#shed collapse

[townpostin]

Cows Killed in Shed Collapse at Jugsalai Goshala

Shed collapses at Jugsalai Goshala due to nearby construction; two cows dead, several injured. A shed collapse at Jugsalai Goshala, caused by nearby construction, results in the death of two cows and injuries to others. JAMSHEDPUR – A shed collapse at Jugsalai Goshala, caused by nearby construction, results in the death of two cows and injuries to others. In the early hours of the morning, around…

[stella-sirius]

To collapse in someone’s arm. To shed tears in front of someone. It takes huge courage and reassurance.

[chiquilines]

You thought this was a happy blog?? Think again

[gregdotorg]

Frank Lloyd Wright's first building in New York City was an exhibition pavilion for a retrospective of his own work, in 1953, made with a "flexible pipe structure" that we now know from every sidewalk shed in town. His second building was a full-on Usonian house next door to it on a vacant lot facing Fifth Avenue. His third building was the Guggenheim Museum, which was also built on that vacant lot, after the first two were cleared out.

[CORRECTION: The Guggenheim was his FOURTH building in NYC. His third was a Guggenheim-shaped Porsche dealer showroom on Park Avenue that was demolished by cowards in the night before it could be landmarked.]

images: Frank Lloyd Wright Exhibition Pavilion and Usonian House sketch; photo from Fifth Ave & 89th St; and inside. the latter two are from the exhibition brochure.

[sunhalf]

xion definitely makes a few fashion missteps (  nothing as bad as the onesie, thank you  ) as she gets more comfortable with fashion and assured of her own style — once she moves out of her intial ‘i’m just imitating the girls around me because it's important to me that i be read as a girl at all times’ thing and into ‘i’m confident enough to try my own styles and take risks.’  that being said, her looks are by and large pretty solid! she has 3.5 main ‘styles’ for the most part.  the first is a pretty feminine / soft goth thing that’s fairly close to her post - kh3 style.  (  this is the look that gets the .5 when she shifts from fem goth to fem punky; fewer skirts, more ripped jeans.  considers getting her nose pierced, hasn’t decided yet.  )  the second is a more beachy cute look, favours a lot of whites and pale blues, off - shoulder blouses, etc.  third is very 90s esque colour blocks, crop top hoodies, high waisted jeans, et cetera. there’s plenty of less 'styled' looks too, obviously, when she’s just throwing clothes on; t - shirts and shorts, sweatshirts and straight - cut mom jeans, printed gay button - ups, etc.  if she’s dating someone her size or larger, she probably steals their clothes, too.

[loser-user-noaccuser]

Alarm is on so I can get up early and help with the last bit of boxes

[maraczeks]

+

[hashipebbles]

MY MOYHER SAID SHE WOULD NOT LOVE NE AS A WORM SHED TRY TO CHANGE ME BACK- SHE SAID IF I WAS A WORM SHED GIVE ME AWAY WTF

[pinpkachu]

i forget that as a human i was gifted with the ability to create anything my heart wishes, be it literature, art, song, etc

[a-dauntless-daffodil]

or use spite. spite can work too.

"How do I stop being scared of-" You do it scared. The courage arrives WITH the action, not before it. Don't wait to feel confident before you act because the key to confidence is usually doing the thing while still scared as fuck

[dunmesh]

this panel from the world guide of falin being surrounded by other girls while laios is all alone kills me because. that's it. that's the key difference in their journeys.

as laios states himself, he left the village in order to create a home for him and falin elsewhere. a home that won't collapse due to others' hatred and fears like their old home did, a home where they are loved and accepted unconditionally. but as he soon found out, even before earning money, or having walls surrounding him and a roof above his head- what he so earnestly desired was to meet other people who will accept him for who he is as well. instead, he kept being tormented by those around him, shunned and sneered at. his loneliness quickly became all-consuming until he truly had nothing left except for the monsters in the pages of his book, but even that became a target of mockery and destroyed. that's why ever since the day he left the village, he never felt that he truly made the right choice. so he kept running away: unable to resist and unable to accpet.

and an ocean away from him there was his sister, who never managed to fully fit in herself. but unlike him, she met a person who became a home to her and learned what a true friendship was for the first time in her life. and laios clearly realizes that too when he finally sees falin and marcille together, he can tell his sister obtained the greatest treasure there is on her own- the exact thing he never managed to find anywhere himself, thus coming back empty-handed to the sister he left the village for.

but when you read this part of the manga, laios's focus is on falin's loneliness, not his own. he talks about how it hurts thinking about all those moments she had to spend alone because he wasn't there for her, so it almost sounds like he's the one who couldn't bear her suffering and therefore decided to not let her go again. but we do get a glimpse of their first meeting after that almost-decade long separation in the manga, and then we see more of that in the world guide and daydream hour- and it becomes abundantly clear that it was falin who was trying to protect and save him from this pit of loneliness and depression he was in.

so instead of just doing his best to atone for leaving her behind in the village and making sure she is never lonely again, it might also be that laios was desperately clinging to the one person in the world he felt that accepted and loved him unconditionally. those words he used to describe his motivation to stay by falin's side are the exact words she would've used as well; she couldn't bear leaving him behind in this state. in a sense, they were each other's shackles.

but then she did. she died for him and their friends, and ironically enough, it was by leaving him alone like this that he was finally able to stand on his own and put his full trust in others. to have the courage to reveal who he is and give others the opportunity to accept him after such a long time of hiding. it was a long journey, but his hiding finally came to an end when he faced the others after shedding his monster form. and i love that the person who was falin's "home" all those years away from laios, marcille, became just as meaningful to him during their time separated from falin- the first one to find him and show him that he isn't alone anymore. just as he did for her.

so at the end of the story when falin talks about all the places she would like to go, it's not just that she wants to pursue her own dreams- but that she actually feels free to do so and go anywhere she desires. and one of the main reasons for that is that her brother finally found new people he wants to be with; his own home.

[postmortemnivis]

no grave can hold my body down, i'll crawl home to her.

simon really meant it, every bit of it, he’d come back to you somehow. he would find his way back to you. wether it was walking through the front door quietly not to wake you up in the middle of the night or cold in a coffin. he’d rather have you hold his dead body than not to have you touch his skin ever again.

that’s what simon was thinking about as his ear ringed so loud he couldn’t focus on his surroundings. he looked up at the sky, so blue it almost didn’t feel right. why so blue when so much blood was being shed?

he occasionally would feel the ground he was laying on tremble, maybe a hand grenade, maybe a body falling next to his. the smell of gunpowder filled his covered nostrils and he could feel his lungs collapsing on themselves from the thickness of the air he was breathing. his eyes weren’t doing good either, filled with dust and sand from the dry earth.

it took him a few more seconds to focus his eyes on something, something that possibly wasn’t moving, his head spinning each time he tried to sit up. something was weighting on his legs, holding him down. he struggled to raise his torso and groaned at the sight of a large body blocking him. he let himself fall back down.

he was ready to go, a sharp pain to his side telling him he wouldn’t last long alone. he’d been through worse, way worse, the scar provided by the meat hook was proof of that, but something was telling him this was as bad. he was ready to go.

the only thing he could think about in his last moments was you. he thought he could see glimpses of you, maybe your hair in the corner of his eyes or he’d hear your laugh as another fire shooting started. his eyes searched for you frantically. he wanted to tell you to leave immediately, scream it at the top of his lungs, but his voice was caught in his throat and you weren’t really there. his mind just playing cruel tricks on him.

your name was repeated like a mantra in his head, repeating it so many times it almost lost a meaning. almost. a prayer, a chant. he sure needed to pray, for you.

he had been shelving the thought that tormented him for months. he wanted to go and confess his sins, he almost felt the need, his palms itching with haste anytime he thought about it. years had passed since the last time he had set foot in a church, so many that he had almost forgotten the reason for the visit. the ghosts of the past never abandon you, especially if they are people you love, especially if they are family, the innocent. its always the innocent who pay the highest price.

‘i wonder what she’s doing now, who’s gonna knock on her door and tell her im gone.’ he thought. ‘hopefully price. he’s the one with tact and the most considerate. he’ll help her when i’m gone, keep an eye on her.’

the sweet smell of your hair replaced for a moment the one of blood and gunpowder, your laughter still echoing in his ears. he pictured your sweet face and big innocent eyes looking up at him.

