#outlander fics

[godihatethiswebsite]

18+

Oh to spend a day in the crisp autumn highlands, wrapped up in MacTavish plaid, hands kept warm with a small thermos full of mulled wine, watching a wild and carefree Johnny—all boyish smiles and face flushed from the cold—skipping rocks over the loch looking handsomely rugged in full Scottish kilt and a chunky knit sweater.

And if later on he lays you out on the blanket and keeps the chill away with his brawny weight draped over top and his hot breath panting babbled praise in your ear then who's around to judge a lad for keeping his bonnie hen warm the old fashioned way?

Masterlist

[sapphiressmoke]

Outlander Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen x Modern!Reader

She doesn’t know how it happened but they were calling to her to come closer. Touching it was never suppose to uproot her life and transport her somewhere she never thought she could see and witness. She has to try her best to survive if she wants to get back, right?

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

[dadsbongos]

kanin under maanen

word count - 4.6 k

warnings - p in v sex, reader is described with words like "soft" and "round" and is also fem, rag's status as a widower is an afterthought, i kept losing track of where i put his furs

also - i think oldegaard is funger's norway?? or something... :P oops

“Please- I’ll be quick, I swear! I’ll carry things! I know how to mix herbs, I can heal you! And I’ll be quiet, too. Just, oh, just please... please let me stay with you…!”

Your hands rattle against your chest, which heaves like you’re fresh from a churning dash through the entirety of the dungeons -- just to ask this man, a stranger, a simple question.

“Can I stay with you, please?”

Ragnvaldr stares down at you over the bridge of his nose, seafoam eyes lapping over the weaker stain of your frame in his vision. Such bold, shameless desperation plagues him. He starts to wonder how you’d made it to the courtyard. How many cramped corners you’d jammed yourself into, barely scraping out of the dungeon beasts’ sights. How you’ve held your mind together to form words and continue your slow crawl to freedom.

The reddened, raw stretch of skin over his right ribs stings suddenly to emphasize your point. Ragnvaldr was raised well enough to know which shrubbery to scrub into which wounds and which ones to avoid at all costs, but his knowledge was poultry compared to what these cells demanded.

At the downwards twitch of your knees, Ragnvaldr can feel an uncomfortableness to rival the ache of his seared flesh twinge through his beating chest. He takes you by the shoulder, grip loosening when you flinch under his hold. Ragnvaldr shakes his head, silky cardinal tresses dancing over his skin. His lips, cracked and fading in color, pin themselves back faintly to ease your shivering uncertainty.

“No need to beg on your knees,” Ragnvaldr unlatches from you completely in favor of cradling the slowly leaking slashes in his side, “You said you can heal?”

“Yes!” you eagerly respond, nodding, “Yes, let’s sit you down!”

Ragnvaldr flows under the bristle of your fingertips, fur armor quickly coming off. His uncovered back was against the chilled stone highwall; lower body stretched out against the grass bed. Your hands move in smoother, more assured strides as you single out the most useful of your colored leaves.

“Can I…?”

“Ja, anything you need.”

Ragnvaldr’s eyes, you notice, have softened in how they watch over your work. The flutter of his lashes now matches the tenderness of their color. A near-missed swipe from a serrated weapon -- none like you’ve seen -- decorates the majority of his right side under his arm. Angry red lines string over the pink flesh. You press a careful hand into the surrounding area, testing the firmness of his body for soft spots. For broken bones. He allows it, despite the stark difference in strength and the fact he could probably crush your skull with one palm -- he allows your hands to roam.

The bag you pull from is ratty and he thinks the deep brown hue may be more from staining than original dyes, but he says nothing. You first pull out a thick book with yellowed pages between faded, peeling covers. Then, four blue herb sprigs and two glass vials -- the stretch and twist of your bones and ligaments beneath soft, unbruised skin is hypnotizing to Ragnvaldr. You crush the sprigs with a single vial before hurriedly separating the remains between the two vials and combining two blue vials into one.

“I don’t think it’s infected,” you murmur, clogging the vial with a cork. A lighter shade of blue now shimmers beneath the glass, darker shreds of herb cling inside the abandoned second vial.

Ragnvaldr shakes his head, “Nej. I’d have mentioned it.”

“Ah, right,” you cup a hand over your mouth, eyes wide as if you’re offstruck by your own words, “I didn’t mean- of course, you- I mean… I’m sorry,” you bashfully reopen the cerulean bottle and hold it up towards the man’s face, “I didn’t mean to suggest anything…”

A vicious anxiety continues to course through your chest, no matter how pliant Ragnvaldr has made himself to show his trust for your care. You’re visibly hyper-aware of how simply he could end your life. Something about the nature of this makes him nauseous.

“I’m sure you didn’t,” Ragnvaldr speaks softer than before, his voice a deep, gentle purr through the broad expanse of his chest. Tenderly, he swipes the open vial from your palm, the warmth from his skin washing over the cold nips of your own, “Thank you.”

Silently, you nod, wasting seconds to watch his adam’s apple bob thickly with each swallow before you pull loose the cloth you’ve collected through ransacked rooms. The strips coil around themselves by your kneeling legs.

“Can I start wrapping it?”

“Ja.”

“This might be…” you flounder under his eyes, instead stringing up the cloth in your hands and leaning over Ragnvaldr’s bigger frame. Invasive.

Ragnvaldr contemplates, for the second time, how you’d skipped past guards and tentacled flesh beasts and dogs. Even the impish, frail, winged creatures seem capable of knocking your terrorized self off your steady. Then, he asks himself why he’s taken you in. Oldegaard groomed strong warriors, and he had always taken pride in that. He was raised with scorching blood and willing hands, you were not.

But you remind him of the blacksmith’s girl. A sweet thing -- also unfamiliar with the fighter’s path. He prays she was killed quickly rather than being made to suffer.

Perhaps he can apologize to her and the rest of his gutted homeland by escorting you back out once he’s taken revenge.

“How did you get this?” your voice lulls Ragnvaldr from his own head, he looks up from your binding hands to your soft face, “Can I ask that? How were you injured?”

“A man with the head of a crow,” Ragnvaldr admits this to you with the ease he would his name, “A mace for an arm,” he gestures down the length of his side, “He’s much faster than I am.”

“I’m glad you got out,” you finish tucking the tattered end of your cloth spiral into the rest of the sprawl. You are suddenly afraid of being misconstrued, “I’m glad this dungeon couldn’t claim another soul.”

Ragnvaldr thinks you are as kind as the blacksmith’s girl, but you must have resilience to survive this far. More guts and nerve, and even teeth. They may be loose and accustomed to chewy, lavish fat, but you most certainly have teeth.

He wants to see them.

“I feel the same.”

You smile, bigger than he had earlier. The thin shadows and dimples highlighted in your face remind him of when he was younger, with the liberty to stare up at full moons. Absorbing and beautiful with radiance to shine over shadowed forests and into black night seas. He wants to return to there. Even in the cruel winters when he was faced with the opened chests and severed limbs of his deceased comrades. Even then, when he had to eat or be eaten, things were simpler compared to now.

“I think you should rest,” you frown immediately after speaking, “To avoid agitating the wound with the cloth… it isn’t very clean and I don’t have enough green herbs to keep infections at bay for long.”

Ragnvaldr tenses, but it’s not as nerve-wracking as it would’ve been mere moments ago. He clenches his fists and gently skims his knuckles down the pseudo-bandages, when it stuns him momentarily, he nods.

