge that he was her bastard despite the fact that he was her firstborn son, despite the fact that Laenor Velaryon had acknowledged him as his heir.

"− Jace −" Baela muttered, seeing his condition.

"− leave −" He said. He heard her sigh heavily as she approached him with a rustle of her gown, kneeling at his feet.

"− Jace − I'm on your side − I always have been − don't you see me as your companion? − your friend? − your lover? −" She asked with a pained expression that startled him. He lowered his hands and looked at her − his palm rose to her cheek, which he stroked with a tender, slow gesture.

"− you resent me − you don't see me as a man, but as a child −"

"− that is not true −"

"− I don't want your pity −"

"− Jace −"

"− you were right − I don't want to frustrate you and I understand all the accusations about me that you've made − my whole life I've been trying to be someone I'm not −" He finally replied, his betrothed's fingers grasping his hand and squeezing it.

"− that's what I mean − stop pretending − be honest with yourself −"

"− do you want me to be honest? − very well then − my mother has never asked my opinion on any important matters − Daemon treats me as if I am an imbecile and mocks me − I am both a first-born son and a bastard − my uncle wants to deprive me of everything, he wants me to be a nobody and why? − because when I was a child I gave him a pig? − god, I regret it, it was a cruel joke − I regret that he lost an eye, I regret that a dragon didn't hatch from his egg − but even if I had said that, what good would it have done − he would have laughed at me saying I am a weak cunt −" He muttered and burst out sobbing like a small child, hiding his face in his hands. Baela embraced him and cuddled his face into her oil-scented neck, stroking his hair.

"− I am grateful to you − I am grateful to you that you are honest with me − I am grateful to you that you have never lied to me −" She whispered and he wept softly, tightening his hands on the material of her gown feeling that the closeness of her body brought him solace.

"− I am grateful to you too − forgive me for not being what you deserve −" He mumbled, sniffling loudly, trying to calm the convulsions of his body and his ragged breathing.

"− I forgive you − I forgive you and ask for your forgiveness −"

When his mother came to his chamber that evening, he knew what decision she had made even before she opened her mouth.

"− Jace −" She began, and he turned his head away, panting with rage, burning tears of humiliation under his eyelids.

"− after all this − after all you've sacrificed − are you going to let them win? −"

"− how would I be a just Queen if I thought only of myself instead of the good of the kingdom? − any other solution will mean war with our own kin − is there anything else more displeasing to the gods? −" She muttered in a breaking voice in which he could clearly hear that she herself was suffering immensely.

"− you let them dictate their terms −" He said in disbelief, looking at her at last. His mother pressed her lips together at his question.

"− no − I intend to impose my own demands on them – none of them will be allowed to sit on the throne − none of them will wear the crown − they will be rulers-regents until their son, the rightful heir, is born −" She replied, forcing herself to be calm.

"− and if no son is born to them? − will you exclude me from the succession then? − your first-born son? −" He mumbled in pain, hitting his chest with his palm. Rhaenyra drew in air loudly, her eyes red from tears of pain and grief.

"− it's my fault − not yours − me and Laenor really tried, but −"

"− I don't want to hear it − I won't listen to it − why did you let me come into the world? −"

"− Jace −" She mumbled − he heard the rustling of her gown as she took a step towards him, but he held up his hand showing that he didn't want her to come near him.

"− I will leave Dragonstone to you − it belongs to me and I can give it to whomever I wish − no one will challenge your rights in this case, you will finally be able to live the life you deserve −"

"− I was meant to be King −" He hissed, and she swallowed hard.

"− as was I − but perhaps we are not meant to be − pride steps before a fall −" She said drily, her chin lifted high.

"− what does Daemon have to say in the matter? −" He asked lowly.

"− he is furious, but he will do as I command − just as you −"

283 notes · View notes

lola-writes · 1 month ago

Text

One-Eye & the Dreamer

➣ Masterlist | Add yourself to my taglist | Ao3 | Ko-Fi | Playlist

➣ [divider @targaryen-dynasty]

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x OC!Aylana Velaryon

Synopsis: Aylana Velaryon foresees Aemond Targaryen's fate and assigns herself to alter it.

Themes & Warnings: 18+ (MDNI!), POV first person (OC's & Aemond's) friends to enemies, enemies to lovers, feelings realisation, targcest, high valyrian, slow burn, blood & injury, angst, fix-it of sorts, swearing, eventual smut

1. The One-Eyed Prince

2. Childhood Kingdom

3. The Godswood

4. The Spear & the Hound

5. Maegor's Tunnels

40 notes · View notes

skmhlml · 4 months ago

Text

‘In the Line of Duty’ (series)

Military masked man x Fem!Reader(Rookie) Pt. 1

Word count: 1079 😭 (might do a whattpad)

You were fresh out of high school and did all you could to get into whatever dream of independence you had... which someone turned into a midnight bar drunken breakdown. You realized you had no fucking idea what you were doing with your life. The morning after, the weight of your choices hit you like a ton of bricks, and a wave of panic set in. Desperate to find some direction and stability, you impulsively walked into a recruitment office and signed up for the military. It seemed like the only viable option at the time, offering a sense of purpose and a steady paycheck.

As soon as you got home, you had another breakdown realizing what you had done. Out of all of them, why the Marines? No offense to them but the amount of blood that would be on your hands in the near future makes you want to cry and puke. Sure you could just quit but you didn't wanna seem too much of a pussy.

By the day you had to be sent to basic training, you thought to yourself that you had no choice. You were committed to it, and you were determined to make the best of it. You took a deep breath and hopped onto the bus. Nothing but yelling from the time you got on and when you got off.

You felt your heart sink as the reality of the situation set in. You knew you had to make the best of it, but you had no idea how. A recruit walking with me. Didn’t look older than 20, bright and fresh out of a failed semester of college…

Brown hair, brown eyes, skinny, about 5,6

“You ready for 13 weeks of hell?” He said with a laugh

“I’m gonna fucking die.” You swear you have a grey hair or two

“Ah- you didn’t do your research, did you?” He snickered.

You take a deep breath and try to relax. You realize he was joking, and you smile back. “I was drunk the day after I signed up for the Marines” you muttered

He laughed and slapped your back, “It's ok, I was too.” You both laughed and went on with your day. “I thought my parents were gonna kill me when I failed college.”

“This base has a lot of donations so from what I heard we get a dorm with three other people instead of getting sick and a big ass barrack room.” He nudged your shoulder

Before you could respond you all are brought inside to empty your bag of any personal stuff you thought you would need, but, there was barely anything you brought you needed, you got your ass chewed out a lot for the stuff, but a good idea to bring face stuff…

After you got your uniform and blah, blah, blah, dorms…blah, blah, blah. The first phase was physical training m, no fun outing limits but at least you weren't the fake orange blondes who ended up in the ER after trying to show off by not pacing themselves during a two-mile run.

By the end of the day, you were ready to fall asleep for a whole day, which wasn't the case because it turns out you get less sleep here than in college. The aching in your muscles wasn't any better

One thing you didn’t complain about i how your uniform seem to hug you in all the right places. So much for being a Vitoria secret model, you were serving the country with ass, tits, and waist.

There was a change up one day in workouts, it wasn't your drill instructor, she had to go out for a family emergency and the other had gotten a new batch of rookies so they had their hands full.

He was tall, tall, like Russian tirmanator from the movies. 6,7, bear built, very muscular, like if he squeezed you with his hands your body would shatter, his skin wasn't pale but wasn't very tan either, he has icey cold grey eyes, no blue…not green. Grey. Maybe even silver. He wore a camo balaclava only showing his eyebrows and eyes, from the look of his brows he had dark brown hair underneath the mask. He had the normal pt gear of drill sergeants but from the look of his rank, he was much higher than any sergeant.

The new person in charge was strict and made you work harder than anyone else. You had to work through the drills without stopping and your only option was to keep going until you were done. It was a difficult day but you got through it.

But you couldn't lie when he yelled or did workouts you got wetter than reading smut off an illegal site.

The higher-ups had agreed to keep him working as our PT instructor so we wouldn’t slack.

But by the end of the second week he had disappeared, rumored that his wife cheated with an Air Force twink, a pretty nasty divorce. They said it might take more than two years to go through court.

You were standing in formation with the others as the lady drill instructor just got off the phones, looking at all of us she points at you.

“Cadet (last name), you may fall out of formation. I need you to take these papers down to First Lieutenant Lewandowski.” She handed you the papers and you went on your way

You saluted the officer and made your way to his office. Opening the door you find your old drill Instructor, no ring on his finger but still the same terrifying build, at least he didn’t give up on self-care after the divorce.

He was sitting in front of the computer, rubbing his eyes with a stressed and distraught face. You placed the papers down softly so as to not make anything worse on him. You want to ask how he is but you were only a rookie who didn’t even know the dudes First name.

But he seemed to sense it as he looked down at the papers and back to you, a stare that would make Satan curl up in a ball. “I do not mind if you ask. It would be deeply appreciated.”

You nodded with hesitation “Are you okay? Uhm… Lutienetate” You both knew the answer

“First Lutienate,” he said with a deep but soft tone

“Frist Lutienate…” you whispered

“Sit down.”

“Yes sir.”

82 notes · View notes

mirabritart · 11 months ago

Text

"A Song of Ice and Fire" sounds like it could be a magical girl anime c'mon let's be real

Individuals below the cut!

#asoiaf #asoiaf fanart #brienne of tarth #daenerys targaryen #arya stark #sansa stark #magical girl au #for this magical girl squadron I have selected the female POV characters with ages beginning with a 1 #specific af prompt but that's the vibes #brienne and arya both barely qualify #bri's outfit inspo is joan of arc. not the most original pull but yknow it works #for dany I was looking at Targ inspo classic Byzantine fashion #arya is every dnd assassin just de-edgelorded #sansa I tried for a more classical princess look. she's in blue bc I tried like every shade of green and they all made her look too much #like Fantasy Jean Grey #my art #fan art

124 notes · View notes

azriona · 2 months ago

Text

Not a Fairy Tale Kiss, Chapter 46

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Avenger!OFC (2nd person POV)

This Chapter word count: 3.1k ~ Total Story count: 151k ~ This chapter is rated Mature. Chapters are posted on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and some Sundays.

Summary: When you and Bucky are both accidentally hit with sex pollen while on a mission, you're determined to keep your relationship status at friendship, even if you’d like it to be more. Even if you think he feels the same. Even if you accidentally end up pregnant. Even if it kills you.

(Spoiler Alert: it might actually kill you. Good luck with that.)

Trigger warnings include discussion of abortion, failed pregnancies, deaths of both mom & baby--not the MC! Full warnings on AO3. Happy ending is guaranteed, despite warnings. Please see AO3 for full A/N and tags.

Chapter Summary: In which there is midnight ice cream. And yeah fine, a nightmare, overly observant journalists, and heart-to-heart talks, but hey! Ice cream!

The flickering light from the television shifts as the commercials fade back into programming. “Footage from today’s Avengers fight in Phoenix shows an unexpected surprise,” says the newscaster, and you almost drop the pint of ice cream in your scramble to grab the remote. Seeing the battle from the public’s point of view is the last thing you want right now. “The Avengers were called out for an attack on Phoenix’s Heard Museum, where news crews captured some rather interesting footage,” continues the second newscaster. Your finger pauses on the power button as you stare in surprise at the screen. Sam and Natasha had talked to the press gang in Phoenix. But you’re clearly visible in the background, leaning against Bucky as you board the Quinjet. Especially when the video pauses, and the image of you is enlarged. There’d been a lot of blood on your uniform, and you don’t quite remember the hysterics, except that you hadn’t calmed down until Bucky had taken off your jacket and given you his. The problem? You only wear a t-shirt under your jacket. It doesn’t leave a lot to the imagination. Including baby bumps. “Oh, shit,” you breathe, and turn up the volume.

