#she’s a fictional character but my god my blood is boiling at her!!! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

aemondsbabygirl · 7 months ago

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Alicent standing between Aemond and Dae as if she could hold any power against the love Aemond has for Dae 🤭 go home girl, you lost him already.

During Alicent and Daenera scene in the sept, i was wondering how would Alicent react if Dae had pretended to be swayed. Imagine if Dae had started pretending to understand Alicent and confide in her and try to win her approval (just to get her and Mertha off of her back while she plots their demise secretly); would Alicent grow to like or maybe even love her? Or would she still consider her a demon like she said ?

Anyway, i love how Daenera stood up for herself and saw the lies in Alicent’s facade. She’s trying so hard to appear like a good woman and that the gods will forgive her lol. She’s gonna burn in hell.

And Mertha. *takes a deep breath* I HATE HER WITH THE FORCE OF A THOUSAND SUNS.

The fact that *she* thinks herself above Daenera makes my blood boil. You already know how I feel because I had to come scream in your DMs 🤭 she is so vile, showing her the heads of her men. AND she DARES put her hands on Dae and slap her??? IMMA FIGHT HER MYSELF. I need Aemond to know. He needs to know what his beloved mother is doing to his WIFE. He needs to see that despite saying he is protecting her, he isn’t protecting shit. Mertha needs to die slowly and I want her to die the way Boffus died: helpless, alone and knowing it was by Daenera’s hands.

Also, I want to mention that my hatred for this character is not me criticizing your writing choices for her character, on the contrary. The fact that she (a fictional character) can trigger such a visceral emotion from me, is a testament to how good your writing and storytelling is. I love that your story makes me feel all these emotions. I love it, don’t change anything 🫶

A Vow of Blood - 88

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 88: Cursed Child

AO3 - Masterlist

The Council Chambers fell silent as her father, the Hand of the King, stood and began to collect his parchments. With each movement, Alicent’s heart sank deeper, burdened by a sense of impending disaster. She could hardly bear to watch, turning instead to gaze out the chamber windows, where the city sprawled out beneath the shadow of the Red Keep, blissfully unaware of the darkness growing within its red walls.

When she turned back, her gaze fell upon her son. He was watching Daenera with the intense focus of a boy fixated on something he had been denied–something he believed was his, something he would fight for. The possessive longing in his eye stirred a deep unease within her. Stepping forward decisively, she intercepted, placing herself between them.

Alicent reached out for Daenera, her fingers brushing against the younger woman’s before she could retreat. Grasping her hand firmly, Alicent spoke with a voice of measured calm. “I will be going to the Sept. Join me.”

A frown tugged at the corners of the young princess’s brow, her blue eyes mirroring a mix of unease and suspicion as she regarded Alicent with weariness. Alicent understood her hesitation; after all, she had been vocal in her opposition to the marriage and her terms for freeing her men. Yet, the decision had been made–regardless of her personal reservations, the union was to proceed. Alicent now resolved to speak with the princess alone, hoping the sanctity of the Sept would lend gravity and sincerity to their discussion.

Turning her gaze to her son, Alicent dismissed him with a sharp look. Aemond’s jaw tightened, a muscle twitching as he scowled. He briefly sought Daenera’s gaze, which she deliberately avoided, seemingly focusing on the dust motes swirling in the light. With a low hum of frustration emanating from deep within, his gaze hardened and he turned from them.

Daenera met Alicent’s eyes, gently pulling her hand away. “I fear I have exerted myself today. I should return to my chambers.”

Alicent stepped closer to Daenera, grasping her hand with a firmness that brooked no argument. Her voice, unwavering and commanding, suggested, “A visit to the sept might do you good, not just for your physical well-being, but for your soul as well.”

Linking Daenera’s arm securely with her own, Alicent led the way out of the Council Chambers with an air of determination, brushing aside the young woman’s reluctance. As they emerged into the hallway, where Mertha and Oliver awaited, Alicent’s gaze fell sternly on Mertha. If the older woman had kept a tight grip on the princess, she mused silently, they could have avoided the day’s complications. She steered Daenera forward, leaving no room for protest, her expression a mix of resolve and subtle disapproval.

As they moved into the expansive grand hall, the atmosphere subtly shifted, filled with the low buzz of conversations among the courtiers clustered throughout. These groups congregated not only in the hall itself but also at the first landing of the grand staircase, where they could observe the comings and goings within the Red Keep.

The servants, threading their way through the nobles, stood out in their new liveries, a change from the traditional Targaryen red to a more subdued forest green, marking a new era under a different reign. Their movements were brisk and purposeful, a sharp contrast to the leisurely pace of the courtiers.

As Alicent and Daenera advanced through the hall, each courtier paused to bow before them, offering hushed, respectful greetings. The titles of 'Queen Mother' and 'Dowager' felt like ill-fitting garments to Alicent, new and uncomfortable additions to her identity that she reluctantly bore. She had always been addressed as 'Your Grace,' a term that resonated with her regal authority as queen, a role now relinquished to her daughter. These new designations grated not only on her but on her entire family—her son, her daughter. Each of them was encumbered by these titles that marked a transition in power and responsibility. Despite the initial discomfort, Alicent knew they must adapt, bearing these titles with the dignity and grace expected of their station, until they became a second skin.

The stone beneath their feet transitioned from the cold, smooth rock of the Red Keep to the rougher cobbles of the landing, and eventually the gravel and dirt of the courtyard. The sprawling courtyard, framed by the towering red walls of the Keep, was alive with the early afternoon activities of the castle. Guardsmen patrolled the peripheries, their armor glinting in the waning sunlight, green cloaks fluttering in the wind, while servants hurried across the open space, carrying messages and materials.

The air was filled with the mixed scents of the nearby gardens–late blooming flowers and the earthy dampness of freshly watered soil, adding a soft, almost sweet fragrance to the stench carried on the breeze from the city below.

Royal Sept’s spires reached towards the sky, its stained glass window catching the light of the sun, transforming them into vibrant mosaics of light. Alicent guided Daenera up the steps of the Sept, it’s grand oak doors standing as imposing as those of the throne room, adorned with ornate carvings smoothed by the passage of time. They pushed through into the serene quiet of the Sept, where the sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows, scattering a mosaic of colors across the marble floors. While Alicent had always favored the subtle grandeur of the Grand Sept, she could not deny that there was a lavish beauty to the Royal Sept. Its opulence, though excessive, held a majesty that commanded respect and reverence.

Under the light of a grand stained-glass window, the statues of the Seven stood like silent sentinels, their faces etched in solemnity as they watched over the sacred space. Each figure cast a watchful eye from its alcove, bathed in the fragmented light that spilled across the floor. At the base of these idols, small altars lay adorned with candles of varying heights, their flames gently swaying in the still air, each light offering a silent prayer.

And in the center of the sept, a robust circular altar of rough-hewn stone drew the eye. Its sides were carved meticulously with the depictions of the Seven, encircling the structure like guardians of old. This central altar was crowned with hundreds of candles, their soft glow casting a serene light that filled the chamber, yet struggled against the pervasive chill that seemed to seep from the marble itself.

This coolness lingered stubbornly, undisturbed by the warm flickers of candlelight that danced across the walls and floor. It wove through the air, intertwining with the draft that occasionally stirred the flames into a dance of light and shadow. The air fragrant with the scent of incense that mingled subtly with the lingering aroma of polished wood and wax from the candles that lined walls and altars.

As they entered, the septas bowed their heads in deference and quietly exited through a side archway, descending to the lower levels where they attended to sacred duties. The Royal Sept, now devoid of other souls, enveloped Alicent, Daenera, and Mertha in a cloak of silence. With Mertha lingering discreetly at the room's edge, Alicent led Daenera down the central aisle towards the rounded altar. Their footsteps echoed softly, the sound a gentle whisper against the serene quiet of the vast, sacred space. At the altar, Alicent released Daenera’s hand. Her voice was soft as she watched the flames dance in reverence on the altar. “When I was younger, I often sought comfort in the Sept, and still do, though my preference has always leaned towards the Grand Sept…”

The words hung in the air, resonating in the hallowed silence. Alicent mused that perhaps her fondness for the Grand Sept stemmed from its location outside the walls of the Red Keep–it offered her a semblance of freedom. There, the darkness was a solace, the vast space barely lit by candles and dim light filtering through the distant windows–just enough to break the enveloping shadow but not enough to banish it. The Royal Sept, in contrast, while dim, dazzled with its opulence and vibrancy.

“The gods deserve reverence in simplicity,” she reflected aloud, her gaze drifting to the stained glass. “Nothing should overshadow their presence.”

Alicent gracefully adjusted the fabric of her gown and settled onto the cushioned bench surrounding the altar–the Great Sept had no such luxuries as cushions, and would often leave her knees bruised after long prayer. She took the taper from the holder, her movements steeped in the comfort of familiar rituals. Lighting the taper from an already glowing candle, she watched the flame flicker to life, her voice softening with reflection. “When your grandmother, Aemma Arry, passed away,” she said as she used the taper to ignite a candle in remembrance for the Queen that came before her, “Your mother found herself at a loss for how to grieve. She loved her mother dearly, as all children love their mothers. She became isolated, distancing herself from those who cared for her…”

Alicent had loved the Queen, Aemma, although she had not been particularly fond of her in return–she had treated her with kindness and courtesy, but there had always been a wariness to their relationship. Aemma’s death had struck a profound blow not only to Rhaenyra but also her father. In the quiet moments that followed, Alicent had often found herself contemplating what her life would have been had Aemma Arryn survived childbirth and born Viserys a son. Would she have married a kind lord? Would she have found love? Might she have clung to the remnants of her childhood a bit longer? These reflections served little purpose now.

The wax from the candle dripped onto the altar, joining the layer of dried wax that had accumulated from years of devotion. Periodically, this wax would be scraped away, the altar restored to a pristine slate, seemingly erasing all the prayers and meditations once poured onto it. Yet, the cycle would repeat: new layers of wax would build as new prayers were whispered and old ones renewed, a testament to the enduring reverence for the gods.

Alicent spoke softly as she continued her reflections, “The void that forms from losing a loved one deepens when one is uncertain how to properly grieve. To face such a loss alone, without recognition or comfort, it cools the heart… brews anger… and from anger, often comes folly…

“I thought bringing her here might comfort her as it did me when I lost mine own mother,” Alicent murmured, her voice low but clear in the quiet of the sept. She paused, her gaze lingering on the newly lit candle as she brought the taper to it’s wick. Alyrie Florent. “The gods are a comfort in moments like these, and we should take comfort in knowing that those we lost are at peace…”

Alicent’s gaze settled on Daenera, who stood a few paces away, her hands clasped before her. The flickering candlelight played across the princess’s features, casting her face in a warm glow that seemed to kindle the unshed tears in her eyes, giving them a shimmer like that of the flames themselves. “Come, sit with me…”

There was a moment of hesitation, Daenera's eyes fixed warily on Alicent before she carefully gathered her skirts and knelt beside her. As she settled, there was something almost childlike about her demeanor, her gaze captivated by the flames. She almost resembled a daughter at Alicent’s side, her dark hair styled similarly to Alicent’s own, delicate earrings swaying gently, and her dress of soft green fabric wrapping her figure. Yet, the reflection was not so complete—Daenera's eyes, blue and alight with an icy flame, marked the difference. Alicent turned her attention away from the young woman, focusing instead on the warmth and dance of the candle flames before them.

Alicent’s voice held a solemn timbre as she spoke, “The Stranger will claim us all..” She paused, her gaze fixed on the candlelight. “But death is not the end. The gods pass judgment on every soul. Should we seek absolution and repent for our sins, there may yet be peace for us in the next life, even if it eludes us in this one.”

Her thoughts drifted as she silently recited the prayers she had often whispered here, a litany of hopes and supplications: for forgiveness, for alleviation of fear and pain, for a son to fulfill her father's expectations, for a child she could call truly hers, for strength to endure, for recognition of her suffering, and for her sacrifices to be acknowledged and rewarded by the gods.

It almost came as a start as Daenera’s voice cut through the silence. “Do you repent for your sins?” The princess asked, her eyes cold with judgment as they met Alicent’s. “Is it absolution you seek by bringing me here?”

Alicent’s breath caught in her throat, her heart thudding dully, each beat echoing the heaviness that settled when her son had returned from Storm’s End a kinslayer. She blinked, turning her eyes from Daenera’s probing gaze, her eyes finding refuge in the flickering candlelight. Was she guilty for what had happened to the poor boy? In her heart, Alicent knew she couldn’t escape some measure of blame–she had sent Aemond to Storm’s End, and it was her son who had committed the dreadful act. It was never meant to end in bloodshed. And with Aemond showing no sign of remorse, she felt compelled to shoulder the burden of penitence herself–if he would not seek redemption, she would implore the gods on his behalf, beseech them for mercy and forgiveness.

“I have repented for my sins,” she answered, voice a whisper of conviction. “The gods have seen what is in my heart. They understand my regrets, and I believe they will offer forgiveness…”

Alicent drew a deep breath before speaking, as though shaking off the princess’s words. “Do you know why we light candles?” She didn’t need to glance at Daenera to feel her attention shift towards the flames–she felt her gaze leave her, felt it as profoundly as stepping out of a shadow and into the light. “We light them so that our prayers are brought into the light before the gods–we light them so the gods might hear us…”

Holding the taper to another candle a new flame came to life. She watched the drip of wax grow closer to her fingers, a reminder of the taper’s fleeting existence. “We light these candles not only to elevate our prayers but also to honor those who have left this world…” She said, her voice softening as she mentioned the next name with a pause, thick with emotion. “Viserys Targaryen.”

In the quiet solitude of the Sept, she often found herself reflecting on her life, and her marriage to Viserys. Despite the resentments she felt–resentments stirred by the sacrifices she’d made for him, the opportunities he had permitted Rhaenyra and her children to snatch from her own, and his failing as a husband and father–she mourned him. Yet amidst these resentments, there had been companionship.

Duty had tethered Alicent to Viserys, a binding force that connected them as surely as their vows. She had embraced her responsibilities without protest, molding herself into the queen and wife expected of her. Yet, while duty was a sharp-edged thread that had often cut into her, Viserys had borne it as a man of his station might: with a sense of entitlement and a certain heedlessness. She had been left to shoulder the weight of their shared obligations largely alone, bearing the brunt of their duties with a stoic grace that belied the sacrifices she had to make.

She grieved him not only as a wife who had lost her husband but as a queen who had lost her king. Her sorrow was intertwined with the implications his death brought for both her and the realm. She did mourn him genuinely–for everything he had been to her, but somewhere, within that grief, there was a profound sense of relief.

“May it guide him to the warmth of the gods’ light…” she added quietly.

Alicent paused, the taper held above another candle. Wax dripped onto the wick as she hesitated, reflecting on the weight of her next words. Finally, with a somber resolve, she lowered the taper, its flame kissing the wick to life. “And for Lucerys Velaryon.”

Holding the taper aloft for a brief moment, she closed her eyes, allowing the silence of the sept to envelop her. In this sacred stillness, she recited silent prayers for the departed souls, beseeching the Father for his just judgment and imploring the Mother’s warm embrace to shelter them eternally.

As her eyes settled back on Daenera, she noticed the princess focused intently on an unlit candle, her gaze sharp enough to ignite it through sheer force of will. Her posture was rigid, her jaw set tightly as her eyes burned with a faint shimmer of tears that threatened to spill. She seemed almost like a child then, fragile and unsure.

Offering the taper, Alicent watched as Daenera took it, her scrutiny of the small flame turning to hesitance. Finally, with evident reluctance, she accepted it, her hand shaking subtly as she reached out. The candlelight cast a soft glow on the girl's face, accentuating her pallor and the dark circles under her eyes, giving her an almost haunted appearance. She held the taper unsteadily, poised just above the wick of the awaiting candle.

Hoping to offer some comfort, Alicent spoke with soft sincerity, her hands clasped before her as she looked up at the faces of the gods. “I had hoped you might find some solace in knowing that your brother is with the gods now…”

The taper stilled before it reached the wick, nothing more than stub now and growing precariously close to Daenera’s fingers. Her voice came as a fragile whisper, “My brother isn’t with the gods.”

Alicent faced Daenera, taken aback by the intensity of the young woman’s gaze, alight with scorn. Daenera brought the taper to her lips and extinguished the flame with a deliberate puff, then set the spent taper aside. “What remains of him not scattered across Shipbreaker Bay,” she said in a chillingly calm voice, icy with disdain, “Is left buried in a pile of shit somewhere.”

A disquieting heaviness settled in Alicent’s stomach, her heart uneasy. The child-like countenance she had observed moments earlier seemed to burn away in front of her eyes–turned into something darkened by resentment. Her glare, heavy with judgment and accusation, bore into Alicent.

Her voice softened as she addressed Daenera, attempting to convey genuine sympathy to alleviate the young woman’s suffering–hoping to dispel the accusations lurking in her gaze. “I am deeply sorry for your loss. We have all suffered too much already… I–I never thought Aemond would… I never thought he would do such a thing; it was a grave mistake. I condemn it.”

Daenera’s expression only hardened, her eyebrows knitting together as a scornful scoff escaped her lips. She briefly averted her gaze, shaking her head in disbelief. When she looked back at Alicent, the flames of the altar burned dangerously in her cold blue eyes, filled with such unsettling intensity that it made Alicent’s heart tremble.

“Your condolences means as much to me as the dirt beneath my heels,” Daenera spat at her, voice trembling with emotion. She rose to her feet, her dress whispering against the floor with each agitated movement.

Alicent exhaled sharply, her eyes seeking the divine faces of the gods, silently pleading for the strength to endure this confrontation. “It was never my desire for things to turn out this way–”

“Did you not?” Daenera retorted, voice thick with anger as tears trailed down her cheeks, quickly brushed away by her fingers. “You nurtured his resentment, you shaped his thirst for vengeance. He is but a hound, and you, his master. If he bites, it is only because you failed to teach him restraint–his actions are a reflection of your failings!”

The sting of Daenera’s words whipped across Alicent’s conscience, shaking her at her core. She had counseled Aemond to exercise restraint–that he was not to be the one to draw first blood in this war. And yet, he had not only ignored her advice but rebelled against it. Was she truly to blame for his defiance? The blame was Aemond’s to bear but she felt its weight on her own shoulders. She had hoped her son would heed her counsel, but Aemond had always possessed an inherently obstinate and willful nature–traits that at times overshadowed his sense of duty.

She recalled the instances of his rebellious spirit: his secretive ventures into the depths of the Dragonpit in search for a dragon to claim and the audacious way he had claimed Vhagar under the cover of night, the dalliance that had grown between him and Daenera continued even after her explicit command to end it.

Her second son had always had the capricious temperament of a dragon. Perhaps of all of her children, he was the most Targaryen in nature–inherently willful with a fiery impulsivity.