“We can’t stay out here, then.”

“There are rooms in the dungeon’s first level.”

“For torture?”

Dread fills you, that he may consider your suggestion foolish and ultimately dump you off to a guard, but then you see the lopsidedness of his grin. He’s messing with you.

“Well, yes,” you huff, coming to a stand and holding out both hands to assist him up, “but our options are limited.”

Ragnvaldr stubbornly stands on his own, pushing off the tower wall behind him and stumbling ahead of you towards the entry hall.

And with just as much defiance, you jam yourself under one of his arms before you can properly think out the action. Your desire to be helpful and needed by the strongman outweighs your politeness; not wanting to be abandoned with your back turned. Ragnvaldr jolts over you, but relents and leans the more unstable part of his weight against you. The trek is difficult, but you both manage. You feel less afraid traversing back through the dank, dark halls than you did leaving them, and you are not ignorant to the fact it's because of Ragnvaldr hanging over you. Injured as he is, he’s still far more competitively capable than you.

Once you’ve properly settled into a room and jammed the door shut, Ragnvaldr slips onto the sole creaky bed. His eyes close, exhaling noisily through his nose.

The bed’s frame is caked in dried, blackening blood and sits opposite a bucket full of murky sludge; a crinkly film drying over the surface. Pressed far into the side of the room is a table with glinting blades scattered across the stained wood. You can’t define what most of the tools are, but you can identify the skinning knife teetering by the closest edge of the table.

Aside from that are the typical smears of carmine blood over cobblestone: people before you and someday people after you. You can only pray now to the old Gods that it won’t be your own blood to join the pool.

For that, for your safe passage through the dungeons, you need to ensure your new party doesn’t fall to infection or blood loss.

“I’ll check you over tomorrow morning,” you tangle your fingers together, switching the weight between your feet, “Maybe tonight if it’s noticeably hurting.”

Ragnvaldr stares over at you again before patting the bed.

You heed the silent command, dragging along the worn bag you pulled from a barrel in the basement.

“What brought you here?” you wonder quietly, looking over at the man. He monopolizes the bedspace, spread wide over the mattress without even intending to.

His eyes drift up to the ceiling before finding your dutiful hands again, he follows the movements as they dig through your items. Taking stock of what you have, mourning the losses, and fretting over what you need. The blacksmith’s girl didn’t have hands as mystifying as you.

“I am here to find a relic that a certain person took from my people. This man is imprisoned somewhere deep down below,” Ragnvaldr is not so foolish as to believe his home’s pillaging is either undeserved or unbefitting for his soul to bear. He’s done the same, and the parasite from Vinland still burns a hole in his pocket. Even so, his human heart persists, “When I found them- I was one of only a few survivors.”

“Oh,” you pause your inventory search to very delicately press a hand to his shoulder and pat sympathetically, “I’m sorry. That’s terrible.”

“I’m going to kill him.”

He wonders what someone with as soft hands and face as you would think of such a declaration. If the teeth you have can chew through the toughness of his words. You pull back, but much slower than he was expecting, and return to sorting through your bag.

Much to Ragnvaldr’s surprise, you smile, “Then I’ll make sure you get there in one piece.”

You swallow his ominous message without pause.

“What are you doing here?”

“Ah, a friend of mine…” you worry your bottom lip between your teeth, fingers caught at the bottom of your bag with a thin slip of paper, “She’s pregnant and the man promising to wed her came for a job to set them up for life. He’s been gone for a while.”

“A friend would send you here? Into this evil?”

“She never said she wanted me to come here,” you shrivel into yourself, settling your bag against the bedpost leg, “I don’t know what compelled me… I really- “ your hands fist the torn, blood-stained sheets, “I was an idiot to think I could’ve done any good here.”

Ragnvaldr sits up, laying his calloused palm over yours, “The man you’re looking for. What’s his name?”

“Cahara. Cahara of the South.”

The man nods, auburn strands hanging with the motion, “And I’ll make sure you find him for your friend.”

“Thank you,” you notice the way he moves further to the side, a new gap on the mattress for your body to slot beside him, “Thank you, Ragnvaldr.”

He doesn’t think he’s heard someone outside the North say his name with such care.

You lay beside Ragnvaldr and revel in how close the two of you are. Safety and comfort buzzing in the lack of space.

He’s big. And warm. Like the sun.

You missed the sun.

…

Upon rising from slumber, you see that Ragnvaldr is still in unguarded rest. His bare chest rises and falls in soothed repetitive swoops, and his soft hair rains over the flat pillow beneath him. Prepared to slide off the mattress, you don’t register the arm fastening you to Ragnvaldr before you’re brushing against it. The arm tightens and you’re rendered useless.

You contemplate waking Ragnvaldr. Of squeezing yourself through the narrow hold. Even forcefully unwinding his muscle from your midsection.

You fall back asleep.

…

By the next time you’re awake, Ragnvaldr is too. You’ve sat him up against the scratched, chipped headboard and are undressing his wound. Green herb sprigs sit at the ready by your right knee in case pus is clinging to the cloth and oozing from open shreds. Thankfully, nothing of the sort awaits.

“Good!” you chirp, and Ragnvaldr remembers a full moon hanging over the spindly, leafless trees in the harsh falls of his youth, “There’s still some scratching, probably scarring later… but no infection! And it’s not inflamed or red.”

“We should continue our way, then.”

“Oh.”

Ragnvaldr laughs suddenly, from the hull of his chest, and only stops when the skin over his ribs pulls uncomfortably, “You want to stay here?”

“It’s been nicer than out there… We could stay in here. Away from the darkness.”

It has been nicer. The dungeons of Fear and Hunger are no place for domesticity, but anything is fair in a locked room. In a strange way, you wish you could stay with the beautiful man from Oldegaard.

His hair brushes past his shoulders and even though he is so much larger than you (you fear that he may even be able to kill a guard on his own), he is nicer than most men you’ve met in your life. Especially where you live in the seedier underbelly of Rondon -- men with spines are not uncommon, but men with spines and hearts are. Cahara was a welcomed gem in the coal mines of home.

And Ragnvaldr, you fear, might be your prettiest diamond.

He gazes upon you fondly. Seafoam you want to drink up. Or drown in. You haven’t decided yet. He cups your round cheeks and smooths back the stray hairs slicked to your face.

“Maanejente,” he coos beneath his breath, the harsh pads of his thumbs glide over the plain of your face and down your neck, working into the knotted meat of your shoulders, “Maanejente… nothing will hurt you. Not with me here,” he wants to see your teeth in that pretty smile from last night, “You have sugar in your heart, has anyone told you that?” you bare your teeth in a grin and he feels more successful than after any battle, “We’ll press on later.”

You nod under his calm massaging, eyes drifting to the fiery lines over his right side, “I don’t have anything to make the wounds close.”

“I don’t expect anything more,” he soothes, studying you kindly. Oldegaard had such a wide, unhindered view of the skies, when he was a boy he would stare into the moon’s craters. He’d compare them from night to night and dream about a day when he would defeat a beast so great, he’d be rewarded. The thick trees of Vinushka Himself would lift Ragnvaldr high into the sky and he’d be able to study the deep caverns up close, “You’ve healed me plenty to keep fighting.”

He became a man and forgot those dreams in favor of providing for himself and his wife and their child.

But he remembers himself in his purest form and finds that he doesn’t want to part with you after taking revenge against the foolhardy Le’Garde. If you asked, he would stop fighting after that, or he could become the God of Ultra-Violence. Whichever way you please, he’ll bend.