Oh dear. But ice cream, right? Ice cream, all your favorite AO3 flavors!

20 notes · View notes

luciferscowgirl · 6 months ago

Text

Day 13: “Hunter’s Moon”

For Hysteric_Muse’s Ghostober!

A follow up story on chapter 1 “Dracopia’s bite”

From the girl’s point of view.

AO3 link here

I have been feeling strange lately.

It was not that I felt detached from myself, no. I was growing more tired. But in an unfamiliar way. I would sleep more during the day, and would feel way more awake at night.

So I began to enjoy going for walks as soon as the sun had set. Outside in the woods, I felt strangely safe most of the time. Yes, most of the time. Because there were moments during which I felt a peculiar pair of eyes on me. I always brushed it off, assuming that it was just some kind of deer traipsing its way through the undergrowth.

But tonight, this strange feeling would not leave me. The moon was unusually full, and it somewhat drained my energy even more, since I grew so fond of attempting to find sweet solace in the darkness of the night.

I kept walking along the usual path, deep within the woods, where I liked to listen to the little creek flowing along and guiding me. Not only was it unusually bright tonight, it was also hazy. Unnaturally hazy.

I felt like I was being watched. And so I began to quicken my pace, and though I did not know where I was heading, I knew I needed to get away from this place. I felt my breath becoming shaky when I snapped my head from left to right, because for some odd reason, the shadows that occurred due to the bright moonlight shining down on the imposing trees around me, seemed to move in odd ways. But every time I looked more closely, I cursed myself for my vivid imagination. Everything was alright.

My teeth began to chatter, and I pulled the fabric closer around me, when I suddenly realised that I was beginning to run. I was running like a scared little deer fleeing from a pack of starved, feral wolves. I felt the tears running down my own cold face now, and finally cursed myself for being awake at night. I laughed to myself, as pathetic as I was. Because how blessed are some people, whose lives have no fears, no dreads; to whom sleep is a blessing that comes nightly, and brings nothing but sweet dreams. I have never had such privileges!

Here I was, fleeing from an unknown force that hunted me down, and though I was so deep within the woods, the moonlight would not stop blinding me. I squinted, trying to assume my way, when all of a sudden, I huffed, running into something that stopped me in my frantic tracks. I panicked. Whatever I ran into, it was cold but soft, and not too unfamiliar.

I was being held. And though I wanted to scream and push myself away from whatever had caged me with its eery hands, I felt like I froze from the sheer icy force of this mysterious entity.

“Shhh, dolcezza,” I heard an intimate voice trying to soothe me. I immediately recognised the Cardinal - who as of lately, I have grown to feel a strange interest towards - breathing against me. Was this a dream? Did he really save me just like this? I was speechless.

I barely looked up at his pale face when he stared down at me, where I found his mismatched eyes unusually intense and focused. “I told you I was going to visit you anew. Though I have learned that you have begun to stray away from home at night. Good, good. Things change, don’t they? I like the way you change, bella. I see what you are. And I’m dying to see you, dolcezza. I’m dying to taste you. One last time.”

I do not remember much of what happened afterwards. I only knew that suddenly, I felt a sharp pain surging through my stiff body, and the uncomfortable chill that I had felt earlier turned into an even more intense feeling, depriving me of every last bit of warmth that my trembling self had still held onto.

I was glad, though. Because the Cardinal was there, and so incredibly kind to me, as he wrapped his cape and body around me, which ultimately made me feel comfortably hot so deep within, like I was being set on fire. I was so thankful for his presences. He even shielded me from the blinding moonlight.

17 notes · View notes

cambria-writes · 2 years ago

Text

You've found the body of a serial killer's latest target. A friendly neighborhood Old Man. You're more honest than most of the kids that have run through the CBI offices. And you're a fortune teller. Alright, so Jane's found the honey pot in you. Now where's the hatchet?

Pairing: Patrick Jane x Original Female Character Overall Rating: A (adult content) Warnings: gun violence, murder scene, blood, mention of gore, kidnapping, implied sexual assault, gunshot wounds, panic attacks, dissociation, OFC goes through it tbh, reader is a fortune teller and vaguely clairsentient, alcohol consumption, probably unrealistic car traveling times (I'm sorry I'm Canadian), light dom/sub, Jane likes saying Good Girl, trauma and traumatic reactions, oral sex, sir kink, fingering, squirting, will update this when I remember what I have inevitably forgotten

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭

Chapter One: Gold Chapter Two: Tuscan Sun Chapter Three: Citrine Chapter Four: Sunglow Chapter Five: Chartreuse Chapter Six: Freesia Chapter Seven: Sulphur Chapter Eight: Dandelion Chapter Nine: Old Gold Chapter Ten: Solar Chapter Eleven: Yellow Chapter Twelve: Champagne Chapter Thirteen: Cider Chapter Fourteen: Mixer Chapter Fifteen: Chaser Chapter Sixteen: Lemon Water Chapter Seventeen: Oasis Chapter Eighteen: Respite Chapter Nineteen: Cadenza FINAL UPDATE

#honey and the hatchet #masterlist #the mentalist #patrick jane #patrick jane x original character #patrick jane x oc #patrick jane x original female character #second person pov #vague physical descriptions used #slow burn #the only kind i know how to write tbh

231 notes · View notes

keyboardsmashess · 5 days ago

Text

Stars, Stripes, and Stage Lights Masterlist

Pairing: Steve Rogers x OFC

Tags: Romance, fluff, eventual smut, popstar OC, enemies to lovers, slow burn, canon-typical violence, angst with a happy ending

MINORS DNI.

* This story is in progress *

Summary: When HYDRA targets Pop Princess Kassie Cantor for reasons unknown, Steve Rogers has no choice but to accompany her on the rest of her tour. His goals are simple: keep her safe and figure out what HYDRA is up to. Romance is nowhere on the list - especially not with a popstar known for her hyper-girly image and lyrics full of innuendo. Can Steve complete his mission? Can Kassie crack the soldier's armor? Find out in Stars, Stripes, and Stage Lights.

Chapter Directory:

Bang Bang

Coming 3/31/25

10 notes · View notes

juchioris · 2 months ago

Text

Undine finds a dead body

Narrated long answer for one of the Questions for OCs in the No Yandere Sim AU by @quartztwst: Your OC stumbles upon a dead body a few feet outside of the school. Do they report it?

A long, uneventful, boring school day was finally coming to an end for Undine. She took her coat and the books needed for her homework out of the locker, put on the coat and the books into her backpack and closed the locker with her combination lock. Like all the other lockers at the school, it was a bit dented after withstanding rowdy teenagers for many years. While the hallways of the school were crowded in the early hours of a school day, now, during the late hours, Undine only encountered a handful of students on her way to the back door. It was winter, so it was already dark outside. While the classrooms were well lit with electric light, the corridors were only dimly lit with a few energy-saving lamps on the weakest level. Undine could hear the hall of her steps on the floor tiles and heavy rain falling outside. Her hand reached for the umbrella in the left side net of her backpack and pulled it out. She reached the back door and pushed the right part of it open. While Undine stepped outside, she already opened her umbrella.

Taking the back exit was a shortcut for Undine. From the front door, she would have to walk around part of the big school building and neighbouring residential buildings to get to the bus station. The front gate was much more frequented than the back door. While the area at the front looked welcoming, the exit at the back lead over a tiny courtyard full of waste bins. Only one of the four high walls around had windows, it was one that belonged to the school. All four walls were covered in the student’s graffiti in the lower area. Undine stepped into the courtyard, breathing in the usual smell of the garbage mixed with and worsened by the smell of rainwater contaminated with the emissions of humanity. The air was cold, and if it were only a little bit colder, the rain would be snow. Behind Undine, the heavy door fell shut. In front of her, she saw someone lying on the ground, partly concealed by a bin and the darkness of the night.

“Hey”, called Undine out to the one on the ground and hurried already over to aid the person, whom she could recognize as one of the other students by the school uniform and categorize as a girl, because it was the school uniform’s version for females, as she approached. Her first thought was, that this was an accident, perhaps her schoolmate had slipped on the wet ground and fallen badly or fainted because of some illness. Or perhaps one of the many fights in and around this school had finally gone too far and she had gotten knocked out? As Undine got closer, she could make out the girl’s face: a face, which she had seen around in passing before, but never like that. Her eyes were wide open, unblinking, unseeing, her mouth was open, too, for a scream that had never resounded, because the throat, the way of the voice, had already been cut, cut with such haste, that by the time she tried to howl in pain, it had been too late. No, she had only gotten a bit of blood out. Undine could make out blood traces around her mouth and on her chin, her face mostly already washed off by the rain, pale and bloodless, while the blood was still leaking out from the gaping cut in her throat, mixing with the rainwater in a dark red puddle on the asphalt, that almost seemed to get sucked towards the duct grille in the centre of the courtyard.

The wound was obviously fatal, the student dead. Undine could not believe it. She checked her for breathing and a pulse, desperately searching for life, but there wasn’t any. Thinking of all the videos on first aid she had watched and studied, Undine thought that she would need to reanimate and block the bleeding, but, no, there could be no breathing through that cut up throat, through all that bloody mess, in this case no breath-giving through mouth to mouth could help anymore. The girl was dead. Dead! Murdered! Undine stiffened and shivered, not from the cold of the icy rain that was pouring on her now, after she had dropped her umbrella at some point, but from the chilling dread that emerged within her, starting in her chest and creeping through her entire body.

She took her phone out of her backpack and called the police. It felt surreal, to have this conversation, that was so much like one in a thriller, for real, as if Undine was in the wrong movie or the wrong world. They would come, they said. She would stay here, to prevent anyone from messing with the crime scene, Undine said. The call ended. What followed was an eerie semi-silence, with the sounds of the vehicles driving through the city in the distance, behind the little tunnel that led to the street. Undine looked at that face again, trying once more to put a name to it, but to no avail. After a while she averted her eyes and turned around to look at the back door and then at everything else surrounding her.

Had the killer waited behind that waste bin? Why this girl? If she had been just at the wrong place at the wrong time, right where and when someone was bloodthirsty, wouldn’t that mean that that could have been Undine herself, if she left just a little bit earlier today? She grit her teeth, tensing up more than she already was, now digging her fingernails so hard into her palms, that she felt pain there. Murder was wrong! Murder was despicable! Undine couldn’t help the girl anymore and it pained her, but she made the resolution to learn her name, to learn all she could about her, in the hope that perhaps she could find a clue to the killer. After all, murders were often personal. And if Undine could help it, she would not let that villain get away!

Of course, she thought, as the police officers arrived and ushered her away, doing this was their job (a job she considered for her future, too), but she could not just move on with her life, when there was a dangerous criminal among the people at school. She would be careful, but she would help the police as an insider from the school and find the culprit. And then justice would be served.