“promise me something?”

“mhm?” he hummed, surprised you were still up. his hand hadn’t stopped caressing your hair since you laid down on his chest, your hand resting on his collarbone as your ear listened to his calm heartbeat. “yeah, anything.”

“promise me you’ll always come back.” you whispered in the dark room. “promise me, simon.”

he nodded, taken aback by your request. you weren’t the fondest of his job, he knew it, he hated to concern you like he did.

“yes.”

“promise.” you urged. “please.”

he bent his head down and kissed the top of yours, his arm sliding down your back and drawing you closer by your waist. “i will, love. i’ll always come back to you.”

you sighed, the knot of thoughts in your worried head began to untie. “mh.”

“better now?” he softly asked. his voice was hoarse from his constant shouting orders at the obstreperous recruits. you gave a short nod. “i mean it.”

he groaned as he managed to get the body off of himself, struggling to get on his knees.

fucks sake, he couldn’t let you live with him gone like this. it was selfish of him to leave you in such an abrupt way, really. he tried to push away the image of you opening the door to find price with a carton box filled with simons stuff from the barracks with the balaclava and skull mask on top and your knees hitting the floor before he could even say anything.

his legs didn’t feel like they could hold his weight up, he immediately fell to his knees as he heard another rapid fire too near him for his liking. his gun was long gone, he had to manage to survive alone, again.

“crawlin’ it is.” he breathed as he started to drag his tired body with the strength of his arms alone. you had always praised his strength: he could lift you with one arm alone, you loved to be held and hold on to his arm anywhere and at anytime. that was the main reason he always pushed for more while training, and the motivation your sweet compliments always gave him now were gonna save his life. he made a mental note to kiss and hold you a little longer and tighter if he ever made it home alive.

he could see the building his team was supposed to meet up in case things got bad. it looked so far away that it was alarmingly close. maybe it was just his messed up vision, a mirage, but he could swear he saw you from a window looking at him, urgently motioning him to come.

he brought the thick balaclava above his nose so he could breathe better and as enemy gunfire continued to flow, he kept his head low as he moved dead bodies from his way.

he could hear your voice calling for him and he wanted to call you for you back, but the noises of the battlefield were hurrying him to get to the safe zone first.

he stumbled by the door as he brought himself up, one hand stabilizing him as he held on to the doorframe as the other went to press on his wound.

“lt!” johnnys voice called before he rushed to help him. “ye cheeky bastard, i told them not to leave yet, to wait for ye.”

“gaz saw you get shot.” price swung simon’s arm over his shoulder in order to help him to the nearest table, where he laid down.

“he saw that right.” simon bit the inside of his cheek as price inspected his wound, pressing on it. “is he a‘ight?”

“he’s fine, hit his head but had his helmet on, he’s getting checked out by the medics.” price informed him as simon winced at the sharp pain. “there’s at least two bullets in here, didn’t pass through, stuck.”

“just take ‘em the fuck out.” simon groaned. “how’s it lookin’?”

“you’ll live.” price patted his shoulder in comfort before he went to call a medic.

“we really thought we’d lost ye there, lt.” johnny’s face was glowing with sweat and blood, the black war paint smudged messily all around his face and his mohawk dusted.

“helicopter’s leaving in thirty, boys!” price’s baritone voice called from the other room.

simon scoffed, sighing and closing his eyes, finally letting himself relax as your figure started to fade from the corner of the room where it’d been standing, silently looking at him. “won’t lose me, can’t wait to go home, johnny.”

[lizzyiii]

Hii, are requests open??

Yes, it definitely is!!!

The Dragon's Treasure

pairing | young aemond targaryen x niece!reader

word count | 6.7k words

summary | when you were but four years old, your mother had declared jacaerys as her heir, despite the fact that you were born first. in truth, it was a measure born of love; she knew you, with your striking silver locks and lilac eyes—her sweet daughter—would be safe, whilst her sons would not.

tags | FLUFF, FLUFF, targaryen incest, reader is described to have silver hair and lilac eyes (that's all), very very soft aemond, and after fluff comes ANGST, ANGST and more ANGST, also reader is a sensitive queen.

a/n | wrote this in 2 days 💪, and there will DEFINITELY be a PART 2

likes, comments, reblogs are always appreciated ✨

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 — 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 2 — 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 3

Duty and shame. These were the threads from which you were woven—not love, nor passion, but the heavy fabric of obligation and regret.

The firstborn of Rhaenyra Targaryen came into the world not as a son with dark hair and brown eyes, but as a daughter, blessed with ethereal lilac eyes that mirrored her mother's lineage and the shining silver curls that heralded her Velaryon heritage.

Laenor Velaryon and Rhaenyra Targaryen had fulfilled their solemn duty to conceive an heir. For Rhaenyra, each night was steeped in a prayerful longing to erase the memory of her wedding night—a night marked by discomfort and tears. The truth was evident to all: Laenor's heart was not inclined towards her nor any woman; his desires lay with men. Yet, their obligation demanded they play their parts.

After their hurried nuptials in a clandestine ceremony, they found themselves confined within a chamber, the weight of expectation pressing down upon them. When the act was done, the silence that enveloped them was shattered by Laenor's grief; he collapsed into Rhaenyra’s arms, his body wracked with sobs as he mourned the loss of his beloved, wishing loudly that he could be “normal.” It was in that moment, as she held him close, that the young princess, overwhelmed by the weight of her fate, found herself wishing she could shed her identity, to become someone else entirely.

But when Rhaenyra beheld her daughter for the first time, it was as if the world shifted. A spark of profound love ignited in her heart, banishing the shame that had once gnawed at her spirit during her pregnancy and the painful hours of labor. There had been moments when she had cursed the very life growing within her, moments steeped in bitterness toward the infant she carried. Yet now, cradling her sweet babe—her precious dragon treasure—Rhaenyra understood that she would willingly endure a thousand painful pregnancies for this singular joy.

What a delight you were, a soothing balm for Rhaenyra amidst the swirling intrigues of King’s Landing. It was your voice that first captivated her heart, from the moment your tiny lips could form sounds, you babbled with delight, engaging your mother in joyous conversations, even though she could scarcely grasp what you were saying. Your smiles were a sunbeam that brightened her darkest days; the first time you graced her with a radiant smile, it became a memory she would hold dear until the end of her days.

But as the tides of fate turned, life grew more intricate. Once Rhaenyra and Laenor fulfilled the sacred duty of securing an heir, they were free to pursue their pleasures separately, allowing Rhaenyra to take Harwin Strong into her bed. To Rhaenyra, her time with Harwin had never felt like a mistake, nor the first child they conceived together —Jacaerys Velaryon.

Yet, his hair—dark as the raven's wing— and eyes — brown as the earth—set him apart from Rhaenyra’s lineage, with none of her ethereal silver locks or striking violet eyes. Instead, he bore the unmistakable mark of his mother’s sworn protector, a truth whispered in the shadows of the Red Keep, even as Laenor publicly embraced him as his true son and the rightful heir of Driftmark.

Alas, Rhaenyra found herself repeating the same error. Another son came forth from her union with Harwin—a second boy with hair as dark as night and eyes of rich brown. Lucerys Velaryon. Whispers began to flutter through the court, dark murmurs and scornful jibes accusing her children of being bastards. It was the painful truth, yet Rhaenyra, fiercely protective as any mother, longed for her sons to live free from the burdens of her choices.

And so, Rhaenyra was faced with the most harrowing decision of her life, a choice that would weigh upon her heart for years to come. When you were but four years old, she declared Jacaerys as her heir, despite the fact that you were born first, and had Laenor declare Lucerys the heir of Driftmark. In truth, it was a measure born of love; she knew you, with your striking silver locks and lilac eyes—her sweet daughter—would be safe, while Jace and Luke would forever need her protection in a world that could be mercilessly unforgiving.

In the quiet confines of the Red Keep, a yawning silence enveloped the lesson, a silence only broken by the steady, droning voice of Septa Agertha. As a ten-year-old princess, you found your patience with such tedium wearing thin, particularly in the tedious recitation of the Faith of the Seven—each doctrine blurring into the next, sapping your spirit with every word.

Beside you, your beloved aunt Helaena sat in her own world, her delicate hands guiding the needle in and out of the fabric, her gaze distant as though the colors and threads offered more solace than the dull teachings of the Sept. You could see it in her eyes; the spark of interest had flickered away, leaving a solemn stillness where interest once danced.