“Maanejente, we should go.”

You move swiftly, exhaling sharply with a curt nod, “Right!” you stow away the unused green herbs, “Right, we’ll go.”

“The job your friend had taken, what was his work here?” Ragnvaldr watches you move. Your sureness and determination sway him further.

“He had to find a man,” you bury yourself into the shadow of Ragnvaldr as he unsticks the room lock, “I’m not sure of the name.”

“An important man, though,” Ragnvaldr is embarrassed how his first thought is what you’ll do if he kills the man your friend is meant to rescue, “Must be.”

You realize what he means, eyes widening, “No! It… Well… It could be…”

Ragnvaldr’s warm gaze melts into the floor tiles as he guides you through the dim hallways. Prison guards moan and gurgle in the distance and the sound used to freeze you in your spot -- it now feels like the squeaks of mice with the Northern man in front of you.

“I’m sure if he knew,” you brace, “he wouldn’t get in your way.”

Ragnvaldr pushes through to the courtyard, unveiling rows of hanged men naked and baking in the open air. Despite the fact this is, in fact, open air, the scent of death continues to cling along each blade of grass. A mist clogs your vision.

Bared skin wafting more warmth than the exposed sun, Ragnvaldr looks down at you as you clutch your measly bag. Your expression is pinched like you’ve somehow stabbed him in the back. His red hair burns like gold embers in the bathing light.

“You would let me kill the man, then?”

“He hurt you,” you answer simply. A way so unbridled by dark and evil, Ragnvaldr once again cannot comprehend your survival past the entrance guard dogs.

You discuss a stranger’s death with the comfort you would which color you prefer for robes. You have teeth unsharpened by true terror. Ragnvaldr should get you free of these walls soon.

“Sugar for a heart,” he muses.

The two of you duck under an archway and find a womanly figure in the mist. Two oblong points jut out from her skull, and the closer you get the more defined her shapes become. Firstly, is that she’s naked (Ragnvaldr chuckles when you gasp and clench your eyes shut); second is that her horned points are ears on a mask. Her voice drips like honey from behind the bunny mask,

"Welcome to the meadows, o' travelers,” she shifts closer to the wood post behind her, your eyes slicing sharply away from the sway of her breasts, “Let us ease your suffering…” your stare dawdles up over the contemplative face of Ragnvaldr, then to his injured side, “The first one is free."

“Mending of flesh,” you mutter, creeping further into Ragnvaldr’s coziness, “Sylvian will heal you, if you…”

Ragnvaldr is struck by the opportunity, wringing his hand through yours and stringing you into the scene. The expressions you can make out from under the eggshell masks are highly varied -- from twisted agony to buttery bliss to far-off stares and brainless drooling. Some bodies are limp, unmistakable from corpses aside from occasional jolts and twitches of their hips. Other bodies are more lively, rocking and humping in veracity. A man with dark hair stands in the middle, he waves the both of you over.

"Are you looking for partners?” you clutch Ragnvaldr’s hand tightly and pointedly ignore his exposed groin, and he squeezes back. The man giggles quietly beneath his mask before holding out two more, “Just take off your clothes and put on these masks."

“Come, mannejente,” Ragnvaldr pulls you away from the man, a previously unfamiliar thrumming working hot blood through his entire body. He works off his furs quickly and lifts your bag from your shoulders to lay it down, “Would you be my partner?” he smiles softly, “I’m not sure of these other people.”

His utterance curls inside you like a full meal. The thought alone makes your mouth water. He’s got meat on his bones and you want to sink your teeth into him. If he were to sleep with anyone else in this garden, you can already tell the sight would make you physically sick. You hope that he’d feel the same.

“Right,” but the dungeons are not a place for his affection for you, and even though you know you’re not made for this world -- you don’t want to make him lose sight of his mission, “Everyone else is just strange.”

“Not you,” Ragnvaldr’s hands find your shoulders again -- working slightly under the hem of your lackluster cloth shirt, “Not you.”

Ragnvaldr is big and warm like the sun. More like the sun than what hangs in the sky above. The sun you used to run under as a small girl before the crushing weight of responsibility ran you tired and nerve-sprung. You miss those days. Somehow, even though he’s directly sifting off your clothes, you even miss Ragnvaldr.

Somehow, you need him closer.

And closer you pull Ragnvaldr, right by the furs draped over his shoulder; unsurely brushing your hands under the thick material. Ragnvaldr flows under your call, shrugging off the weight of his furs as he frees you of your own clothing. Little mind is paid to either you or Ragnvaldr by the other erratic bodies, but still, their presence is off-putting. In a terrible nightmare, you could see these people being broken from their overstimulation as soon as Ragnvaldr is tucked inside you. Then their eyes would wander -- would they judge you? A newcomer unwelcomed, perhaps?

Ragnvaldr gently kisses your cheek, sweeping you up between his arms and smoothly lying you on the plush grass. He kneels between your spread legs, angling the surrounding bodies out of your vision the most he could.

“Focus on me,” he simpers, all to your ears, “Sweet girl… snill maanejente...”

You never studied the tongue of the North, figuring that it would never come into play in the West, but you could listen to Ragnvaldr ramble to himself in his mother tongue all day. His hands slide over your sides, molding into the bend of your waist before snatching you up by the hips and perching you over his bent knees.

“I- “ wind catches in your throat, hands balling on the ground, “I’ve never laid with a man before…”

Ragnvaldr nods, leaning over you with his broader form to kiss you again. On the lips this time. He leaves with a soft, chaste peck before pursing his lips and letting spit pool in his mouth and laving your cunt with the saliva. He promises to be patient while slicking a single finger inside you.

The stretch is not entirely unpleasant, a faint pinch.

“Relax for me, sweet girl,” Ragnvaldr stares down at his hand slowly pressing into the apex of your thighs, “Take a deep breath and relax. Let me take care of you, yes?”

Ragnvaldr hikes one of your thighs to his waist, continuing to fingerfuck you until you’re gasping his name. His spit is joined by your natural wetness mixing along his thick middle finger, slippery and messy: he coils a second finger into you, carefully stretching your hole. Your other thigh joins at his waist of your own volition, jerking your leg into him in the throes of bubbling pleasure.

The warmth of Ragnvaldr’s body swaddles you, the meat of his palm grinding against your clit and sending a spiral of heat down your spine. Heating your chilled blood and raging all the way into your face.

Your bottom lip catches between your teeth, both hands squeezing around Ragnvaldr’s wrist as you cant your hips into his hand.

Noticing your earnest efforts to meet his fingering halfway, Ragnvaldr’s spare hand cups the flesh of your ass and pulls you higher over his lap, “Eager, maanejente?”

“Oh, please, Ragnvaldr!” you whimper, jerking onto his fingers. This begging he could get used to, “Please, please, I need you to- !” unfortunately for him, you stop that plea short, “I need you!”

“Beautiful voice for such greed,” he shadows over you, kissing and sucking the column of your throat as he replaces his fingers with the head of his cock. The enveloping heat of your cunt sucks him in as though you’re starved, tightly he grasps your hips and restrains the urge to give in and press your pelvis flush to his. He may leave violet imprints, but he knows he will soothe them later so the concern is quickly pushed aside, “My sweet girl is greedy,” he whines at the squeeze around his dick, “And so lovely when I’m inside her. So pretty, aren’t you?”