#no yandere sim au #twisted wonderland #twst #alternate universe #my art #writing #my writing #murder mystery #my oc #original character #original female character #undine eisner #pencil drawing #traditional art #traditional drawing #worm's eye view #pov dead body

10 notes · View notes

flowerandblood · 1 year ago

Text

The Fall from the Heavens (13)

[ canon • Aemond x Strong • niece female ]

[ warnings: angst, arranged engagement, violence, swearing, trauma, regret, depression, mention of a suicide attempt ]

Characters & Series Moodboard Lady Strong Moodboard Aemond & Lady Strong Moodboard Aemond & Lady Strong Childhood

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

Daemon understood better than anyone what it meant to be the second son, the one who would inherit nothing. It seemed to him that, in contrast to Viserys, he was a blazing fire like a true dragon, giving warmth, light and shelter to those close to his heart, burning those whom he saw as his enemies.

Viserys was always blind, soft-spoken, lacking strong character and clear opposition when things got too far out of hand.

This trait of his had been carefully exploited by Otto Hightower over the years, putting himself in the role of his friend and adviser, playing his part with an extraordinary devotion from which he felt like throwing up.

He knew it was pure courtesy, perfectly calculated, taking advantage of the mourning of the entire Red Keep and his inattention after Aemma's tragic death he slipped his brother his daughter under his nose.

Looking at her on their wedding day, standing in a long, ornate gown he thought she looked like a child on whom someone had put layers of cloth and precious stones; overwhelmed by it all she looked down at her feet, around her nails the red wounds he had seen on her hands ever since.

On that one day, knowing what was awaiting her, he truly felt compassion for her.

After that, however, he stopped.

She could have built her independence, committed herself to the needs of the kingdom, she, however, in the company of that cunt, Criston Cole, gave herself over to prayer and mortification, obediently following her father's orders.

As a woman, she was in his eyes pitiful, weepy, whiny, merely pretending to be saintly and virtuous, having in fact nothing to do with these qualities.

His feelings about her and her father moved involuntarily to her children.

He recognised the dragon's blood in them and treated them differently from the Hightowers, yet he was unable or unwilling to bond with them, seeing how they were suckled to their mother's breasts, which did not allow them to think or breathe on their own.

He watched from the sidelines, observing from afar as Rhaenyra and Alicent's children trained together, how a divide formed between them. He knew that once they grew up and understood what was really at stake, they would throw themselves at each other's throats.

He knew perfectly well whose right to the throne he would support.

Aegon was a drunkard and a cunt, Helaena was quiet and withdrawn, Aemond was sullen and vindictive − he thought with amusement that each of them had inherited the worst from his brother and their mother.

However, he couldn't help but show at least a little compassion and understanding for his brother's second son, who had been punished by the gods, left without a dragon of his own.

Some part of him wanted to speak to him, to get to know him, to see through him as a kind of reflection of himself, but on those rare occasions when he was with Leana and his daughters in the Red Keep he never made such a gesture, which he later, though he did not want to admit it to himself, regretted.

Perhaps things would have turned out differently then.

He could see with what admiration he looked at him, how much he longed to hear at least one word of appreciation from him, any gesture of interest.

He knew that if he could decide who his father-figure would be he would choose not Viserys or Cole but him, and he pretended not to notice that.

Once though, he noticed something that surprised him; strolling through the cloisters of the Red Keep he spotted his nephew and Rhaenyra's only daughter standing side by side in the square, leaning over the table filled with the various weapons. He smirked under his breath as he walked closer, wanting to listen to their conversation.

They were betrothed.

A clumsy attempt by his brother to avoid what he felt in his bones had to happen.

He saw his niece point her finger at one of the weapons lying on the wooden tabletop, a steel black spiked ball hooked on a chain to a special handle.

"What is it? It looks scary." She said with amusement, her voice light and pleasant; he thought with surprise that his nephew's grim and stormy nature did not deter her.

Alicent's son grunted loudly, lifting his chin slightly in a gesture of superiority and intelligence that he hated so much about the Hightowers, clearly proud to be able to speak on a subject in which his knowledge was extensive.

"It's a flail. A very heavy weapon requiring great strength and agility in its use. It literally crushes the opponent." He said, forcing himself into a low, mature, masculine voice, standing with his hands clasped behind his back, his hair in a slight disarray from the few duels he had already had.

"That weapon looks like the kind you die from in agony." Mumbled his niece, tentatively touching her fingertip to one of the spikes – her uncle pushed her away immediately, surprised by her gesture, grabbing her hand by the wrist.

"Are you insane? What are you doing? It's sharp after all, you could have hurt yourself." He said angrily, but she only blinked, surprised by his outburst, and smiled indulgently, showing him her finger.

"I know, silly. I wouldn't want something like that to hit me in the face." She sneered, raising her eyebrows in amusement, joy in her gaze and embarrassment at the fact that he still hadn't let her go.

She took a step closer to him, but he stepped back quickly and lowered his gaze, he noticed in disbelief that his pale cheeks had turned scarlet.

"Not here. Later." He muttered letting go of her wrist immediately. He heard her quiet sigh of disappointment as she nodded and walked away without another word.

He watched as, a moment later, his nephew cursed under his breath, pulling off his leather gloves and moved after her, grabbing her at one of the side entrances by her arm. She turned to him with a smile as if she was sure he would follow her, her lips placing a quick, brief kiss on his cheek.

He let her go, embarrassed and blushing, looking sideways, muttered something, and she nodded and disappeared behind the walls. His nephew returned to the square as if nothing had happened, a lazy, barely visible smile on his face; Aegon looked at him from afar with a look full of pity, as soon as his younger brother came closer he said loud and clear:

"What a twat you are."

He snarled under his breath as he heard Criston Cole immediately respond to his remark by saying that it was inappropriate for a prince to use such vocabulary, his younger brother only gave him a grim look indicating that he himself was torn internally, ashamed of his weakness.

He thought then, moving ahead, amused, that his brother had inadvertently contributed to something that was certainly not his original plan.

These kids really wanted it.

He felt shame because, looking at them, he wondered how he really felt about his wife. He recognised that she was his companion and lover, whom he respected and cherished, but she was not his friend, he could not allow her into the depths of his heart.

Only when he saw Rheanyra did he feel something more; he had the feeling that the air around them quivered when they spoke, he sensed that she understood perfectly the source and reason of his impulsive nature.

Despite this, he found his life peaceful and prosperous, and the death of his wife in childbirth was something shocking and painful to him. He covered his grief with laughter, the thought that he had wasted years of her life, a wonderful, beautiful woman who deserved someone to love her with all her being, giving her something more than a substitute of affection.

Then, however, his nephew lost an eye and everything fell apart like a house of cards, showing how weak their family actually was.

The events that followed wove together in his mind, the closeness of Rhaenyra and their later nuptials brought him a sense of relief, as if two parts that belonged together had been joined.

He watched her daughter from afar, the sadness and grief painted on her after all still so young and innocent face made her seem to him pale and lifeless, at once beautiful, cool and inaccessible, walking around Dragonstone like a ghost, not speaking to anyone despite how much his daughters tried to get close to her.

She was warm, helpful and welcoming when anyone approached her, but did not raise any discussions herself, eating and drinking little at suppers, immersed in her thoughts.

He knew that she was with them only in body.

He decided not to make the same mistake as with his nephew and offer her his interest, his support in the ironic and mischievous form peculiar to him, the only way in which he could show his affection to anyone.

What surprised him was how much she clung to him, how often she cried during their walks together; despite her innate vulnerability she had a strength of character that he appreciated – she was inclined to rash actions or anger, but she was also not docile or naive, she tried to find order in the chaos that surrounded her.

Only he and his niece had been invited to Aegon's nuptials to Helaena; Alicent had expressed in her letter her concern that the meeting of their children might affect them badly and reawaken old wounds, which his wife took as a reasonable argument, and indeed, albeit reluctantly, it was only the two of them who travelled to the Red Keep.

The whole ceremony in the Great Sept dragged on endlessly for him; he looked around, bored, unwilling to stare at the horrified, sad faces of his nephew and niece, testament to the fact that neither of them wanted this marriage.

The wedding supper held in the fortress was lavish with dancing and music, lords from all over the kingdom descended and gathered in the throne room at large, long oak tables filled to the brim with food. Sitting down in his seat next to his wife, he glanced sideways and noticed a figure looking at him intensely, the One-Eyed Prince staring at him coolly, his lips pressed into a thin line.

He raised his eyebrows in disbelief and admiration, finding that he looked like a man, well-built and muscular, tall, his hair much longer, a black eye patch covering the left side of his face.

He grinned with amusement and mockery, wondering to what he owed his attention, and his nephew only hummed under his breath, looking away, apparently discouraged by his reaction.

He wondered, looking at him, taking a sip of wine from his goblet, if he had shown him fatherly concern then, taken him under his wing, separated him from Alicent and Otto, he would be a different man now.

Several toasts were made to the bride and groom, during each of which Aegon drank his cup to the bottom, clearly intent on fulfilling his marital duty completely drunk.

"Stop it. You've had enough." Growled his younger brother, taking his goblet from him with an aggressive flick of his hand, setting it impatiently far from his older brother's reach.

Aegon slapped him angrily on the shoulder, mumbling something under his breath; his younger brother stood up, towering over him, showing him wordlessly that if he touched him again he would regret it.

"Aemond." Said their mother, this green whore, who was looking at them in pain, her hands folded in front of her as if to pray.

His nephew rolled his eyes and left the hall by a side entrance, furious, unwilling and unable to look at it apparently; Aegon with a wide grin reached for his cup again and to his despair took the empty seat next to him that had been occupied earlier by his wife, now conversing with the King.

"Uncle! So many years." He mumbled, tapping him on the back in a friendly, masculine greeting. He rolled his eyes, amused, smelling the stench of alcohol and sweat from him.

"As you can see, everything stays in the family. I don't know how I'm going to survive this. After all, she'll surely cry. Fuck." He muttered, taking a deep, catchy sip from his cup, tilting it so that he drank it all at once.

He ran his tongue over his lower lip, feeling discomfort at the thought that he felt compassion for Helaena for what was about to happen to her.

He glanced at her sad, petite figure; she sat gazing off into the distance somewhere, dreamy.

He wondered as he watched her if she realised what awaited her.

"She doesn't seem to fully understand what I will have to do to her. After all, she's my sister. I don't want to hurt her. She's odd and I don't understand her, but I don't want her to fucking cry." He mumbled out covering his face with his hand, his voice breaking with his every word – he drew in air loudly as if he was out of breath, and he looked at him not knowing what to do.

What was he supposed to answer him?

"Be gentle and kind. Make her feel as little pain as possible. You know very well that how it will look lies in your hands. If you want her to suffer as little as possible, stop drinking because it will take you a fucking hour." He growled, taking the cup from his hand just as his younger brother had earlier, and wondered if that was what he meant then, if he knew his condition would only worsen whatever was to await them next.

"You pity yourself and you smell of alcohol and sweat. Go take a bath or do you want to lay on her like that? Give her some dignity for goodness sake." He said coolly, looking ahead indifferently; his nephew swallowed loudly, sitting beside him like a little rebuked child, playing with his fingers.

He wondered, looking at him out of the corner of his eye if his brother had ever spoken to him about it, if he had prepared him and explained to him how he should behave.

"All my life I've envied him. My brother. He had someone of his own who cared about him. I think he really loved her, uncle. Now I barely recognise anyone myself. I'm not sure any of us are the same person anymore. Only Helaena has remained the same − innocent and ignorant. That's because she doesn't step outside her mind. If she did, she would have gone mad like we did."

It turned out that he was partly right.