Embroidery, you thought, was a most tiresome endeavor—how many times had you pricked your own fingers accidentally? It seemed the needle was always too eager, as if it shared your disdain for the task at hand. Your heart longed for the vibrant strokes of paint on canvas, the joyful freedom of creation, but Septa Agertha had sternly deemed such messiness unfit for a princess of House Targaryen.

"Focus, my princess," Septa Agertha’s voice broke through your wandering thoughts, pulling you back from your reverie. In that moment, you wished for nothing more than a dragon's flight, high above the clouds, far from the confines of the castle and the constraints of your title.

You glanced at your Septa, your expression hesitant as you mustered the courage to speak. “Septa Agertha,” you began, your tone dipped in respect, “mayhaps I might be excused to inquire if my mother has finished her labor?”

The Septa regarded you with a mixture of exasperation and fondness; her demeanor softened as you widened your eyes and pouted just enough to tug at her heartstrings. “Very well, my princess,” she relented with a heavy sigh, “our lesson shall conclude for today.”

A joyful smile bloomed on your face, and you offered a swift, sincere thank you, excitement bubbling within you. Leaning over, you pressed a quick kiss on Helaena’s cheek—a fleeting farewell—before darting toward the door. Your sworn sword, Ser Rowan, steadfast and vigilant, attempted to match your youthful enthusiasm, but your spirit was unbridled and wild, leaving him struggling to keep up.

You raced breathlessly down the corridor, your heart racing with exhilaration, until you reached your mother’s solar. As you reached for the door’s latch, you hesitated, hearing the comforting jingle of Ser Rowan's armor behind you. With a bashful grin, you withdrew your hand, glancing back to find him nearing, his breath coming in measured puffs as he opened the door with a respectful bow.

But as you stepped into the warm chamber, your excitement began to wane. A sudden twinge gripped your young heart at the sight of nearly everyone gathered within your mother’s solar, unbidden thoughts swirling as to why you had not been summoned.

Yet those troubling questions were swiftly banished as you cast your gaze upon your mother, weary and glistening with the exertion of childbirth. Ignoring the soft coos of the newborn cradled in your father’s arms, you dashed toward Rhaenyra, laying your small hand against her damp cheek. “Mother, are you well?” you asked, concern threading through your words.

A tender smile softened Rhaenyra’s features at your worry, and she grasped your hand gently, kissing your palm in a soothing gesture. “I am better now that you are here,” she replied, her voice warm like the sun breaking through the clouds.

You turned at the sound of your brother Luke's voice, a warm smile stretched across his face. "We selected an egg for the babe, and for you as well, sister," he announced, his eyes bright with excitement.

"Ahh," your mother’s voice came softly from your side, laced with affection, "Those look perfect indeed."

"I let Luke choose," Jace declared with a hint of pride.

With a nod and a grin, Luke acknowledged his brother's words, "Thank you, Jace."

"Not every day an egg leaves the Dragonpit, Princess," Ser Harwin Strong intoned, his hands clasped thoughtfully before him. "I deemed it fit to escort the lads."

Rhaenyra turned to him, her voice gentle, "Laenor and I thank you, Commander." Her gaze shifted slowly to you, warmth radiating from her eyes. "What do you think, my love?"

Your eyes were drawn to the two shimmering eggs nestled snugly in the hatching pot. You should have felt joy, perhaps excitement, yet a shadow of sadness draped over your young heart. "Why was I not included?"

An uneasy silence fell over the chamber, heavy and palpable. Ser Harwin broke it first, offering a sympathetic smile, “You were busy with your lessons, princess. We did not wish to disturb you.”

"But surely Jace and Luke were occupied with their dragon lessons as well," you replied in a soft voice, the undertone of hurt evident in your words.

Rhaenyra immediately noticed the glimmer of tears pooling in your lilac eyes and the tremble of your lips, as she rushed to uplift your spirits. "Look, my love, it is purple, your favorite color."

No sooner had Rhaenyra spoken than Laenor interjected enthusiastically, “I have a good feeling about this one, my darling. You know what they say—third time’s the charm.”

Third. This was to be your third dragon egg. The first, a vibrant orange, had turned to stone in your cradle, a cruel fate none could have foreseen. The second, a deep crimson egg, had been bestowed upon you with the birth of Luke, yet it too remained unhatched. As you gazed at the violet egg in the pot, hope eluded you, replaced instead by the grim certainty that this egg too would not awaken.

“Now I am certain you would like to meet your new brother,” Rhaenyra murmured, wrapping an affectionate arm around you.

“A boy?” you whispered, your eyes lifting to seek the babe cradled in your father’s arms.

“Yes, my love.”

“Oh.”

Rhaenyra could instantly see the disappointment which weighed heavy on your features at the prospect of yet another brother, and it became ever clearer in your silence. Rather than springing toward your father, you chose instead to nestle deeper into your mother’s embrace, seeking comfort in her warmth.

As you reclined against your mother’s side, you gazed at Ser Harwin, who now cradled your newborn brother, Joffrey. At merely ten summers, you could discern the affection in Ser Harwin's gaze as he looked at Joffrey—a tender look reminiscent of the affection he often bestowed upon your mother. It was a gaze filled with adoration, one he also offered to your other brothers, yet curiously, yet it never seemed to touch you. How curious this felt, a wonder mixed with a hint of sorrow.

When your father ushered your brothers from the chamber, it left a stillness that enveloped you, your mother, Ser Harwin, and the tiny new life nestled in his arms.

“Mayhaps you should return to your lessons now, my love,” Rhaenyra said, her voice soft and melodic, turning her gentle gaze towards you.

A twinge of sorrow flared within you once again, and you glanced up at her, barely able to protest. “But—I just arrived,” you murmured, the longing in your tone betraying your desire to remain by her side.

Ser Harwin, ever the loyal knight, defended your mother, answering with a reassuring tone, “I am certain it is merely that your mother seeks rest, my princess.”

Reluctantly, you eased away from your mother’s embrace, turning slightly so she wouldn’t witness the tears that threatened to spill from your eyes. “I’ll go find Helaena,” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath.

You heard her sigh, a sound laced with affection and understanding. Then, you felt her hand encircle your wrist, drawing you back to her warm side. She pressed a firm kiss to your forehead, her love wrapping around you like a cloak. “If you wish to keep me company whilst I rest, I shall never protest, my treasure.”

And so, you settled back against her, safe and cherished, while Ser Harwin gently rocked Joffrey to sleep. Your mother cast the same tender look upon him that Ser Harwin had, her eyes shimmering with a light of love—a look you noticed she had never bestowed upon your father. With this curious thought lingering in your mind, you surrendered to the soothing comfort of your mother's embrace, drifting gently into a blissful slumber for an impromptu nap.

“This one has rings...and two pairs of legs on each,” Helaena whispered, her voice a gentle hum as she held a slithering black insect close to her face, its glossy body glinting in the soft light.

“That makes two hundred and forty,” she concluded, her gaze fixed on the peculiar creature, while you regarded it with wide, curious eyes.

“Yes, indeed,” the Queen murmured thoughtfully from her perch beside Helaena.

You had awoken to find your mother still lost in slumber after drifting off beside her. With utmost care, you slipped away from her warm embrace, seeking out Helaena as you waited for the boys to finish their dragon lessons — and by boys, of course, you really meant Aemond.

“It has eyes...though...I don't believe it can see,” Helaena continued, bringing the strange creature nearer to you. Instinctively, you leaned back, wary of its closeness.

“And why is that so, do you think?" Queen Alicent inquired, her brow cocked in gentle curiosity.

Helaena merely shook her head, a mystique in her expression. “Some things lie beyond our understanding.”

“I suppose you are right,” Queen Alicent replied in a soft tone, a touch of wisdom in her words. “Some things simply are.”

"That sounds quite scary," you ventured, finally chiming in.

Both heads turned to your direction, and Helaena regarded you with a gentle curiosity. "Why do you say that?"

You offered a slight shrug, your finger gliding over the peculiar, scaly texture of the insect before you. "I suppose I’d feel so helpless, not being able to see anything. It would be a sad too, not to behold colors or shapes."