Your arms loop around his neck, nails puncturing into the skin of his bare back. Heat waves through your palms and through your arms -- all down your chest and into your churning gut. Most of all, however, the heat is buzzing where the both of you are connected. His hips slotted against yours.

“Pretty when you’re working,” he lifts you from his cock before thrusting in again, building in speed until his hips are pistoning into you in smooth, fluid strokes, “Pretty when you’re fucked,” his thumb finds your soaked clit and circles it, just to pinch out as many of your whines as he can, “Pretty - hah! - pretty maanejente.”

Ragnvaldr is big and broiling hot and you don’t know if you can stand to be apart from him after this. Dungeons be damned, damned as your souls.

His cock spears each sweet spot nestled inside you: thick and full. And messy. So wet you can feel your juices webbing between where his hips meet your thighs on every pull-back.

The arm not stimulating your button of nerves rolls under you and up to the back of your neck. He secures you in his hold, pressure on the sides of your throat though not suffocating, so he can push even further inside you. Ragnvaldr kisses up from your collarbones to your jaw and finally the corner of your mouth before he huffs into your mewling lips. Your thighs tighten around him as the steady warmth of ecstasy comes to a boil.

Ragnvaldr’s tongue dips into your mouth, desperate to taste your own tongue. Try as he may to keep quiet in favor of your moans, the throaty, raw groans and grunts from his chest never cease. The sounds make you wail louder into his gaping maw as your cunt cinches around Ragnvaldr.

When he was a boy, he used to dream of being lifted by swirly branches until he could scrape the moon with his fingertips. He imagines the feeling of you cumming with him is the same, inseparable euphorias digging up from his gut and swallowing the rest of his body whole. Your teeth latched into his neck, and he is unwilling to be released.

In darkness, he finds the moon. And for now, he doesn’t need to consider how foolish it is to trap a celestial body beneath him when he’s here for Le’Garde’s bastard head. In darkness, he’s illuminated by the powdery shine he senselessly clings to.

In the same way, you bathe in a sun that feels otherwise unattainable. Large and unburdened, Ragnvaldr warms your chills with ease under a sun less desirable than his company. A muggy, clouded sun -- wholly unappealing compared to the man above you.

This affection will eat you alive down here.

You might let it.

[flyinghome-againstthewind]

Beside the Seaside: Ch 17

Jamie rolled to his side, his breath heavy as his eyes slid shut. His hand roamed across Claire’s belly and settled on the velvety skin at her hip, tracing patterns there with his fingertips. Claire hummed softly. Even coming down from the high of their joining, he still couldn’t get enough of her. As if she’d had the same thought, his wife rolled toward him and slid one arm around his waist. With new territory of her body exposed, his hand traveled the path of her spine, up to her neck and then down to her backside. She was a gift, every time; a living, breathing, burning work of art that he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch.

She placed several gentle, unhurried kisses along his bare chest and shoulder, and a soft groan escaped him.

“Tha gaol agam ort, mo ghràidh.” The declaration slipped out, unguarded and honest — and safe in the knowledge that she wouldn’t grasp the meaning.

[read the rest on ao3]

[lara-frasers]

Faith finds us

Chapter 3: A friend

These two (three!) are gradually becoming closer, setting the scene for more to come! This chapter brings: reading time, sleepy Faith, some pizza and a nice dose of softness for all 🥰

You can read it here

And you can follow me on twitter here ✨

[spinnysocks]

look at them.

sillies. /affectionate

[the-heartlines]

offering

rhaegon (+ jacenyra if you squint 👀)| [e. 1.1k] dead dove 🪦🕊️

(ughhhh wrote this in a feverish haze when i thought of aegon threatening to kill rhaenyra’s sons if she doesn’t fuck him and give him a son. this is chapter 1/2 most likely {definitely})

“offer yourself up to me, sister, and i shall spare our uncle. provide me with a son and i shall spare your sons my wrath—my fire and blood.”

rhaenyra glances over at the body of her bloody, unconscious husband for a brief moment. his body sprawled, broken, but still breathing—just barely. 

time slows, her heart beats, thundering rapturously inside her chest, when she turns to her precious children, chained up, bound, and gagged. jace, who already has a black eye, and a bloodied, fat lip, struggles against his, trying to fight for her, for his mother—his queen.  

lucerys and joff clutch onto her younger silver haired sons who are all frozen, rooted to the spot, tears streaks and snot staining their faces; desperate to call out for their mother to save them. but there is only one way to surely save them, to spare them from the fiery wrath of sunfyre.

her utmost compliance. obedience. submission.

she has already been forced to kneel, forced to bow to her usurper brother. and now she will either bend to his depravity or break. 

but either way rhaenyra knows she will lose, so she bites her tongue and stares daggers as sharp as their father’s—the one her half-brother is twirling carelessly between his fingers—directly in aegon’s direction, defiant and damning. 

for he can bend her body into any shape, but she will not break. she must remain strong. for her sweet sons.

aegon’s lips curl into a wicked smile, cruelness dripping from his voice, evilly and equally venomous. “or if you would prefer, sister, i can fuck you in front of them all. make them watch me rape their mother before your sons die one by one.” rhaenyra hears a low and guttural noise, a growl, leave jace’s throat and they both look over at him. he’s shaking his head from side to side, trembling with anger, trepidation and tears now running down his face. 

it takes two of aegon’s kingsguard to hold him back, his hands clenching into tight fists, rage alight in his brown eyes. another tear falls down rhaenyra’s cheek, because her oldest son reminds her so much of his father in this moment. no longer a boy, but a man, strong and resilient, unbroken.

and she must be brave for him, her future heir, be a beacon of hope, an example of how sacrifices must be made for those you love, those you cherish. 

“yes.” rhaenyra hisses through gritted teeth, wanting to shove their father’s dagger into her half-brother’s heart. to eat it. to  slice his throat and spill all of his blood, until there is none left in his veins, but her fire seeping inside, replacing his cold, heartless body with every fiber of it.

“my king.” aegon corrects, mocking her, reminding her of her place, beneath him, at his feet, his beck and call. with just one word uttered from her lips that gives him all the power, everything he’s ever wanted: her.

“yes, my king.” rhaenyra seethes, voice unwaveringly upset, burning with resentment. and it makes aegon’s ego swell and cock harden hearing her say it with such contempt, such malice. her lilac eyes ablaze with enough malevolence to murder him. and he wishes, hopes she will try to. for when he fucks her for the first time, he plans on leaving their dagger near her. just close enough for the temptation, near enough to coax and entice that violence brewing and boiling beneath her skin. 

for once aegon tells her it was he who killed their father, that he suffocated the sick man like it he was suffocated for years, unable to breathe, to think about nothing but her—his sister will want nothing more than to kill him. to tear him to pieces. seek revenge with his blood upon her hands and teeth. and aegon will let her draw his blood eventually, but first he wants to have some fun. 

“you’re a good mother, rhaenyra. choosing your children’s wellbeing above your own.” aegon taunts, climbing from the throne, ascending the steps and moving towards her. “an unselfish and caring queen through and through. on your knees, where you belong. below me.” 

his crotch is eye level with her and rhaenyra can see the outline of his bulge prevalent against his breeches, hard and unyielding. she clenches her hands into fists, wanting to retch, to run. “kiss it.” rhaenyra whips her head up towards him, mouth and eyes wide as a full moon at the implications. but before she can protest with words, he smirks knowingly, extends his hand to her, with a huge ring, as an offering, a truce. 

and kiss the ugly signet she does, with tight pursed lips, not daring to taste the sweat or salt of his oily skin, not daring to let her saliva coat it.