Alicent’s gaze hardened, the sting of accusation resonating deeply. With a firm voice, she answered, “My son is not a dog. He is a man. His actions are his own–”

“And my brother was just a boy of four and ten–a child–when he was slaughtered by your son!” Daenera sneered back, her voice cutting through the quiet of the sept, seeming to ring out in the high arched ceilings.

The weight of those words settled heavily on Alicent. Had her own son not also been a victim, forever marked by the violence inflicted by another? “And what of what my son was owed?” She straightened, hands clasped tightly in front of her. “He was scarcely more than a child himself when your brother maimed him. Where was the justice for him?”

Daenera’s reply was sharp, her scorn palpable. “You cannot hide behind old grievances. Losing an eye doesn’t grant him the right to murder my brother!”

Alicent’s voice was soft, the word burdened by a weight. “No,” she agreed solemnly, “It doesn’t. I repudiate his actions with all of my heart. It was never my wish for things to turn out this way. All I wanted was for my son to get what was owed to him, what was his rightful birthright. This bloodshed, this war… none of it was what I desired.”

“Then you were blind,” Daenera stated decisively. “The moment you began to plot for Aegon to take the throne, this war became inevitable.”

“Be that as it may,” Alicent answered, her voice tinged with weariness. Was it foolish to have believed things might have unfolded differently? Was she the fool to hope that Rhaenyra would have accepted the terms they had offered? Was it folly to still hope for a resolution to this without any further bloodshed? And amidst the chaos, was she a fool to hope that Rhaenyra might forgive her for it? “But if the gods hadn’t desired Viserys’ son on the throne, they would not have blessed him with one.”

She had often mused on the cruel play of fate–how different their lives might have been had Rhaenyra been born not as a daughter but as the son and rightful heir to the throne. If Rhaenyra had been a son, perhaps her own path would have been different. Instead of being wed to Viserys, she might have found her hand promised to his son. Her life would have been different then, and yet much the same; she would have found herself burdened with similar duties, with similar sacrifices–but perhaps there would have been love and happiness. Such a twist of destiny might have spared the realm the looming shadow of war.

Yet, the gods had different plans. They had made Rhaenyra a woman, and they had made their will known in the form of a son–her son. And Viserys had willed it by declaring Aegon his successor with his dying breath.

Alicent couldn’t deny him that.

“The gods were, perhaps, cruel in making Rhaenyra a woman,” she mused, fingers intertwined tightly in front of her. “But that is their will, and they still saw fit to bestow Viserys with sons.”

Daenera’s words were sharp, laden with a note of skepticism and heavy with contempt. “The gods’ will has no part in this. This is by your hand–you and your fathers. Viserys declared my mother his successor–he chose her, a woman, ahead of your sons. If he truly wished for Aegon to rule–”

“He did,” Alicent cut in sharply.

Daenera pressed on relentlessly, “Then he would’ve changed the succession long ago.”

A deep, weary sigh fell from Alicent’s lips, her eyes briefly closing. “Viserys was a kind-hearted, amiable man. He loved your mother deeply,” she said, opening her eyes again to meet Daenera’s incredulous gaze. “I believe he wanted to spare your mother the disappointment–”

“You believe,” Daenera echoed, head shaking.

“Viserys always sought to please,” Alicent continued, voice softening. “He would avoid conflict at all costs. He wouldn't have wanted to cause a fight with your mother over it.”

“And yet he chose to plunge the realm into chaos by changing the line of succession with his dying breath?”

“He did, Daenera,” Alicent snapped. “He did. With his last breaths, he named Aegon–declared him The Prince That Was Promised. He said that he would unite the realm.”

A crude, humorless laugh escaped Daenera, reverberating over the smooth stone floors and resonating in the arched ceilings, lingering in the air even as it faded. She shook her head, scoffing, “And do you truly believe Aegon capable of that?”

“I do,” Alicent affirmed, maintaining her stance with unwavering certainty. Aegon had potential. He might be fickle and capricious now, but he was still young and still malleable. With time, as the novelty of ruling wore off and he had gained experience, he would mature into a competent ruler. She held this belief close, convinced that with the proper guidance, Aegon would indeed become a great ruler.

“Then you are either delusional or a fool,” Daenera retorted coldly."Had Viserys truly desired Aegon as his successor, he would have shown more care and guidance, teaching him what it means to be a king." Her lip curled. “Aegon is only a puppet for so long as he doesn’t realize the true extent of the power he holds, and once he does, then we shall all surely pay for it.”

“You may see it that way,” Alicent responded, her voice steady with conviction. “But I have faith in the gods and their will.”

She held onto her faith with a quiet desperation, believing resolutely that the gods had a plan–a divine will that justified all her sacrifices, all her suffering. To doubt this was to question the very foundation of her actions, rendering them all meaningless.

As she watched Daenera, all she could see was the girl's resemblance to her mother–the echoes of Rhaenyra haunted her, the same defiant stare, the same haughty demeanor, the same sense of entitlement. The girl’s insolence and dishonor seemed to be the same as her mothers, something inherent–evident in her proud posture and the dark, unruly hair that cascaded over her shoulders. She was born of dishonor, a daughter of selfishness and entitlement.

Neither her or her mother understood the true essence of sacrifice, nor the burdens of duty and honor.

It seemed to her no surprise then that Daenera might scorn the gods–she was born of sin and immorality. Before her stood not merely a grieving girl but an adversary, a constant thorn in her side, someone who threatened to unravel everything–someone who’d see the destruction of everything she had sacrificed and suffered for, someone who would destroy her and her children with her dark curses.

The girl was a demon sent from the seven hells to torment her.

Alicent faced Daenera fully, her heart thundering within her chest as she held the young woman’s gaze as it burned with the intensity of the flames of the seven hells–and they would, wouldn’t they? It was her nature after all. A cold resolve grew within her as she approached the princess, the soft echo of her steps punctuating the hushed walls of the Royal Sept. The light from the candles flickered across her face, casting shifting shadows that danced over her stern features. The cool air of the Sept mingled with the scent of incense, enveloped them as he spoke with a quiet intensity, “I am not the monster you believe me to be.”

“No,” Daenera answered, voice as cold as the draft. “You are the mother of the monsters.”

“I am a mother, and yes, my sons are… imperfect–difficult even and cruel at times,” Alicent said as she reached out, clasping Daenera’s hand firmly. Despite the young woman’s instinctive flinch, Alicent’s hold remained gentle yet insistent. “But they remain my children.” She held the younger woman's hand between both of hers, her thumbs gently caressing the cool, delicate skin. “And they are not the monsters you think them to be.”

Daenera resisted, her dark brows knitting together in a frown, seemingly bewildered, the inner corners arching in silent questioning.

“My sympathy for you has its limits,” Alicent persisted, her grip on Daenera unyielding. Within her chest, her heart pounded—a fierce, irregular rhythm that was both foreign and oddly familiar. It echoed the same fervent cadence it had adopted years ago, when she had grasped the dagger from Viserys, driven by a fierce resolve to seek justice for her son. The memory of that resolve flickered in her eyes, a silent testament to the lengths she would go to protect her own. “There’s darkness in you–I see it–and it seeks to infect everything you touch, it seeks to destroy.”

As Alicent's grip intensified, her fingers dug into the yielding flesh of Daenera's hand, her nails embedding slightly into the skin. A wince crossed Daenera's face, her brows drawing closer in discomfort as she made another attempt to free herself. "I will not allow your darkness—your corruption—to reach my children. I will take any measures necessary to protect them and to secure their rightful place in this world.”

“Let go of me–”

“I want you to remove it,” Alicent's demand cut through the solemn quiet of the Sept, her voice so sharp that it seemed to carve a place for itself in the high arches of the ceiling. She pressed her thumb deliberately into the bandaged wound on Daenera’s palm, the action calculated and precise.

“I don’t–”

“You are not as discreet as you thought,” she snapped, a sneer on her lips. Despite her best efforts, a sliver of contempt slipped into her tone, and the shame of it settled in her stomach like a rock. “You were seen and heard. I know of the curse you laid upon all of us–upon me,” she sneered angrily, “upon my sons.”

Fear and dread had visited Alicent the night before, settling heavily upon her and refusing to lift. She had fallen in and out of sleep, the weight of her anxiety pressing down on her even during the council meeting. Now, it seemed to claw its way out, baring its teeth at the princess before her. The very notion that someone within these walls would go to such lengths to see her family destroyed terrified her. That someone would consort with dark magic to bring about their ruin was unthinkable. To invoke such curses, she must have truly turned from the gods.

The fear had gnawed at Alicent, intensifying with every passing hour. The council's deliberations had offered no respite, and now, face to face with Daenera, the terror took on a life of its own, desperate to confront the source of her anguish. The idea that Daenera would use such malevolent forces, that she would abandon all sacred beliefs to enact her vengeance, filled Alicent with a profound sense of dread.

“I want you to remove it,” Alicent said, refusing to let her go. “Undo it, Daenera.”

“I can’t. Once done, it cannot be undone,” Daenera retorted, voice wavering. A spiteful glint flickered within the blue of her eyes, burning–burning cruelly, wickedly, condemningly. “And even if I could, I wouldn’t.”

Alicent felt her heart sink and abruptly released Daenera’s hand, as though her touch had scorched her. Daenera staggered backward, barely managing to steady herself, steps ringing in the hollowness. Her dark hair cascaded over her shoulders in a disheveled manner, framing her eyes–blue and penetrating, burning with anger and incredulity.

Alicent stared at the wretched girl, eyes wide with disbelief. “You would curse the man you love?”

“I would curse the man responsible for my brother’s death,” Daenera answered, straightening. “But you needn’t fear for my curse, as no man is ever so accursed as the kinslayer.”

Alicent’s hand clenched tightly, her nails digging into the soft flesh of her palm as a wave of apprehension coursed through her. Her heart pounded with an increasing rhythm, the grip of fear tightening around her chest.

“If you believe yourself righteous and that this is the will of the gods, then mere words whispered in the night should be of no consequence,” Daenera said, her voice icy and unwavering. “Your gods will protect you.”

Adopting a facade of calm rationality and unwavering faith, Alicent steadied herself, even as her insides churned with unease. She regarded Daenera with a stern, unflinching gaze. “My faith in the gods and their will is absolute, and I trust that they will protect the righteous and good from the blasphemy of the unfaithful.” Taking a deep breath to fortify herself, Alicent’s tone grew sharp, “It appears your mother has failed you in teaching you to respect and revere the gods. It is not surprising, given her… questionable morals.”

“My mother’s morals have not made a kinslayer of her son,” Daenera retorted, her eyes burning with the intensity of a funeral pyre.

Alicent’s eyes shifted toward the entrance of the sept as she called out, “Lady Mertha.”

The woman stepped forward, her footsteps echoing as she emerged from the shadows. Her dark hair appeared almost black in the dim light of the Sept, save for the streaks of silver that caught the occasional glimmer. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun, and her face was set in the stern, unforgiving expression Alicent had come to recognize.

“Your Grace,” Lady Mertha said, her voice steady and respectful.

Alicent’s gaze shifted back towards Daenera, who wore an expression of insolence, clutching her injured hand against her chest, the silk bandage stained with blotches of fresh blood–a pang of shame welled up inside of Alicent, but she swallowed it down. “The Princess seems to require a re-education in the ways of the Faith,” she declared firmly. “I trust you can instruct her appropriately. Begin with the Seven-Pointed Star and continue until its teachings resonate with her. And restrict her movements to her chambers and the sept only. She should not be allowed in the gardens. Perhaps needlework might help keep her mind off frivolous ideas.”

“I’ll see to it that she is properly educated and cared for, Your Grace,” Mertha assured her.

“And should she prove insolent, as is her nature,” Alicent added, her tone hardening. “A firmer approach might be necessary.” She fixed Lady Mertha with a stern look. “Take her to the Traitor’s Walk. Ensure she understands the consequences to her actions.”

Lady Mertha inclined her head in acknowledgement, her eyes flickering to Daenera with a look that promised no leniency. The shadows of the Sept seemed to deepen around them, the weight of Alicent’s decree hanging heavily in the air as she walked towards the doors.

“Your Grace…” Daenera’s voice rang out, halting Alicent mid-step. She turned, her gaze wary as she looked upon the young woman. Their eyes met, tension crackling in the air between them.

“Do you genuinely feel remorseful over my brother’s death,” Daenera continued, her tone sharp and probing, “or is it merely what you tell yourself to ease your conscience, knowing your son has made himself a kinslayer?”

Alicent’s expression tightened, the weight of Daenera’s words pressing heavily upon her. She stared at the girl, her brows furrowing as her heart pounded unsettlingly within her chest. The accusation startled her, twisting its way between her ribs like a dagger. Of course she felt remorseful for Lucerys’s death, how could she not—he was but a boy. Her sympathy was genuine, but the words died on her tongue, left unuttered and swallowed.

She was sorry not only for the boy's death but also for what it heralded—the onset of a war that promised more bloodshed and a realm tearing itself apart. And, more dreadfully, for what it meant for her son's soul. The gravity of these thoughts weighed heavily on her, rendering her momentarily speechless, her gaze locked with Daenera’s in a silent, anguished confrontation. She turned, and walked away.

In the hallowed silence of the sept, only the Queen Mother’s retreating footsteps echoed through the stone chamber, leaving Daenera alone amidst the somber glow of candlelight. Her heart ached with a burning pain, her stomach feeling as though filled with stones. Should she walk into the sea, she thought that she would sink swiftly. She might join her brother then, amongst the waves. A bastard in life, a Velaryon in death.

Her throat tightened painfully, the air thick with the cloying scent of incense that stung her lungs and lingered at the back of her throat. Daenera’s gaze were once again drawn to the flickering candles on the altar, each flame a silent prayer–each flame a soul to be remembered. One of the flickering flames was dedicated to her brother. To Daenera, the ritual seemed hollow, a mockery. Alicent's grief did not extend to her brother as a person; her concern was merely for the implications of his death—the looming threat of war, and the grim reality that her own son had defied the gods she revered, becoming a kinslayer.

Daenera felt the emptiness of the gesture weigh heavily upon her, tainted by the knowledge that Alicent mourned not the man, but the chaos his passing would unleash.

What comfort could these small flames offer when her brother’s body was forever lost to them? How could these flickering lights provide solace when he was denied the funeral rites he deserved? She wondered if the gods would even accept him, or if he was doomed to roam the earth, a restless spirit haunting those he loved.

Could the simple act of lighting a candle dispel her overwhelming guilt and shame? Would lighting a candle in his name carry her deepest regrets to her brother in the after life? She wondered if the gentle glow would carry with it her apologies, her longing for things to have been different–how she wished he was alive in her stead. The quick flicker of flame seemed too fragile a vessel for such a heavy burden of sorrow and remorse–it almost seemed more a vessel for rage and retribution.

Anger caught flame inside of her and she wished for nothing more than to grip each candle and hurl them across the room, indifferent to the scorching wax that might sear her skin or the flames that could catch the long sleeves of her dress. She did not care that the sept might burn down around her, she’d let it burn, cursing the gods for taking her brother from her–cursing them for burdening her with a heart that had come to betray her, haunted by its love for a man who had slain her brother.

A throbbing ache pulsed through Daenera’s hand, a reminder of Alicent’s forceful grip, which left the wounds on her palms weeping. Cradling her injured hand to her chest, she felt her heart’s erratic pounding against her ribs. In her view, Alicent would be better off addressing the reckless actions of her own sons–one a drunken fool, the other a kinslayer–rather than concerning herself with what Daenera had whispered in the cover of night.

She had spoken the truth: curses, once made, could not be unmade. Once such things had been given life, they would linger like shadows and lay in wait to fulfill their purpose. Yet, the rational part of her dismissed these curses as mere vistinges of despair and rage–nothing but words lost to the wind, an old-wives tale told to children before bedtime. What power did she truly hold over such things as curses? What magic could she possibly wield to breathe life into them? She was merely a girl, no witch, no sorceress, nothing divine. Her curses were powerless, empty threats cast into the darkness.

Despite not believing in their power, uttering the curses had brought Daenera a semblance of control, soothing something deep within her. The gods did not answer her prayers, why shouldn’t she turn to something darker?

Daenera took a quiet satisfaction in knowing Alicent was aware of the curses. It was gratifying to see the fear and discomfort flicker across the Queen Mother’s face, to watch her sling desperately her cloak of piety and righteousness as if fearing it might unravel and expose her true nature beneath it. Even if neither truly believed in the potency of the curses, their mere utterances were enough to unsettle.

“Princess,” Mertha’s shrill, snappy voice shattered the heavy silence, abruptly pulling Daenera from her reverie as she gazed into the flames. The sharp sound of footsteps echoed across the marble flooring of the Royal Sept, and soon Mertha was at her side, fixing her with a scornful look, thin lips twisted in a scowl of displeasure. “Come with me.”

Without waiting for a response, the woman spun on her heels and strode towards the doors, her movements charged with an air of expectancy. Daenera bristled at the tone, her eyes fixed on the back of the old woman’s head with a smoldering glare–if only her hair would catch fire from it. Reluctantly, she followed.

Outside, the sky had turned overcast and sullen, with a gentle breeze carrying the promise of impending rain. Mertha stood just beyond the sept’s doors, her posture radiating impatience as she waited. At the foot of the steps, Oliver Norry stood, leaning against the handrail, his hands hitched at his belt, his gaze weary as he looked up at them.

Daenera followed, the weight of her emotions still like stones in her stomach, as they moved through the bustling courtyard. As morning shifted into afternoon, the pace quickened among the servants, who moved briskly in an attempt to clear the courtyard before the impending rainfall. In the center of the courtyard, the knights of the Kingsguard trained. Dressed in their distinctive white padded gear, they stood out against the dark soil and the pale red of the surrounding walls. They wielded their swords with precision and intensity, the sound of steel against steel hanging in the air. Each step they took, cast up a small cloud of dust, the ground dry and begging for rain.

They walked around the perimeter of the Red Keep, passing into the shadowed expanse of the curtain wall. The corridors here were dimly lit, interspersed with errant rays of light coming in from window slits and cracked doors. It retained a lingering chill within the stone, the air damp and filled with the scent of cold stone and muddied footsteps. As they ascended the wooden stairs, each step creaked and groaned beneath their steps, the wood worn smoothe from years of use. They climbed to the second, then third level, eventually emerging from the tower’s archway onto the landing between two flanking towers.

Before them, the outer wall of the Red Keep loomed, presenting a perilous drop from the landing to the base of it. Below, the distant barking of hounds echoed up, and the pungent stench of rot wafted through the air, mingling with the stench of the streets outside of the wall. The sounds of the bustling city below seemed to scale the walls, the clamor of distant conversations becoming indistinct and muffed as they reached upward.