Queen Alicent regarded you with a softened gaze, her expression a mixture of contemplation and warmth. While her heart held a shadow of disdain for your mother, Princess Rhaenyra, and your brothers, who bore the stigma of bastardy, she recognized the innocence in you. A precious blend of Targaryen and Velaryon blood, you were a vision of purity akin to a delicate flower springing forth amidst thorns. It certainly didn't hurt that your sweetness was reminiscent of the ripest strawberry tart.

"Well, since it has never encountered colors or shapes, my dear princess, it has no reason to feel sad," she said softly.

Your brow furrowed, the Queen's words weaving through your mind like threads of a tapestry, before a radiant smile broke forth on your cherubic face in understanding.

The calm of the Queen's solar shattered abruptly as the heavy door swung open, revealing Aemond, forcibly ushered inside by a stern Kingsguard. All eyes, filled with concern, turned toward the commotion, “Your Grace.”

Alicent sprang to her feet, her voice laced with accusation. “Aemond. What have you done?”

You trailed closely behind the Queen, keeping a respectful distance as she unleashed her frustration upon Aemond, who stood there, cloaked in ash from head to toe. “After how many times you've been warned, must I have you confined to your chambers?!"

Your heart twisted painfully at the sight of your friend’s distressed expression. “They made me do it!" he pleaded, desperation lacing his tone.

"As if you needed encouragement," Queen Alicent rebuked him, her hands firm upon his shoulders. “Your obsession with those beasts goes beyond understanding."

“They gave me a pig!” Aemond’s voice rose, indignation spilling forth, and you flinched at the raw hurt echoing in his words.

Alicent paused, her brow furrowing in confusion. “A what?”

He turned his gaze away from his mother, the shame evident, but when his violet eyes fell upon you, they swiftly darted back, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his features. “They said it was a dragon… but it was a pig.”

The stern lines of the Queen’s face softened, and she spoke with conviction. “You will have a dragon one day. I know it."

“They all laughed at me,” Aemond murmured, his sorrow palpable in the air.

You yearned to bridge the distance and offer solace, for in that moment, you understood his pain more profoundly than anyone else in the room. Yet, you recognized that he needed his mother’s embrace more than your support. As Alicent enveloped Aemond in a tight hug, his violet gaze met yours once more, and all you could offer him was an understanding look, a silent promise that you would be there when he needed you.

As the sun dipped low on the horizon, casting amber rays that danced across the ornate shelves of the Red Keep’s library, you found yourself seated beside your uncle, who had only just tidied himself after that unpleasant encounter. His eyes remained fixed on the pages of the book detailing Aegon's Conquest, but the tense silence between you weighed heavily in the air.

The heavy silence lingered, thickening the air around you. Restlessly, you glanced up at your uncle and whispered, "I am truly sorry."

He did not lift his gaze from the book, his tone icy as he replied, "Why do you say you’re sorry? You bear no blame in this."

Your heart ached for him, as you said softly, "I am sorry for what happened, for the pain it brought upon you. I will speak to my brothers about their behavior, I promise."

Aemond’s expression hardened, his lips pressing together in frustration. "I don't need you to save me, niece," he retorted, the sharpness of his words echoing in the quiet library.

Your heart sank, and you instinctively dropped your gaze. You could sense his turmoil; and you understood the pain and inferiority he was feeling. You had only wished to help, yet somehow, your kindness seemed to have been misread. You recognized when your presence was unwelcome, so with a small, resigned 'alright,' you began to rise from your seat, intending to leave him in peace.

Yet just as you turned, Aemond’s head snapped up, a wave of guilt crashing over him. He realized harshly that he had been unfair to you—his darling niece who was merely being her sweet, caring self. In a swift motion, he reached out for your hand, "Wait," his voice softer this time, “I did not mean to be cruel. I...I apologize.”

A warm smile crept across your face as you met his earnest eyes. “I accept your apology, uncle." You furrowed your brows playfully, a hint of mischief in your voice. "Come with me."

Before he could protest, your fingers intertwined, and you pulled him along with a gentle urgency. Aemond, caught off guard, found himself captivated by the warmth and softness of your hand in his. In the innocence of your youth, holding hands and being with each other everyday all day had felt natural, but with each passing day, as you both grew older, the simple act took on an air of unspoken indecency. Still, he let himself be led, wrapped in the comfort that his niece eagerly offered.

Aemond hesitated as you guided him into your chambers, pausing at the threshold, uncertainty written on his brow. However, any tension was quickly vanquished as you drew him inside. Your quarters brimmed with the elegance one might associate with a princess; the canopy bed was adorned with delicate pink linens and plump pillows, while vases scattered throughout the room overflowed with a lush assortment of pink and purple roses, their fragrance sweetening the air.

Yet, it was the object resting on the small table before the crackling fireplace that truly seized Aemond's attention. Nestled atop the table was a warming pot, housing a radiant violet dragon egg that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. "A dragon egg," he murmured, his fascination palpable.

You guided Aemond to kneel beside the table, where the two of you were drawn into the stillness of the moment. With a tender whisper, you began to recount the story behind the egg. "My brothers retrieved it when they sought an egg for my newest brother, Joffrey."

"Joffrey?" Aemond asked, a hint of skepticism lacing his tone as he met your gaze, "That name sounds far from Targaryen."

Your focus remained on the egg, brushing aside his remark. After a moment of contemplation, you finally shared the weight that had settled in your heart. "I fear it won't hatch."

Aemond's reaction was immediate; his head snapped towards you, irritation flickering in his eyes. "Do not speak such things."

"It is but my opinion, Aemond," you replied gently, undeterred by his sharpness. You understood that his frustration was not truly aimed at you; it never was.

“Why do you believe such a thing?” His voice softened, a hint of curiosity threading through his concern.

You averted your gaze, feeling the weight of his scrutiny. “It is foolish,” you murmured, hesitant to reveal the depth of your fears.

“And so?” he pressed, his intensity unyielding.

Drawing a steadying breath, you finally revealed your heart. “In my mind, the egg shall only hatch if I do not care for it deeply.”

Aemond’s brow furrowed, understanding dawning. “So, you do care, then?”

“No, I do not!” you insisted too quickly, casting a furtive glance at the egg as if it had heard Aemond's words.

Frustration etched across Aemond’s features, he clenched his fists tightly. “It is unfair that your brothers possess dragons while we remain without, since they are—”

“What?” you interjected softly, concern lacing your tone. “They are what?”

Your earnest look tugged at the fragile threads of his heart. He couldn’t assume you were unaware of the whispers that painted your brothers in shadows, nor could he believe you were deaf to the harsh truths woven through courtly gossip. Yet, he would never voice those words to you. Instead, he muttered grudgingly, “Not as special as us.”

A small pout formed on your lips, drawing his attention away from the dragon egg that lay neglected between you. “You do understand that it was most likely Aegon who orchestrated that prank, yes?” you pressed, your voice laced with a gentle resolve.

Aemond scoffed and turned away, the weight of your words lingering in the air like an unwelcome specter. “Are you truly defending them?” he challenged, though he felt the shake of his conviction.

“No, Aemond,” you replied, your voice as sweet as summer rain, “What my brothers did was wrong. But more often than not, you never hold Aegon accountable, despite him being the leader of their little group.”

His back remained turned to you, pride keeping him rooted as he mulled over your words. Deep down, he recognized the truth in them, though he loathed to concede, for Aegon was his elder brother. He longed for the bond that appeared so effortless between you and your siblings, and it felt far more convenient to direct his ire toward them instead.

As Aemond continued to brood, you glided closer, resting your chin on his shoulder, your presence as warm as the sun’s rays. “If my egg should hatch, perhaps we could share the dragon?” you suggested brightly, seeking to lift his spirits.

He let out a disdainful scoff, turning to face you so closely that your noses nearly brushed. “Now, that is simply absurd.”

“Aemond,” you admonished softly, undeterred.

“Never has there been a dragon with two riders,” he rebutted gloomily, his voice laced with skepticism.

“So we would be the first,” you retorted, rising to your feet with animated gestures. “There must always be a first, for only then can things be normalized. Just wait and see, Aemond—one day, a Targaryen will claim more than one dragon!”

He regarded you with an unreadable expression and replied matter-of-factly, “That is entirely selfish, niece.”

You huffed in exasperation, settling back down beside him, your patience wearing thin. At moments like this, Aemond’s stubbornness made him seem dreadfully dull. “You fail to see the vision, uncle."