“take her sons back to their bedchambers.” rhaenyra turns her head back to her sons, giving them a small smile, reassuring them that she will be okay. she feels aegon’s heat radiating off of him, and her skin crawls with disgust when he reaches to wrap one of her loose tendrils of silver around his finger, twirling it and twisting it, already tangling her around him. her four youngest freeze in their tracks, but are forced towards the red keep’s entrance by aegon’s soldiers. 

“i will be fine, i promise!” she yells, hoarse, voice cracking, the doors closing as promise echoes off the walls, wondering if her children even heard her. but she must believe they heard her words, because she knows she will not be. but she must be brave for all of them, strong—

“nephew.” aegon says the word haughtily, and now more of his hands are tangling in rhaenyra’s hair, tugging her head backwards harshly. “you will remain.”

jace.

“jace!” rhaenyra cries panicked; his name a plea, a prayer, beckoning her son to her aid, to save her because she’s terrified. and jace, always coming to her rescue, attempts to escape the kingsguard—run towards her. but he’s tangled and twisted into the enemy’s web, unable to escape. an armored fist smashes him in the stomach, making him buckle over, next to daemon, who remains unconscious. “please! no!” rhaenyra begs, trepidation in her voice, and aegon’s other hand encircles around her throat, constricting her oxygen, choking her, further entangling her within his grasp.

“yes.” he growls, anger washing over his face. “your headstrong son,” he pauses spitting the word ‘strong’ out vehemently, “is going to watch his king fuck and breed his mother.” 

and that alone breaks both mother and son, as jace starts uncontrollably sobbing, tears pouring down his handsome face, defeated. and rhaenyra wants to sob, to run to him, hold him close and never let go—but aegon’s hand threatens to choke the life from her. so she closes her eyes instead and tries to picture her son’s boyish face, bright and innocent, held tight in his trueborn father’s embrace. for only those happy memories can save her now as her vision starts to fade and darkness takes hold.

[theawkwardterrier]

WIP Sunday

Tagged so very kindly by my wonderful meme bestie @lavellenchanted 🥰🥰 Here's a bit of the OL fic that I've been working on and that I'm mad about working on!

“Now that we’ve established my credentials, are you comfortable removing your shirt, soldier?” she asks, finding it easy to fall into the manner of address that saw her so well through the war. He lifts an eyebrow at the term, but doesn’t comment. “Aye, I trust my tender self to yer ministrations, Mistress, if that’s what ye mean. But I might need a bit o’ help with my shirt.” His good hand gestures to his opposite shoulder, and his smile is fading along with the light which had entered his eyes. There are plenty of patients she’s had who would have done better with a response that was stern and reminded him that he didn’t need mollycoddling, or with joking about to chivvy him from the mood he was sinking into. But some instinct, beyond the knowledge that she has built from experience, makes her do something else entirely. “Take your time,” she says gently. “I’ll help where it’s needed.” He does manage to bare himself most of the way, and not altogether terribly slowly. The trouble comes, as they both knew it would, with his injured arm. His mobility is such that he cannot twist his arm to reach up and remove that sleeve; perhaps at night he shakes it off, or has a comrade who will help him, but he doesn’t seem interested in putting himself on display in that way, and she doesn’t want him to. Instead, as he stops with the shirt draped over half his body, she makes her way around him, making certain that he can hear her movements, that she touches him gently along the back of his neck first so he can sense where she will be aiming next since she isn’t certain whether he has full feeling in his shoulder and doesn’t want to startle him. She doesn’t say anything as she eases the sleeve away from his skin, no small talk or even evaluatory questions, nothing about his shoulder or the deep scarring that she finds across his back. Jamie, however, speaks without her having to ask. It’s a terrible story, despite the calm with which he tells it: a Redcoat captain, an attack on Jamie’s sister, a crowd which watched him being viciously whipped for crimes that he hadn’t committed — including his father, who died thinking that his son had died first, and in such pain. During the war, she saw other nurses grow attached to patients, staying at a certain bedside hours after their shift had ended, singing a favorite song to dull the pain, even placing a kiss on lips breathing their last. Nothing close ever happened to her; not, she thinks now, necessarily because of Frank, but because she was better able to wall herself off and keep from true connection with the soldiers and partisans and innocent civilians who she treated…or maybe because none of them was the right one. For a barely-breathing moment, she can imagine bending and laying her cheek against the scars, letting him know that while she might have not been there to heal him then, she is here now. Beneath layers of fabric and padding, her stomach rumbles — only hunger, to be certain, signaling the hours since she finished the last of Nan’s bannocks in the cart, but a reminder of the care that she needs to take now. No foolish mistakes, not when she isn’t only protecting herself. “And how did this come about?” she asks, placing a delicate finger on the raised arch of his shoulder joint. As much as she is striving to bring herself back to that vaunted professionalism, her voice is still soft.

Tagging my buds @flyinghome-againstthewind, @smashing-teacups, @frasers-of-my-heart, and @doctorhelena, plus anyone else who wants to share some WIP fun!

[adsosfraser]

10 First Lines

Rules: Share the first line of your last ten published works or as many as you are able and see if there are any patterns!

(I'm going by latest updated not by the last "published" dates because that's too much work to search through.)

Eventide (everlark): Peeta lunged forward on the decorative rug stretched out before him for what was probably the fifth time that night.

Da mi diebus mille (jamieclaire): Claire Beauchamp stretched her legs up the three steep steps towards the entrance of the plane.

She Moved Through the Fair (everlark): All around, dandelions that have gone to seed whip around us, dotting the edge of the landscape of waving green grass where train and prairie meet.

I would recognise you... (jamieclaire - also longer line since the first were straight up book quotes): “I was dead. Everything around me was a blinding white. And there was a soft rushing sound like the wings of angels. I felt peaceful. And bodiless. Free of terror. Free of rage. Filled with a quiet happiness.” A soft warmth brushed my hand.

Blood Pearl/Neamhnaid Fola (jamieclaire): Jamie played with the scratchy ruffles sewed to the cuffs of his sleeves, impatient.

Wild Rose (everlark): The blue sky stretches for miles, letting the heat sneak in and saturate the air with a clinginess that can only ever belong to the final long stretch of days of the summer season.

The Sassenach Faerie (jamieclaire): The sun had not yet peaked over the grey monoliths up on the hill.

Soup of Life (outlander fix-it): It was a veritable feast for a small creature such as him.

Chocolate, churros, princesses, and scarves (jamieclaire): “Claire, mo ghraidh, mo Sorcha, I love ye so verra much-” Jamie gulped, the bob of his throat catching Claire’s eyes. “Will ye-” 

roses love sunshine, violets love dew (everlark): In and out. In and out. The blond lashes steady me.

no one tagged me in this but i do feel like taking some hostages with me so if you fancy joining 🫶: @atelierlili @mollywog @thesweetnessofspring @rosegardeninwinter @thesunpersists @littlemarianah @unnamednarrator @notsocooljess @lara-frasers @liberalk1tsch @liusaidh-writing

[devilsrecreation]

One thing I noticed about my TLG Outlander headcanons is that I gave them all some sort of job/hobby/special skill

- Jasiri has her leadership skills

- Madoa is a healer

- Janja’s the enforcer/cop. Like he said, you try to disrespect the Circle, you gotta deal with him

- Chungu serves as everyone’s emotional support

- Cheezi is a master of distractions cuz I keep imagining him being the one to cause them (think the Henry Stickman distraction dance)

- Nne sings

- Tano’s a pro dancer

- Reirei has raised a bunch of rowdy pups and one mate. She deserves to be a mentor

- Goigoi…I don’t have anything for him YET but being just “dad” is good enough for him

- Kiburi has a role as the protector of the Outlands (I like to think he works with Janja to some degree)

- Tamka is an actor (at least he’s trying to be)

- Nduli is a detective

- Neema is a music-enthused “phantom”

- Kenge’s a self-defense teacher to the kids

- Sumu was a hitman for the longest time but now that he’s retired, he’s also become a healer

- Shupavu, Njano, and the rest of the skinks are spies

- Mzingo not only has leadership skills but is also a royal advisor like Zazu

[sapphiressmoke]

Outlander IV

Summary: She doesn’t know how it happened but they were calling to her to come closer. Touching it was never suppose to uproot her life and transport her somewhere she never thought she could see and witness. She has to try her best to survive if she wants to get back, right?