From their position on the landing, they could gaze up at the stretch of gray above the curtain wall, the light harshly outlining the spikes mounted at its top…

Daenera’s heart plummeted as her gaze rose to the gruesome sight of her men’s heads impaled on those spikes–Ser Kevan Mertyns and Ser Darvin Crooler, both beyond recognition, yet unmistakably identifiable, if only to her. The sight was harrowing: Ser Kevan’s once-vibrant red hair, now lifelessly fluttering in the breeze, and Ser Darvin’s beard, distinguished by a silver streak, both served as bleak identifiers. Maggots and flies feasted upon what remained of their flesh, with crows having stripped their cheeks and eyes down to the bone.

Next to them, the heads of Ser Sithric Greenfield and Ser Edam Varner exhibited a similarly ghastly state, their flesh swollen and translucent, the remnants of their features marred by the brutality of their fate. The birds had not spared them either, leaving their eyes hollow, the soft flesh of their cheeks picked at, noses and years black with rot by then.

And lastly there was the head of Ser Eddin Follard–a young man once known for his sweet tooth and easy smiles. Now, a solitary crow perched atop his head, picking relentlessly at one remaining eye, greedily consuming the moisture and nibbling at the surrounding flesh that had yet to bloat and rot. His skin, plate from blood loss, mouth slack, held a ghostly semblance to the life he once carried. He had been alive only hours ago–his execution must have been that morning, as she stood outside the Council Chambers.

“Take a good look at them, Princess,” Mertha’s voice was as soft as gravel scraping against stone. She shifted from the edge of Daenera’s peripheral vision, stepping closer to the ledge. Her murky gray eyes lifted to the ghastly spectacle above, filled with unmasked contempt. “These are the men who chose to follow you…”

Daenera’s stomach churned, her heart felt as if it had sunk to the very pit of her stomach, resting heavily among the stones she felt she had swallowed. Tears stung her eyes as she pressed a hand to her bodice, drawing in a labored breath, the sensation nearly overwhelming her to the point of nausea.

Mertha turned to face her, eyes hard and unforgiving, a smug satisfaction lurking beneath her stern demeanor. “These are the men who trusted you. Fathers, sons, brothers,” she said, her voice carrying a weight that echoed the gravity of ehr words. She took a step closer, her lips slightly pursed, her eyes narrowing. “These are the men who lost their lives for you…”

Her accusation hung heavily in the air as shame and grief tightened around Daenera’s throat, making it ache painfully, as though she was choking on it. She fought against the urge to cry, to let her emotions spill forth controllably. She refused to cry, and instead, she held Mertha’s steely gaze, her own eyes growing resolute.

“These are your consequences,” Mertha continued, her voice icy and devoid of any trace of humanity or sympathy. “And yet it was they who paid the price for it.”

Clenching her teeth, Daenera stood tall, her posture unyielding. This harsh truth was not unfamiliar to her; she had been acutely aware of it ever since Sithric and Edam were hanged for her defiance at the Dragonpit–how she had wished then that Rhaenys would have unleashed Meleys’s fire upon all of them. She had known the rotting faces of her men, had endured the stench of their decay, and had stood vigil over them until the Hightowers saw fit to remove their bodies. Yet, despite knowing the cruelty of her enemies, she had thought that they would show some decency, that they would grant the men a dignified burial or return their bodies to their families. Instead, they had severed their heads and displayed them on the walls for all to see, a brutal reminder of the cost of loyalty.

“There will be no tears for these traitors,” Mertha declared, her steps measured as she approached Daenera. “They made their choice–they chose to serve the False Queen and her bastards.” She halted just in front of Daenera, the murky gray of her eyes brimming with disdain. “Look at them closely, commit their faces to memory–remember their fates. Their blood is on your hands, and one day, you too will confront them when the gods pass judgment on your wretched soul.”

Her wrinkled hand shot out, gripping Daenera’s jaw with surprising strength, her spindly fingers pressing into her flesh painfully. “You should be grateful to Her Grace for taking an interest in saving your soul. Where the decision mine, I would have had you hung for the curses you dared cast upon the royal family.”

Daenera wrenched her face free from Mertha’s scornful grasp, feeling the imprint of her boney fingers on her skin, the pressure almost bruising. For a fleeting moment, she entertained the thought of seizing the scornful crone by the shoulders and thrusting her back, tossing her off the ledge to meet her end in the blood-stained sands below. However, even withering old crones like her could serve a purpose, and Daenera was not willing to risk the delicate agreement she had reached with the Lord Hand. Taking such actions could endanger Fenrick’s chance at freedom–and she needed him free and far from King’s Landing.

Her gaze returned to the most recent addition–the newest consequence to her actions. She had always known there would be consequences–understood that it might cost the life of one of her remaining men in the dungeons. Despite this, she had proceeded, unsure whether it was out of callous disregard or a calculated sacrifice. Even now, as she watched the crows squabble over Eddin’s eyes, she knew she wouldn’t have chosen differently–even if it had been Fenrick up there, or Patrick. But she was much relieved it was neither, and dreaded it at the same time. Perhaps it would have been easier that it had been the boy’s head up there.

What would become of her soul by the end of this war? Daenera pondered the growing tally of those she would lose or sacrifice, casualties wrought by the hands of others as much as by her own. How many more names would she be forced to condemn? How many more faces would visit her in the stillness of night? And perhaps more hauntingly, how long until her heart became numb to the loss? How long before the names and faces of those she had loved and lost faded from her memory?

A part of her had already grown cold, she thought, the innate darkness within her seeming to take root and thrive in this newfound chill. The death of her brother and the ruins Aemond’s love had made of her heart, had changed her. Or perhaps more ominously, it had merely unveiled a cruel, ruthlessness to her nature that had always lurked beneath the surface.

With a steely resolve, Daenera locked eyes with Mertha, her voice tight but clear. “If you believe in the weaving of curses, I would tread carefully if I were you. Who’s to say you’re not the next one to find yourself cursed?”

The slap came quick and unforgivingly, its impact searing against Daenera’s cheek and sending a ringing echo through her ear. Clutching the stinging skin, she lifted her gaze back to Mertha, whose expression was a volatile mix of anger and fear. Mertha’s eyes, with the fervor of unshakable faith in the gods, also betrayed a trembling apprehension of someone who feared for their soul.

“Your curses have no power, they are an affront to the gods themselves and you should pray for their forgiveness,” Mertha sneered, hand shooting out to roughly grip Daenera’s arm, fingers digging into the soft, malleable flesh of her upper arm with enough force that it would undoubtedly leave bruises. “But do not worry, I will teach you the grace of the gods, so that you may yet be saved.”

#fic comment #fanfic #a vow of blood #fanfiction #Aemond fanfic #fic rec

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miss-smutty · 3 years ago

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Chapter 3

A/N- Evey couple of chapters you will get Professor Hemsworth's POV and this is the first one 🥵 I really wanted to write his story and hear his thoughts too.

Summary- He can't get her out of his mind, the girl in the coffee shop. Will fate bring them together again?

Word count- 2.9K

Pairing- Prof!Hems X Reader

Warnings- Age gap (OC is 20) student/professor relationship, swearing, dirty talk

18+ Only!

Disclaimer: This is an entire work of fiction/AU and has no affiliation to real life what so ever! This is a fictional story about fictional characters who happen to share names and faces with some real people.

Posted: 5th Sept 2021

Taglist:- @innerpaperexpertcloud @pandaxnienke @chickensarentcheap @jjpogueprincess @longlostinanotherworld @mostly-marvel-musings @darklydeliciousdesires @monet-belle @help2700 @presidentpotts

Chapter 1 Chapter 2

Chris Pov

My Apartment was silent as usual, empty like always when I arrived home from work, throwing my coat and bag on to the sofa and slumping down next to them.

I couldn't stand the silence, it taunted me and brought back memories I'd rather not remember. I'd thought about getting a roommate but still hadn't gotten around to posting out an ad, the idea made me nervous. Although I hated being alone, living with a stranger would be even worse. I turned on the TV to fill the expanse of the large empty room that I'd work so hard for but ultimately meant absolutely nothing to me.

My mind began to wander back to this morning and the chance meeting with the most beautiful woman I'd ever laid eyes on. She'd taken my breath away and made me so nervous that I'd used some cheesy chat up line. I'd known at the time it would come back to haunt me tonight, no wonder she ran out of there as soon as she could. Thats why I hesitated, my hand brushed against the small of her back when I was about to ask her for her number and it took away my sensibility. I leaned in like I was about to kiss her, thank god I stopped myself though, how ridiculous would that have been?

I'd spoke to her for no more than ten minutes but somehow felt like I'd known her all my life. Asking for her number wouldn't have been the most unusual thing but she was in such a rush and I didn't want to make her late. There's absolutely nothing more I hate than tardiness.

I still couldn't get her off of my mind, she was beautiful, long dark hair that flowed down her back and the most piercing green eyes I'd ever seen. I couldn't stop looking into them, framed by dark eyelashes that made the emerald green pop even more. It's been a long time since I'd met a woman that made me feel as nervous as she did. The only thing is, she was young, much younger than me and I'd be fooling myself to think I'd actually stand a chance with her. Even if by some miracle I did, she deserved more than what I could give her, I was a mess, even after all this time I was still living in the past.

**********

I woke up feeling like a teenage boy again, a tent of my erection in the cotton sheets sprawled across my middle. I'd dreamt about the girl all night and honestly nothing about it was innocent. I rubbed at my eyes and stretched my muscles before finally getting out of bed, I had my first Junior Comms class to teach today and of course, I couldn't be late.

To say I was dreading today would be an understatement, I'd made a deal with the Dean to teach the Comms class because none of the other professors were willing and I was desperate for a job. I was hoping that if I exceeded expectations during my first semester I would finally get to teach psychology like I'd planned in the first place. Of course that meant being on my best behaviour and a lot of arse kissing, which I would do, albeit reluctantly.

The air was crisp this morning as I set off walking towards the university, luckily for me I didn't live to far away from the campus and the walk would help distract my thoughts because God knows they needed distracting. They always did.

Before I knew it, I'd arrived at the halls, looking up at the architecture of the building and realising my idea to walk obviously hadn't worked. I'd barely paid attention the entire time and it was only muscle memory that had gotten me to my required destination.

I held onto the door handle of the lecture hall and took a deep breath before stepping in, the room erupting into wolf whistles was not what I expected but admittedly better than what I was thinking. I scanned the room and my students, rolling my eyes at the girls lining the front row, their eager faces taking me in.

The class was full of typical students, the usual cliques you see at every educational institution. The jocks and cheerleaders, the nerds and oh fuck. The air was almost knocked from my lungs when I spotted her sat at the back of class. The girl I'd been talking to in the coffee shop yesterday, the girl that had been on my mind and in my dreams ever since. She was here, right in front of me which meant she was my student and younger than I'd actually thought. Fuck.

Even though she was now out of bounds I couldn't take my goddamn eyes off of her, the way her wavy hair cascaded over her shoulders. I could feel my cock tingling when my eyes fell to her low cut top and that unreal cleavage. I pulled my eyes away from her so as not to draw attention and focused on preparing for the lesson, leaving the students to whisper for a while longer while I recovered my composure.

Like a magnet, my eyes unwillingly kept finding their way back to her and she looked uncomfortable, squirming in her seat. I was making her uncomfortable and I still couldn't stop myself, I frowned as I subtly watched her cheeks blush and realised she's probably embarrassed because she'd been flirting with her Professor. Of course she'd be embarrassed, I was so much older than her but was it wrong that I didn't feel one ounce of awkwardness at the fact I had been flirting with a student?

All I could think about as I watched her tits bounce as she moved In her seat, was burying my face in her cleavage and I knew I had to look away before my dick reacted. The last thing I needed in a class full of students was to be walking around with a fucking erection.

I could stand there and watch her all day but certain students had stopped talking and they were waiting for me to speak and I'd almost forgotten why I was here In the first place. I really needed to get my head in the game, being infatuated with a student would definitely not get me the promotion I was looking for.

I pushed my hands in my tight pockets, hoping to stretch the fabric a little so my semi-hard dick wasn't so apparent, then my eyes were drawn to her again and she was talking to Jake. That pissed me off and I could feel my jaw tensing as I cleared my throat rather forcibly, hoping to get the attention of the whole class at the same time as distracting her from the rather friendly conversation she was having with another guy. A guy her age at that.

"Now I've got your attention, we're going to use our first session to get to know each other a little better. You'll be doing quite a lot of speeches so it's best if you feel comfortable with one another. I'll start by introducing myself." I looked at her again, gulping hard when I saw her with the end of her pen in her mouth and the way her lips wrapped around it. Fuck. "So, I'm Professor Hemsworth and I'm originally from Melbourne in Australia." I looked to her and she smiled, remembering what we spoke about yesterday.

A student started with the typical Australian stereotypes although I'm actually surprised no one told me to throw another shrimp on the Barbie. I laughed along anyway, I'd been expecting it, it's literally the first thing anyone who isn't Australian says when they first meet me. So when I told him it wasn't very original I meant it, I'd heard it a thousand times before and I'll hear it a thousand times again.

I told the class a little about myself before informing them they would do the same, it didn't go down well, the room filled with groans. I looked to her and she looked downright terrified, I sympathized for her, it wasn't easy speaking in front of a room full of people but was the best way to break the ice.

"Claire Abbott." I called, watching the blonde at the front stand, nervously. She giggled and twirled her hair around her finger as she smiled at me, I knew what she was doing. I quickly glanced at the girl from the coffee shop as she rolled her eyes at the blonde at the front, I smirked back at her, amused at her tolerance for predictable girls.

"I erm… I don't know what to say?" The blonde said, looking at me questioningly.

"Just anything about yourself that we might find interesting, the first thing that comes to mind."

"Well I own four horses and I'm the cheer captain." I had to stop myself from laughing when she rolled her eyes again but the smile soon disappeared when I saw Jake lean over to speak to her and the way she laughed at him made my blood boil. I was seething, not because they were speaking instead of listening but because she was speaking to him instead of me.

"You two at the back, we'll wait for you shall we?" I called them out, my voice more stern than I expected. I was pissed off that Jake would easily be able to get to know her and I couldn't. She stared at me, her eyes wide, she was surprised I'd called them out in front of everyone which made me even more pissed off because that probably blew my chances even more. What the hell am I thinking? What chances, I need to remember I'm her fucking Professor.

She sat silently through the rest of the class, I still couldn't keep my eyes off of her and thankfully neither could she. She looked flustered and I liked it, I liked that I could make her feel that way without even touching her. She was so goddamn hot I could hardly concentrate on what the other students were saying.

When I glanced down at the sheet of names in front of me and saw Jake's name my jaw clenched.

"Jake Hudson." I couldn't help narrowing my eyes as he stood up, I just knew he'd say something cocky and I was so fucking jealous of him right now. I closed my eyes for a second and took a deep breath, I needed to keep my cool, especially in a room full of students and her. If she knew what I was really like she wouldn't look at me the way she did.

"Hi, I'm Jake." I bit onto the inside of my gum, that bit of pain keeping me grounded. "I'm also from Australia." He gave me that fucking cocky half arsed smile I'd been waiting for and the adrenaline shot through me. I was thankful no one noticed apart from maybe the one person in here I didn't want to notice. She was watching me carefully. I had to loosen my tie a little as he continued to speak, I was burning up with rage.

I'm glad class was almost over, I needed a stiff drink and I needed it now. I looked at my sheet of names again and there were only a couple left, I wondered which one was hers. I needed to know her name. Fuck. I needed to know everything about her.

"Jessica Watson." She stood up. Fuck, Jessica, it was a cute name and fit her perfectly. I was mesmerized with her and the way she spoke as she tucked her long hair behind her ears. "These last couple of days have been pretty eventful for me." She looked right at me, what was she going to say? "I'm living the life of a romance novels heroine and I'm excited to see what the next couple of days bring." Oh fuck. Was she talking about meeting me? Or Jake? I like to think by the way she studied me as she spoke, she was talking about me. This was wrong, so wrong but why did it feel so right? I forgot there was anybody else in the room, my cock twinging as I pictured myself fucking her on this desk. I needed to stop thinking like this, it's unprofessional and completely immoral. I shook my head and turned back to the class.

"I hope we all feel a bit more comfortable with each other now, some of you shared some pretty revealing things." I looked at Jessica. "Some of you, not so much." Then raised my eyebrows at a group of guys in the middle of class that had used thier time to inform everyone about the party at their frat house this weekend. "I'll have a schedule for you all next time I see you, anybody that has any questions can see me after class, everyone else is free to leave." I looked at her one last time, hoping she'd use this opportunity to come and speak to me.

I sighed when I sat back at my desk and a group of girls took their opportunity, I wasn't in the mood for it but answered their questions anyway. I didn't take my eyes from Jessica, especially when Jake started speaking to her again. The girls in front of me were taking up my time, trying to flirt with me instead of asking relevant questions and I was over it.

"Do you actually have any questions about the course ladies? I have other things to be getting on with if not." I was a little short with them without actually meaning to be. I just wanted them out of my goddamn way so I could see what was going on with Jessica and Jake.

The girls finally left, more like stormed off but I couldn't care less right now. She was still sat at her desk which means she waited until I was alone which has got to be a good sign. We stared at each other for what felt like an eternity, the silence driving me insane so I cleared my throat and she blinked like I'd woken her from a daydream. What was she thinking about?

She packed up her things into her bag slowly, I could tell she was buying herself time but I felt relaxed now we were alone, in fact I felt excited which was completely ridiculous. I felt like a damn teenager.

"Did you need to talk Miss Watson?" I was amused and I needed to break the ice before the silence got the better of me. I leaned back in my chair and folded my arms across my chest.

"I erm…" She walked towards me, down the stairs, looking at her feet. She was unsteady and looked nervous as hell, was she going to tell me to back off? "I wanted to apologise, I had no idea you were a Professor." She stood at the bottom of the stairs, I was glad she wasn't too close. I don't know if I'd be able to control myself around her and lord knows I had to. The atmosphere was tense, neither of us really knowing what to say or do, all I could think about was ripping off her clothes.

"There's no need to apologise Miss Watson, I also had no idea you were a student but I was hoping to bump into you again. Funny how things work out isn't it?" I cocked my eyebrow at her, testing her, seeing how she would react to my comment. Something changed and she didn't look quite so nervous anymore.

"I think fate can be rather cruel Professor Hemsworth." The way she called me Professor stirred something deep inside me, a hunger I didn't know I had and when she moved closer to me I began to feel nervous.

"Oh really? Why is that Miss Watson?" She was so close now, I could smell her sweet scent of coconut shampoo. I wanted to touch her badly, I didn't though. I didn't dare because I knew if I did I wouldn't be able to stop myself and I must restrain, she's my student after all. It's wrong. It's forbidden.