What he didn't expect was that when they arrived all together as a family after several years in King's Landing to defend Luke's rights to inherit the Driftmark these two would be lying in bed with each other on their very first night.

"If you tell me you still want to marry him, I will help you. I'd rather you be his wife than lead you and him into a scandal that could destroy your mother. Your betrothal has never been called off, the king will easily prove that no other plans for you can be in force against his decision. But if you decide not to, I will personally see to it that you never see him again and that no letter of yours leaves Dragonstone. Make a manly, mature decision with all its consequences, and stop wallowing over yourself."

He told her then, wanting her to understand that they could not stand in the middle, that they had to choose, or their decisions would drag them all down.

Watching them in the throne room audience, however, the greedy, desperate gaze of his nephew fixed on her as if he wanted to devour her gave him no illusions.

What this boy was telling himself was one thing, but what he was feeling was another.

It was this thought that made him decide to question Alicent's decision in front of everyone, wanting to hear his brother's opinion on the matter, the only one that really counted. He had expected nothing but objections from both sides, however, against the desperate attempts of their mothers, his nephew and his niece's daughter made a decision that did not surprise him at all.

It was enough for her to get up from her seat and walk out to make him press his lips together in rage and follow her out, exactly as he had done then, in the courtyard, when he had thrown himself after her, and she knew perfectly well that he would do so, knowing his nature.

He wondered if she had kissed him this time too, if the tension between them had eased.

He thought that this marriage might actually calm the emotions a little, especially as his brother was over his deathbed.

This union was forcing both parties to be cautious, which could be mutually beneficial.

"She has decided that she wants to stay in the Red Keep until I return." His wife said to him, putting her black leather gloves on her hands, walking beside him towards the dragon's lair. He stopped, looking at her in disbelief, furious.

This was not the plan.

"What?" He growled, looking at her as if she had completely lost her mind. "You're leaving my daughter in the care of that whore and her father-traitor?"

He saw that she smiled at his words emphasising that in his eyes she was his child, that he had taken responsibility for her and protected her as any true father should.

"She asked me to do this. I imagine they both want to clarify a lot of things with each other. Since the nuptials are to take place as soon as possible there is no need to fret, I will personally take her back in a few days." She replied calmly, and he let out a loud breath, impatiently licking his lips.

It was a bad idea, he could feel it in his bones, but he didn't protest and that was his mistake.

The next day he lost two of his daughters.

Rhaenyra, his brother's heir to the throne fell with a groan when envoys reported to her that her father was dead, that her brother had been crowned king, that they had imprisoned their daughter.

She cried out loudly in pain, clutching at her womb; at first he thought it was despair, but then he saw the pool of blood beneath her feet, her terrified gaze, her lips parted in agony.

They both knew it was too soon.

Their daughter already looked like a tiny infant, but sadly her fate was sealed; she wasn't moving or breathing, she was cold, looking more like a doll than a human being.

He felt that he had to leave the fortress; he followed exactly where he always went out with her, with one of his daughters, to the sea itself, and he fell to his knees, breathing heavily, not knowing what he was supposed to do with the rage and chaos that overtook his mind.

He wanted to mount Caraxes and burn them all.

However, his cousin and daughters had cooled his ardour, recognising that they needed to prepare, gather an army, make a plan of action.

He recognised that it was only female sentiment, a weakness that kept them from making the risky decision that his whole life consisted of.

When his wife finally recovered from her brief mourning, despite his entreaties, she did not listen to him and decided to send her sons as her representatives, wanting to extract the pledge of allegiance from those who had paid her tribute many years ago.

He had thought it nonsensical, however, when Luke returned from Storm's End it turned out that his step son had been a naive idiot.

"You flew after him? You flew after him knowing he could imprison you, use you as your mother's weakness? Fucking fool." He growled, turning away from the table with fury, massaging his face with his palm, not believing he could have done such a thing.

"Daemon." Said Rhaenyra in a voice trembling with despair; she looked at her son, trying to calm herself. "What happened next?"

"He brought her. Someone hit her, mother, and I think she tried to take her own life. There were cut marks on her wrists." He muttered, forcing himself into a calm tone of voice.

He turned towards him, looking at him with his heart beating fast.

She had done this for them, so they could attack the Red Keep without fear.

She wanted to make a manly decision, to sacrifice herself, his brave daughter, his little dragon.

"Gods." Said his wife, clutching at her womb, apparently involuntarily recalling the moments when she had carried her under her heart, the maternal tears of pain in her eyes.

"And then?" He finished for her, seeing that she didn't have the strength to get anything else out, Luke swallowed hard, afraid to look at him.

"I told her to run away with me, but she didn't agree. She told me to tell you that she loves you and that she remains faithful to you, mother." Said with difficulty, Jace slammed his fist on the table, furious.

"That fucking bastard purposely made her stay. He planned this, he never had any intention of marrying her!" He said red with anger and he glanced at him indifferently, sighing heavily.

"And then what? He let you just walk away? No one else saw you?" He asked further, pretending not to have heard his outburst; Jace pressed his lips together, furious. Luke shook his head quickly.

"N-no, I was surprised, but no. Forgive me, I had to see her, make sure that she is still alive." He muttered, and he sighed heavily, placing both of his hands on the table, leaning over it, and closed his eyes, trying to focus.

He let her see him without any other witnesses and then let him go even though he hated him, even though he could have trapped and humiliated him.

Why?

A memory flashed through his mind, the way his nephew cursed as he fought with himself to finally run after her, her smile full of reassurance as she turned to him knowing he would follow her, his blush of embarrassment and lazy smile as her lips placed a soft, warm kiss on his cheek, her proof of her devotion and affection that he craved so much.

He had never stopped loving her.

This stone-cold, dangerous man had done something for her, surely after she had tried to take her own life.

"Bring me a parchment and a quill. I need to speak with my nephew."

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @apollonshootafar @padfooteyes

365 notes · View notes

lola-writes · 1 month ago

Text

𝐎𝐧𝐞-𝐄𝐲𝐞 & 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫 ║ 3. The Godswood ║ Aemond Targaryen x OC!Aylana Velaryon

➣ Masterlist | Add yourself to my taglist | Ao3 | Ko-Fi | Playlist

➣ [divider @targaryen-dynasty]

➣ Story Masterlist

Word Count: 3,7k

Synopsis: Aylana Velaryon foresees Aemond Targaryen's fate and assigns herself to alter it.

Chapter Themes & Warnings: POV first person (Aylana's), swearing, angst, mentions of blood & violence, friends to enemies, consumption of alcohol. See story master list for full themes & warnings!

Enjoy the read!

Likes, comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

AYLANA

Where love tales start, a maiden stands, Wide-eyed, a caged truth in her hands. A diamond raw, before the strain, Innocence a fragile, sunlit pane.

But what if she, with heart untamed, Loved blood's sharp tang, a death proclaimed? The wolf's raw bite, a searing bliss, His fangs' deep pierce, a fatal kiss?

He, the wolf, with crimson stain, His teeth like steel, a hunter's reign. The world, a feast, laid at his door, And she, the prize he'd hungered for.

The Godswood of the Red Keep was an ethereal sort of place. Sunlight dappled through the verdant canopy, illuminating an effervescent, airy garden overlooking the river. A pale white oak reigned supreme in its centre, stretching its magnificent red crown towards the heavens like grasping fingers. The air was spicy with the scent of flowers. Silverware glinted in the scorching sun, and the food attracted flies.

The thick wet heat soaked through my dress, melting it to my body like a second skin, and the salt stung in my wound. I was edgy and uncomfortable before our presence had even been noted. Mother and Daemon always made their way through the heat unencumbered, leaving me and my brothers to wilt under the sun’s relentless gaze.

It was never too hot for a Targaryen.

It singled us out, drawing unwanted attention our way as if our perspiration was proof that we weren’t one of them.

Congruent mingling chatter, birdsong, and the chiming of cups floated around us, settling me into a veil of sereneness. The volcanic island that had been my home for the last four years was a stark and frigid place, leaving little chance for either greenery or birdsong to thrive, and didn’t even have a Godswood. This alteration in environment had proved to be a welcome one.

But upon our entry, the ebullience was cut short, and the throng fell into an eerie silence.

Heads swivelled our way. A subdued susurration ensued, and as we navigated the crowd, I felt a thousand eyes upon me, their scrutiny weighing down like a thick suffocating blanket. Piecing together their gossip was of little challenge. The deeper the crowd swallowed me, the clearer it became, like they were chanting it in chorus into my ears.

She challenged Aemond.

She must have a death wish.

Shouldn’t she have been ripped to pieces by now?

Aemond clearly spared her.

Annoyance ticked beneath my skin, and it took every ounce of my power not to implode in protest right there in front of everyone. The sweet nostalgia of the place I used to call home was now a forgotten memory. Tainted and corrupted. The years of our absence had surely given the Queen ample time to sink her venomous teeth into the courtiers. Each familiar face I went to greet was another face that shunned me.

I had never felt more unwelcome.

I followed suit behind Daemon, attempting to shield myself behind his broad back, but it was futile. The eyes unravelled me until I feared each one of my transgressions was on display, hot on my skin, as clear as the banners of the great houses.

Never had I previously disapproved of being the centre of attention. It used to be a glittering crown, but now it was a stifling prison. These people no longer admired me. They wanted to eat me alive.

My gaze remained locked into Daemon’s back, for I was sure to get picked apart to the bone if I skimmed the vultures around me.

As Mother made our presence known to her siblings whose union we were celebrating, I couldn’t help but notice the absence of the King. Rumours of his ill health were, from my memory, not unfounded, but I had now begun to question its severity. It made me wonder just how close the succession actually was.

A loud, obnoxious yawn shattered the silence and snapped me out of my abstraction.

Aegon, sprawling indolently in a chair, had just rudely interrupted my mother in her good wishes.

Daemon’s grip around Dark Sister tightened in front of me as I took stock of the situation.

Alicent kicked Aegon in the shin, to which he winced and blinked in rheumy confusion, his eyes widening as if suddenly realizing he was in the presence of people.

He cleared his throat, “And to you, dear sister. Enjoy-,” he choked on a burp, before clearing his throat a second time, “Enjoy the festivities… at your leisure,” he slurred, waving one hand theatrically in the air before propping his elbow up on the armrest, his chin collapsing in his palm.

I sawed my bottom lip between my teeth, fighting down the giggle bubbling in my chest. He was drunk, and it was only an hour past noon.

My gaze flicked to Helaena who seemed present in body only. Her eyes stared absently into the distance, and her frame was turned away as if she did not wish to be there. But her brows, knotted in a tortured expression, told me she was at least aware of her brother’s intoxicated disposition. Something told me that she had endured far worse.

The Hand stood protectively at her side, eyeing Daemon’s fingers caressing Dark Sister.

Alicent looked to the sky, presumably asking the Mother and the Crone for nurturing and guidance.

My brothers and Rhaena twisted uncomfortably beside me, casting furtive glances at each other.

As a matter of fact, the entire throng crackled with tension, like electricity in the air before a lightning storm, each party eyeing the other, awaiting the source of the coming strike.

I was biting the insides of my cheeks, scraping my nails against my palms, my stomach verging on turning inside out from my stifled laughter. None of this was funny, but I couldn’t help myself. It was the only way in which I could seem to deal with these types of situations. An unfortunate affliction, to be sure, but I preferred it over the anxious one that appeared to grip most people. At least Aegon’s impertinence had diverted the court’s attention so that my breathing could come easier.

But a prickle of awareness from being watched still gnawed at me, sharp and beckoning.