It was curious how swiftly the tides of life could turn. You had often confided in your mother about your aversion to change, and her response was always the same: "Change is inevitable, my love." You were not certain what that meant, but you understood now, as the world around you shifted in the blink of an eye. The sudden sadness that gripped your heart was puzzling, especially since you were so young. Just like that, you had been whisked away from the familiar streets of King’s Landing to the distant shores of Dragonstone, all because of your mother’s choices, which felt like a shadow beyond your grasp.

Dragonstone loomed before you, ominous and strange. You had never set foot on its rugged shores, but a sense of dread weighed heavy in your chest, telling you you would despise it here. The library would be smaller, you thought—if Dragonstone even had one at all—and the gardens could not possibly rival those sprawling ones in the Red Keep. Most troubling of all was the thought of being separated from Helaena and Aemond.

Helaena, your sweet aunt, sometimes it felt as though you could almost imagine her as your sister. Though her peculiar musings often escaped your understanding, it was her delightful oddities that you cherished most, setting her apart from all the other court ladies.

And Aemond—nothing in this vast world could rival the bond you shared with your uncle. You both understood one another in a way that few could fathom. The two dragonless Targaryens united by the same unspoken grief, felt the weight of their inferiority hanging over them like a storm cloud. Yet within that shared pain grew a deep-rooted connection. Aemond was your anchor in a world that often felt lonely and overwhelming. With him, you never felt truly isolated; you were never alone.

As the time arrived for your departure, Aemond attempted to mask his feelings with indifference, but you could see beyond his brave facade. The glimmer of tears in his violet eyes and the strength of his embrace told you everything: he would miss you just as fiercely as you would miss him.

Once again, the sea had darkened, mirroring the heaviness in your heart. The next time the two of you would gather would be under the shadow of sorrow. Your Aunt Laena had passed, and your family was bound for Driftmark to honor her memory. Despite having never met her, a sharp ache coursed through you, all the more intense for the grief etched across your father’s face. Laena had been his twin, after all. Then there was the loss of Ser Harwin Strong as well, which weighed heavily on your mother and brothers. Yet, for reasons you couldn’t quite grasp, your own heart felt strangely untouched by sadness.

The funeral had drawn to a close. Your mother gently encouraged you and Jace to offer words of comfort to your cousins, Baela and Rhaena. But Jace spoke without thinking, a clumsy remark about how you all should have been at Harrenhal instead of Driftmark. You felt a rush of frustration rising in your throat, longing to assert that his pain didn’t lessen the tragedy of the day. After all, he was only voicing his own hurt.

With a quiet huff, you had marched away in silence, finding your perch beside a jagged stone wall, where you could observe your father from a distance. He stood in the shallows of the ocean, the waves lapping at his knees, as if being closer to Laena might ease the sorrow that weighed upon his heart. It pained you to witness him so downcast; the truth was, you had always thought your father impervious to sadness, having never seen his face devoid of a smile before this moment.

“How fares Dragonstone?”

A smile began to bloom on your lips at the familiar sound of Aemond's voice, bringing warmth to your gloomy thoughts.

"It is cold and windy," you replied quietly, shifting your gaze toward him.

Aemond paused, taking in the sight of you. It had been merely weeks since you left the Red Keep, yet in your absence, the loneliness had curled around him like a thick fog. Seeing you now felt like sunlight piercing through gray clouds after a long storm. He regarded you for a moment longer before nodding subtly toward your brothers. "My condolences for Ser Harwin. I assume that is what had your brothers weeping."

“The bond between him and my brothers was indeed strong,” you admitted, a furrow forming in your brow as Aemond stifled a laugh with a cough. “I am sad he has passed, just as I mourn Aunt Laena. But the sorrows I feel mostly arise from witnessing the devastation their losses have cast upon my mother and father.”

Your lilac eyes shifted back toward your father, worry etched across your youthful features. You bit your lip, glancing at the water below. Surely it had turned icy, “I wish I could help him, to see him smile once more. But I’m not sure what to say.”

This was a curious moment for Aemond. Throughout his life, he had cherished you as his dearest friend, his beloved niece. Yet, recently, he began to view you in a new light—the way your silver curls captured the sunlight, glowing as if spun from starlight, or how every gown you wore magnified the beauty of your lilac eyes.

He licked his dry lips and spoke gently, “I reckon there’s little you could say that would ease his pain. Instead, find a way to show him you stand with him. That might be enough.”

You nodded thoughtfully at Aemond's words, your gaze drifting toward Rhaena and Baela. "I feel so awful," you confessed, your voice scarcely above a whisper. "I could never imagine losing my mother."

"Me neither," Aemond replied softly.

After a moment of silence, you added, "I think I would die from the heartbreak." You could sense Aemond’s eyes upon you, a question hanging unspoken in the air between you. A small sigh escaped your lips as you said, "It didn’t hatch, if that’s what you were thinking?"

From the corner of your eye, you noticed Aemond's head lower slightly. "Oh," he murmured, disappointment lacing his tone.

You lifted your chin, trying to display strength despite the disappointment gnawing at your heart. "I suspect I am not meant for a dragon," you asserted, forcing a brave smile.

"Don’t say that," Aemond insisted, his voice firm yet gentle.

Turning to face him, you allowed your hopelessness to seep through your facade. "Three times, Aemond. Three times my egg has failed to hatch."

"There are many unclaimed dragons on Dragonstone," Aemond suggested with a hint of resolve. "Perhaps you could try with them?"

"At the risk of my life?" you replied, arching an eyebrow at him. But then, your lips curled into a playful smile as you reached out to take Aemond's hand in yours. "But really, why would I seek a bond with a dragon when my bond with you is far more precious to me?"

Your words made Aemond’s cheeks flush a deep crimson, his heart thudding like the wings of a dragon. Though you seemed to find comfort in his friendship over the absence of a dragon, Aemond couldn't shake the feeling of urgency. If a dragon was to be claimed, it would be up to him—the time had come, for both of your sakes.

He remembered that at this very moment, there was the legendary Vhagar, unclaimed and free, somewhere on the island, waiting for someone worthy to forge a bond with her. And he would do it in your honour.

You were jolted awake from your slumber, the sound of your name ringing insistently in your ears as someone gently shook your shoulders.

Opening your eyes with heavy lids, you frowned to see Jace’s eager face hovering over you, his hands gripping your shoulders.

“Jace, what is it?” you mumbled, pushing him away with tired reluctance as you struggled to sit up.

“Vhagar has been stolen! We must find out who did it!” he exclaimed, his voice bubbling with urgency as he tugged at you to rise from your bed.

“We?” you replied slowly, letting the word hang in the air. Your gaze drifted past him, landing on Luke, Baela, and Rhaena, who stood ready to storm out.

You groaned and collapsed back into your pillows, muffling your voice as you protested, “Can this not wait until the sun graces the sky?”

Once more, Jace insisted, pulling you upright, even as you felt something being slipped onto your feet. You turned your bleary gaze to see Luke kneeling beside you, fastening your boots with surprising urgency.

“No time for that! We needed a person of age to accompany us,” Jace declared, lifting you to your feet with determined hands.

You froze in place, fixing him with a look that was a blend of disbelief and exasperation. “Jace... I’m ten, and you’re nine.”

Yet your protest went unheard as Jace and Luke eagerly dragged you through the castle’s dim corridors, Baela and Rhaena leading the way with purpose. A terrible knot of dread twisted in your stomach, and you murmured under your breath, “Perhaps we could find a guard.”

“That would take far too long,” Rhaena replied sharply, her steps firm as the twins guided you deeper into the shadowy tunnels beneath the castle.

Your eyes widened in disbelief, and your mouth gaped open as you caught sight of Aemond standing before you, his hair tousled and a cocky smirk dancing on his lips.

“It’s him,” Baela exclaimed, realization dawning on her.

Aemond's smirk widened, and he drawled, “It’s me.”

“Vhagar is my mother’s dragon,” Rhaena said, her voice trembling with indignation.

“Your mother’s dead. And Vhagar has a new rider now,” Aemond shot back, his words sharp as a dagger. You flinched at the cruelty woven into his tone.

“You claimed Vhagar?” you whispered, your voice barely more than a breath. Aemond’s gaze met yours, filled with an expectation of pride, but instead, he found only shock and hurt reflected in your eyes.