I still couldn't stop myself from flirting, like an uncontrollable impulse and as soon as I opened my mouth to try and be professional I would just go right ahead and flirt. She was so outrageously attractive but the kind of attractive where she didn't know it and didn't flaunt it, which I found even more endearing.

"I was hoping to bump into you again too, only now the thought of what could've happened will have to remain a fantasy." My restraint was really being tested now, she was teasing me, egging me on and the fact she'd also been fantasising about me made it extra difficult to resist. I had to loosen my tie again, I needed my fingers to be busy so I didn't touch her. I had an internal conflict going on inside my mind and it was like torture, if this was day one of class how the hell was I meant to survive the whole semester?

"I better get to my next class, we can't have anyone thinking I'm your favourite now can we?" Fuck sake. I ground my teeth together, I was glad she was leaving, I couldn't take the tension any longer but at the same time I knew, with distance the desire would only intensify. She turned to leave and I couldn't stop myself watching her hips sway as she walked, her ass was so round and bouncy, it hypnotised me and that's when I knew I was in deep trouble.

#smut #chris hemsworth #chris hemsworth fanfic #chris hemsworth smut #chris hemsworth x reader #chris hemsworth x you #chris hems x oc #chris hems x you #chris hemsworth thor #chris hemsworth x ofc #chris hemsworth x oc #chris hemsworth imagine #professor #professor x #professor x student

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iamanartichoke · 4 years ago

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Natalie Holt implying that Loki slept with Sif before cutting off her hair honestly makes my blood boil. The first Thor movie showed us a sympathetic character that was an outcast in Asgard, and a scapegoat in his family. Everything now just seems like Marvel trying to take all of that away. So many people are saying, "Well, now I know why Sif doesn't like him, lol!" And that is exactly as intended. We are supposed to see Loki as an ass and everyone else as a saint for putting up with him. :(

I'm just really baffled at how it's either a) supposed to make sense, or b) explain anything about their dynamic?

Like, okay, let's assume that they do hate each other bc they slept together. Why would that be? Even if you catch feelings and get rejected, that's not really justification to hate someone. Ideally you'd just go your own separate ways but since Loki and Sif shared a social circle, that probably wasn't an option, in which case the next best thing is to just be civil while you move on/get over the feelings. No hatred necessary, and certainly not for centuries.

I don't believe that either of them is stubborn enough to harbor a grudge over being rejected. Sif bc I wouldn't believe that she caught feelings for Loki anyway, and Loki bc while he would certainly be hurt, and his pride would be wounded, I just don't see him holding onto that for longer than it would take for him to move past it.

And where is the hair-cutting supposed to come in? Are we implying here that Loki is so childish and petty that he cut off Sif's hair in retaliation for her not returning his feelings? (Seeing it written down like that, I am guessing this is exactly the implication, bc of course it is, smh.) Was he 12 when they fucked, or ??

So here's the thing, though. You pointed out that the first Thor movie showed us a sympathetic character who was an outcast and a scapegoat but no, actually, it didn't. Thor 1 showed us a jealous, vindictive loner turned villain. That's the problem - the MCU isn't taking anything away as much as they're trying to re-establish the characterization they intended for him to have all along.

Thor 1 left things out that would provide more context to Loki's motivations. Thor 1 actively deleted scenes that showed Loki as sympathetic. Thor 1 set up a "good brother vs evil brother" black-and-white dichotomy between Thor and Loki, in which the narrative and the supporting characters all behaved as though Loki was innately the evil brother and there wasn't even a question about that. Thor 1 was Thor's movie, and while I obviously have no problem with that, it being Thor's movie means that to a lot of the audience, Loki was never going to be perceived as sympathetic. In order to make Thor the hero of his story, Loki has to be the villain and most people just accept that at face-value.

Is Loki sympathetic? Yes. Was he an outcast in his society and a scapegoat in his family? Yes. Was he evil at heart? No. Did he do bad things? Yes. Did he intend for them to turn out as terribly as they did? No. Etc.

These are all things that a lot of us know because we've taken the time to know them. One needs to be interested/invested enough in Loki to make the effort of interpreting his motivations and his characterization but, that said, having a vested enough interest in Loki to be an active fan doesn't necessarily mean interpreting him sympathetically. There's this weird divide and things that seem obvious in hindsight, such as Loki's sympathy as a character or the nuances of what he was really trying to achieve in Thor 1, are things that a lot of the audience + his fandom either don't pick up on or don't care to see.

There's a reason 2011-13 Loki isn't as popular as Ragnarok Loki. There's a reason there are so. many. posts. in this fandom that start off with "I love Loki, but -" and then proceed to drag him. There's a reason why a lot of his fans are like "lol I mean he did murder all those people though?" or why the "you just like Loki/apologize for Loki bc you want to fuck Tom" argument is so prevalent. There's a reason why headcanons like "Loki just fucked his way into the GM's inner circle" are treated as canon, or why nobody questions whether or not it actually made sense for Loki to randomly betray Thor right before the obedience disk scene.

The reason is that Thor 1 didn't show us who Loki really was, and because of his portrayal in that movie and in Avengers (subtext and word-of-god confirmation is clearly insufficient for the wider audience to realize that Loki wasn't acting of his own accord - no, he's just evil), there are very many fans who are just never going to see him as anything besides villainous at worst or "a fun but greasy little shit" at best, who causes trouble and does shitty things for the lulz.

"Loki cut Sif's hair for no other reason than to be a dick after they fucked" falls perfectly in line with that characterization, and the result is that you get tons of fans who are like "LOL that's SO Loki!" or "No wonder Sif hates him!" etc. And if, in 2021, ten years after Loki was introduced into the MCU, people are still coming away from his narrative arc + his own series believing that he is, or ever was, just a rotten little shit who caused trouble for the lulz? Then that is clearly the Loki that they see, that they stan, and that means whatever he means to them, and regardless of how our portion of the fandom may object and cry foul, there's honestly just nothing we can do about it.

So, I mean, there we are. People can feel however they want about Loki. It is what it is. And I think I'm just tired of getting upset about it. Re Loki/Sif, I will share my opinion that it's a trash headcanon and laugh at it, but I'm tired of allowing myself to get genuinely upset about how other people perceive this character, especially when there's nothing I can do about it and the only person who ends up suffering is me when my mental health spirals downward (bc I care way too much about fiction and I have no problem admitting it).

I didn't intend for this to be so long, and obviously this is not any kind of rebuttal against you or your ask personally, anon. It just gave me an opportunity to put into words what I've been feeling for quite awhile. It is what it is.

I also feel it's worth mentioning, again, that I think Natalie's soundtrack is absolute fire and I have nothing but respect for her as the composer in this series, but I do not think that earns her any merit in how she perceives these characters. Loki/Sif is her headcanon, and she also said that Loki looks at Sylvie the way he looks at his mother, which is like, and how do you think he's looking at his mother, Nat? Cause uh. I don't think they are the same. I know most people won't agree, but I feel like her words need to be taken with a grain of salt and not accepted as canon based on nothing more than her position of being someone who worked on the show.

I should put this behind a cut, but meh. Also, I know a lot of people reblogged/added onto my Loki/Sif post from last night and I was going to engage but I just don't have time, so please accept this as my general response + stance on the entire clusterfuck.

#asks #charlotte replies #a nonny mouse #this isn't really negativity i don't think #just my feels #loki pokey artichokey #if anyone feels i should add any tags they've blacklisted just let me know and i'll add them

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blushing-titan · 3 years ago

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im mostly (mOSTLY) over how genuinely god-awful that ending was, but my god am i STILL angry about how historia was just thrown to the side to make room for m-kasa. like, up until s4 historia was probably THE best-written female character i'd ever come across, and to this day she still holds up incredibly well, but then season 4 and beyond came along and is-yama was just suddenly like "ACTUALLY SCRATCH ALL THAT LETS MAKE THE ENTIRE SERIES ABOUT MIKASA" and im gonna be real it boils my blood lmao. her story was and is incredible (i still think about it and get legitimately emotional), and it just felt so intriguing and made me root for her harder than any other character in the series, which is not something i can say m-kasa ever did for me tbfh.

side note, have u encountered the m-kasa stans who'll swear that we 'only like historia because shes a cute little blonde and hate strong women' cause my GOD how stupid is that statement? (not to mention in my oh-so-humble opinion historia is a hundred times stronger than m-kasa lmao-). i have never met a group of people so deluded and hateful as erem-kas and m-kasa stans, point-blank. and i did a stint in the v-ltron fandom lmao. i'd say aot was a mistake but it gave us historia reiss so at least theres that.

Yup, my thoughts, also. Historia had such a powerful developement, but it all went straight into the bin as the plot progressed. Mikasa, on the other hand, had a lot of potential, but no developement whatsoever. Both characters were wasted in the end - neither of them had a satisfying conclusion, and instead, felt plastic to me in the finale.

Historia was my favorite character from SnK too, so I understand your feelings :,DD As a huge Dany fan, I understand it even more - but hey, Daenerys at least still has a chance for a satisfying ending in the final book, while for Historia, it just is what it is....and that's just disappointing. Same with Mikasa, really. I rooted for her so much, too.

And yes, the amount of cringy attacks I read online is pretty much immeasurable. Unfortunately, that's what happens when people build their entire personality and self-esteem over fictional characters.

Thanks for sharing your thoughts - hope you have a nice Sunday 🌼✨

#anti snk ending #anti eremika #answered #snk spoilers #6ubble-gum

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jadelynlace · 4 years ago

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a dead woman tells no tales / Vikings fiction

series based on Lady Lazarus, a poem by Sylvia Plath.

chapter five / catch up here

synopsis: He left you for dead and now you’re back.

author’s note: the one small detail the reader has, is that she is a red head.

specific chapter content warning(s): mentions of blood, suicide, and sexual content below the cut. yes I have fucked up the entire timeline and characterization, but I have no shame. (however, if you do want to talk about someone who fucked up, let’s discuss the absolute shit ending Hirst gave these characters!) is my love for floki obvious yet? don’t answer that. also, before I go: Ivar has a breeding / pregnancy kink, pass it on.

pairing: Ivar x Reader

✄

“Why do you have a child?” Ivar’s voice beckons to you from where you have positioned yourself along the rug, the small eyes watching you back as she lifts her head.

“I told her mother I would watch her so she could bathe in peace,” You reply as you hear Ivar clicks his tongue in distaste.

“She is a spoiled one,” Ivar laughs.

“She is small, Ivar,” You reply softly.

“Do not gift yourself any thoughts about children, Y/N,” Ivar warns suddenly. “They are small, yes, and they are helpless,” He says from his spot, the pulp of an apple crushing between his jaw as the sound alerts the small one to raise her head again.

“They are helpless because they need teachers,” You sigh, rolling yourself along the rug to adequately stand, leveling the child along your hip. Ivar’s eyes are stuck on how the infant grabs at your hair, tracing her tiny hands along your covered breasts and you know that she much be feeling hungered. She lets out a small squawk which you are quick to quiet before turning away from Ivar.

“Where are you headed?” He asks, turning his head to the side as you give him another look over your shoulder.

“To return her,” Is all you say.

“Come back to me when you are finished, we have things to discuss,” Ivar hums, wiping the drip of the juice from the apple off his chin.

You wanted to spare yourself the words Ivar had undoubtedly set up for you, strolling through the village to occupy your time instead. You know he is counting the moments before you return but that remains of petty interest in your mind. There is far more Kattegat has for offerings now that you are not hidden in a cart to recover from your injuries. You catch sight of an axe’s curve sharpening, the slice through the air calls you and you notice Ivar’s head as you search the shop’s perimeter. As he catches you in his sight, there’s a sliver of a smirk across his mouth as he waves his hand, the few patrons of the spot vacating and closing the one door behind them.

“You wished to speak?”

“Come closer,” Ivar demands, softer than the tone you know him to hold. Following suit you step closer to where he sits, still pulling the axe along the plate as it sharpens. “Closer,” He says again but you are now touching his feet where they are hidden, your kneecaps kissing along his. “Closer,” He says once more without looking up at you but you lack the space to move any more to his liking. Until you take the axe from his grip and maneuver it away, and replace how he held the handle with how his hands quickly latch to your hips. You find yourself over his lap once more, groping hands taking the collections of cloth around your ass to squeeze, tracing your hips and quickly grabbing your breast. “You have put images in my head,” Ivar tells you. “Images of carrying my child,” No sooner do the words leave his mouth than do the flutterings in your lower half take your notice.

“No, Ivar,” You say, trying to reel his mind back to what is important.

“Why must you deny me?” Ivar asks, still stroking skilled fingers over your dress as his eyes finally catch yours. “What has changed so much now that you no longer wish to carry my children? That was what you wanted not long ago. Do you remember how we would talk of it? How we dreamt of names, imagined whom they must take after—and I spoke of how I wished for a child with hair like yours. You would never let me fill you, but you did when you showed up on the raid. How did you end up there, Y/N?” Ivar’s speech unlocks the hidden memories that you tried for too long to bury; the fumblings in the grass where you would make love with him but you would always ask for him not to fill you—not ready to carry his child when you could hardly carry yourself. How one afternoon he caught himself too late, staying within and you suddenly could not understand why you were so fearful of the aftermath. How when your monthly blood came not far after and those dreams left as you washed yourself.

“Show me how you act around a child, Ivar, and perhaps I will reconsider,” You whisper, challenging his gaze and how he watches you, licking his lips.

“You did not answer my question,” Ivar replies in a husked hiss.

“I never went far Ivar,” You say with a small smile. “I fought alongside you, as one of your men, I just stayed hidden too well behind the armor,” His lips are rushed against yours, hungered as his tongue wastes not a breath before it’s sliding with yours. His hands never cease, they want to rip the fabric from you but he favors this dress too much to do so. Moving your hips for you against him, how he grows behind his own clothes as you rub. Ivar’s mouth breaks away from yours as you roll yourself still, groaning and you suddenly light the fire in your own belly to make him whimper your name, not showing him mercy until he’s released inside of his own clothes. Despite Ivar trying to push you in his favor, pin you from how you’re moving so he can have you how he wishes, his moments of struggle do not last long when you latch his hands against your covered chest, making quick work to spill you breasts so he can grab them. Ivar comes undone far too soon for your liking, rubbing him as there is moisture against you, his eyes screwed tightly shut as his mouth is open under the luxury of his quick release. You put your mouth on his to catch his breathing, how he moans in ecstasy and shock at what you did.

“You are a heathen,” Ivar quickly whispers, your own arousal peeked as his voice rasps against your mouth. “You are a heathen and you are mine,” His hands grab tightly now against your chest as your moan echoes back into his throat, his mouth sliding down your jaw. “You are a heathen and now you have a mess to clean up, woman,”

Your arrowheads heat nicely, bend quickly, and sharpens the best they have yet, your work ends as rain opens through the skies and your name is called from down the path. You know it is not Ivar’s tone who attracts you, the mysterious voice looming a noise to tickle your hair. Floki was a man you remember to have been gifted Ivar’s attachment, how Ivar looked up to the man so highly, replacing him to become someone who he would consider his own elder, even when he wasn’t. Your hatred for those who killed Aslaug boiled between both of you, you wondered what took Ivar so long to seek revenge even though you were the one who pulled the final arrow.

“The Gods told me of your return,” Floki sings when you see him, the laughter ringing to you as you dwell upon the silliness this man was known to hold. “How have you been holding yourself since? Do you still not feel well?” Floki asks, pointing to his head. “Not well up here?” You can’t stop the nod that shakes your own cranium. “While our minds are beautiful tools, they are also evil weapons,” He tells you. “Come and speak what is on your mind to Floki,”

Your mouth seals itself too quickly before you can start a speech to the man. In true honesty, you don’t quite know how to articulate the pain that churns deep inside of you. He stands, tends to a meal over the flame before he returns a cup of mead in your grip. You down it suddenly and he laughs at that, refilling it once more but still the words do not sit upon their perch. You’d dream to take your dagger to your lips and pull them apart so the words can fly freely if that meant they would spare you the sickness they have locked in your heart.

“I do not know where to begin—or where the words even begin,” You admit.

“You have always carried a sadness inside of you, the red haired beauty you are, but you have always let the sadness take more of you than it should have. It is because you failed in that jump? Because you could not quiet the evil voices and now they have one more thing to hang above you and taunt you with?” Floki asks. How the man knew what was tangled through your unspoken speech would always amaze you. “You are a strong warrior, a strong woman, show them,” He says when you drown the next few gulps of mead.

“It is different now,” You find yourself speaking. “I remember who I was, but she is locked somewhere and I do not know if I want to let her back out. I have done evil things Floki, thinking it would heal me and it only makes the thirst stronger,” Floki only studies you as you speak.

“You have that need to kill, to seek revenge for something that you could not control. You covet the lives of others so you take them away with your own hands. You make our Gods proud in doing so, but you do not find the answers any clearer,” He tells you, the curve of his blade over a piece of wood as he carves. “Darkness changes people, red haired beauty, but you are not stuck in darkness anymore, you are just simply stuck—scourge the world as you dream and show everyone how strong you have become,” He sings, raising a brow to you as the carving draws a bit more character.

“You are quick with your hands, Floki, and quick with your words. I envy that about you,” You tell him as he laughs once more. “I do not know what I want right now, Floki. If I want to be the strong woman or if I want to go back to being who I was, deeply in love and hoping for a life with Ivar,” You sigh, setting the container along the table.

“Who tells you that you can not have both?” Floki asks, a sideways cocked head as he sets the figure on the table. It is a quickly sliced crescent moon, peeled smoothly and soft as you hold it. “You remind me of the moonlight; you are beautiful but not always there, but even when you are hidden you remain. In shadows. If the moon smiled, she would look like you,” Floki says through his own grin. “Wolves howl at the moon in tribute; make your people howl at you,”

“Where do the Gods speak to you?” You ask with a laugh. “Where does it come from, and how do you get it so quickly?” Floki laughs along with you as you hold the piece tightly in fondness. “Can I keep this?”

“I would be gravely hurt if you did not. Here—” He says with an open hand before you set it along the rough palm, before he carves a quick socket to poke through. “I will find you some string, sit here,” He speaks when he raises quickly, searching about the room for lone pieces of material he seems to enjoy collecting more so than he does enjoy using. The charm is placed on the string before he is behind you, tying it. “You think it may be safer not to feel, but you are wrong,” Floki whispers as his lips graze your temple. “Go home to where Ivar is, and make him howl at you too,”

Ivar is asleep when you sneak back to his quarters, across the mat in twist, ties legs to the side as he rests in a curve the sits more humorous than it does uncomfortable. Watching him for a moment, how his eyes still dance despite being covered by his lids, how his chest rises slowly though breathing. The beauty he has now, more grown, sings adornment through heart; markings on his face that remind you of the younger man you knew, with shorter locks and gravely blunt humor that always halted you before it made you laugh. He was still the Ivar you knew, he was just hiding it like you had been. You walk to his side quickly, moving his legs gently to straighten but that still wakes him with a quick gasp, lids flying apart to catch you.