A warm rush of recognition ran down my spine as I met an intense gaze – one eye, cold and relentless, but carrying more weight than all the dozen pairs prior put together. It wiped the grin right off my face.

Contempt pulsed hot and heavy in my chest; the last traces of my amusement stifled like the flame of a dying candle. Amid the silent spat that was seemingly happening between the rest of them, Aemond and I became immersed in our own. We stared at each other, the tense scene simmering around us, relegating to obscurity.

He was taller than I’d previously observed, donning all black leather, save the dragon-shaped silver buckles fastened up his midsection to the high collar clasping around his neck.

It was obvious that the heat was insignificant to him.

Dragons prefer heat.

His jaw was sharper than Valyrian steel, and his mouth was set in a sort of perpetual sneer that hollowed his cheeks. Not a nasty sneer, but rather an amused one, as if all the rest of us were quite foolish and he could tell some good jibes on us if he wished.

A subtle glow of sinister glee had come alight in his eye during our ocular joust. Like he was imagining ways of how to torture me. Or like he carried some clandestine knowledge unbeknownst to me. It was difficult to tell the difference. Either way, he looked like he could simply snap his fingers and my whole world would come crumbling down around me.

An infantile nerve tugged at me, one of which I knew I shouldn’t indulge. But as with all of my other impulses… I just couldn’t help myself.

I made a face at him, complete with tongue - pointing it at him like a petulant child, and his expression shuttered, a muscle in his jaw tightening.

My face straightened, a dry huff of amusement leaving my nose. I averted my gaze, needing to abstain from looking at him altogether, or else mirth would consume me. An elbow nudged my arm, and I turned to meet Rhaena’s stern expression, mouthing the words Stop it.

I needed to. This was serious business. But remnants of glee poked at me, my mouth twitching with forced resolve. I looked up to find Aemond’s eye remaining on me, steady and unyielding, promising sharp retaliation.

“Thank you, brother,” Mother’s voice broke the silence, her lilt calm and composed, as if Aegon’s obvious sign of discourtesy were of no consequence, “Might I acquire as to why the King has not yet joined the celebrations?”

Alicent stepped forward, relieving Aegon of his duty to respond. Though, he was hardly capable. And the question had not been aimed at him anyway.

“I might acquire as to the rumours that have been spreading around the castle this morning,” Alicent demanded, her hands stacked beneath her ribs.

My spine became steel, my mirth doused once and for all.

“What is this I hear? A savage attack carried out against my son… again.” Her last word pitched lower, swathed in lethal warning and an undercurrent of tortured reminiscence. “By your daughter, no less.” Her eyes tore from my mother and fell on me, glaring daggers. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

I swallowed, heat blossoming on my cheeks.

I had expected the matter to be brought up sooner or later, but I was not prepared to be confronted so ruthlessly. In front of all these people. Supposed it was just as she’d planned it. Humiliation was her creed.

Words of an extemporized apology began forming on my lips, when Mother grabbed my arm, a vice speaking of protection and a command of silence.

“It is not as they say,” Mother announced, as if to the entire throng. “It was an accident-.”

“Oh, another accident, was it?” Alicent interjected, venom seeping into her voice, her lips curling. “Is this the sort of excuse you will make for all of your children? Perhaps soon they will believe murder to be an accident too.”

Mother scoffed. “Aylana’s intentions were hardly of bloodlust. This was merely the consequence of two dragon riders being a bit too reckless with their beasts. Purely that.”

“So now you’re attributing blame on my son for this façade?”

“It’s all right, Mother.”

A voice, the stroke of velvet and ice, cut the quarrel between the Princess and the Queen. It set my stomach churning, bile bubbling up the back of my throat. Aemond had uttered the three placating words to Alicent – not very loudly might I add – yet the entire throng stood to attention, a steady chill coursing through us in the dead heat of summer. Aemond’s eye was on me though, his expression trained into a blank mask. He held the court’s attention and the power to steer the course of the narrative in the palm of his hand.

I’m going to make you wish you and your pretender menage never set foot in this city again.

Adrenaline exploded through my veins.

I braced myself for his coming defamation, sharpening my tongue to belittle him right back. I would not go down without a fight.

“My sister speaks the truth,” he drawled, never training his eye off me.

What?

“What?” Alicent frowned up at him.

Mother cast me a look, but I was too focused on catching the words coming out of Aemond’s mouth as soon as he’d uttered them.

He nodded gently. “It was my fault. I initiated a game of tag with my niece whom I’ve not seen in ages. I see now that it’s caused quite a stir. It was foolish of me.”

What the fuck was this?

I’d known him for the greater part of my life, but the last four years of his was a mystery to me. Yet, this felt completely out of character. Words like this simply weren’t uttered by this man, and the guarded look twisting Ser Otto’s features validated my conjecture.

Unease danced beneath my skin to a foreboding tune.

I scavenged Aemond’s features with my eyes, searching for any quirk of his mouth, any devious crinkle of his eye that might reveal an ulterior motive for his intervention in my favour. But his countenance was unreadable. Still as a windless sea. I guessed Alicent was occupied with a similar challenge because she was just glaring at him in wide-eyed confusion, unsure of who exactly to rebuke after this declaration.

Aemond’s resolve was more frightening than if a smug grin had been curving his lips, and a single unnerving realization was starting to dawn on me: This would not bode well for me.

“Aylana.” My throat constricted when he spoke my name, sounding more like a threat on his tongue than a word used to address me. “Will you forgive me?” he asked, his voice a honeyed drawl, his gaze holding mine with unbridled conviction.

My scar burned hot on my brow.

He had stated it as a question, yet his tone brooked no argument. Mother’s grip tightened around my arm.

I considered ripping myself away. To announce to everyone here that the fault, in fact, was mine. To make them hate me, and shun me because at least then, I wouldn’t be teetering on the precipice of selling my soul to a demon – that was the only way I could describe the feeling consuming me at that moment.

But I couldn’t do that to my mother. She was relying on me to keep the peace. To make any sacrifice necessary to prevent any further doubt spreading of our claim to the throne. Whatever Aemond’s intentions, I would undoubtedly soon find out.

I forced a smile to my lips and a silken lilt to my tone, playing along. “Of course, uncle,” I said.

Aemond tipped his chin up.

“Consider it forgotten,” I declared. The incongruent feeling rose higher like a building wave of nausea.

Being more dishevelled by the situation than anyone else, Alicent took another measured step forward, blocking Aemond out of view, as if attempting to make us all forget this ever happened, and cleared her throat.

“The King has been up day and night readying the Keep for his children’s nuptials. He’s in his chambers having a well-deserved rest,” said Alicent, “He will join us for the tourney on the morrow.”

“I would like to see my brother,” Daemon announced curtly, with a sense of finality in his voice. “And say what you will, Alicent, but the King has not retired to his chambers on a day of celebration in his life. No matter how…,” he cast a look of scrutinizing contempt around the gardens, “…dull.”

“Causing much grief to both of us, he is not the same man as you remember,” said Alicent ominously, ignoring the Prince’s indisputable insult.

“A fact hardly attributable to your efforts, I’d wager?”

“Certainly not,” Alicent countered.

Daemon huffed derisively.

Their conversation wove into a constant backdrop to my thoughts, as my gaze still fixed on Aemond. My eyes had never left him so that absolutely no crack in his façade would’ve escaped my notice. And indeed, I’d watched him slowly alter, morphing into something more sinister, and dark – something more himself. A predatory gleam had gradually lit his features. The corners of his mouth were no longer curled into that of rye amusement. His head was canted to one side, a cold, calculating glint shone in his eye, and his nostrils flared as if he were smelling blood.

A shiver chased up my spine while I regarded him. Of all the weapons he’d ever taken up against me, this one was undoubtedly the most lethal. In any other circumstances, I would’ve struck my tongue at him again or casually presented him with a low-held fig. But the truth of the matter was that I was absolutely terrified to do so.

Daemon laughed; simply, and dismissively. “We shall return shortly,” he said, casting half a reassuring look at me, my brothers, and Rhaena, before interlocking his fingers with Mother’s and ambled back into the Keep.

A raw panic gripped me as I watched them vanish, their absence leaving me bare and vulnerable to the court’s scrutiny – to Aemond’s silent execution.

Alicent brushed past me too, her mien bristled. “Enjoy the festivities,” she said absently, almost rehearsed, and followed suit into the castle. Heleana retreated, as if finally dismissed, into a corner with her grandfather in heel, and what was left was a semiconscious Aegon, his head still propped in his hand, snoring loudly. And Aemond… His eye flickered with dark enjoyment as he watched me falter.

“Come on.” Rhaena tugged on my sleeve and tipped her head toward a refreshment table. “Let’s get something to drink,” she said.

I hesitated, my legs like hewn stone, too anxious to move at first beneath Aemond’s chilling leer, like one false move would trigger him to lunge at me with full force. Relief washed over me when Rhaena locked her arm with mine and pulled me along. Bodies flickered by me. Shoulders clashed and feet were accidentally stepped on in passing, but once I emerged from the crowd, I filled my lungs with a gasp, like I’d been beneath water for too long.

I vacantly regarded the assortment of foods lining the table from which Rhaena and my brothers plucked eagerly. Lemon cake, apple cake, cream cake, candied almonds, jellies, dates, figs, pomegranate… I loved pomegranate. The vibrant, ruby-red orb was split open on a silver dish, its glistening seeds within the ivory husk making my mouth water. I considered picking up a wedge but resisted at the thought of the fruit’s bloodied stain on my fingers. I’d have the servants deliver some to my room later. I settled for some walnuts and candied almonds, the earthy bitterness mixing with the sweetness working up a proper hunger in my stomach.

“What was that all about?” Jace’s inquiry came from my left.

I glanced his way, noting three pairs of curious eyes awaiting my explanation.

“What was what?” I said, feigning ignorance, placing another candied almond on my tongue. I’d barely had any time to process whatever it was that had just transpired, and I certainly wasn’t sure I’d dare speak of its significance with anyone at present.

Jace scoffed. “That little charade back there.” He turned to me. “We all saw what happened. Half of King’s Landing did. Why is he altering the story?”

“Shh!” I chided sharply, casting my brother a look of pure venom.

Jace’s mouth tightened into a line, and he peered for prying eyes over his shoulder. Then, he dipped his head, leaning closer from down the line of Luke and Rhaena.

“Do you not find it strange?” he whispered.

I picked up a decanter containing a liquid as dark as blood and sniffed its contents. Deeming it suitable enough for consumption, I filled a goblet. A sour and bold flavour filled my mouth as I took a sip. It burned pleasantly as it crept down my throat and left a lingering bitterness at the back of my tongue.

“Is this Dornish?” I asked, gazing into the cup as if its origins were written in the tannins.

“That Aemond, of all people, would find it in his heart to defend you after what you did. Against his mother. Against an entire court of people who now hate us. Why did you agree with him anyway?” Jace’s voice jumped and dipped where he occasionally forgot that he was supposed to whisper.

“Must be Dornish,” I said, remaining on the subject of the wine, a cryptic attempt to make him change the subject.

“I don’t fucking know!” he hissed, before coming around to stand next to me. “Listen, do you want me to be honest with you?”

My chin turned up, arranging my lips into a pondering pout while my eyes continued to travel over the refreshments. “Not really,” I sighed, collecting a handful of grapes.