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen X Modern!Reader

Characters Mentioned: Criston Cole, Alicent Hightower, Otto Hightower, Helaena Targaryen, Aegon Targaryen

Warning: Vulgar language (ass, whore, cock) mention of sexual acts briefly

Word Count: 3.9K

Previous

a/n at the bottom 🫶🏻

With the moon passing over Kings Landing, Aemond did not dare to take his eyes off of you as you slept. The young prince didn’t think you came to realize that you were in his room, but nonetheless, it didn’t matter to him. Anyone would say it was improper for an unwed lady to be sleeping in a man’s room but they didn’t know the full story. Well, neither did he but he wanted… No he needed to know you were safe. He watched as you chest raised with each breath and then deflate once you breathed out. Breath in. Breath out.

He had this fear that if he, himself, fell asleep that maybe you would disappear. Every so often, he would walk up to you to just study your face. The candle that burned next to his bed illuminated your face perfectly. He saw how your long lashes laid against your upper cheek, how your lips were slightly separated when you breathed out, how your eyebrows creased just slightly… Every little thing about you was perfect. You stirred for a moment as Aemond brushed a piece of your hair out of your face. He would shush you back to sleep, as if trying to sooth a crying babe.

Suddenly, the air in the room shifted and Aemond felt the hairs on back of his neck rise. “You must protect her.” A voice spoke behind him. Aemond stood up abruptly, turning to try and see who had entered his room.

He walked a few steps ahead, keeping your sleeping figure behind him so he could keep you out of harms way. He unsheathed his sword and looked around to see if he could spot anyone in the surrounding area. “Who goes there. How did you get in here.” His voice boomed, commanding.

A glowing violet eye shimmered in the darkness, a glimmer of blue went and gone “All is well Aemond, at ease.” The figure walked in the shadows but never steps out to reveal himself. “I come with a warning.”

Aemonds eyes followed the eye hiding in the darkness, ready to attack if needed. He watched as the figure stared at you with a longing look. Despite not seeing the perpetrators face, the eye held strong emotions. “What could you warn me about? Show yourself.” He tried to not yell as he did not want to wake your sleeping figure behind him.

“Your own downfall will be your anger and ego. Those who are family will try to put you down and take her away.” The voice explained gently, calmly, as if trying to not scare an animal in the wild. “Hold her close to your heart and do what your gut tells you to do.”

He dropped his sword to his side, still keeping a strong grip upon the leather of the hilt. “And what is that suppose to mean? You don’t even know anything about me.”

He watched as the figure stepped out of the shadows, the face first appearing to be a man with a stoic face and short hair silver hair, wearing the conquerors crown, then morphed into a softer featured man but still sporting the short silver hair until the last face was his. His hair was untied and his eyepatch seemed long gone. “We are you.” The rest of his body stepped from the shadows and walked towards the bed to sit next to you. “Life is cruel to those who love with big hearts. We are familiar with heartbreak. It wrecks you from the inside out. Every soul is bound to another and some may get lost along the way but they are always bound to find one another. She has found her way back to you.” Aemond watched himself sit next to you, they were both watching you sleep peacefully. “You must be careful with who you call family because they will try to use her to their advantage. Keep her close.” His hand skimmed over your cheek before he stood up and looked at Aemond. “You love her greatly and she loves you greatly. Don’t take it for granted.” And with a blink of an eye, he vanished from Aemond sight.

He stood there in disbelief, trying to process what had just happened. He knew he has seen those faces before and would this mean that there were such things as reincarnations? Was he apart of a greater story than he was aware of?

“Aemond? Are you okay?” He hadn’t realized that had woken up while he was lost in his thoughts. He turned to see that you were sitting up while your right arm held you up, your eyes still full of sleep and your hair disheveled.

You couldn’t quite see his face in the dark but you could see that something was bothering him deep within his mind. He strides before you and stroked your head. “Yes, yes I am Y/N. I’m alright. How are you feeling?”

You felt him place his hand against your forehead, searching for any heat. You took his hand by the wrist and placed it down. “I feel alright. My head feels a bit heavy but that’s all.” You played with his fingers, trying to figure out what to say. “What are you doing up? Have you slept.”

“Of course I have.” He lied straight through his teeth and you knew it. “A noise from the hall woke me up not too long ago.”

You laughed softly. “You are a terrible liar, Aemond. You are still fully dressed and you have your sword scabbard still attached to you.” You watch Aemonds gaze fall to his hip and you could only imagine that his cheeks were red from being caught in a lie. You scootched over a couple of inches and patted the spot next to you. “It seems to still be late in the night so I request that you undress into your sleep attire and join me in the bed for the rest of the night.” You smiled a bright smile that he could not refused.

“I-It’s improper.” He stuttered. He wanted to accept but he knew that it was wrong to lay with a woman when he and she was unmarried.

You thought back to your history lessons of royalty family and you remembered learning that everything was improper before marriage. No touching, no sleeping together, not even being alone and this must be breaking every rule that the prince was taught. “If we do not touch, would it still be improper?” You asked.

He looked at you and sighed. If you were a sin testing him, he would gladly accept it. “Fine.” You turned over so your back was facing him as you let him undress. You heard the sounds of laces being untied and hooks being let go. You felt the bed dip in as you assumed he was removing his boots. By the end of the undressing, he was left but just in his chemise intimate clothing. You turned over to face him when you felt him lift the sheets to go under. “You know, you’re on the side that I usually sleep on.” He jested when you finally faced him. “But I don’t mind sharing this one time.”

He felt your gaze looking at his face. More specifically his eyepatch that still laid upon his face. You went to grab the leather strap to take it off but Aemond was quicker to grab your hand and bring it back down towards the mattress. “Not yet. I can’t.” He shook his head. “It is not a pretty sight that I am ready for you to see.”

You brought his hand to your lips and placed a simple kiss on the skin of his knuckles. “I will not rush you, Aemond. I will gladly look at your one beautiful eye for now.” Despite knowing you for less than 48 hours, he has felt more love with you than with anyone else in his life. His heart felt as if it was tied to hers and wherever she went, he must go. “I hope this isn’t too improper for you, Aemond. I don’t want to cause you too much stress.”

It was his turn to play with your fingers as he tried to figure out a way to respond. “Despite was the Faith says, I do not care in this moment nor ever while you are here. What happens in here is for us only. Now, hush up and close your eyes. It’s time too sleep.”

You feigned offence with a small gasp. “It is not me who lied about being asleep this whole time. You must close your eyes and find sleep yourself, young prince.”