“You would wake sore if you rested like that,” You tell him. “I was only trying to make you comfortable,” His eyes watch you as you speak to him, rounding the furs to cover him once more as you tuck them. His hand reaches out for yours and you place it along his, a small brushing of his lips along the back of it as you smile. You climb around him quickly, flopping your frame across the vacant spot as his slight laugh warms through you.

“Where is this from?” He asks when his hands stroke the small pendant you wear.

“Floki,” You reply. “He and I spoke for a long time,”

“Floki is a good man,” Ivar says, laying next to you. “He knows too much for his own good, I do think,”

“I think you do too, Ivar,” You reply. “I think you let hatred take the place of love,”

“I do not, I hold few things with me that I love, hatred will never take their place,”

“What do you love?” You ask him gently, rising to your elbow, but there is an abrupt silence before a cracks the smallest detection of a smile.

“I love my mother, and the thought of her peace in Valhalla,” Ivar starts. “I love when it rains at night, when it darkens the sky but still there is a small sliver of the moon. I love the chaos of the battlefield, how it is so sporadic but it still calms me,” He adds, speaking up towards the ceiling. “I love the Gods, and their path for me,” He head turns back to look at you, lips still curved in the same smile. “I love you,”

“Even after that jump?” You whisper.

“Even after that jump,” He responds as his eyes catch yours. “Before it as well. I dreamt of our future, our rule,” Ivar adds. “I dreamt of us,”

“Do you still?”

“Yes,” Ivar answers in a quick sudden way, furrowed brows considering that perhaps he is the only one of the pair that still dreams of a future with you. “Do you not?”

“I dream of dark things now, Ivar. Perhaps it is the way of the Gods, for my pitiful effort to end my own suffering, but there has not been pleasantry on my mind for some time,” You admit. “I worry I may never have those sweet dreams again,” Ivar’s hand catches your cheek as you sigh, the somber look you wear so well there once more as it angers him more than it makes him want to match. As Ivar pulls you closer, your body suddenly oozes like sand in at his touch, molding along how he lays so he can have you against him. Broad chest to lay on with arms that lock behind you as a shield, keeping the slivers of evil spoken words where they belong in the darkness of the room. You feel his lips brush along your hairline and you want to allow it—his openness with you—you want to relish in it, dance along the feelings but you fear that once you do they may slip away once more. Ivar’s hand trail across the plains of your back, slowly loosening the tunic as he goes, your breathing picking up as his hands cup along the roundness of your ass, taking his time as he pulls you to part before sliding his hands back where they began. How he has his ways to make you feel such pleasure with simple touches, you will never know. How the young man who was almost frightened to touch you like that for the first time has long since faded. Showing him where his fingers should stroke, showing him how to make your body respond for his, watching how his eyes darkened as you grew wet, the noises he pulled from your lips, the sounds of his fingers in your cunt, matching with what grew to consume him the first time Ivar ever entered you. The pleasure that bloomed where you two had connected, studying you while cashing his own release, slipping out in the last moment not to lose your tightness and warmth. Painting your skin with his seed as he trailed his own hands through it to feed you. The mess you two were when you always rejoined whom still littered the field and how obvious it must have been written on your faces. In brush, on stumps and behind fallen logs. Sneaking into his home and trying to stay as quiet as you two could.

As you relish in the thoughts of the past, Ivar’s hands grace your chest, the tunic long since discarded as he lays you back, hovering sideways to catch your skin sparkle by the light of the fire. Ducking his head down, his lips curl around your breast, pulling at the skin as you let a hiss rush from your mouth at the way his canine fangs nip at you. Pulling your nipple to bud and you can’t stop the way your hands need him. Rolling the seams of his garments down, raking your nails along the inked drawings his now carries, feeling how hard he has gone just by his tongue exploring your chest. Your legs spread farther, letting him settle between them but he makes no haste to have you in such a way, still bringing his tongue to cover you, licking you like a meal before his lips have found your neck. You can feel how he smirks against your throat when you gasp, melting it into a moan when they latch at the spots under your ear, how easily he recalls what places to go to make you a mess beneath him. Ivar hisses as your nails pierce the skin of his back, dragging lines over the muscles as his hands grab your thighs to still you. His eyes set on yours when his prick is just out past your entrance, his chest heaving, eyes dark alike as he never falters his gaze as he starts to push in. You watch his breathing quicken as he sinks down, his lips separating as his hip bones rest with yours. You look away only as your eyes close, dropping your head to fall back along the bed with a sweet moan that jabs right to Ivar’s crotch. With a slow roll of his hips your mouth opens to sing another note of pleasure before your hands start their endless search to grab it him, pulling him to come as close as he can while he still thrusts. It does not take long for the tightness you hold him with to thicken, for the growls to drool from his mouth as he reaches closer to his peak, maneuvering to his forearms as he watches your chest bounce as he moves harder still. Your body latches along his finally when your orgasm grabs at you, eyes on Ivar as his mouth opens at the sight of you coming around his cock, the slowing of his own movements to simply savor how your appear like a Goddess before him.

“Fill me,” You whispers as your hands crawl to hold his scalp. “Please Ivar, fill me,” You beg softly and he can only manage a nod as his own release trickles from the backs of his thighs, nipping his tail bone as a rush of sharp snaps of his hips crash with yours, the final one causing a long groan as he releases inside of you. Lids still plastered shut as his arms shake, his back tensing and you can see the small pulses of the after waves course over his whole body as you pull him to lay over you. You’re not bothered by the heaviness he reigns over you, the large warrior he’s become as your wrap around him as much as your able while he holds you alike.

“Please never leave me,” Ivar whispers suddenly along the shell of your ear, a voice far too soft for him that registers as pained in your hearing. “I was so lost; please never leave like that again,” Ivar begs. You don’t have the words at the ready to reply, moving his head for him to graze your lips on his is the only way you find yourself answering. His mouth heavy on yours as his salvia comes to rest on your tongue, pleasured pain of how he's still inside of you making your hips roll on their own accord as he growls against you. Finally he pulls himself from your walls, hovering over you as you feel his seed drip from your core, you catch sight of him observing how it flows before he takes his fingers to drag through, pushing it back into its home as he pulls them out once more and pushes them against your tongue.

Tagged:

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#vikings #vikings fiction #vikings au #ivar the boneless #ivar lothbrok #ivar lothbrok fanfiction #ivar ragnarsson #ivar ragnarsson fanfiction #ivar au #ivar ragnarsson smut #ivar ragnarsson x reader #ivar x reader #ivar x you #— i am i am i am. ( my writings & creations )#a dead woman tells no tales

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shirtlesssammy · 4 years ago

Text

Anger and Love

I can tell you this. I still hurt over the ending of this show and the reasons roll into each other, like tangled yarn tossed in a bin. (In this metaphor, I am the bin.)

Castiel

The BURY YOUR GAYS trope. My GOD when will this show learn. (The answer is never. Never, because it’s over.) In 15x18 Cas confesses his love and then dies. Guess who else dies in this episode? Charlie and Stevie! The writers said, “Who will hurt the most to lose? Ah, yes. Charlie in the new and terrified bloom of love.” We can ASSUME that Charlie and Stevie come back, but we don’t get to see it or hear about it. And we get the barest throwaway line that Cas comes back in 15x20, but not seeing him physically return after over a decade on the show feels like a blow that just won’t stop.

More EMOTIONS below the cut.

On Thursday, I said to Boris that it would have been better if we’d never been tossed that crumb about Cas’s love. Why give us this FEAST and then take it away like Chuck poofing away a dog? Many people have pointed to network cowardice, and that’s certainly a possibility. Some people have put forth the theory that exposing Cas’s love for Dean was simply a season-ending ratings move. Either of those could be true, or some mix of them. Listen, I can spin myself around that stupid knot for days and we’ll probably never get the whole story. Instead, I have to look at the core of what Castiel coming out means for me. And the truth of it is, it means A LOT. It means I love him a whole lot more. Cas is mine, he’s ours, he’s one of us. And I’m angry as hell at how it went down, but I’m still glad we got Cas’s side of the story. I have a pride pin on the lapel of my Cas trench, and it’s never felt more perfect.

So I’m angry, but I’m also incredibly glad. Ugh. Knots.

Boris: We’ll never know what actually went down during the production of this season and the hiatus changes or the show’s narrative arc, but I have to believe that Robert Berens was given some kind of go ahead and planned for a lovely and beautiful ending for Dean and Cas. That his story was taken from him at the end (much like Wayward’s eventual ending), is so unfair. Because Cas’s story wasn’t completed. Dean and Cas’s story will forever float out there for us to ponder. Like Natasha, I will cling to Cas’s confession and see it as a beautiful coming out moment for a character I love very much. I’ll be forever despondent that we didn’t see Dean’s story play out on our televisions.

Dean

I didn’t come out as bi to more than three people until my late 30’s. It was something I was first in denial about, and then it just seemed “not relevant” for a large swath of my life (married for 18 years now). Talking about that with my family and friends surprised me - how relieved I felt. How free. As I was working through this, I was also slipping into Supernatural fandom, and watching a show where Dean COULD BE bi. Reader, I projected myself right onto Dean Bean. Maybe he was like me. Clueless, then in denial, then thinking that part of himself irrelevant. So giving us Cas without Dean, given the scenes we watch on the show, feels like a personal affront. I know I’m projecting here, so I’ll acknowledge those feelings and move on to the next…

I am also PISSED about Dean’s story. All his life he’s been “daddy’s blunt instrument” and ready to die bloody on a hunt. It’s spoken about so often that we think surely - at the end - we’ll subvert that. SURELY he’ll survive. The last couple of seasons, he’s fighting for control - freedom from Michael, freedom from Chuck. He finally achieves that freedom and then loses everything anyway. There are no rewards on Earth. He died solving one last case from John’s journal. Daddy’s little soldier to the end. It’s disgusting to me to take this beautiful, complex character who is textually SO FULL OF LOVE and then take a pass on imagining what he might do with a real life on earth. It’s lazy writing, used for a cheap, fast, emotional reaction. The more I unpack Dean’s fate against the rest of the series, the angrier I get.

Boris: I think so many of us confused and discovering things about ourselves later in life see Dean as a character that matters. His story, had it been told fully, would have mattered. I don’t buy his death or his peaceful afterlife. It’s still too raw to process because he deserves happiness in life!

Billie

“I know Supernatural has a history of killing off characters of color,” I told people, “but Billie’s a main character now!” W O W 15x18 is the kick that keeps on kicking. I did actually enjoy Billie’s arc quite a bit, but losing her still makes me angry, in the broader context of the show.

Women

“Supernatural isn’t great with women,” I said. “But we have Mary now! And Billie!” Please picture me as Olaf when I say. “Mary DIES. Billie DIES. Only sad men remain.” Sure, we get some throwaway lines. We know Donna’s alive in 15x20 because of the call to Dean’s phone. Actually, scratch that, we know someone talked to Donna…because this show didn’t want to address that literally no other hunter knew about or mourned Dean’s death so they had a random stranger call Dean’s “Other other phone” for help. Great. Now I’m mad about Dean again.

We can probably blame some of how the final episode shakes out on COVID. Presumably, the final scene in Heaven would have been a party with Mary, the roadhouse crew, original Charlie, maybe Eileen? Kevin? etc etc. Instead, it’s an empty, lonely end on screen.

Which brings me to Eileen. Sam’s romance was laid out carefully throughout season 15, so what the fuck happened here? We assumed we’d at least get some confirmation that Sam ends up with the woman he brought back from the dead and then dated as recently as a couple episodes ago. Instead, there is literally NOTHING. No attempt is made to say that Eileen’s the one Sam ends up with other than his son having dark hair. There are no family portraits. No sign language to the faceless mother by the house. (Standing in a floral dress, like a good housewife.) Is she dead? Did Sam end up with someone else? Even without dialogue, there are ways to show Eileen’s presence that weren’t used. I’m so angry that she was an element of the season and then…hand waved away as irrelevant. The faceless wife MY GOD, SHOW.

Boris: Yikes, I cynically see the reason to not include Cas in the end because homophobiaTM but to not even give us Eileen and Sam? Clearly, they wanted to erase every person that mattered to the brothers from the end. Ugly.

Heaven

The funny thing is that I’m constantly trying to write a “happy eternity in a now-free Heaven” in my own fan fiction. If anyone should like 15x20 it should be me! I’m always trying to argue that it isn’t major character death, because their souls are infinite and now free, blah blah blah. So ultimately, my problem isn’t with peace in Heaven. It’s with Dean’s EARLY DEATH, and how empty Heaven feels. How desolate and devoid of life. Dean leaves the Roadhouse and drives alone until finally Sam dies and joins him. It reads like the ultimate fuck you to the “family don’t end in blood” storyline. If COVID filming got in the way of filling Heaven with life, then we have all suffered a great loss. It should feel ecstatic and full of community. Instead, it just feels wide and lonely.

Ultimately, boiling the season finale into an intimate portrait of brothers should work on paper. It SHOULD, but the show leaves so much unsaid and unshown about the community and family they’ve built along the way, and tells us to be happy with the scraps we’ve gotten instead. It tells us they were never that important, in the end.

The Future

I’m still going to watch the show. I’m still going to enjoy the show and the characters. There are reasons I have watched all along, and they don’t have anything to do with needing the show wrapped up in a neat bow. I’m angry with Supernatural’s conclusion, because I love it. And I’m okay with that.

Boris: I love this show so much, and I know I’ll continue to love it. I need time to lick my wounds and forget about this episode. This show is about the characters and the journey and that’ll never end.

#spn spoilers #supernatural season 15 #spn 15x20 #carry on #spn 15x19 #inherit the earth #spn 15x18 #despair #spn thoughts #about us

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yazthebookish · 4 years ago

Text

Book recommendation:

Lovely War

Genre: romance, historical fiction, mythology, young adult.

No. of books: one (standalone)

Synopsis:

A sweeping, multi-layered romance set in the perilous days of World Wars I and II, where gods hold the fates--and the hearts--of four mortals in their hands.

They are Hazel, James, Aubrey, and Colette. A classical pianist from London, a British would-be architect turned soldier, a Harlem-born ragtime genius in the U.S. Army, and a Belgian orphan with a gorgeous voice and a devastating past. Their story, as told by the goddess Aphrodite, who must spin the tale or face judgment on Mount Olympus, is filled with hope and heartbreak, prejudice and passion, and reveals that, though War is a formidable force, it's no match for the transcendent power of Love.

My review:

Rating: 5/5⭐️

"If there's anything left of me after the war, nothing would keep it from finding its way back to you."

In the perilous days of world wars I and II, the Gods held the fates—and the hearts—of four mortals in their hands.

Hazel Windicott, a classical pianist from London.

James Alderidge, a British would-be architect turned soldier.

Aubrey, a Harlem-born Jazz genius in the US Army.

Colette, a Belgian orphan with a captivating voice and a devastating past.

The Great War lit a musical fire that engulfed the world

History stands as a witness to the horrors of the Great War, a war that casted the shadows of death all over Europe. Could a destructive force such as the War incinerate a force as fragile as love? Or will love persevere?

Let them start their dreadful wars, let destruction rain down, and let plague seep through, but I will still be here, doing my world, holding humankind together with love like this.

The Greek Gods might be a tad dramatic but they are excellent storytellers and that was one of the first aspects of the books I was intrigued by. How could Greek Gods integrate themselves into the World War era? My dear reader that is for you to see.

By no means are these stories under the guise of a Greek epic, they are simply stories of hearts finding one another and allowing love to blossom during the darkest period of their lives.

After weeks of her being an idea, a memory, a dream, and some bits of paper, here she was, warm and real, holding on to him as if she was afraid to go.

The reality of war is that its life-altering. No one survives those horrors and remains the same. How do two love stories intertwine? There are other powerful forces such as Music and Friendship. A bond is formed and those bonds become shields against the nightmare they are living through.

I honestly do not think I will do this book nor it's author any justice because it was beautiful in every aspect. I've been gutted, my butterflies kept fluttering and my nerves were shredded. It was such a page-turner and such an impactful book.

What I also appreciate is that without dimming the radiance of the main story, the author sheds light on some underlying issues of the time such as White Supremacy and the treatment of Black soldiers which made my blood boil.

Another thing that I respect is that the author did a proper research of the WWI era. Despite it being a work of fiction, she included the names of real life figures and gives an informative summary towards the end of the book. A big applause to you dear author.

The author managed to seamlessly create and balance between the dark atmosphere of the war and the hollow aftermath of it. I could pinpoint the various stages of the war that reshaped the characters.

This book is definitely one of the best wartime books I've had the privilege to devour every page of. The romance is done splendidly and I must recommend this!

Prepare yourself emotionally.

#book recommendations #book community #book review #lovely war #julie berry

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d-criss-news · 5 years ago

Link

There’s a scene early on in Ryan Murphy’s new Netflix period drama “Hollywood,” in which an aspiring director, played by Darren Criss, meets with Chinese-American actress Anna May Wong, played by Michelle Krusiec, to try to convince her to be in his movie. Midway through their conversation he casually mentions that he’s half-Filipino, which seems to catch her off guard. She stops, takes off her glasses to see him better, and then says, “You’re Asian?”

What follows is a conversation not only about what it means to be an Asian-American person in Hollywood, but the further consequences that come with looking like one.

Krusiec as Wong — a 1920s and ’30s Hollywood star whose studio career all but came to an end after she was passed over for the Oscar-winning adaptation of Pearl S. Buck’s “The Good Earth” in favor of a white actress in yellowface — gives Criss’ character, the fictional Raymond Ainsley, a schooling in something he, as a white-passing man, either can’t understand or refuses to believe.

“Over-sexed, opium addled courtesans, dangerously exotic far-Eastern temptresses. That’s what they wanted to see from someone who looks like me,” she says, letting him know in no uncertain terms that a movie from a half-Asian director that stars a Chinese actress will never get made.

“You’re dealing with two experiences that present different reactions. Not only internally, but externally,” Criss said in an interview with TheWrap. “Who are you to the world? How do they see you? How do you see yourself? What happens if you happen to look more like one half than the other, which one are you?”

Criss himself is half-Filipino and has in the past found himself in the unenviable position of contending with these questions as a public figure. “It’s a moving target that I’ve always kind of had to– well, I won’t say always had to. I think being in the public eye has made me think about it more than I ever have,” he said.

He first felt the full weight of that conversation a few years ago when some clumsy comments he made about his racial identity in a 2018 Vulture interview raised eyebrows online. Asked whether or not he identifies as Asian American, Criss suggested that doing so as a white-passing actor would be “unfair,” similar to “reaching for the minority card on a college application.” At the time, Criss was being lauded by critics for his performance as the half-Filipino serial killer Andrew Cunanan in Murphy’s “The Assassination of Gianni Versace: American Crime Story” and just months away from making a historic runthrough awards season.