“Whether we like it or not, we’re on their territory now. And that means we eat out of their hand,” Jace began to explain, annoyance flickering in his eyes as he watched me eating the grapes out of my hand, clearly ruining his clever euphemism. “Your lapse in putting bounds on your impulses has put all of us in danger.”

“He was just being nice. Now, drop it,” I retorted, building up a detestation for his nagging.

Jace narrowed his eyes at me, a wave of incredulity sweeping over his features. “Nice? You know better than anyone that nice is a concept beyond his comprehension.”

“You only say that because you’re afraid of him. I am not.” That was a lie. But how would Jace be able to tell the difference?

“I’m not afraid of him either,” he muttered, his brows knotting together. “I have a bad feeling about this. You shouldn’t have done what you did. And you certainly shouldn’t have allowed him to alter its unfolding-.”

“What did you expect me to do, Jace?” I snapped, a bit too loudly, and Rhaena’s placating hand found my shoulder. “To interject? To say, ‘No, my uncle is lying, I actually did attack him. But don’t worry, because it was purely out of jest. Not like the last time when my brothers took his eye’,” I rasped, watching Jace’s expression turn cold, a shadow of guilt passing through his eyes. “This is a better outcome than we could’ve hoped for. So be fucking grateful.”

Jace’s jaw clenched, his lips plumping into a brooding pout, telling me that he would at last give up picking at my wounds.

“Don’t worry, Jace,” I said reassuringly, picking up the goblet anew, turning my back to the refreshment table. “Of whatever punishment the Greens would want us to suffer, be sure that I would be the sole receiver.”

I headed out into the ocean of bodies, sipping eagerly at the strongwine, planning to dull the scorching premonition at the forefront of my brain.

That Aemond’s favour would be a bargain sealed with a cruel price.

Tag list: @plovas69 @quinquinwuincy @lumerstar @angelofpearls @darylandbethfanforever9 @prettyduckling22 @lv7867 @lovelynerdytraveler @lasrehsif @fiction-fanfic-reader @ewanmitchellfanatic @momoewn @targaryendestiel @queenmariexx @sayuri9908 @aurelialou @lucycowr @doodle-with-rhy @blushingwueen @dumbbitchenergy17 @cosmicbrownies07 @hrlzy @kitdjarin1 @ravyn94 @kyber4crystal @randomwhovian75

27 notes · View notes

vvyvernicus · 11 months ago

Text

Sparks

Characters: Mr. House, Mallory (OC)

Words: 3,084

It was July 4th, 2042. Most people in the United States would be spending time with their families, grilling and enjoying the magic of fireworks. But in times of leisure, others see this as a time for opportunity.

Situated in Las Vegas, was a tall building known as the Lucky 38. It was a luxury casino constructed back in 2024 that was open to only the most luxurious of clients. However it was also the go-to spot in the area for the upper-class, most well-known people of society to gather for social meetings. Whenever these would happen, the entire casino would be closed off to everyone aside from these selected few.

One of the attendees was a woman named Mallory.

Unlike the business people and socialites, Mallory was sent there purely to collect information. No, she wasn't a spy. But with events like these, it would have been preferable. In all honesty she couldn't stand the types of people who attended events like this.

Classy human beings who sought only the finer things in life. Those looking to expand their business reach by making connections with those with political power. People who couldn't be bothered to look out the large windows and admire the glowing city late at night. Ones who weren't here to make real, genuine friendships with others. No, nearly everyone there was attempting to gain something from this party.

One of those people was Robert Edwin House.

Just a few days ago, on June 25th, he founded his company, RobCo Industries, and was making news headlines left and right. He quickly became a popular topic that arose in many discussions. His origin story was eaten up by reporters: The Man Who Rose From the Ashes. This was pertaining to the fact his older half brother cut him out of the family inheritance, but in spite of it, Robert achieved his own success though hard work all on his own.

Not only that, but the man was handsome. Once he just got the smallest bit of limelight and women caught notice, they flocked in droves. A tall, handsome man with a promising company, what wasn't to like? Men wanted to be him and women wanted to bed him.

Mallory took notice of him a few times while she did her best to blend in as a wallflower. He certainly knew how to leave an impression on just about anyone he spoke with. Despite being mildly crowded by dozens all trying to get a chance to speak with him, he seemed very well put together and not at all overwhelmed. Not at all surprising as this was a good chance for him to make viable connections.

But there was something she did pick up while she surveyed the people in the room. One of the women, a model for some newly popular clothing line, Fallon's, was being a little too forward with the young man. Even yards away Mallory could tell she was a bit tipsy. The woman flirtatiously pressed herself up against him as the most interesting expression flickered on his face.

Was that... repulsion? How his body appeared to tense up and his face stiffened. It didn't last more than a second, but Mallory was looking over at just the right time. A slight grin pulled at her mouth before she removed her eyes from the scene. It was pleasant to entertain the thought that someone else here also found most of the company unsavory.

The night continues to go on and Mallory ends up learning a lot from the attending guests. Not information she particularly cared about, but it would be enough to satisfy her sender. Even though it had gotten darker outside, the fireworks still hadn't blossomed in the sky. It wasn't until then could she make her getaway. A shame because she'd be too busy leaving than taking the time to enjoy them herself.

”Pardon me, ma'am.”

Unfortunately, while she was primarily there for information gathering, she was instructed to respond to others if talked to. And not in the way of stating that she was too busy to engage. Be polite without going overboard. For several reasons she did not want her mouth to make her the next center of attention in this place.

”I couldn't help but notice the emblem on your dress. You're here representing Vault-Tec, aren't you?”

Other eyes in the room landed on her as she put on a smile. Her stomach began to swirl uncomfortably before she took a quick, unnoticeable breath.

She was made to wear the dress. The entire outfit was planned out for her for this event. Even her hair, which used to be longer, was forcibly cut short to match the current trendy styles other wealthy women favored. And right above her chest sat that ugly Vault-Tec logo—its position appearing akin to a bowtie.

”You sir have a very sharp eye! As expected from the esteemed director of BlamCo. The details on your boxed products are always very intricate in design, it's clear you pride yourself on even the smallest of details,” Mallory relayed to him with the upmost charm and sincerity. All of the people here loved getting their egos stroked.

Naturally, Mallory knew the vast majority of these people by name, at least the most major and influential parties. She could say something flattering to just about anyone there. It wasn't exactly hard to do as there was always a nice thing to say about even the most rotten of people. Mallory would leave out that she couldn't stomach BlamCo's products herself and focused on its better attributes.

Her chat with the director ended up bringing more people over for conversation. Not what she wanted, but she couldn't turn them away. Doing so would leave a bad impression on Vault-Tec. She wouldn't mind too much, but the person who sent her would. Doing what she really wanted to do, which was to just leave, wouldn't be worth it in the long run.

”So you're the stand in this time. A pity, I wished to speak with the head of the organization this time.”

”I apologize for the inconvenience. Our CEO is a very busy person, so they can't attend these events. A true workaholic for the betterment of humanity!”

”So about the priority vaults... There will be separations based on class, correct? I'd rather avoid living among the common rabble when stuffed into one of those holes.”

”Yes, absolutely! We'll have plenty of reservations available that are only affordable by the wealthiest of individuals. So there's no concern for having less refined neighbors.”

”Can I arrange for specific services or personnel to be available exclusively for my use within the vault?”

”For the luxury vaults, there will be special amenities available tailored to your requests. So long as you book them in advance, they will be ready by the time of a hypothetical disaster.”

She wanted to vomit. It was sickening to her, to keep talking like this. Really, there questions weren't too terrible, just curious people. But she had to answer to make Vault-Tec look good. If only they knew.

At this point in time, Vaults weren't exactly public knowledge quite yet. Unless you were noteworthy, that is. Until Vault-Tec landed the deal with the government "Project Safehouse" was secured—and it would be—vault production was quite slow. Only a few had been constructed so far and were still in the beta phases. But once money rolled in, the construction would rapidly speed up.

After around twenty minutes of talking, she figured that was plenty of acceptable socializing for the night. Any longer and she may just miss the fireworks. No one else seemed to be interested though, otherwise more would be out talking on the balcony. Although, thanks to the huge glass windows, she supposed most would be able to see it without going outdoors.

But it was suffocating in there. So she had to make a tactical retreat. Even just five minutes away from these people would do so much for her mental health.

”Forgive me, but I'll have to come back to some of your questions later. I've got the urge to light one up,” Mallory joked as the others then exchanged glances. It wasn't but five seconds later that she was offered a lit cigarette.

Right, it was common for people to smoke right indoors. Something that she'd probably never get used to. Just how could people do that when the ash and scent sticks to literally anything? Surely these people expected her to smoke right here in front of everyone and continue on pleasing them.

“That is very kind of you, however I must decline. The brand just doesn't agree with me whatsoever; really it's my bad for being so selective. For me to thoroughly enjoy a good smoke, I must partake in it while accompanied by a slight breeze. So forgive me for having such peculiar demands,” she said as she delicately shooed away the fancy cigarette.

Their perplexed faces did not last long as soon a new topic of interest was brought up. This allowed her to conveniently step out of the spotlight and make her way to the glass door that led to the balcony. The Lucky 38 was quite high up, which allowed for a great view of Las Vegas' city. As Mallory opened the door, she was hit by a very mild breeze. Already she felt so much more comfortable out there.

The balcony looped around and made a full circle, so Mallory figured the best place to be undisturbed was at the opposite end which had no door. Less chance of others also wanting to feel that warm July night air. As she walked around, her eyes gazed at the pretty city below. It would be fun to see how the lights contrasted with the fireworks once they painted the black sky.

Her heels froze against the concrete as her eyes spotted a man right in the spot she wanted to be. He was leaning against the railing, like he was contemplating some big event in his mind. It wasn't super well lit over there, but she could make out that he was wearing a classy suit. Since like her, he also wanted to get a breather, she thought it would be polite to announce her presence instead of sneaking up on him.

”Excuse me, sir!” she called out to him, careful to not get too close and risk spooking him over the edge. It was a long way down...

”Would it bother you if I have a smoke?”

It's when she asked the question that the man turned to look at her. Then, she could get a much better look at his face. Deep brown eyes that showed little emotion. He had also been frowning before, but upon seeing another person he had straightened himself up slightly.

She was looking at the founder of RobCo Industries. The man who was previously inside chatting with many people—mostly about business stuff she assumes. She didn't even notice him leave as she was preoccupied with collecting other information. But she figures that all of the social interaction must have been draining for him to slink away like this. Just how long had he been out there before her?

”Do whatever you want. I don't own the place,” he sighed, clearly not interested in talking. He seemed mentally exhausted. Mallory was empathetic and hoped that this time in the night air would recharge him before too long.

Reaching into her purse, she pulled out a lighter. Afterwards she opened a carton and pulled out what she was reaching for. Her fingers ignited the lighter as she attempted to light the target. The man close by had no interest in her activity in the slightest—that is until the metal rod started to let of many of bright sparks.

”I had wrongfully assumed you meant cigarettes,” he let out a light scoff, clearly taken aback by her quiet firecracker. Indeed it let off a bit of smoke, but this was the first time he had seen someone compare fireworks to smoking.

”It's Independence Day, it shouldn't be too shocking to see someone using these tonight,” she replied, fingers delicately twirling around the rod. She pauses a second before continuing. ”Besides, these are much more entertaining than cigarettes. I could easily use them year-round.”

The two of them then enter a state of silence as they both admire the city stretch. The Las Vegas Strip had a lot of things to entertain ones eyes. If one found the lights too bright, they could divert their attention to the equally as interesting less glowy structures instead. It was quiet on that balcony aside from the gentle crackling of the sparkler.