But before you could gather your thoughts, Rhaena’s voice pierced the air, filled with anger, “She was mine to claim!”

“Then you should’ve claimed her!” Aemond roared, his voice echoing through the tunnel. “Perhaps your cousins can find you a pig to ride. That would suit you better!”

Disgust twisted your features at Aemond’s taunts, yet your attention shifted as you saw Rhaena charging toward him. “Rhaena, wait!” you cried out, but it was too late.

In a heartbeat, Rhaena slammed into Aemond, pushing him with all her might. In response, he shoved her to the ground, and the chaos spiraled out of control. Everything happened so swiftly that you barely registered Baela darting past you until the sharp crack of her fist meeting Aemond’s cheek rang in your ears. He retaliated in an instant.

“Come at me again and I’ll feed you to my dragon!” Aemond roared, fury lighting up his features.

A gasp escaped your lips as you instinctively shouted, “Aemond!”

“She hit me first!” Aemond yelled back, his frustration spilling out around them like wildfire.

Just then, you felt a rush behind you as Jace charged forward, his own fury ignited. He struck Aemond squarely on the nose. In the blink of an eye, the fight erupted around you, with Jace, Luke, Rhaena, and Baela striking Aemond from every side.

It was only when you felt that surge of panic return to your mind and body that you tore yourself away from your stunned silence, sprinting toward the melee. “Stop it! All of you, stop!” you cried, your voice rising above the clamor.

But your pleas fell on deaf ears as the thrashing continued. In the fray, Jace’s elbow inadvertently crashed into your face, sending you spiraling toward the stone wall. Your head thudded sharply against the rough surface, pain blooming as darkness threatened to close in.

Time seemed to slow, and suddenly, the fighting ceased. Jace’s wide eyes met yours, filled with shock. “I—I didn’t mean to,” he stammered, guilt clouding his features.

Through the ringing in your ears, you attempted to open your eyes, focusing on the concern etched on your brother's face. “I know you didn’t mean to, Jace,” you murmured, your voice a fragile whisper.

Yet the fury of the confrontation did not relent; the struggle surrounding Aemond grew more fierce, spurred on by your injury. As blood trickled down your forehead, thick and unwelcome, Aemond's anger erupted. “You hurt her!” he roared, his voice laced with venom.

A throbbing pain radiated through your skull, swelling with every clash of voices and yells. Gritting your teeth against the discomfort, you finally opened your eyes wide enough to glimpse Jace, knife in hand. A pang of urgency surged within you, prompting a weak plea, “Jace, put that away.”

You longed to retreat into darkness, to let the cacophony fade away, but the din continued to swell. Jace unleashed a handful of sand, blinding Aemond momentarily, while Luke, with fierce determination, rushed forward carrying Jace's knife. “Luke, no!” you cried, though your words were nearly drowned in the chaos.

And then, before you could breathe another word, the world faded away into shadows, consumed by the horrifying scream that sliced through the air — Aemond's anguished cry as Luke struck at his eye.

To Be Continued...

[thestarlightexpress]

Kinktober 2024: Day 2 - Somnophilia - Azriel x Reader

TW: sexual themes including overstimulation and dubcon

word count: 1.48k

NSFW under the cut

The sharp wind and misty rain pelted Azriel’s face as his long flight back from the Continent came to a close. He spent the last week surveilling Koschei’s lake for any useful intel and had unsurprisingly come home with nothing. After 8 straight hours of flying, all he wanted to do was collapse in his fluffy bed and sleep for a whole day. 

He neared the House of Wind, feeling the drowsiness and pull to his bed grow even stronger as he struggled to keep his eyes open. Finally landing, his tense and taut muscles were able to gradually start relaxing. As he slowly wandered down the hallway towards his room, his ears perked up at the sounds floating towards him from a few doors down. Muffled moans and something that suspiciously sounded like a headboard striking the wall. Cassian and Nesta must be at it again.

He slowly opened his door and was dismayed to find an obstacle in between him and his comfy bed - you, laying on your back, starfished right in the middle of his bed. You were dead asleep despite gripping an open book in your hand. Knowing he was set to come back tonight, you had done your best to wait up for him but evidently couldn’t resist the coziness of his bed. 

A soft smile ghosted his lips as his shadows softly shut the door behind him. He pried the book from your hands, setting it on the nightstand before softly kissing your forehead and heading to the restroom. He quickly shed his sweat-soaked leathers before running a quick bath. His sore muscles sang in relief at the warm water. As he lay in the bath, the light and sweet smell of your arousal drifted through the open door. 

His shadows slinked back into the restroom, whispering to him the name of your book. It was one he and Nesta had been reading a few weeks earlier in their secret smutty book club. Knowing exactly what his sweet little mate had been reading had his blood swiftly rushing to his cock. He had intended to just quickly wash off and curl around you as best he could and go to sleep, but he suddenly found himself changing those plans. 

Azriel hurried to dry himself off and slip on his sleep clothes before wandering back into his bedroom. The forceful waves of your arousal nearly knocked him over. You were still in a deep sleep with a blissful smile on your face. The skimpy camisole you were wearing didn’t leave much to the imagination, showing off your perky nipples. Azriel’s gaze raked over your chest and down to your high-waisted shorts that barely covered your ass. He inched closer and closer to you, feeling his now hard cock straining against his sweatpants.

He crawled between your legs, soaking up the smell of your need as you continued dreaming. Azriel slowly gripped your shorts and pulled them down your legs. He was almost on the verge of drooling at the sight of your slick, pink pussy bared in front of him. He trailed up your legs, leaving warm open-mouthed kisses in his wake. Azriel placed a soft peck on the tip of your clit before licking a slow strip up from your entrance. His rough hands reached up to pull your thighs further apart, spreading your cunt for him.

Azriel softly suckled on your clit, sending a new wave of slick sliding down towards your entrance. He shifted down and dove into your pussy, licking up your syrupy arousal. A gentle moan slipped from your mouth as your hips shifted up and chased his mouth. He moved back up and his lips wrapped around your clit while he slipped two fingers inside you. He felt your body shifting above him as he pumped his fingers inside you, stretching you out for him. A small hand landed on his head and laced through his damp hair. 

“Well, this is certainly a way to wake me up.”, your rough, sleep-ridden voice drifted down towards him. Azriel glanced back up at you from between your legs, finding you propped up on your elbows. His free hand grasped your wrist and moved your hand to rest on your stomach. Azriel sent some shadows to weave through your hair and rest around your neck and shoulders. “Go back to sleep, my love. Just let me make you feel good.” He gripped your thigh and dove back into your inviting cunt. Releasing a needy moan, you laid back on the bed and swiftly drifted back to sleep.

Your slick continued to drip between your legs, soaking Azriel’s face and the sheets below you. Even while asleep, his skilled mouth quickly brought you to your first orgasm of the night. Your back arched and your breaths quickened into soft pants as you came in his mouth. The intoxicating taste of your release had his hips bucking up, grinding his swollen cock into the edge of the bed, desperate for a sliver of relief. 

Azriel groaned into your heat as he felt his precum drip down his cock. His fingers inched further inside of you, pressing against the spot that always made you see stars and beg for more. He glanced up at you and grazed his teeth against your sensitive clit when he heard your breath hitch. He promptly brought you to your second and third orgasm until your legs were shaking around his head. Your hand drifted back down to his hair and softly pulled him up from your cunt. Drifting in and out of consciousness, you managed to string together a mumbled plea. “Too much, Az.”, your soft voice lowly murmured.

He rose up and trailed his hands over your body, taking off your camisole in the process. Azriel hovered over you and rested his head on your bare chest. “Sorry, love. Didn’t mean to get carried away,” You sleepily hummed and cradled his head in your hand. His head drifted up and he nosed into the crook of your neck. “But I think you can cum one more time for me, yeah?” You roughly bit your lip and rapidly nodded against him. You whined at the anticipation of feeling him again. The Mother had certainly given you the horniest male in existence for a mate. His scarred hands gripped your hips in the way he knew you loved as he gently flipped you onto your stomach. Azriel crawled off the bed and stood at the foot of the bed. He outright moaned as he loosened the laces of his pants before pulling them off to release his leaky cock from its confines. He couldn’t hide his smile at the sight of your head resting on top of your arms, already asleep again.