The outcry from the Filipino-American community, and the Asian-American community more broadly, was swift.

“In my mind, I was just me. My mom’s Filipino and my dad’s a white guy and that’s just kind of how it is,” Criss told TheWrap. (Indeed, in the same 2018 interview, he admitted that he had never even considered the question before he was asked.)

“You could argue, well maybe that’s because you’re white-passing and nobody ever questioned anything,” he continued. “And then I feel bad and I go, Oh god, did I somehow turn my back on my Filipino-ness? Like, at what point am I supposed to raise my hand higher for that? I don’t know the answer.”

As Krusiec put it, “It’s not an easy conversation to have,” but it’s one Asian American communities have always had to grapple with, and will continue to grapple with as their visibility in media grows. With a rising number of Asian-American stories finally getting recognition on screen, the question is no longer if Asian Americans get to be represented, but which segments of a large and diverse population get those opportunities, and why.

“As a full-blooded Taiwanese person, there came a point in my career where I realized I was not going to be as valuable as somebody who was passing as half-Asian or half-white, because they kind of look and feel less Asian,” she said. “And that’s kind of a hard thing to accept.”

The interplay between identity and perception is complex for any person, but for people of color there’s the added layer of having to exist within the context of a society defined by whiteness. “The trend you find is that when someone looks half, they’re seen as more desirable, they’re more attractive. And that’s the conversation you have with yourself, even though it feels like this really uncomfortable, icky conversation,” she said.

“It’s this thing you pick up on when you’re fully Taiwanese or fully Chinese. I look at my friends who are half, and I see them as having this great advantage over me. And at the same time, you don’t want to be thinking about these things but it just seems to be the reality.”

The flip side of that is the experience of someone like Criss’ character, who is met with obvious surprise and skepticism every time he tells someone he’s half-Filipino but seems most hurt by it when it comes from another Asian American. Or someone like Criss himself, who grew up feeling “incredibly supported and loved” as part of the Filipino community in California’s Bay Area, only to be confronted later in life by the possibility that his success may have been predicated on society’s willingness to set him apart from that community.

“Just to clarify,” Criss tweeted shortly after the Vulture interview began making the rounds. “[One] of my favorite things about myself is that I’m half Filipino. PERIOD. I happen to not look like it, but THAT fact is not what I like. I like the fact that most people don’t know it’s an ace up my sleeve, an ace I’m very proud of, regardless of what I look like.”

Criss says he hadn’t had asked Murphy to incorporate the thread on Asian-American identity into “Hollywood” prior to doing the show and was “very interested” to see it show up in the script. “Ryan wanted to make it more true to who I was, as he did with a lot of the actors,” he said. “So I said, just know that when you’re dealing with Asian identity, it’s a big one. And I think if we’re going to make it simple enough for people to understand, we have to root it in the fact that Raymond is scared of being other-ed. That’s really what it boils down to for everyone.”

“What Ryan did with Darren’s character, is he talked about a really complex situation and subject matter in a very concise way, just by putting these two people together,” Krusiec said. “One doesn’t believe that the other is interested in helping her. And the other is really, really trying to say, ‘No, I don’t look like I connect, but I do.’ And that’s a conversation that people within my community do have.”

“It’s not an easy conversation to have and he’s able to frame that in a way that I don’t think has been done before,” she said.

“Hollywood” finds no easy resolution between its two characters on this point by the end of their conversation (the scene is not their final interaction but to say any more would include spoilers), but Criss himself, at least, seems to have found a path forward.

“People want different things from different people in the media in terms of representation,” he said. “And the only thing I can do is be true to myself and be happy and proud of who I am — which I am — and do my best to inspire other people to feel good about who they are.”

“Hollywood” launches Friday on Netflix.

#darren criss #thewrap #hollywood #press #may 2020 #hollywood spoilers #just in case

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robbyrobinson · 4 years ago

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OWL HOUSE X CTHULHU MYTHOS: GODS AWAKEN (XIX)

Odalia walked into Emperor Belos’ throne room and prostrated herself before him and Nyarlathotep. “Lord Nyarlathotep, I have retrieved the book.”

Luz and Amity awoke in the original bodies and sprung back to life. “Uh? What happened?”

Amity groaned and fell backward her head throbbing with pain. “Why is my head spinning?” Her cheeks grew green and bloated out of the instinctive urge of retching whatever sour contents were churning in her stomach.

“So that is apple blood,” Luz spoke to herself, “after this, I’m never going to try that stuff again.”

Amity and Luz stared at each other surprised to find that they were back in their own bodies. They waved their hands in front of their faces and squeezed their arms until they took on a bluish hue. Their probing would only strengthen the notion that they were truly back in their bodies. But one thought came to their minds: if they were borrowing the bodies at the time, then what happened to the original host’s souls?

“Welcome back to the Isles, human.”

Belos had gotten off his throne and his large frame towered over the two. Unlike Odalia’s height at around 6 feet, Belos stood at a startling 8 feet. He eclipsed obviously Kikimora, his most trusted servant and right hand, but he was also an imposing figure when it came to the members of his imperial guards. This only accentuated the perceived majesty and authority he encouraged from his worshippers.

Luz stared at the Emperor with contempt manifesting on her face. “Belos.”

“I see that you are still bitter over our last encounter?” Emperor Belos asked. It was more a rhetorical question, really, but one he made out of amusement.

“Where’s Eda?” Luz asked.

Emperor Belos raised his hand. “Unharmed, I assure you, but we must keep her from interfering with our plans.”

He looked at the murals depicting the wild witches. “As you may have guessed I had...taken care of the wild magic practitioners...one by one.”

Luz internally shivered at the implications of what he was entailing. He raised his staff and carefully traced an invisible line through the savage witches on the murals. “The Day of Unity is now upon us.”

“How dare you send your hideous monsters to attack my home?” Luz demanded. Her fists shook and turned red to match the increasing anger in her face.

Belos chuckled. “It was more of a method of ringing you out; I knew that because of your compassionate heart that you would rather give yourself up than allow more of those rats to die in your stead.”

“Well, you got me now,” Luz stated never taking her eyes off Belos’, “so leave the Earth alone.”

Belos tilted his head. “The Titan proclaims that the Earth must be laid to waste before it returns to its full powers. There is no stopping the inevitable. The Earth will bleed a deep, gushing red, before it crumbles away to its slow, miserable, pitiable demise.”

Luz fought the urge of drawing a glyph to cave Belos’ head in. “Mami..”

Belos’ eyes flickered and glowed. “Oh, your mother? She is here.”

Luz’s eyes shot up. “She is.”

The metallic fingers of his gloves came together to create an echoing snap. Warden Wrath walked into the throne room alongside the Owl Spy. Luz’s eyes widened, her mouth hanging agape. A middle-aged woman with dark brown hair and tan skin was brought in with chains. A metal ring was fixed around her waist, and the heavy metal shackles around her ankles echoed on the floor in miserable tune.

She wore glasses topped with a red frame. From what Luz could see, she was a continually tired woman with heavy bags behind her glasses. Her hair was in a disarray as well as her uniform, one of those outfits you would see in hospital settings. Tears were crudely decorated on the woman’s uniform, particularly towards the bottom where the hem of her shirt was.

“Mom?”

The woman looked up to see Luz running towards her. “Luz!?”

Luz jumped and practically tackled her mother. “Is it really you?”

“It is me,” she stated. She tried to hug her daughter back with her limited capabilities. “I have been so worried about you.”

“I’m sorry, Mom,” Luz said, looking down. “I didn’t actually go to that summer camp that you wanted me to.”

“I am just delighted to see that you’re okay,” she replied, “when those letters stopped coming in, I almost had a mental breakdown.”

Luz felt moisture building in her eyes. She hated that she had to put her mother through that, but she had no other option in order to keep Belos from getting to Earth. She knew that at some point, the letters that she would send her Mom would soon drain up, but she was the optimist believing that she could find a way back home before her mother had the chance to worry.

Amity scanned the woman Luz was hugging. “Who is that, Luz?”

Luz looked back at the young witch her smile shining brighter than before. “This is my Mom, Amity.”

Her mother gave a smile, but it was more forced given the circumstances. Amity’s thoughts spiraled out of control. “My future mother-in-law?” she asked.

“What was that?”

Amity quickly caught herself. “Um, your mother and my mother in the same room.”

Luz’s eyebrow peaked. “Why are you here, Mom?”

Emperor Belos interrupted the reunion disgracefully. “Yes, why don’t you tell my grandchild why you are here, Camila?”

The room grew quiet with not even the sound of a pin dropping on the floor could spur any response. Luz eyed Belos sternly. “Grandchild? What are you getting at?”

“My, Camila, you kept this secret about yourself successfully hidden for years?” Belos asked again.

“Mom, please, tell me what is going on.”

Camila sighed. She exhaled sharply now looking at her feet in deep shame. “Luz, you love the Good Witch Azura books, don’t you?”

Luz nodded. “Me and Amity both; we bonded over them.”

“What if I were to tell you that there is some truth to those books?”

Luz couldn’t understand what her mother was saying at first, but it did slowly start to dawn on her. “Are you saying that you’re Azura?”

Camila snickered a bit and shook her head. “No, no; Azura is a fictional character...but I did use creative liberties when it came with writing the books.”

The thought that the events of the books, regardless of whether they came about as fictious stretches of the actual events, crossed Luz’s mind. “Why did Belos call me his grandchild?”

Camila sighed. “When I was around your age, I found myself in the demon realm much like you – I can’t for the life of me remember how if it was through some door or other means – but I was a foreigner in a world that discriminated against humans.”

Luz listened carefully not noticing that Odalia was singling for her daughter to be taken away.

“One day, Emperor Belos discovered me with some old scraps of metal and trash and decided to adopt me for reasons I did not understand at the time. He told me that humans were unable to practice magic on the Boiling Isles because of them lacking the bile sac necessary for it, so he placed a bit of his evil, dark magic into my body and took me as a protégé.”

“So that was why I was able to see those glyphs?” Luz asked.

“After being trained under him for some time, he told me of the Day of Unity. It was some weird, cultish holiday I had initially taken it. But I soon found out what intentions he had for the Earth, and I fought against him. With his own magic surging through my veins, I easily overpowered the Emperor and...I might have caused him to be in his current unhealthy state of being because I can sense now that Belos is slowly dying.”

Luz saw discarded palisman carcasses around Belos’ throne. “Was that why you wanted me to stop being obsessed with fantasy books and magic?”

Camila nodded her head. “It was a selfish thing for me to do, but I wanted to protect you from the knowledge that such a world existed.” She looked at her feet again likely fearful of meeting her daughter’s eyes. “That was why I was hopeful that the trip would remove that desire so you would never come to this world.”

Luz didn’t know what to say after being given such a bombshell. Her mom knew about the Boiling Isles because she had been there at some point only to somehow escape once things got sour. Now she learned that Belos took her mother in and how she was now his granddaughter. She had his malevolent magic flowing through her body. Her heart was pumping his unholy blood into her veins and through her bloodstream. It made considerable sense because, as was explained to her by Eda years ago, humans could not practice magic.

“Luz?” Camila asked.

Luz was still speechless and incapable of reaction. Belos laughed again and tapped Camila’s forehead with the staff. “I was hoping that I could take your daughter in and have her as a protégé to turn her against you, but that plan went awry.”

He glared at Warden Wrath. “Take her to the execution site.”

Warden Wrath shook his head and grabbed a hold of Camila. Camila’s legs shook but were heavily weighed down by the shackles. “Luz!”

Luz tried to run after Warden Wrath, but Odalia shot a blue stream at Luz; it ripped into the floor dividing it in half. “No wrong step, or I will slice you in two as well.”

“Mom!” Luz shouted. She shot daggers from her eyes at Belos. “Unhand her at once!”

Belos shook his head. “The sins of the past must be made to pay for.” He exited the throne room before turning around once he reached the exit behind the beating heart of the Titan. “I’ll have my master take it from here.”

Nyarlathotep, once more in his Black Pharaoh guise, approached the girl. “Hello once again, Luz.”

“It’s you!” Luz shouted and pointing her finger at accusingly. “Was this all your idea!?”

“I’m not a man who has pre-made plans just hanging there collecting dust,” Nyarlathotep said with a half-serious tone. “Odalia, give her the Necronomicon.”

Odalia’s eyes shot up. “Lord Nyarlathotep, why would-”

“That is an order,” Nyarlathotep replied. His voice went down a couple octaves.

Shaking, Odalia handed the Necronomicon to the human girl and made her leave. Luz had a weird feeling about this. “What game is this?”

“When you are literally older than time itself, it’s always best to play a game to take a load off your mind,” Nyarlathotep answered.

Nyarlathotep snapped his fingers. Above him was a column wherein a trap door opened. From there, she could see a large, glass cage descending. She squinted her eyes to make out the figures. Eda, King, and Lilith were inside. At the side of the cage was Hypnos, once more in his youthful appearance, flowers and all. He held the piece of horn in his hand.

“Eda!” Luz proclaimed.

Eda looked up happy to hear her apprentice’s voice. “Kid, you made it!”

King and Lilith also turned their glances to Luz. King jumped up and down much like how a dog does whenever they are happy to see their owner come back. Lilith smiled as well, but it was a small one. Luz slammed against the cage’s walls. “Youch!” Luz rubbed her injured nose with her hands. “You guys are alive?”

“Nyarlathotep took us as prisoners and had us as bargaining chips for you,” Lilith explained.

“Well, don’t worry, I’ll have you out lickety split!”

“Wait, Luz!” Eda screamed.

Luz smashed her fist on the glass only for it to bounce back. Thinking, Luz looked into the bag to find something she could use to break the cage. She scribbled glyphs on paper and activated them, but it only made the magical glass stronger. Luz turned to her bag again this time drawing out the jar containing the shoggoth. She tossed it at the cage, but, like with the other objects she tried to use, it rebounded and skyrocketed off the glass. It shot across the room and exited out the door when Kikimora opened it.

“Luz, you can’t break the glass; we all tried to break it ourselves, but there’s no use,” Eda said at last.

“There has to be something..” Luz lamented.

“Aye, there is a way, my dear,” Nyarlathotep answered.

“Why should I trust you?” Luz asked in a matter-of-fact way.

“The glass can either be broken two ways; either I can use my powers to free the three captives, or an Elder God can destroy it.”

“Well, I want you to free them!” Luz declared.

Nyarlathotep held his finger up. “Quid pro quo, my dear, quid pro quo.”

“Squid pro what?” Luz reiterated.

“I will free them and you will all go on to live happy lives if you gave me the book.”

Luz held the demonic book between her arms. “But I can’t just give the book over to someone like you.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re evil; I know somehow you were responsible for the attack on the Earth; a lot of people could die if I gave you this book.”

“Are a million lives more important to you than the lives of your mentor; her sister; and your pet?”

“I am not a pet!” King remarked.

Nyarlathotep ignored the demon and kept speaking. “It would be an unfortunate occasion if they were ripped away from you.”

“Nyarlathotep, before you do your business with the three captives, do allow me the opportunity to give this demon his horn back.”

Nyarlathotep looked at the Elder God with suspicion, but flicked his hand. “At least he should be presentable before dying I presume.”

Nyarlathotep snapped his fingers allowing a small hole to form in the wall. Hypnos slipped the horn into the hole and it resealed after he removed his hand. Eda eyed the horn piece with curiosity. “It looks like it’s the size of your horn, King.”

She dropped the horn in King’s lap and he sniffed it. “Feels like it; smells like it to...how did I lose it again?”

He shrugged and dropped it over the crack of his horn. Before he could say anything further, the missing horn piece slipped in like a jigsaw puzzle. A green light glowed around the horn acting as an adhesive glue. In a flash, everything became crystal clear to King as his memories came blasting in at full force. An overtaking sensation. It all came flashing at once: the woman. The large, bat-like monstrosity with the one, three-lobed, bulging eye. The screams. And the smoky vapor – now he could perceive that it materialized together to form the appearance of a man. A tall man wearing a dark cloak. One who was bereft of any strand of hair and his skin darker than the darkest night. The green orb came out from a spell circle the hideous man drew. His mouth was stretched inhumanly widely into a twisted, ghastly grin.

“Well, what do we have here?” he asked.

King sprawled on the floor of the cage sweat beads rolling down his skull head. He retched but nothing came up. Panic was building within him writhing in anguish for release. He looked at Nyarlathotep with complete hatred. “You were the one who killed my Mom, weren’t you?”

Nyarlathotep looked at him with an amused smile. “You have to be more specific than that, child; I may be eternal, but that doesn’t mean I have an internal memory box that catalogues every individual scream.”

Luz gripped the Necronomicon with anger. “So you killed King’s mother and cursed him?” She looked at the despairing demon. “And you decided to take it as a memento to remember your kill?”

Nyarlathotep shrugged. “As I have said, I cannot be held to remember every one of my little endeavors.”

Nyarlathotep snapped his fingers again. This time, the top of the cage opened with a gush of running water dropping down. Eda and the others were not too freaked out in that moment, but they could quickly see that the more water flowing into their cell, it was accumulating quickly and already taking the shape of the cage. They looked at Nyarlathotep who in turn gave them a look of humor. They banged their fists against the cage’s walls, but it only rebounded on them.

“Nyarlathotep! Stop this nonsense!” Luz yelled. “You’ll drown them.”

“I will free them,” Nyarlathotep promised, “but you will have to give me the Necronomicon in return.”

“And how do I know that you won’t go against your promise?” Luz asked reasonably. It made sense for her to doubt the Crawling Chaos’ claims, but in her peripheral vision, she saw that the water was already up Lilith and Eda’s waists. King jumped on top of Eda’s head to keep his body dry, but this had the negative effect of pushing Eda deeper into the rushing water.

“I’m afraid that they don’t have long for this world, Luz.”

Eda and Lilith were up to their necks. “I always thought it would end by some overdose on potion,” Eda lamented.

Concern was in Lilith’s eyes, but she chuckled at the dark joke. “That’s my Edalyn, alright.”

Luz found herself in internal conflict. She truly wanted to save the three roommates she had, but she couldn’t just hand a book of such cosmic power to the bad guy. Nyarlathotep seemed to read her mind when he spoke again.

“I feel that you think that if something were to befall your teacher, you would be lost in the world.”

Luz squinted. “What?”

“If you were to give the book to me, I will make you my personal protégé; you will learn about all the secrets of this world and truly become the most powerful witch on the Boiling Isles. Leagues above your mentor, and even Belos himself. You can reign by my side as I destroy this world and remake it befitting to our image. The universe and the gods themselves will look at you in favor and you would never have the need to want again. Is that a deal?”