”Is this the first time we've spoken?” His voice asked, but he chose not to look at her directly. ”I don't recall seeing you inside earlier.”

To that a slight grin makes it's way to her face. It was intended to be unnoticed by as many as possible. Her face wasn't exactly recognizable, public appearances limited. Not that Robert House would ignore more important people surrounding him in favor of glancing at a lone woman off in some corner.

”In a way, yes. But don't bother yourself with me. I'm just an inconsequential woman wanting to enjoy the view,” she said as she twirled the sparkler between her fingers. It was halfway finished with it's brief display.

She expected their interaction to be uneventful. After all, he seemed a little too tired to socialize. Especially not with someone as unexpected as her. She was just going to enjoy her sparklers in peace. But something about what she said must have struck a nerve within him.

”That's an oddly specific way of introduction. Either you're trying to incline me to ask more about you or you just might be the worst spy I've ever met,” he smirked as he spared her the slightest glance before looking away. There wasn't any warmth in his tone, but it wasn't quite hostility either.

”If you're asking if I came out here to talk to you, I'm afraid I must disappoint you. They simply wouldn't allow me to do this inside. I apologize that I'm not so interested in bombarding the Robert Edwin House with dozens of questions about his machines.”

Acknowledging that she knew about him probably would be enough to end the conversation. After all he had spent a good portion earlier having others swarm him, trying to get into his good books. Talking further would most likely add to his stresses. She sighed as the sparklers last sparks had shot off into the air.

”What a pity. You lost your reason for standing around here.” A wry smile came to his mouth as his eyes came to hers this time. Tired, but held what was unmistakably a glint of interest.

”You underestimate me...”

Mallory reveals that in her purse, she has a whole pack of unused sparklers. She swiftly takes out another stick and lights it up. The old one was placed back inside the carton. She couldn't help but smile as she saw his eyebrow twitch in annoyance.

But she wasn't malicious at heart. If her being there was such a bother, she could move. She was about to bring it up before he had another question.

”Won't you share with me why you're really here?”

Odd he kept bringing up conversation with her. Did he already have a large ego as big as the people who were inside? Maybe her choosing not to be super talkative was challenging it. Strange since when she first saw him she figured the last thing he wanted was more conversation.

“Collecting intel, though I don't suppose how that makes me different from others who are here,” she chuckled. ”Well... I'm not here to tailor any connections. Professional ones that is.”

She had to admit it was a bit lonely. Not being able to talk to these people like friends. Everything here was calculated. At least until she had gone outside on the balcony.

Her second sparkler had met it's end and she began to fumble around in her bag to retrieve another. She should probably go back inside after the fifth sparkler, to use them as timers. As she opened the carton, she became unfocused on her surroundings. She only flinched slightly when she noticed that Robert had moved noticeably closer.

His body wasn't facing her, it was still leaning against the railing and his eyes forward. Up close like this, she really got to have a better look at his facial features. No wonder so many women swooned at the sight of him. Even without smiling, he was definitely a conventionally attractive man in his prime.

”Would you like one too?” she asked, taking out another unlit sparkler from the carton. It caught his attention immediately as he stared at the stick with lingering curiosity. ”It's fine if you don't. I just thought I'd offer, since you came over here.”

He took it from her hands carefully, like he hurt himself if he touched it the wrong way. A little bit silly since it wasn't even lit yet. She then took out her lighter to light her own stick. Then she used the sparkler flames to do the same to his.

”Happy fourth to you,” she laughed lightly before waving her sparkler over the edge. ”Now I wonder when those big fireworks will make their appearance...”

Robert stared at her for a moment before turning his attention up towards the sky. What an odd woman. Did she really just want to come out there to play with sparklers? Not a very smart business tactic. Even if she were trying to flatter him, this was definitely a unique way of doing so.

”You never did tell me your name,” he spoke, though this time, his head made the effort to look at her rather than the city below.

She was surprised, albeit pleasantly so. He was the first tonight to actually ask her name, oddly enough. Aside from the person who checked her ID upon entry to the Lucky 38. To everyone else she was simply someone sent by Vault-Tec. And to these people, you only really mattered if you were the head of operations or a regular public figure.

”Molly.”

“Molly...?”

”Molly the inconsequential person you'll probably never see again.”

Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed this little short. There may be more to come in the future. However, if you weren't the biggest fan and would prefer not to see more, simply block this tag (#EternalMallory) and you will no longer see anything related to this character.

#mr house #fallout #fallout new vegas #pre war #fanfiction #ao3 writer #fallout fanfic #mr house x oc #original character #original female character #3rd pov #lucky 38 #ao3 link #robert house #younger mr house #robert edwin house #oc x canon #first meeting #EternalMallory

9 notes · View notes

auntie-venom · 11 months ago

Text

Will of Fate

Chapter Eleven

Fandom: Star Wars: The Mandalorian

Story Rating: Explicit

Chapter Rating: Mature

Characters: Din Djarin x Original Female Character

Summary: There hasn’t been an unidentified spacecraft in the stratosphere of Arkadia in over two decades, let alone three in one day. Those skilled or mad enough to venture into the Chaos unguided were few and far between. That means no one has ever made it to Arkadia who wasn’t intending to be here.

Until today.

Din Djarin finds an unmapped planet filled with beings who have the same powers as the Child, but know nothing of the force or the Jedi.

Chapter Summary: Eziriel and the Mandalorian kick off the hunt for the missing Imperial TIE pilot.

Word Count - 3,944

Chapter Warnings: None

Will of Fate Masterlist

Read on Ao3

A/N: This chapter is a little later than I intended. Real life tends to get busy when you want to get creative. I really appreciate everyone who is reading and letting me know that you like what I am doing. It is very encouraging. I hope you enjoy, any feedback is welcome!

Chapter Eleven

Eziriel is grumpily eating her breakfast. She got up at a ridiculous hour, long before the sun was meant to rise, to ride to the skyport and pack all the supplies she and the Mandalorian would need. She knew that he planned to leave in the morning after dropping his kid off with Nora and she wanted to make sure she had the skyship ready by then.

She had packed provisions into bags with the assumption that this task would take no longer than seven days. She honestly had no idea how long a bounty hunter took to catch a bounty, but if it took longer than seven days she would personally either grab something from a beacon station supply cache or take the few hours by skyship back to Helix to grab more supplies.

She had put away the drop-seats in the drop bay and packed the speeder bike into that area of the skyship. The ship was pretty small, but the Forest of Ga’ladora was very dense. She was sure she should be able to fly him close enough to the last known evidence point to drop him off with the bike to help his descent while she found a close place to land.

She did most of these tasks with a sense of smoldering rage. Amarian and her were discussing the lost Imperial TIE pilot on their way home from work the day before. After she voiced her concerns over her growing state of paranoia after returning to work and not knowing how to act amongst a potential betrayer, he admitted his frustration with the missing Imp and how he was irritated at the team of Enforcers’ lack of results. Eziriel thought they were just commiserating together over related woes until Amarian joked about hiring the Mandalorian to fix both of their problems; he could hunt down the TIE pilot and Eziriel would have to go with him due to her oath binding herself to his safety. Eziriel laughed, thinking there was no way Amarian would use her oath to the Mandalorian as a way to sneak her out of the office so quickly after being gone for weeks just so she can avoid the tension there.

But the bastard kriffing did it.

Eziriel knows an argument with the Mandalorian is coming. She did not discuss her coming with him on this trip and knows that there is going to be pushback from the man, and she completely understands. She does not want to be put in a dangerous situation. She is not someone who looks for risks to be heroic, she is the type of person to help come up with a plan and send people on their way with useful toys. So she knows she will have to sell her coming in a way that the Mandalorian is going to have to accept, and by the time she is finished with her labor, she thinks she's gotten her argument fully prepared.

It was an overall exhausting morning, but she took a moment of serenity, sitting at the edge of the launchpad and letting the rising sun warm her skin as she ate her breakfast in the quiet of the morning. Trying hard not to dwell on the impending argument from a stubborn man and about how much she enjoyed his presence interacting with her family last night.

After scheming with Amarian about the hunt and the supplies the Mandalorian needed to complete it successfully, they had a hearty dinner where Amarian offered the Mandalorian a table to eat in his locked study with the audio patched into the dining area. With how used to the disembodied voice of CHI the family was it was very easy to integrate the Mandalorian’s input into conversation. He did not speak much, but he asked more about the farming district where Nora grew up and how the agricultural council operated. This led to a boring discussion that Eziriel bailed out of in favor of making her niblings and the green child laugh with silly faces. It was a familiar type of evening that she missed while she was away trying to source the Cloak’s glitches. So she is extra annoyed she has to leave the familiarity of it so quickly because of Amarian using the Mandalorian.

By the time she is finished with her breakfast, Eziriel has built up the mental fortitude she knows she needs in order not to take out her frustrations upon another person. Taking one last moment to watch the late summer sunlight up Helix for the day, she stands up and goes to start running the preflight check on the small skyship.

════════════════════════════════════

“What are you doing here?” the Mandalorian’s voice asks out from the small cabin of the ship and she looks up from underneath the console to catch him placing a forearm onto the upper part of the door frame to lean in. “Don’t you have work?”

“Yep,” she says nonchalantly, hauling herself into the pilot seat and turning it to face him. She stares at him for a moment before continuing, “But I can review project updates during our flight.”

She watches his whole body still as he stares down at her and she feels a spike of worry come off him before he finally says in a stern voice, “No.”

“Yes,” she responds.

“You are not coming with me,” he demands.

“Hey Lori, I don’t want to come at all–”

“Great, problem solved,” he interrupts before grabbing her and pulling her out of the pilot seat.

“But I am sworn to your safety.” She explains, planting her heels into the ground and pulling herself out of his grip, knowing full and well that he isn't giving his full strength. She sits back down in the chair and gives him a scolding look. “We have gone over this.”

“What I do is too dangerous for some princess to ride along on,” he says in a frustrated tone. Leaning over into her space he plants his hands on the armrests, caging her into the seat. “This is dangerous and your silly superstitions have no place in it. Go home.”

Eziriel feels her facial features go heavy in anger at the condescending tone he is giving her and she has to take a breath before she lashes out. She’s used to being talked down to at work by her higher-ups or political snobs who want to use her for whatever skeezy plot they desire, but she expected more from those she considers friends. Yes, she has teased the Mandalorian, but has never patronized him like this before and it is insulting that he is doing it to her. She has been nothing but respectful to him and his more devout followings of his culture, just for him to throw hers in her face. There is a twinge of regret she feels from him that grows as she stares up at him in silence and she leans in close enough to him that her nose almost touches his helmet.

“The stakes of my honor are not superstition to me,” she states in a low threatening voice. “I thought a Mandalorian would understand that and would not insult it. Just as we do not insult how others' honor might be recognized in their culture,” she finishes with a flick to the side of his helmet to drive home her point and glares at him.

That small sliver of regret she feels in him cracks into remorse, but that initial spike of worry clouds his aura and she can understand where his harsh words came from. They stay there, him looking down at her still caging her in and her staring at the T in his helmet hoping she is meeting his eyeline. He finally drops his head forward and lets out a familiar sigh that Ezirial is starting to recognize as exasperated concession.