Azriel loved many things about his sleepy girl, particularly how cuddly and pliant you get. But this, this was something you had always talked about doing that Azriel hadn’t been lucky enough to experience. You both loved the idea of him taking you as you slept, letting him use you solely for his pleasure. His cock bobbed in the air as he stared at your supple ass, debating about how he wanted to take you. He crawled on top of you and sat on your thighs a few inches behind your ass. He gripped your cheeks before using one hand to guide the tip of his member through your soaked folds. Azriel angled your hips up towards him before sliding into you and sheathing his cock fully inside of your warm, welcoming heat.

You both groaned at the stretch, Azriel much louder than you. He didn’t even need to give you time to adjust as your body was relaxed enough by your previous slumber. He grasped your waist and pulled his hips back to thrust into you. He had been so pent up over the past week that it didn’t take him much to get close. Getting lost in his own pleasure, he roughly took your tight cunt. Your light moans could barely be heard over his hips slapping into your ass.

Azriel felt his abs straining as he started to approach his release. He shifted his legs further up the bed and caged your torso under his chest. His thrusts started to get harder and erratic as he felt you tighten around them.

Azriel bit down a moan as his hips stilled and he spilled into you, your walls spasming around him as you came for the fourth time. After taking a few minutes to catch his breath, he slowly clambered off the bed and slipped his pants back on before laying down next to you. He gingerly turned you onto your side and pulled you into his chest. Not even five minutes later, he found his chin resting on your shoulder and felt himself pulled into sleep by your comforting warmth.

Kinktober Taglist:

@honethatty12 @sweet-chai-amore @helo1281917 @scarsandallaz @thatacotargirl @a-courtof-azriel @lmadness @riorgail

[knightjpg]

Brick by Brick

And like a dog who's learned a new trick Simon rings your bell the next day. Wasn't happy with how he left it, and wasn't that faucet leaking? He's got plenty of spare wood in his shed, don't you worry. What's that about the boiler making a weird noise? He'll take a look at it, might have something for the draft in the hallway too. Pay him? What are you talking about, he does stuff like this for fun. Don't sweat it, love. Just hand him that wrench.

tags: construction worker simon/neighbour reader

part 1 | part 2

Summer is the worst time of year for construction work outside. Up early before the birds are awake to try and beat the heat, arriving on site at six or earlier with bleary eyes and creaky joints from the day before. It means coming home at four or five with lots of day left to get through yet without the will or energy to do anything beside shower, eat, watch some telly, and sleep. 

The pay is good and it beats sitting in a cramped office all day, but when Simon gets home with aching knees and the thrum of a headache at the back of his skull it's hard to remember why on Earth he chose the career he's in. He's drenched in sweat, large dark patches adorning his pits and back. 

It's one of those days where very little can make him stray from his commute straight to home to collapse into his big falling-apart chair, but today it's not really up to him. A large moving truck blocks his driveway. The faded company logo against dirty white overtakes the entire view of his windshield, though Simon can see the back doors are still swung open. No one to attend to it, though. 

Simon noticed the FOR SALE! sign had gone, of course. Remembers feeling vaguely pleased, even, that the home next to his wouldn't be empty anymore, because he of all people knows exactly how quickly places can fall apart without anyone tending to it. But right now all he feels is tired, and hot, and really fucking annoyed. Just when he's clicked his belt loose to get out of the car and see if the dolt belonging to the truck is anywhere to be found, voices carry from the open front door. 

“...last. I'm afraid it's a little heavy, though, so maybe we should get the boxes out first?” 

And out steps the sweetest little thing he's ever seen. Hair tied up, tight little top, and shorts that give him ample view of your legs.  

Maybe summer's not so bad after all. 

You're talking to a bloke wearing a uniform that matches the moving truck and who looks flushed in the face from exertion. As soon as you clock Simon's car, though, you stop mid-sentence in surprise, and then quickly walk to him, brows furrowed apologetically. 

“Oh, I'm so sorry—you're trying to get past us, aren't you?” Simon gives you a nod, and you turn back to the mover. “Would you mind moving the truck up a little? I don't want it to be in the way.” 

There's precious little parking space ahead, so Simon rolls down his window and calls out to you, “Jus’ backing up a few yards s’fine.” He gestures to his driveway so you know that's where he's headed, and you flash him a smile and a thumbs-up in understanding. 

The truck is moved, Simon parks his car, and you pull another heavy-looking box from the cube. You never reach your new doorstep with it; Simon steps in and lifts it from your hands. You blink up at him, lashes fluttering sweetly with surprise. “Oh—are you sure? It's heavy...!” 

One corner of Simon's mouth tugs up. Tired as he is it weighs next to nothing, and he can't resist holding it with one arm, holding out the other. 

“Can take ‘nother if you need.” 

You laugh and assure him this is quite enough, then jog back to the truck while Simon pushes past the half-open door to his new neighbour's home. 

It's a mess, of course. Piles of boxes, scattered furniture, rolled-up carpets. Simon puts the box down in the living room, then saunters back outside to lift another from your hands. He does the same with the couch; the mover is struggling and Simon doesn't trust him not to let it fall and crash. And you're such a little thing. Just doesn't feel right, watching you rush around and struggle without stepping in. 

With Simon's help it's quick work. The mover thanks Simon before driving off, but he's not really listening. There's much more important things to pay attention to. 

You're pretty. Cheeks flushed from exertion, breathing hard, flyaway hairs from your ponytail sticking up in odd directions. Simon has to suppress the urge to smooth them away. 

"Thanks so much for the help,” you tell him earnestly. “I'm sorry we were in the way—we thought we'd have a little more time before people started coming home from work.” 

“S’alright,” Simon says. It's nearing evening, now, the sky above you glowing in pale pink and oranges hues. The little smatter of trees across from you rustles with a gust of summer wind.  

You introduce yourself and insist on giving Simon your number “in case there's ever anything you need.” Simon's more concerned about a young woman living all on her own but takes your number all the same, watching your pretty little fingers tap it in on his phone. 

“I mostly work from home, but I'm very quiet and boring,” you tell him with a smile. “You don't have to worry about noise.” 

For some reason that isn't the selling point it should be. When Simon stands inside his hallway, house empty and dark and quiet, he wishes he still lived in a shitty apartment with thin walls on the bad side of Manchester. Maybe then he'd hear your footsteps, or better yet, your voice. Instead the only thing waiting for him at home is silence. Heavy and thick, where he's ripped away from sweet sunshine and plunged underwater. 

-

Simon is halfway to falling asleep on the couch when the bell rings. He groans, drags a hand over his face, and glances up at the TV. The football match is still going. The camera pans over a cheering crowd, their cries distant and quiet. 

He mutes the thing entirely and heaves himself up to open the door. Swear to God, if this is the fucking salesman again... 

“Hi there.” 

You give Simon a little finger wave, your other hand cradling a round oven dish. When you shift on your feet the protective foil on top rustles noisily. 

You look a little more put together than you did yesterday—rested, showered, fed. Just as pretty. 

Although, speaking of fed... 

“Alright?” Simon asks, eyes on the oven pan. He's only catching a faint whiff of something, but whatever it is smells really fucking good. His stomach reminds him that the only thing in his fridge are a couple cans of beer.  

You nod and lift the dish with a shy little grin. “Yeah. Um. I wanted to say thanks again, for yesterday. And I wanted to test out my oven, so...” 

You hold the dish out for him to take. Simon's fingers brush yours, large meaty paws easily twice the size of your own. When he peels back the foil you add, “Shepherd's pie. I thought about cookies, but I wasn't sure if you'd like those.” 

The scent hits him, then, rich and hearty and buttery smooth. The dish is still a little warm. 

Fuck. When was the last time he ate something homemade? 

“No, I'll eat anything,” he says, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious. He hasn't showered yet. Must look a nightmare. Does he stink? “Thanks.” 

Your whole face lights up, and Simon's neck feels hot. He averts his eyes to avoid your gaze and pretends to inspect the pie instead. Jesus, what is he, twelve? “I'm glad. I'll leave you to it, then.” 

D’you want to come in for a drink?  

It's on the tip of his tongue, but he can't get the words out quite right and gives you a brusque nod, watching you walk back to your own home before closing his door all the way. 

He eats at his kitchen table and finishes the whole thing in one go. Chases bits of flakey crust with his finger, licks up every leftover crumb. The meat is tender and juicy and for a while after the only things he smells is golden-brown potatoes seasoned with rosemary. 