Luz could admit that Nyarlathotep’s deal did have a kernel of her interest. Knowledge over everything could come in handy. While she did love Eda dearly, Eda was at a loss now because of her magic being at an all-time low. Maybe with Nyarlathotep’s help, she could learn a way of curing Eda of her curse and subsequently return her back to her previous state. As she thought, she took another glance at the cage now taken aback. The three captives were completely submerged in the water and were desperately hitting the walls of the cage in hopes of breaking them. Liquid was filling their lungs, cutting their oxygen supply sharply. They moved their legs back and forth in a fishy motion. Yet for every strike and punch they could muster, the cage’s walls jiggled back from the brunt force.

Luz turned to Nyarlathotep. “No; I refuse.”

Before Nyarlathotep’s eyes, Luz flipped the Necronomicon over revealing several fire glyphs on the back. Nyarlathotep’s eyes bulged from their sockets. “Mortal, please reconsider!”

Luz took another glance at Eda and the others and saw that their movements were screeching to a halt and they sunk towards the ground of the cage. Luz had made her decision. She slammed her hand on the back of the Necronomicon, and it erupted in flames.

“No!” Nyarlathotep screamed.

The flames licked the ancient, crisp pages of the Necronomicon and exploded. A shrill hiss filled the air to indicate that the malevolent spirit lurking in the pages of the banned book was dying. Dark green, eldritch smoke crawled out of the embers of the fire and ascended skyward. Luz heard the pages crackle and pop reminding her of the sweet smell of fresh popcorn like the kind you could get at movie theaters. With one final death throe, the Necronomicon crumbled into a heap of ashes.

Luz looked at Nyarlathotep spitefully. “You have lost, Nyarlathotep.”

Instead of seeing his hurt, irritated face, Nyarlathotep was once more smiling. He chuckled deeply from the darkest, deepest regions of his stomach. He held his hands over the burning heap that was once the Necronomicon and absorbed a black light that suddenly appeared. He grew larger with his arms and legs becoming more muscular and pronounced. His abdomen became gargantuan as well to accentuate his broad shoulders. No more did he resemble a human, even if a crude mockery of one. He was now a hulking monster with rows upon rows of sharp, jagged teeth.

A wave of dark power rocked Emperor Belos’ throne room and empire. It shattered the glass cage containing Eda, Lilith and King, and they were washed out on the floor. Eda coughed up the water in a wheeze. “That was close.”

Before she said anything else, she saw Nyarlathotep tower before them. Alerted, she looked at Luz. “Kid, did you destroy the book or not?”

“Yes, Eda, I did, but...something came up that I did not anticipate.”

The ceiling shook and debris started to sprinkle down. From the point of origin, the dark wave of evil magic wreaked havoc through the Isles due to its intensity. Many of the imperial guards were caught in the wave and effortlessly disintegrated. Buildings and houses crumbled from their destroyed foundations compelling the denizens to evacuate from their houses lest they were the casualties. Emperor Belos hid away alongside Kikimora.

“Sire, what happened!?” Kikimora asked.

“It is nothing to be concerned about, Kiki,” Emperor Belos replied. He eyed his throne room. “So it did work as planned.”

Nyarlathotep cackled his deep, monotonous voice shaking the floor. “It has been a thousand years, but it was completely worth it!”

Luz couldn’t comprehend what had happened. “But..but I destroyed the Necronomicon; you saw it.”

“I had already overseen the notion that you would refuse to rule by my side, but the good thing about it is that even if you accepted, it wouldn’t have mattered. I would still have reclaimed the powers that I lost. Even if you destroyed the book, that would entail that my powers would be returned to me either way.”

Luz looked down. “Then it is truly hopeless.”

Nyarlathotep raised his large scepter. “Before I lay waste to this world, I did promise Boscha that I would humor her little battle with your friend; may as well set the stage for it.”

“I’ll find a way to stop you,” Luz declared. It was a heat of the moment thing, but she truly did mean it.

Nyarlathotep chuckled. “After Boscha wins, I guess I’ll honor my deal with Belos and destroy the Earth for good measure.”

With that, Nyarlathotep transformed into a black wind and swirled out of the throne room cackling his head off.

#cthulhu #cthulhu mythos #mythos #owl house #the owl house #owlhouse #lovecraft #nyarlathotep #luz noceda #emperor belos

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cordonian-literature · 5 years ago

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The Aftermath - Ch. 15

A Not-So-Brotherly Argument

SUMMARY: When Liam returns to the capital, Leo is waiting for him

Word Count: ~3.6k

Warnings: Language, mention of character death

*All characters belong to Pixelberry, except those that are unique to my story (I’ve also used some characters and fictional instances from Donna Tartt’s “The Goldfinch”)*

Catch up here!

Tags: @captain-kingliamsqueen @marshmallowsaremyfavorite @gkittylove99 @lovablegranny @loudbluebirdlover @mom2000aggie @kingliam2019 @queenrileyrose @shanzay44 @cordonianroyalty @hopefulmoonobject @hopelessromanticmonie @cinnamonspongecake @queenjilian @kuladekiwi @twinkle-320 @iaminlovewithtrr @charlotteg234 @amandablink @texaskitten30 @tinkie1973 @louiseingram1208 @queencatherynerhys @pens-girl-87 @missevabean @ladyangel70 @sanchita012 @cordonianprincess

I hope I got everyone tagged! If I missed anyone, or anyone wants to be added/removed, let me know!

✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧✦✧

- Liam -

When Bastien informed Liam that his brother was waiting to speak to him, the words went in one ear and flew out the other. Liam was lightheaded with happiness, and he embraced it — though he was unaccustomed to the feeling, since he had gone years thinking happiness was the last thing he deserved. But now, with Riley and the children almost in Cordonia, what was there not to be excited about?

Riley’s husband had died, and it was like the family had lost a piece of their puzzle. Liam had convinced himself that he was that replacement puzzle, and if he wasn’t, he would become it.

When he walked into his office and saw Leo waiting for him, Liam hugs his brother. When they pull apart, Leo has an eyebrow raised.

“Everything okay?” Leo asks as they both take a seat.

“Everything is wonderful,” Liam responds, a broad smile pulling the edges of his face, holding such deep emotion that Leo’s face falls further into confusion.

“How’d your New York trip go?”

Liam blinks a couple times, images flashing through his mind: Riley in the hospital, Gabriel in the DNA lab, Eleanor crying in front of her brother’s room. He wondered if he should tell his brother everything. “Eventful,” Liam says plainly. He wanted to keep the news of his little family to himself for now.

Leo persists: “Really? I uh... had a conversation with Regina yesterday. She said that you weren’t coming back alone.”

Liam’s heart freezes for a moment, and the bubbling excitement subsides as he looks at his brother. Leo’s shoulders are tense, his mouth is in a thin line, and his eyes are wide; staring profusely at Liam, waiting for him to make a move or say something.

He clears his throat, then lets out a forced laugh. “You seem to have been talking to Regina quite often as of late.” Liam forces his facial features to tense, making himself look serious. He wasn’t going to be kind to Regina, or anyone that had anything to do with her. Not after everything she did.

“Well, huh, yeah.” Leo runs a hand through his hair and shifts in his seat. “I did my best to be subtle when I came to the tea ceremony, but Regina caught me and we had a little chat. She told me you were abroad and then invited Katie and the kids to dinner a few days after. The dinner was last night, actually.”

Liam raises his eyebrows. Even though Leo had been married for a long time, he had never brought back his wife or kids for Liam to visit. Liam had seen them once when he visited their home on the twins’ birthday. That was almost three years ago. “Katie and the children are here? In the capital?” he asks.

“Yeah, we got a hotel a couple miles away. So...” Leo shifts in his seat again, then smirks at his brother. “About this other person.”

Liam chuckles. He doesn’t want to tell Leo much about Riley and the children, but Leo was his brother. He’d never kept anything from him before, why hide anything now?

In a low voice, heavy with love and longing, Liam manages, “I brought back Riley. Riley Brooks.”

Leo’s face falls. Liam notices the expression, and his brow bends with worry. Was Leo not happy for him? Was Leo not glad that Liam finally reunited with the only woman he had ever loved? Why wasn’t his brother happy for him?

Leo rubs his chin and scoffs. The sarcastic sound sends a dagger through Liam’s heart. Why isn’t my brother glad that I’ve found my love?

“That’s great, Liam. But...” He trails off.

“But what?” Liam pushes him to continue, desperate for an explanation that would douse the fiery anger that was building within him.

“But...” Leo stares down at the floor, carving patterns in the wood with his eyes. “Is this really the best thing for the both of you?”

“What does that mean?”

“Liam, I’m just saying—”

“You said you spoke to Regina? Does she have anything to do with this?”

“Yes and no. We talked last night over dinner. And then we talked again over the phone after I returned to the hotel. We did talk about you, but—”

“Since when did you become so frank with her?” Liam chuckles, finding the prospect of Leo and Regina attempting a civilized conversation amusing. He stands and goes to pour him and his brother some scotch.

Leo doesn’t move or laugh, waiting for his brother to retake his seat. He grabs the glass that Liam hands him and takes a sip.

“It’s not that we’re close or anything,” Leo starts. “I was just worried and decided to ask her if she knew anything, since she sees you more often than I do.”

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t ask her about situations that involve me. You’re my brother, I deny you nothing.” Liam smiles genuinely, but it falters as he continues. “That hag believes that she has my best interests at heart, but she doesn’t.”

“Woah,” Leo exclaims. He takes another sip of his drink and laughs. “Never heard you refer to Regina so brutally. I like it. What happened?”

Liam leans back in his seat. “She pushed Riley away during Bertrand and Savannah’s wedding. Forced her onto a jet. Onto one of my jets.”

Leo raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t look at his brother. “How’d she do that?”

“Duchess Olivia told me that Regina knew Lady Riley had visited Europe a little after the Homecoming Ball. How she knew is beyond me. Regina made her guards keep an eye in every corner.”

Leo shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Liam stares at him.

“Did Regina tell you she did that?” Liam asks his brother.

Leo rubs his temple. “Nope. Didn’t tell me anything about Riley during the Duke’s wedding.” Leo stares down into his drink. Liam waits for him to continue the conversation, and the fact that they both slip into silence unnerves him.

“So what did she tell you?” Liam asks. He felt his blood boil, thinking about his brother siding with Regina. “You both talked about me during your little dinner. What was mentioned?”

Leo sits up in his seat, leaning forward. “Liam, c’mon, don’t involve Regina in this. She has nothing to do with my opinions about Riley or your relationship with her.”

“Really?” Liam downs the rest of his drink and goes to pour himself more. “Then what are your opinions of Riley? If they’re not filtered with Regina’s criticism, tell me.”

“Liam, calm down. I’m just trying to look out for you, okay? I know you, brother, I know you can handle whatever you’re going through. You’ve been having a hard time but you’ve kept your priorities straight, you’re a hard-working monarch—”

“Don’t...” Liam’s fist grabs the glass so tightly that his arm shakes. “Don’t change the subject, goddamnit. What the Hell did that bitch tell you about Riley?”

“For goodness sakes, Liam, calm down. She didn’t tell me anything alright?”

“Then why on Earth are you so interested in that topic? Why are Riley and I recurring topics in your and Regina’s discussions?”

“Because I don’t think that bringing her back is the best choice for either of you! And considering that you’re the king, I just want to make sure you’re doing what’s best for Cordonia. That’s why I left our country in your hands, because I knew you would—”

“So now you confide in Regina every time you begin to worry about the country and people you left behind?”

Leo puts his head in his hands. “Liam, please. Regina just did what she thought was best for Cordonia and for you.”

“‘Thought was best’?” Liam scoffs. “Tell me, brother, is keeping my son away from me best?”

Leo’s eyes go wide as he leans back into his seat. “Liam, I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t know, and neither did I.” A shadow falls over Liam’s eyes, and it doesn’t lift.

“C’mon, Liam. I bet Riley had her reasons.”

Liam looks up at his brother. “What?”

Leo pauses before continuing. “I said she must have had her reasons to keep your son away from you. Before Regina’s involvement.”

Liam stands, a sense of shock and pain overtaking him. “Really? You believe that? Tell me, brother, if Katie had been pregnant before you married, and she had run away and you didn’t know you were a father for more than a decade, would you feel her actions were justified?”

Leo gets up from his seat so he’s at eye level with his brother. “No, because my situation with Katie and your situation with Riley is different.”

“Then who are you to say that she had her reasons?” Liam shouts. “Who are you to say that she was justified in keeping my son away from me? Don’t you understand? He’s the heir to the throne. There is so much that is due to him but wasn’t given because his mother kept him away. And then when his mother tried to bring him back, Regina kept them both away.” Tears begin falling involuntarily down Liam’s face. “All I had ever wanted a was a family, and instead of taking my side you say she had reasons? How on Earth would you even know—”

“Goddamnit, Liam!” Leo shouts, interrupting his brother. “Because she told me her reasons, okay? She told me!”

Liam feels his body go numb. His throat aches, but he pushes out, “What?”

Leo gives a sigh, falling back into his seat, burying his head in his hands. “Liam, I’m not here to fight with you. I’m not here to hurt you.”

Leo lifts his face to look at Liam, and finds his brother staring down at him, a wild look in his eyes. For a moment, Liam feels that he may just jump on Leo.

He begins to explain: “A couple of years ago, some time after the Homecoming Ball and all the shit with the Sons of Earth, Katie’s sister’s film won an award. There was a ceremony in Sweden, and Katie wanted to go and support her. After she got the award we went into this restaurant.”

The animal look in Liam’s eyes doesn’t falter. Leo locks eyes with his brother, trying to silently keep him calm.

“So we were eating, talking, whatever, right? Katie’s sister’s talking about all the hard work she and her friend put in, how grateful she is, all that. Behind her, there’s a group of people eating at another table, and I notice Riley. At first I thought I was fucking hallucinating. I had a little too much to drink, so I thought I was out of it. I remembered her from your Coronation and all the bullshit with the press after. You had told me she’s disappeared, and I— I just... I didn’t really believe it could’ve been her.”

Neither man’s gaze falls. Leo takes a breath.

“I wanted to go check it out, but she was in a small group. Two other guys, and a woman with three kids were all at the table with her. Then after a while, one of the men stands and goes to the bar. I follow him. He’s got a Russian accent when he orders a few drinks. I order something, too, then I ask him his name, what he’s doing here... I was trying to be casual, y’know, not make him suspicious. I tell him that I recognized the lady at his table, and he gets defensive. I try to tell him that it’s nothing like that, I just know her from an event we both went to, but he keeps yelling at me in Russian until the other dude comes up from the table and asks what’s going on.”

“Did you catch their names?” Liam questions.

“The Russian guy’s name was Boris, and the other one was... Thomas? Theodore? Yeah, Theodore. So, Theodore comes up and asks what’s going on, and I tell him that I noticed Riley and thought it was a big coincidence. I was kinda shocked that Riley never came up to the bar, even though we were all yelling.”

“Then what happened?” Liam prods Leo to continue.

“So they’re being defensive and I ask them if they know about her scandal and whatever, and Theodore tells me that he does, and they’re trying to keep her away from the royal family because she doesn’t want anything to do with them anymore. I tell them that the best thing she could do for herself was change her name, move far away, and don’t do anything or go anywhere in the public eye.”

“You bastard!” Liam screams. “Instead of telling me where she was, you help her stay away?”

“Yes, because fucking damn it, Liam!” Leo jumps up from his seat. “I know what it’s like to want to leave the royal bullshit behind. From the moment I heard everyone’s phones go off during the Coronation, I knew some poor girl’s life was going to be ruined. This place, this court, it’s a toxic shithole.”

“So you’re connecting your position with her’s?” Liam scoffs. “Don’t. You pushed yourself into a situation that was none of your business!”

“And how is it your business, whether she wants to stay or not?”

“Because she was pregnant with my son!”

“But you didn’t know that!” Leo yells. “You didn’t know! For the last ten years, you didn't know but you kept persisting! Why? You can’t be serious, Liam, you’re the fucking king. You could have any woman you want and you chose one that didn’t want anything to do with you?”

Liam stands rooted in the spot, unable to speak.

“Don’t be naïve, Liam,” Leo tells him in a softer voice. “I know you’ve had a hard time in the love department, especially after everything with Riley, but you can’t be serious. She doesn’t love you. If she did, she would have stayed, she would have endured. Love surpasses—”

“Shut. UP!” Liam screams. “Shut your mouth! Stop talking!”

“No, you, Liam, are the one who needs to stop!” Leo yells in Liam’s face. “You aren’t in love, you’re obsessed! Ten years, man, that’s nearly a fourth of your life that you’ve spent pining away on one woman!”

The men take a moment to stand in silence, staring at one another. They breathe heavily after all the yelling.

Liam’s voice breaks when he continues. “Because I was in love with her. Am. I would have done anything for her, and I still would.”

Leo scoffs and sits down.

“I’m not talking about lust, Leo.” Liam leans over his desk, trying to find the words. “It was like... like our souls were pieces of the same fabric. That everything I lacked, she was. Why can’t you understand? You said that your love for Katie was what motivated you to abdicate, to do what—”

“Stop comparing your situation to mine and Katie’s. There’s nothing similar. Stop grabbing at something that’s not even there! That’s what you did with Riley. You never got over her, yet you had every woman in Europe ready to make you feel better!”

Liam falls back into his seat. “And you think I want other women to help me through the pain? Leo, I grieved when Riley left. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. She was the best part of me, and she disappeared like that.” He snaps his fingers. “God... and every woman that pushed herself in front of me put me deeper into the grief. None of those women would be doing such things if Riley was here. And they never would have made me feel better the way Riley could have. Whenever I thought about marriage, I thought about how happy my life would have been with Riley. Everything reminded me of her. Leo, I was ready to abdicate for her, I was ready to leave my country for her. She was the very essence that made life worth living. Every day during the social season or the Engagement Tour, whenever I saw her, the world would become a little brighter. She taught me that there was more to life than just...” Liam trails off, his heart heavy.

After a moment, he continues, “If she had even told me that she didn’t love me, I believe I would have been fine with that. If she had married someone else but would have still allowed me to see her regularly, I would have dealt with it better.”

They sit quietly for the next few minutes, but the tension makes it feel like hours have gone by. The air feels thick. Leo can’t bring himself to look up at his brother, while Liam feels like his skin is boiling.

Both lean back into their seats, staring out at nothing. Leo finally glances up at his brother, looking at Liam’s red eyes.

Liam feels his brother’s gaze, but doesn’t make eye contact.

“So you,” Liam tries to speak through the lump in his throat. “You knew her whereabouts and asked Regina to help you in keeping her away?”

“Liam, it wasn’t like that,” Leo tries to convince his brother. “I just wanted to help keep her safe. I didn’t know she was with child or that Regina would do something so extreme—”

Liam puts up a hand, and Leo abruptly stops talking. “Don’t continue. I don’t want to hear the excuses. Just leave.”

“Liam don’t do this—”

“Leave.”