“I can tell that you are good at your job and my being there will be distracting enough to make it more dangerous for you, and ultimately go against my oath to your safety. That is why I feel I can keep you most safe by flying you to the locations you are needed and giving you backup from the safety of the skyship,” she explains her logic to him. “I have no intention of being on the ground with you hunting this person. My way of keeping you safe is to keep an open comm with you so I know if I need to give you transport, tech, or supply assistance.”

Eziriel gently raps her knuckles on his helmet, getting him to look up before continuing, “Come on, do you really think I am foolish enough to think a Mandalorian needs defensive protection? And that I would be the top choice for that position?” She makes a soft scoffing noise from her lips to show her feelings for that scenario.

“Having transport backup would be nice, so I don’t have to haul the bounty all the way back to where I initially parked the ship,” he admits to her and stands back up to his full height.

“I do seem to thrive as your personal chauffeur. Maybe I should consider a career change,” she quips while turning her attention to the console to start closing the loading ramp and begin her ignition checklist. “Plug in the coordinates that Amarian sent you into the navigation.”

“I am sorry I disrespected your beliefs,” he says softly, ignoring her command. He lowers himself into the copilot seat keeping his helmet on her and she can feel the remorse in both his words. “That was a cruel thing to do. Especially since I know you are just trying to help.”

“Thank you,” she answers just as softly, almost taken aback at his genuine, eloquent apology.

“But,” he starts and she inwardly cringes waiting for another argument. “If there comes a moment where you cross paths with the target, you must listen to me.”

Eziriel looks at how he is leaning in her direction from his jumpseat. He is tense and while his anxiety over her coming has lessened dramatically, he is still nervous. He cares, at least somewhat, about what happens to her.

“I will,” she agrees and smiles at him. “Didn’t know you cared so much Lori. I think you are starting to like me.”

“I just don’t want to create a political incident by getting the princess killed,” he says with a dry tone before turning to put in the coordinates, and for the first time since they met, Eziriel reads a lie off of the Mandalorian.

════════════════════════════════════

Since they were flying with a smaller planet-side ship within the troposphere they were looking at a four-hour trip to get to the crash site in Ga’ladora’s Canyon. The Mandalorian wanted to inspect the site itself to see if he could glean anything that the Enforcers missed.

The first hour was spent planning, starting with potential drop spots from the most recent planetary scans. The bottom of the canyon of the area they were going is too unstable with its rocky foundation for the weight of the ship, but there were a few options where Eziriel could lower into the canyon enough to drop the Mandalorian on the speeder bike so long as there haven’t been any recent collapses of one of the stone pillars that litter the canyon floor with debris.

After solidifying the drop plan, she then shows him some of the options for landing to set up a base camp near where he will land. The closest one, and the agreed upon one, is miles away in a small meadow in the woods that the Mandalorian will have to take one of the steep trails out of the canyon to reach.

She then gives him a small lecture accompanied by a slideshow on her datapad of any flora and fauna that reside in the Forest of Ga’ladora that were dangerous and what to do if he sees one. She doesn't have to see his face to know that he rolled his eyes several times at her presentation, but she does know that he is smart enough to take her warnings to heart.

For the rest of the trip, they sit in the small cabin as Eziriel works through her backlog of project updates from her DefTech team while the Mandalorian sits cross-armed with his helmet pointed at the front viewscreen while some percussion focused music thumps quietly over the comm system. She doesn’t know if he is dozing or just staring out the window but she cannot figure out how he remains so very still for such a long time. She is trying to figure out how long it has been since he last moved when his borrowed comm beeps at him and he slightly flinches. Ahh, dozing then, she thinks with a small grin as he looks at the comm and sighs with a shake of his head.

“Your brother is nearly as irritating as you,” he remarks. “‘Hope you like your pilot, she was desperate to fulfill her council-mandated community service.’” She snorts at Amarian’s message spoken with the dry unimpressed tone of the Mandalorian.

“I am still the reigning terror, I hope,” she says with a smile at him.

“For now,” he concedes and sits up a little straighter in his seat to check the ETA til the drop point. She checks it as well and sees they are about half an hour out and that CHI will be notifying her to take control from them shortly.

She stands up and makes her way out of the cabin and into the drop bay. She double-checks the bag she packed for the Mandalorian is strapped tightly to the speeder bike. She doesn’t want him to lose it on the way down or while he is traveling.

“What’s that?” his voice calls out from behind her making her jolt at his unexpected following.

“I packed some provisions for you. Medkit, survival kit, bedroll, and seven days' worth of food,” she lists as she climbs up to sit sideways on the speeder bike. “I just wanted to give you the option of not having to come back to base camp each night, but you will be missing out on actual bunks,” she says as she points to one of the retracted bunks on the side of the drop bay.

“I appreciate your preparedness,” he says. “But I don’t need much on a hunt.”

“Better to have and not need,” she says with a shrug and then holds her hand out to him. “Your vambrace, please”

He is hesitant but turns to lean his hip against the speeder resting one arm behind her and holding out his other arm to her which she gently takes to lay across her lap. Turning her visor on she inspects the vambrace silently and clicks it on to see the user interface he deals with.

“I could have done that for you,” he chastises.

“This doesn’t allow long-range reception or communication, does it?” She asks, knowing the answer at seeing the hardware through his visor.

“No, only proximity-based,” he says and she hums at him and she opens her HolOmni to pull up local holomaps and her dangerous flora and fauna presentation to begin the data transfer between the two.

“I could fix that for you. Make it so you never have to carry a separate comm again. It’s very freeing,” she offers resting her arm against his while they watch the data load. “I could also make your analog interface into a holo projection interface if you’d like. I’m still perfecting the tactility of the holoform, but it’s pretty solid if you aren’t too aggressive. Give it a feel.”

She angles her arm at him and he lifts his arm from her lap and drags his finger across her menu screen of the HolOmni. She looks up at him to make a joke only to realize how intimately close they are. His chest almost touches her arm and his arm rests behind her in a position that is inches away from an embrace. She feels her neck heat up at the observation and hopes he is too focused on interacting with her HolOmni to notice. When he finally draws his attention back to her face she tries to give him a normal smile but there is a small catch of breath that his vocabulator doesn’t pick up but Eziriel barely hears.

“I think that it might be too nice for me,” he says in a quiet voice before lowering his arm down to place it back in her lap, but this time his hand rests on her thigh rather than hanging off awkwardly.

“You are allowed to want nice things,” she says just as quietly and she feels one of his fingers twitch. She tries to compose what to say next when her HolOmni beeps that the file transfer is done. They don’t pay any attention to it and just stare at each other, gauging one another for a few moments before the posh voice of CHI rings through the ship’s comms.

“We are ten minutes from the drop zone, I suggest you relieve me from autopilot.” Eziriel jerks at his voice and the Mandalorian pulls away.

“Right,” she says. “Saddle up Lori, you’ve got a fall ahead of you.” She gives him a grin and hops down from the bike trying to bury that intimate tension that filled the space only moments earlier with their familiar banter.

“I think I can handle that,” he says while mounting the bike as she makes it to the cabin door.

“Hey,” she catches his attention and he looks up at her. “Let the Will of fate guide your way.” He gives her a nod and she slips into the small cabin to begin their complex descent into Ga’ladora’s Canyon.

════════════════════════════════════

Eziriel had just landed after the successful drop-off and was about to start setting up base camp in the area they both agreed upon when the Mandalorian comms in for the first time.

“Change of plans,” he states suddenly into her earpiece.

“Already? It’s been, like, fifteen minutes?” she complains.

“I have a trail and it goes the opposite direction of where you plan to set up camp. I figured you’d want to at least be in the same direction I’m headed,” he explains. “The second location option is in the direction I’m headed if you want to go set up there.”

“Will do,” she confirms. The second location was much further out, but to the south of the canyon next to a small river with just enough space for the small skyship to land. “Amarian said the storm washed away all their tracks, what did you find?”

“Imperial pilots have protocols if they crash. They are to find the closest civilization to make a rescue call. If they cannot find civilization they are to head to the highest point to set up an emergency transponder,” he explains. “However, they are supposed to make discreet marks to show where they are going so they can be tracked by a rescue unit. You wouldn’t notice the marks unless you were specifically looking for them.”

“And you are a smart hunter who knows their prey,” Eziriel says with a smile. She gets the ship back in the air and can’t help but be impressed with him as he explains what he found. A small mark on the lower part of a nearby stone pillar. From that mark alone he was able to determine the initial direction the TIE pilot was headed six days prior.

“A good bounty hunter knows the target’s tactics,” he states simply once he is finished giving her his explanation.

“I guess you weren’t exaggerating when you said you were the best,” she says cheekily.

“I don’t exaggerate,” he says.

“I know you don’t,” she reassures.

════════════════════════════════════

That first night the Mandalorian surprisingly came back to base camp when it was getting late. They had been staying in touch here and there with him giving her updates and her asking him bounty-hunting questions. When night became fully dark he showed up at camp. He claimed he was close enough that it made sense to rest where she was already set up and had a proximity alert, but the way he groaned in relief at laying on the bunk below her told her the real reason was simply comfort and she was glad she could give him that.

The second day he was out as soon as the sun rose, nodding in acknowledgment at Eziriel’s sleepy goodbye wave. She spends most of the day powering through the rest of her reports and pestering the Mandalorian with little jokes and quips just to hear him sigh, but she swears she can hear a smile in that sigh. He spends the day giving her updates and sometimes talking to her about his thought process in tracking the TIE pilot. He eventually found bootprints his HUD could follow and it made his job easier since there weren’t other humanoid tracks to taint the trail. He doesn’t come back to base camp that day and Eziriel is somewhat disappointed to be spending an evening alone.

On the third day, she spends her time working on a few of her own projects while lounging on a rock by the small river trying to soak in the sun’s warm rays. She ends up asking him random questions today during his updates and she finds out that he thinks having favorite things is pointless. But after nagging him she discovers he prefers savory food over sweet, rural areas over city, and nights in over nights out. Even though he claimed he doesn’t have favorite things he was quick to tell her of his preferred weapons and their ideal situation to be used when she asked, and she had to stifle the laugh his brief enthusiasm caused.

During that third day, he deduces that the TIE pilot is headed towards the mountain range south of them to try and set up the emergency transponder. They discuss finding a new spot for her to move to in the direction he is headed, but off the path that he thinks the Imperial is taking. There were three options in the dense woods and she is unsure if some of the choices are still viable after that storm he arrived in.

“I’ll just check them out tomorrow afternoon to see which one works. I can send you the exact coordinates when I land to your comm so you can manually punch it in your vambrace holomap,” she tells him over comms while she eats her evening ration. She gives him an exaggerated sigh before continuing, “Really Lori, let me upgrade your set-up so people can just drop information to you directly. Imagine, no more carrying a separate comm to sync to your kit.”

“It’s never been a problem before,” he says and follows it with a groan of relief that Eziriel assumes is from getting off the bike for the night.

“Streamlining that process could very well save a life,” she states. “You don’t know how much you might need something like that until it’s too late.”

She can practically hear his eyes roll over the comms, before he goes on a small monologue about how he is perfectly fine without her advanced technology and doesn’t need it to be the best at his job. She just listens to his voice lecture her and smiles softly to herself as the moons crest overhead in the night sky.

<< Chapter Ten

Chapter Twelve >>

#star wars #star wars fanfiction #fanfiction #din djarin fic #din djarin #din djarin x oc #din djarin x ofc #din #din djarin x original character #din djarin x original female character #man #mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian #mandalorian x original character #mandalorian x original female character #third #third person pov #third person perspective

13 notes · View notes