For the next part of the hour, Aemond and Y/N spoke about nonsense while never letting go of the hand that they previously held.

‘We are you’ were words that plagued the one eyed prince for the rest of the night.

We are you.

A knock on the door was what woke up the young princeling from his sleep. He rubbed the sleep from his eye to try and fully wake himself up. He heard you stir next to him as you dug yourself deeper into the pillow, trying to stay asleep for as long as possible. When sitting up in the bed, he bent down and grabbed the pants that he previously wore and pulled them then striding towards the door. He pulls open the heavy doors to be greeted by Ser Criston. “Good Morrow, my prince.” The Knight bowed. “Your mother, the Queen, requests an audience with the Lady Y/N. Alone” The knight peered into the room to see you sleeping in the princes bed still. He cocked an eyebrow at the scene but stayed quiet.

Aemond nodded, looked back at you and then back at Ser Criston. “Of course… Let me wake her and I will bring her.”

The Knight shook his head. “I’m sorry, Prince Aemond, but she requests the audience to be alone with her. She requests that I bring her up myself, the Queen advises that you must have greater things to tend to.”

He looked back once more upon your sleeping figure and sighed. “Okay… Okay. Give me five minutes and I will get her up. Did mother tell you what she needed?” The knight shook his head saying no. What would his mother possibly want with her? He closed the door behind him, leaving Ser Criston on the other side of the door. He approached your side of the and started stroking your exposed cheek. “It’s time to wake up, Y/N.”

You groaned and raised your hand to Aemonds lips, shushing him. “5 more minutes please. Shhh.”

A smile played on his lips. He took your hand in his and placed it back down on the bed. “I wish I could give you more time but my mother… The Queen… She’s requesting an audience with you, alone.” You head snapped up at the statement he made. He brushed your hair behind your ear to have a better look at your sleepy face. “I’m not sure what she needs but Criston, the knight that was with me when I found you, is outside the door waiting to escort you.”

You slowly sat up in the bed, your mind was racing at the thought of meeting the Queen. Was she going to banish you back to the forest? Question where you came from? You had no idea how you could answer that question. ‘Oh yes my Queen, I’m from, what seems to be, the future and I have now travelled to the past. It also seems that your sons ghost guided me to the stones that brought me here.’ She would certainly think you were insane and send you somewhere.

“O-Okay.” That was all you could muster. “I guess I will put the clothes on from yesterday and go. Yes, that’s the plan.” You shakily stood up from the bed and all Aemond could do was watch you. He felt the stress role off of you but he didn’t know how to protect you from this.

Those who are family will try to put you down and take her away. Hold her close to your heart.

Alicent watched her father sit in the chaise in her room as she paced the floor, picking at her cuticles. “This could mean so much more for us, Father. This could help our cause of putting Aegon on the throne as the rightful ruler.” She continued to ramble on until Otto butt in.

“My dear daughter, please explain what you mean.” He demanded.

Alicent stopped her step and stared at her father. “The girl! She was found by being guided by the White Hart. Ser Criston can vouch for this, father.” She took a seat next to Otto and placed her hands in her lap but continued the picking. “We all know the symbolism behind the animal

is royalty and it appeared to her and Aemond.”

“And who is this girl?”

Alicent took a deep breath before continuing. “We have no idea. She was found at the Stones of Many a Moon being guarded. There is something about her and she will be our key.” The Queen took her fathers hands in her own. “We must treat her as one of us, as if she is family. Whatever she wants, she must get. Same goes for Aemond. We need them on our side. We need them happy.”

Otto looked at his daughter with a pleased look, knowing that what she was saying was right. “You are right my daughter. They are the key to success for the realm. We will treat her with respect but we must keep a close eye on her.” He tapped her hands and proceeded to place them on her lap. “I’ve heard she has roomed with Aemond last night.”

“I heard the same… It’s highly improper but if it is what they want, they shall receive it. The news of her becoming must be kept within the council. It must not reach the ears of Rhaenyra. She will try everything to take her.” The Queen thought back to her childhood friend but quickly shook the thought away as the doors to her chambers proceeded to open.

Ser Criston Cole bowed before introducing you to the room. “My Queen, Lady Y/N has been brought as requested for an audience.” The Knight made eye contact with the Hand of the King before nodding his head towards the elder man who took to his feet and left the room to leave the two of you alone. You couldn’t help but notice the look that the man and Alicent shared with each other. As if they could speak telepathically.

Alicent stood up and walked towards you and brought you into a quick hug that you couldn’t even return from the speed. “Lady Y/N, I hope you are feeling much better.” She took a look at her Kings Guard and thanked him for the service and to wait outside the door.

You weren’t sure how to react to the sudden affection, causing you to stumble over your words. “Yes yes, thank you, Your Grace. The rest was quite needed.” You smiled at her. You remembered seeing her quickly at the campsite. The longer you stared at her, you more you could see that her eyes held emotion the same way Aemonds did and facial manoeuvres were quite similar.

You felt her grasp your hand and guide you over the lounge area to sit with her. “Please, when it is just us two, call me Alicent. Drop the formalities.” She smiled, still grasping your hand. Her thumb grazing over your knuckles.

“If that is the case, please call me Y/N. Drop the Lady, it makes me feel higher than I truly am.”

“Of course, Y/N.” The Queen continued to smile but there was more meaning behind the smile that she let on. You watched as her deep eyes eyed you up and down, looking b at what you were wearing. “I see that you are still in Aemonds garb from yesterday. It seems that you have no clothing here… I shall request for a dressmaker to come for measurements for you at once.”

A sudden wave of uncomfortable took over you. You weren’t use to be getting doted on, especially by a mother figure. Your mother took care of you, yes, but she could not find the time to sit down with you and just talk. “I can’t accept that. Are you sure, your Gra- Alicent.” You corrected yourself.

All she could do was give you a motherly laugh, basically saying that she would do what she needed for you. “Of course, sweet girl, I can’t have you running about in my sons clothing.” She gave your hands a light squeeze. “If you need anything and I mean anything, you come let me know. I want you to feel comfortable here.”

A small smile played on your lips played in your lips but your eyes kept fleeting back to the door where you saw the older man. Was he the king? “The man who was here just before, was he..?”

“The King? No.” She shook her head and a solemn expression took over. “That is my father, the hand of the king. Currently, his grace is bed ridden as he has been sick for quite some time now but I assure you that once he is up for some visitors, Aemond and I shall bring you to meet him. He would be very pleased with you.” Perhaps meeting you, hearing how you were found would surely persuade the sick king to change his mind of the heir. He himself believed prophecies and symbolism more than anyone. She held your hand tightly, scared that letting go would put the green cause 10 steps back from where they were heading. “Now, let’s talk about dresses.”

Perhaps she was the mother you always dreamed of but to her, you were just a pawn in her game.

Aemond roamed the halls of the Red Keep, his mind continuing to play out what he had seen last night. He knew the faces he saw were familiar, he must have seen them depicted somewhere before in his studies. The words said by himself kept playing through his head ‘Those who are family will try to put you down and take her away. Hold her close to your heart.’ He hadn’t realized that he walked towards his sister room until he heard her soft spoken voice call him. “Aemond.”

He turned his head towards the open door to see Helaena embroidering as the twins played on the floor. “Helaena.” No matter the mood, just seeing his older sister made him smile. Perhaps it was because it was her innocence and kindness he admired or the way she was soft spoken but he always smiled. He entered the room and took a seat next to her. “How are you, sister?”