Leo stares at his brother, willing Liam to look up at him. But when Liam doesn’t move a muscle, he gets out of his seat and leaves.

Liam breathes out when he hears the door close, thinking about what his brother said. Did I truly act as if I was obsessed with her? I merely grieved her, and grief is nothing like obsession... is it?

No. It’s not obsession. Drake, Maxwell, and Hana had all felt the same way. We weren’t obsessed. We were... depressed. Our strength was Riley, and Riley had left us when we had needed her most.

But can we blame her? Did I ever blame her? I hope not. She was in pain. She had been humiliated. She had loved me with everything in her. Did that take up so much of her energy that she couldn’t keep herself emotionally stable? Perhaps she was right to leave. Out of all the people in the world who are worthy of love, I am the most undeserving. And I especially didn’t deserve the significant amount that Riley gave me.

The frustration burns in the back of his eyes, and in a flurry of anger, Liam pushes the piles of papers and books off of his desk. Hearing everything tumble onto the floor was satisfying, and his release of anger was interrupted by a knock on the door.

Who has the nerve to bother me? Don’t they know I just returned from my trip?

I have to address whatever concerns they have. I’ve been away for a while. I can’t fall further behind.

“Come in,” he allows.

“Your Majesty,” Madeleine greets as she closes the door behind her. “Welcome back.”

Liam internally rolls his eyes. She was the last person that he wanted around him. “What is it, Countess?”

She begins putting down a pile of paper on his desk, pretending not to notice the mess on the floor. “Here is a proposal by some Cordonian economists about the recent economic issue in Southern territories. I’ve looked over it and found some exceptional points, but I’m sure you could change it to be better.” She pauses and stares at him. “Your Majesty, are you alright?”

Liam doesn’t look up at her. “Yes, yes, Countess, I’m fine. Is that all?”

“Yes,” she says, and takes half a step to leave, but then turns back. “Actually, there’s also this.” She pulls out a folder that was on the bottom of the pile and opens it for Liam to see. “Lesson plans. For Lady Riley’s son, of course.”

Liam shoots up from his seat. His nose inches away from Madeleine’s. He doesn’t hesitate for a moment before spitting, “You will stay away from my son, understood?” His voice is low and thick. “If I see you interacting with him in any capacity, whether it be instructional or disrespectful, I will make the rest of your time in my country a living Hell. Stay away from my family. Understood?”

Madeleine’s eyes go wide and she stops breathing. She takes a step back to bow. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

“Leave me.”

She rushes out of the room.

Liam wonders at the audacity of the woman while flipping through some of the “lesson plans.” They’re surprisingly adequate.

His phone rings and he closes the folder. Taking it out of his pocket, his heart jumps when he sees that it’s Maxwell calling. They must have landed.

“Hello?” Liam says into the phone.

“Yeah, hi, Liam, it’s Maxwell.”

“Yes, I know, Maxwell. How was the flight? How are Riley and the kids?”

“Oh the baby blossoms are fine, yeah. Bartie rushed in to give them and Rowan a tour, but... uh...”

“What is it Maxwell? Is Riley alright?”

“Riley... she, uh...” Maxwell’s voice breaks a little. “I think she got overwhelmed when she got out of the car and saw everything again. She... she passed out.”

#the royal romance #trr fanfic #choices trr #choices fanfiction #trr liam x mc #trr liam x riley #the royal romance fanfiction #trr fandom

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bronanlynch · 4 years ago

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weekly (monthly?) media roundup

ok so I do want to actually do these on some sort of schedule but unfortunately, as you already know, brains,

listening: Malice in Wonderland by Fangbanger, which I found from a tumblr post that described them as band for “if you have a complicated relationship with gender, had a falling out with god, hate the government, or just think that vampires are neat" and y’know? yeah. my notes on this song from several weeks ago are that I might not know any of these people’s genders but I do know they’ve listened to MCR

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reading: the new Cassandra Clare book, Chain of Iron. it’s boring and homophobic. in the first book of this series, we find out that the heroine’s brother is gay and in a relationship with a man who has no intention of ever coming out publicly because 1) the book is set in 1903 in England, it was literally illegal and 2) he’s trying to have a career in politics. the heroine decides that this means he’s ashamed of her brother and doesn’t deserve him, and she is present and active in their breakup conversation.

above is the relationship chart I made from the first book, it really hasn’t changed much except now the main guy and the main girl are married, the lesbians got back together and then broke up again, the main girl’s gay brother hooked up with one of her husband’s friend, who’s a Good Gay and therefore worthy of love unlike the Bad Gay ex who is constantly mocked by just about every character for. checks notes. caring about appearances and manners given that his life and career are based on those things. the brother and his new love interest break up because the brother still thinks he’s a bad person for ever having dated his ex. also the main girl has now platonically run off to Paris with her husband’s platonic soulmate who is allegedly in love with her but it’s really unconvincing that he’s not actually in love with her husband (he’s not for very stupid lore reasons, the whole ‘parabatai are magically prevented from being romantically in love, except for these two straight people, when historically parabatai pairs were two men’ makes my fucking blood boil)

you might ask why I still read these books even though they make me angry and the answer is the 1) the aesthetic slaps 2) some of the characters are fun 3) the premise has enough potential that it could be good if it was good 4) sometimes I need to get cathartically angry abt bad fiction bc it just. does not matter

watching: so many things that I’m gonna just. run through them real quick

Word of Honor: gestures vaguely at how it’s slowly taking over my blog

Sleuth of the Ming Dynasty: love a found family, eh about the politics, can’t believe I predictably got a new fave character within the last two episodes of the show because one of the main characters is betrayed by his second-in-command and I think treason is the sexiest part of a relationship

SamBucky show: in the original draft of this post I said that it was so boring that week (episode 3) that I completely forgot about it until I saw the draft below this one talking about how bad and boring it is. at least more happened in later episodes and they’re finally giving me some tasty queerbaiting but the premise and the politics are. wow. it sure is military propaganda

My Hero Academia: new season is fun, love a tournament arc. don’t love that they tell us right away that the double agent character is a double agent, it was more fun in the manga when you’re not sure if he’s a traitor or not for a pretty long time

Welcome to Demon School, Iruma-kun: new season is cute, there sure is some gender happening. there’s a tsundere bisexual catgirl

Backflip!!: I usually avoid high school sports anime for backstory reasons but my roommate wanted to watch it with me and oh boy these gymnasts sure are gay for each other huh

Joran: The Princess of Snow and Blood: my roommate pitched this to me as ‘cyberpunk but in the 1930s’ and there sure is dark lighting, lots of glowy neon stuff, and government oppression, which are the most important elements of cyberpunk apparently. not sure how I feel about it yet, because there’s a cool shapeshifting lady assassin with a revenge quest but there’s also a trans character who was revealed to be trans in a way that I personally did not enjoy. yes you can have transphobic villains but like. hmm. maybe the audience shouldn’t find out that someone is trans because the villain cuts his shirt away specifically to ~put him in his place. or maybe I personally am just sensitive to that but either way no thank you

on the other hand, the main character is sick as shit

The World Ends with You: god I love an anime about the power of friendship. I’ve only had these kids for two episodes and I would lay down my life for them

Nirvana in Fire: we’re only three episodes in and I did spend the first half of the first ep being like. oh god which of these people are actually important who am I supposed to care about here. and then by the end of the first ep I knew which ones I cared about and am now very afraid for their safety. do love the political intrigue though

playing: got through the first mission of Brigmore Witches. I love a good undercover mission, I wish I hadn’t been too afraid of like. alarms going off if I freed the other prisoners because I think Comrade Daud should do a jailbreak, and Lizzy Stride can call me anytime

also recently have played various ttrpgs including Firebrands, more Things, Eldritch and Terrifying, Link, and of course more Beam Saber (oh shit I meant to do my recap post for last session OOPS)

making: Zan and I made some real good chicken parm the other night, vaguely based on this recipe. by which I mean, we looked at the recipe to see how many eggs to use and how long to cook it and pretty much nothing else. the egg marinade step seemed unnecessary and I made the sauce the way I always make tomato sauce, which some day I should write down because it does in fact fuck. the secret is a shit-ton of oregano and basil and no chunks of tomato because fuck that. bad texture

Zan made the zucchini which also slapped, using some of the leftover bread crumbs

writing: I’ve posted a couple of things but most recently I wrote some rarepair femslash. this is the first fic for this ship on ao3 and the second ship in the f/f tag for this fandom that’s actually about the women in the show (as opposed to showing up in the f/f tag because it’s marked as “multi” or like. genderbent versions of the main m/m ship) but like. look at them. they’re terrible evil assassin women and they’re in love. anyway I’ve gotten over being embarrassed about having written a sex scene and moved on to wanting people to read my fic. there’s sparring as foreplay it’s a good time

#dreaming.txt #tuesday no problem extended universe

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bexterbex · 5 years ago

Text

A Soul to Mend His Own | Ch. 51

Warning, PLEASE CHECK TAGS IF YOU SEE SOMETHING YOU DON’T WANT TO READ THEN DON’T READ. Tag lists are closed

Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Will tag as I go along, Will update tags, Slow Burn, Influenced by Star Trek and other Sci-Fi themes, References to We Happy Few, Tons of References and quotes to George Orwells 1984 see if you can find them all, The First Order is the new Big Brother, but who is really surprised, Blatant Nazi Symbolism, Interrogation Themes, Eventual Smut, Eventual Romance, Really just drawn out Slow Burn, Don’t repost without permission, Torture themes, Suggestive Themes, Execution themes, Disturbing Themes, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Verbal Abuse, Controlling Kylo Ren, Physical Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Kylo Ren is Not Nice, Kylo Ren Has Issues, Supreme Leader Kylo Ren, Possessive Kylo Ren, A character shamelessly based on Zelda

A Kylo Ren x Modern! Reader in a soulmate au with some canon divergence. —————————————SLOWBURN————————————–

He is already the Supreme leader, searching the universe to find you, his Empress. Your name on his wrist has been the only constant in his life, while you have doubts about his existence and his acceptance of you. He isn’t in the database and why did the name Kylo Ren cover Ben Solo?

MASTERLIST

Chapter 51: Receiving Answers

You step out of your dressing room. You look to the right, you see the living area is a mess, furniture tipped over, glasses and bottles from the bar shattered everywhere, it looked like the aftermath of a natural disaster. You ushered both of your ladies-in-waiting out of your chambers. Olivia-Rose’s eyes were wide looking at the state of things, Adlez was unfazed.

You took a deep breath and turned back down the hall, to the bedroom. You paused in the open doorway watching Kylo pace back and forth. When he noticed you the pacing stopped.

You were the first to speak, “You will answer me this. Who is she?” Your voice was even but your tone was flat. You tried to make your face a stone mask, unmoving and unwavering. Your eyes burning into him.

His fists clenched and he resumed pacing. “I told you she is nothing,” his jaw clenched.

“Clearly that isn’t the truth, I will ask again. Who is she? Clearly she means something to you if it causes this reaction. And before you answer I want you to think about something. If you don’t answer I will not sleep next to you and you will not be able to touch me.” You were holding your ground, trying to channel some higher being to assist you in your efforts in this standoff against a demi-god.

“She is no one. She means nothing to me.” His voice was breaking, you couldn’t tell if it was from anger or something else. His eyes said he was guilty.

“If you continue to lie to me, I will leave. I will leave and I won’t come back.” Tears fell down your face but you held your ground. “When we first met you asked me to stay. You told me you were a broken man, that you were a monster. I am willing to fix you, but I can only do that if you let me. If you lie to me about her again. I will leave. I will not stay. I can not stay with a man, a monster, who continues to treat me like a songbird in a cage.” Your voice was breaking. “I will not stay. I can not stay with a man who does not care for me. I cannot love a man who… who continues to treat me like this. I will not stay.”

You said it, you said the four-letter word. The one that could cause your heart to shatter into a million pieces to never be put back together. The one word that could break the strongest of men, reducing them down to nothing. You loved him, but you feared that he did not love you back. That the same place that you had in your heart for him, was taken--taken by her.

You were shaking but you did not falter, tears freely streaming down your face as you waited for an answer, any answer. The suspense was killing you, and was causing fractures to spread across your delicate heart.

You watched him, he was frozen in place, his eyes were large cauldrons of dark water, with currents spinning so fast you had no idea what was in them. “She is a scavenger. From Jakku. She is strong in the Force. She is the only person to ever fully beat me in battle.”

“What is her name?” Part of you did not want to know, but all of you had to know. Your blood was churning from ice cold to boiling and back again, for each second you had to wait.

“Rey,” he said finally as if it was the first time her name had ever graced his lips. Those fractures were becoming full-on cracks now. Your heart swayed in the waves of your emotions, losing the battle of the storm. His voice saying her name was the wind that broke the sail, soon your ship would sink.

It took every bit of sanity you had left to ask, “Rey who?”

This time he answered quicker, “Rey, just Rey. Just a scavenger from Jakku. A no one.”

You bit your lip, your eyes clenched shut, resisting the urge to wrap your arms around yourself. Your voice small as you asked, “And what does she mean to you?” The ship was frozen in time, a large wave threatening to come crashing down. You needed the answer like you needed oxygen to breathe like you needed water to drink like you needed love to hope.

You felt a hand on your cheek, prompting your eyes to meet his, “She means nothing to me compared to you. She is nothing.”

Your face crumpled with disbelief and confusion. “Don’t lie to me. She means something to you.” You paused for a few seconds. “What does she mean to you?”

His other hand came to your face, he was now holding you. In another life, this would be comforting, but it was only slowing down the inevitable crippling wave that was about to sink your ship with his next answer. “She is but a formidable opponent for me in battle. A weakness that I do not know how to fix. She. Is. NOTHING. Compared. To. YOU.”

You pulled away from him, bracing yourself for the crash that will end your maiden voyage. “Why is it that you speak to her? Why do you hide her from me?” You dared your eyes to look at him, waiting for the answer.

“The Force connects us, I do not know why. She uses it to taunt me, to lash at me. A weapon in my own mind. I hide her from you as I hide you from her. It is the only way to protect you. She uses my mind like a weapon against me, imagine what she could do to you. I would never forgive myself if I were to let that happen. You are mine. I will not let her take that from me. She and her friends have taken so much from me already. I won’t let them, have you. I will die before that happens,” you could see his confession was true. His eyes told you so as did the trembling of his lip.

Your body swayed under the weight of his answer, you came crashing down into his chest. He was solid. Your broken and battered ship came into the safety of his port. Your hands bracing yourself on his broad strong chest. “You will not hide her from me anymore. I do not want secrets between us. I promised to fix you, to mend you, but I can only do that if you are truthful to me. I will only stay if you are truthful to me.” Your hand traced along his sternum.

“I will try, but you must know that I must protect you. You are mine.” He brought your hand up to his lips. “Mine.” And he kissed your knuckles.

Your heart froze, the cracks seemed to start ever so slowly filling in. Your eyes meet his. He leaned you back and kissed you. Both of you crave each other like oxygen. The kiss deepened as he bent down to wrap your legs around his waist to carry you to bed. Your back hit the mattress and your hips crashed and rolled together. Both trying to find some semblance of friction, him more so than you.

He sucked hard on your bottom lip causing you to moan into the kiss allowing his tongue to slip in and do its usual dominating dance. His hips trying to find more and more fiction. The passion that always burned after your fights, was ablaze.

Between pants, you mustered, “We can’t.”

His voice was just as breathy, “I know.” He groaned and started to almost violently buck into you, finding as much friction as possible. “You said above clothing, so that’s what I am doing.” His pelvis ground down hard into yours.

You let out a breathy laugh between kisses, “Clever bastard.”

This earned a smile from him, one that was being hidden by snogging, but one that was there nonetheless. His lips found their way down your neck and onto your clavicle finding a new spot to mark. His teeth scraping, but failing to break skin. Once he was satisfied by his new declaration of ownership he resumed feasting on your lips. You stayed that way for a good hour or more, his hands occasionally groping and caressing different parts of your body. He gave one good hard roll of the hips before breaking your kiss. “Now Kitten I think that is enough for tonight,” he groaned climbing off of you.

You watched him stumble into the bathroom. You climbed back up to your spot on the bed and laid on your side. It took you a minute or two to realize that he did not close the bathroom door behind him.

You heard the shower running and after a few moments, you heard his loud moans and grunts. Your name was peppered in with his animalistic sounds. It was rather erotic. You clenched your thighs together and rubbed them together causing some friction. You threw your head into your pillow and bit down, trying to resist the urge to do something about your growing desire. You did not want to give him the satisfaction of your reaction to him. After a few minutes, you heard your name as almost a shout and then nothing. The water continued for another few minutes before you heard it shut off.

You were not expecting him to exit the bathroom in only a towel slung low on his hips, threatening to fall even lower. He started to walk towards the bed. You shot up, “Don’t you even think about it.”

A smirk plastered across his face. He turned around and walked towards his closets. He opened one and looked over his shoulder at you, meeting your eyes before he dropped his towel.

Your face was hot. He was more of a man than any you had seen or been with before. You could tell by the way he bent over to get out a pair of lounge pants that he was trying to put on a show. He grabbed them and stood straight once more, he then looked over his shoulder with a smirk on his face and turned around. Giving you an eyeful of what he had to offer, before you averted your gaze.

He bent down to pull up the pants, but out of the corner of your eye, you could see that he fully had to tuck himself in, instead of the usual it went on over the first time. You returned your gaze to him, your face and body flushed. You watched as he tied the drawstrings at his waist and then in a show like fashion he adjusted himself. Your face was on fire. Your mind also screamed at you that he liked going commando. Just him and his pants, the only thing separating him from the rest of the world.

He fully swaggered back to the bed, shirtless. “Did you like what you just saw Kitten?” His tone and face told you everything you needed to know. He was putting on a show. This whole thing was a show. The shower. The towel. The lack of a towel. The him. Was all just a show, a private one for you.

“I have no idea what you are talking about.” You turned to face the wall, back to him.

He crawled up next to you, his hips to your ass as he swung his arm over your middle. “Well, I guess next time I will have to just do what I was going to do, and crawl into bed naked. After all, do hands really have to stay above clothing if there is none?”

You didn’t even have to look at him to know he was smirking. And that smirk made its way to the mark behind your ear, the one that you knew was going to be forever branded into your skin, his own personal badge of ownership over you.

The waiting game was going to be hard, especially when the man lying next to you looked like something the gods carved out of the purest marble. A gift to mankind. A work of art. A masterpiece that the old masters could only dream about but never achieve. A god amongst men. Your own personal image of perfection. Waiting was going to be hard, but apparently not as hard as him. But boy did you have something to tell the ladies in the morning.

#kylo ren #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren imagine #kylo x reader #kylo x you #star wars #first order #star wars imagine #Star wars soulmate au #sw first order imagine #star wars first order #a soul to mend his own

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