He mourns it when it's gone, of course. Has half a mind to go over right now and ask if your cooking is for hire—Simon can't remember the last time he felt satisfied. When he ate not just for the sake of fuel or convenience but because someone wanted him to have something nice, something special. Is it special? Is he special? Are you going around the neighbourhood handing out cookies and pies to just anyone? 

Simon's sigh is loud in the silence and sticks to the kitchen walls. 

The pre-made frozen meals are fine, of course. Empty plastic containers fill up the rubbish bin. They're easy and cheap and most days Simon's glad just to have something warm in his stomach.  

And yet. 

The next day Simon stands at your door at six in the evening sharp, holding the clean dish in his hands. You invite him in for a cup of tea, because unlike him you have good manners, and you sheepishly apologise for the stacks of boxes everywhere. 

“S’alright,” Simon says, carefully manoeuvring around a large pile of books. “I don't mind.” 

And he doesn't, though he does feel like a bull in a china shop. Large and much too coarse for the little tea cup you hand him while the kettle whistles on the stove. 

“I'm afraid I don't have much to go with it,” you say with a flutter of your hands. “Do you like ginger snaps? I think I've got a pack somewhere.” 

You don't wait for his answer and pry open one of the cupboards. First come the ginger snaps, then the box of Earl Grey, which you hold up to him with a triumphant smile. “Unpacked the important stuff first.” 

Simon frowns and jerks his chin to the cupboard. “S’it stuck?” 

“Oh—yeah. They all are.” You give the wood a little knock. “It'll take me some time to get to fixing everything. The house went for a good price, but only ‘cause it needs some love.” You give him a rueful smile and get up, wiping your hands on your thighs. “I'm not all that handy, so I'll have to take it bit by bit.” 

Simon rises before you finish your sentence. "Let me see.” 

“Oh, no, it's okay. It's not a big deal, really—” 

Simon crouches down, slowly, to spare his knees, and tests the hinges. The wood is rotten in certain places, the hinges old and rusted. Rather than fixing it up it should be replaced entirely. You really better had gotten this place for good money, because this will take more than a bit of elbow grease to repair. He prods at the hinges, tuts, and looks up at you. 

“Ready to fall apart, this one. You said they're all like this?” 

You nod, worry creasing your brow. “I—yes. Well, the kitchen is. The bathroom seems alright. Is it worse than I thought?” 

“Might be. You have anyone look at this?” 

You shake your head. “I'm starting to feel silly about it now, but I was going to look up how to do it myself.” 

Simon straightens. “I'll go get my kit.” 

-

It's not as bad as he feared. Two cabinets need tearing down completely, but the others are worth saving. Simon warns you the repair job will fuck the wood, but you tell him it's no problem; you'll paint over it anyway. 

You feed him tea and ginger snaps while he works, asking him several times if he wouldn't like a break, hasn't he done a lot already? You feel terrible about having him work on his day off. Didn't he say he worked construction? He must be so tired, poor man. You insist he stay for dinner. “You've been so helpful—it's the least I could do.” 

Simon takes a breather to watch you cook. Chicken, pasta, summer salad. The sun sinks lower and hits you straight on from the kitchen window, painting the edges of you a dazed red-gold. An angel's halo. 

“You big on reading, then?” 

You turn down the heat and put a lid over the pan to join him at the table. Simon's eyeing the many books strewn about on top of boxes that say “pans” and “kitchen supplies”. Le Morte D’Arthur. Histories of the Kings of Britain. Beowulf. There's even one that prompts a vague, long-forgotten memory from his school days— The Canterbury Tales.  

“I am. Always have been.” You nod to the books. “I teach at university—medieval literature. But I'm working on my own research on the side.” 

Simon lets out a low whistle. His pretty bird is a clever one. Smarter than him, that's for sure. He might be big and strong but he's got bricks for brains. 

That's what his dad always used to say, anyway—that he's stupid. Those always were his kinder moments. 

“That explains all the books y’got.” 

“There sure are a lot of them, aren't there? I swear moving really makes you realise just how much stuff you own...” You shake your head. “I'll have to get a bigger bookcase.” 

“Think it's impressive.” 

Your eyes crinkle with a smile. “Not as impressive as knowing how to fix my cabinets! I don't know how I would've managed by myself.” You hop up from your seat to check the food, then ask over your shoulder, “Is that something you do a lot for work, too? Carpentry and the like?” 

Simon shakes his head. “We do the heavy lifting. Clearing a place out, laying the foundation. Johnny—my coworker, he's mostly on machinery. Kyle does transport and plumbing. I do the heavier handiwork.” 

You hum and start plating the food while asking him more questions. Is the pay good? Is his boss fair? Are his coworkers nice? 

Price's fairly strict is what he is, Simon answers, and you laugh again. He likes that. Likes that he gets you to do that. 

He wolfs down a plate of his pasta and devours the chicken. It's fragrant, roasted with lemon and thyme, bursts between his teeth. He tells you more about Johnny, that he's a cocky bastard who likes playing with electricity way too much, but that he's also a loyal friend. That he's a hard worker—that all of them are. 

When his plate is empty and he's eyeing what's left in the pans you push them closer without saying anything, and prompt him to tell you about that time a plumbing line exploded and Kyle got soaked from tip to toe in disgusting gunk. He smelt like sewage water for weeks. 

Simon doesn't even realise how much he's talked until his throat starts feeling rougher than usual. You make it easy somehow. If he'd thought you would look down on him because of your own job he needn't have worried. You're not at all like what he imagines when he thinks of professors, none of the stuffy superiority complex he's used to weathering when people find out all he does all day is chafe his fingers on hard cement.  

Maybe you're just good at faking it, but he doubts it. The sparkle in your eyes when you listen to him so intently has to be real. 

You send him home with a warm thanks and dessert, and Simon feels something in his chest lurch when you peer up at him through your lashes in the doorway, smiling and sweet. Can't remember the last time he went out for dates. Can't remember having the time or energy for it. 

And like a dog who's learned a new trick Simon rings your bell the next day. Wasn't happy with how he left it, and wasn't that faucet leaking? He's got plenty of spare wood in his shed, don't you worry. What's that about the boiler making a weird noise? He'll take a look at it, might have something for the draft in the hallway too. 

Pay him? What are you talking about, he does stuff like this for fun. Don't sweat it, love. Just hand him that wrench. 

There are days when it's hard, of course. Simon is only human, and spending days and days on sizzling hard concrete would wring anyone dry. The project is coming along nicely, but at the height of summer there's plenty of times when even the promise of your smile isn't enough to keep him from falling asleep on his couch—often on an empty stomach. 

But during the weekends he rings your bell dutifully. Six o’clock becomes something sacred in his mind, sweet relief after praying on his knees for hours smoothing out cement. It gets to the point where he turns down Friday drinks with the guys more than once because he's got something to go home for now, his pretty little bird that's never once mentioned a boyfriend of any kind. 

“You really should let me pay you.” 

Simon gives you a look before pushing his large shoulders further into the cabinet under the bathroom sink. “Should be the one payin’ you. I know I'm doubling your grocery bill.” 

He eats more at your place than his own these days. It gives him incentive to rush through a shower, dress like something resembling a human, then wait at your doorstep to be let in. Wagging tail and everything. 

Your cheeks darken and you duck your head. “No, um... It makes me happy. To see you eat my cooking, I mean,” you confess a little shyly. “I feel like I'm the one getting everything out of this. I hope I'm not keeping you from—from spending time at home, or with your family.” 

“S’just me, love.” Simon pauses, pretends to inspect the pipes. “Less you don't want me coming ‘round anymore.” 

“No, no,” you say hastily. “No, I like—I like the company. Really.” Your voice softens. “And I'm not just saying that because I appreciate the help.” 

Simon exhales, shifts a little to accommodate the strain in his boxers, and holds his hand out for the screwdriver. 

[cranberrymoons]

“eddie said he was straight” he also said he was undeserving of love, forgiveness, or joy in the same scene and then by the end of the episode he was shedding his mask and taking off his protective layer and dancing around half naked in his living room with music blasting and then collapsing onto the couch with buck who is single and in his home. like i’m sorry but how do you not see that this is all part of the same thing 😭 is Peppa Pig your idea of a complex piece of cinema