She laid her head on his shoulder. “I’m quite alright. The twins are eager to fly out with you.”

He loved his niece and nephew and would protect them any cost. They had been asking at least once a week to fly out on their dragons but the Dragon Keepers have agreed that they are not quite there yet. “Has Aegon not offered to bring them on Sunfyre?” As the questions rolled off his tongue, he thought that he already knew the answer to that. “Nevermind. The time will come for their turn to be in the sky.”

She lifted her head off his shoulder and looked up at him. “Time is suppose to move forward but it seems that it chose to move back this time. Time can be stalled by greed.”

He looked down at his sister, trying to understand what she was trying to tell him. He knew she would have moments where her phrases would make no sense to anyone but herself. “What do you mean?”

“Time is being kept in place by emerald. Cut the cord and let time move freely.”

The silence that was left after her voice was broken by the booming voice of their elder brother. “Aemond! There you are!” Aegon stumbled into the room, his own legs causing him to trip here and there. At the sound of his voice, the twins nurses had decided to take the twins out of the room, muttering something about the twins needed time outside. “If I heard correctly, you have soaked your cock in a whore!”

Helaena could feel the tension beginning to rise already at his words. “Aegon, please stop.”

Aegon came up behind Aemond, placing his hands on his younger brothers shoulders and giving them a harsh squeeze. “Come on Helaena! Have some fun. Our dear brother here has had a stick up his ass for such a long time. Getting his cock wet will definitely lighten him up.” Aemond started to tense under the words of his brother. “It may not be a proper whore, from what I’ve been told though. I’ve heard that you had to go deep in the woods to find her. Was she tight? Did she gag and spit all over your cock? She must be good since you brought her back here and have her sleep in your room!” Tick Tick Tick. “Maybe when you’ve had enough, you can pass her over to me for some fun.”

Tick.

Aemond stood up faster than anyone could see and had his hand wrapped around his brothers throat. “If you speak of her that way one more time, my hand will be my sword and your head will be rolling on the floor… dear brother.” At the end of his sentence, Aemond pushed his brother backwards, causing him to fall down and cough from the pressure on his throat. “I’m sorry, sister.” He gave a quick nod towards his sister and rushed out the room to try and control his temper.

He rushed towards his mothers quarters, hoping to find you and just be with you as you were the only person he wanted to see in this moment. As he rushed towards the stairs, he thought he heard a voice from the Gods themselves call out his name.” Aemond!”

He looked up and the biggest smile reached his lips as he practically skipped steps to see you. It seems that you were being escorted back to his room after speaking with his mother. “Y/N.” He grabbed your elbow, allowing himself to feel grounded. He looked to your behind left to see his mothers loyal knight. “Ser Criston, I can take her from here. Thank you.” He heard the cornish man say ‘you’re welcome’ as he bowed and headed back towards the royal quarters. “It is weird for me to say but I missed you in your absence.”

You brought your arm up to squeeze his hand. “I can say the same.” You both stared into each others eyes, not bothering about the world around you.

SOO we are introducing more lore to the story. If you know who Aemond saw… shhhh he doesn’t know. I have such plans. Next chapter, I’m going to dive into more of the readers adaptation to this time period since it’s only been one day since she’s been found. We can also already see what’s brewing with the Hightowers.

LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK

TAGLIST

@dahlias-and-marigolds @starsdotalk @ponyosmom35 @namelesslosers s @bee-unknown @dixie-elocin @heavenly1927 @stcrrjoon @noirrose21-blog @thenightmistress @tesha-i-guess @pineapplechuncks @dracaryxzs @snatch-feed-erase @mcueveryday @theweirdtouch @the141bandicoot @carpinchootaku @kuromadi17 @fall-winter-heart97 @iilsenewman @knyam @forever-unbroken-in-time @tesha-i-guess @weaselyss @aemondwhoresworld @hotvillianapologist @whiteoakoak @whorrorbellee @acidburnsthings @rainiix @anaya-rhys @sm3156 @nsainmoonchild @idonotknowenglish @myheartfollower @sapphiresandferrari

[crazy-ache]

Beasts Inside Us (Elucien Oneshot)

Title: Beasts Inside Us

Rating: E (for Smut and Violence)

Pairing: Elain x Lucien

Summary:

“If you so much as spill a drop of her blood, I will gladly show you just what kind of beast I am. And you will find, once I’ve ripped your throat out with my bare hands, and burnt this manor and everyone inside to ash and bone, that I am something far, far worse than just a beast.”

While staying in the mortal lands with the Band of Exiles, Elain Archeron stumbles across a familiar face from her past. Only Graysen wants revenge. Her only hope is that her mate, Lucien Vanserra, can save her—in more ways than one.

LINK TO AO3

[flyinghome-againstthewind]

Beside the Seaside: Ch 15

Chapter 15

Claire sat on the front porch steps and clasped her hands around her knees, watching Fergus and Faith play. The August sun dipped low on the horizon, a perfect summer evening stretched out before them. Footsteps tread along the porch and then Jamie sat on the top step behind her, his knees on either side of her.

“Here.” Jamie handed her a glass of whiskey and set his own next to him on the step.

“Oh, bless you,” she murmured, leaning back into his chest with a sigh. She felt him shake with a chuckle as he spotted the children.

“What the devil is Faith doing?”

“She got tired of Fergus trouncing her in their game and now is using physics to her advantage,” Claire explained, as Fergus tried to run past Faith with the rugby ball. Faith caught hold of his arm and spun as hard as she could, pitching Fergus to one side as he stumbled.

“That is not how you play!” Fergus howled from the grass as Faith stole the ball, giggling all the while.

Jamie’s arms went around her as he pressed a kiss to her temple, and Claire���s eyes slid shut in perfect contentment, absorbed in the warmth of Jamie and the sounds of the children’s laughter and shouts, and of the waves farther beyond.

[read the rest on ao3]

[lara-frasers]

Faith finds us

Here's chapter 2: A birthday takes place

Are you ready for clown!Jamie? 😂

You can read it here

And you can follow me on twitter here

[spinnysocks]

the frenemies of all time

it was so hard to find pictures of them in the same shots 😭 they're in the same scenes all the time but not the same shots- i think it's actually a purposeful choice by the animators to show they're not actually allied, which i think is cool

[samsheughan]

WIP Wednesday

I think I should be doing this so that I keep myself accountable for writing on a regular basis. It is my dream, after all, to become a full time published author 😊

Exceprt from Sutures Ch. 9: Rumors, Part 2 [SPOILER ALERT IF YOU HAVEN'T READ CH 8]

Alice put on what Jamie could only describe as a “thinking face.” After a few seconds, she answered, “oh aye! He kept saying something about horrible headaches and gripping pains in the belly. He would be sitting at the supper table and seem to struggle with holding a fork, as if he’d never been civilized before!” Jamie was watching both Alice as she talked, and Claire as she listened. He watched Claire’s face change with some kind of revelation the more Alice went on about Obediah’s last days on earth. “What could all this mean?” Alice finished with a heartbreaking sob, and Jamie fished a wee square out of his pocket to hand to her. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose before trying to give it back to him. He waved a hand in refusal, indicating that she was welcome to keep it.

No pressure tags for exposure: @walkinginland, @islayandlochs, @ladyjane-lj, @bat-cat-reader, @gotham-ruaidh, @theawkwardterrier, @christiwhitson, @frasers-of-my-heart and anyone else who wants to participate or reblog to spread the word :D i love you guys <3