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novaursa · 4 months ago

Note

Good evening love

I was thinking about that last night!

When Daemon and Rhaenyra goes to brothel they sleep together and obviously she’s pregnant and coz it’s just before her wedding (we will says it just before) everyone thing it’s Leanor.

She gave birth to a little girl all Targaryen looks. They’re was always some rumors but since she looks like every targ it’s easier for her. Harwin played dad role for her and she’s really protective of her brother.

more time passed and everyone can clearly see that she looked exactly like daemon physically and mentally.

And it’s finally during the funeral of her aunt, Daemon see her and he understand that she is his. She’s everything he want and have a special bound with her (first child, heir of the throne, powerful dragon)

Fire in Her Veins

- Summary: During Laena’s funeral, Daemon recognizes you as his own blood.

- Paring: (daughter) targ!reader/(father) Daemon Targaryen (platonic)

- Note: The reader is the firstborn child and only daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen. The reader is also bonded to Vermithor.

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

The sea air on Driftmark is filled with salt and sorrow, the crashing waves of the Narrow Sea providing a mournful backdrop to the solemn gathering. You stand with your brothers on the stone cliffs of the island, your hands clasped tightly together in front of you as the funeral procession moves solemnly forward. Lady Laena’s casket is adorned with pearls and driftwood, her body wrapped in the traditional Velaryon colors, and you can feel the weight of your family’s grief pressing heavily upon your shoulders.

The mood is somber, the sky above gray and heavy, as if even the gods mourn the loss of Laena Velaryon. The Velaryon banners flap in the wind, and from where you stand, you see the faces of the royal family—Alicent and her children, all clustered together, keeping their distance from you and your brothers. Their green dresses stand out like bright flames against the dark ocean and black mourning attire.

You feel a familiar pang of protectiveness as you glance toward your brothers, who are standing just to your right, their small faces grim and pale. You notice how Jacaerys keeps his head down, avoiding the stern gazes from across the gathering. You recognize the unspoken tension between the two halves of the family, an invisible line that divides you all.

Behind you, you hear the murmurs of the court, soft whispers that seem to follow you wherever you go. They speak of many things—the death of Lady Laena, the grief of her husband Daemon, and the unspoken truth that seems to hang in the air around you. The truth of who you are.

"She looks more like him every day," you overhear a noblewoman whisper, though she thinks she is being quiet enough to go unnoticed.

And you know who they mean. Not Laenor Velaryon, who raised you as his own. Not Harwin Strong, who shielded you when you were small, his fierce protectiveness marking him as a father figure in your life. But Daemon.

Your eyes, so like his—stormy, burning with fire—scan the crowd until they land on him.

Daemon Targaryen stands just beyond the gathering of mourners, his face half-hidden beneath his hood, his silver hair blowing in the wind. There is something wild about him, something untamed, as though he belongs to the sea and the sky more than he belongs to the earth. He looks broken today, mourning his wife, but in his eyes there is a flicker of something as he catches your gaze—recognition, perhaps.

Your heart beats harder, and you lift your chin, a Targaryen through and through. You are not afraid to meet his gaze. In fact, there’s something in you that draws you closer to him, though your feet remain rooted to the ground.

Daemon's eyes narrow, the brief glint of recognition becoming a full realization. His mouth parts slightly as if he is going to speak, but no words come out. You see the flicker of memory in his gaze, a moment that stretches back to the night you were conceived—the night Rhaenyra escaped into the shadows of King's Landing, into his arms, if only for a single stolen moment.

The likeness between the two of you is undeniable, your shared features as plain as day to anyone who cared to look closely. Your high cheekbones, the curve of your lips, the storm in your gaze. And there is something more than just the physical—an energy, a fierceness that burns in you as much as it does in him.

"Y/N," Daemon murmurs your name under his breath as he steps forward, moving as though drawn to you by some unseen force.

You do not step back. You hold your ground, standing taller, your spine straight. You are not the little girl who needed protection anymore. You are Rhaenyra’s daughter, the rider of Vermithor, a dragon like no other.

Your brothers shift uncomfortably beside you as Daemon approaches, and you gently place a hand on Jacaerys’ shoulder, a silent reassurance that you will protect them. They are yours, just as much as you are theirs, and no one, not even Daemon, can change that.

“Do you remember me?” Daemon’s voice is low, so low that only you can hear it. His eyes never leave yours.

Your lips part, but words fail you for a moment. You do remember him through your memory as he was a ghost—and the stories your mother told you, the truths she revealed as you grew older. You remember the fire that courses through your veins, the unyielding bond with your dragon, the instincts that set you apart. It all comes from him.

"How could I not?" you reply, your voice steady, even though inside you feel like a storm is brewing.

Daemon’s lips twitch, but it’s not a smile—it’s something darker, something more conflicted. He glances toward your mother, Rhaenyra, who stands a little ways off, her eyes firmly fixed on Laena’s casket. There is a tension between them as well, a history that lingers in the air, unspoken but understood.

“You look like her,” Daemon says quietly, but his eyes say otherwise. He knows you look like him.

You tilt your head slightly, studying him. You have always heard the whispers, the stories, but standing before him now, there is something more intimate in the way he observes you. He is seeing himself in you, recognizing the dragon fire in your blood, the legacy of your shared heritage.

“I look like myself,” you correct, your tone sharper now. “I am my mother’s daughter.”

“And mine,” Daemon replies, his voice a murmur carried by the wind.

You hold his gaze, your heart thudding in your chest, but you do not back down. For years, you had wondered what it would be like to stand face to face with the man whose blood flows in your veins. Now that you are here, you find that you do not need his acknowledgment. You do not need his approval.

You are who you are, no matter who claims you.

"I didn’t need you before," you say, your voice low but firm. "I don’t need you now."

The wind blows harder, carrying your words with it, and Daemon stares at you for a long moment before he nods, almost imperceptibly. There is something in his eyes now—perhaps regret, perhaps something else entirely.

"You are strong," he finally says, his voice barely above a whisper. "That much is clear."

You nod, not offering him anything more, and you turn away, your brothers following you as you lead them away from the cliff’s edge and back toward the safety of your family. The tension in your shoulders slowly fades as you walk away from Daemon, though you can still feel his eyes on your back, watching you as you go.

As the sea crashes against the rocks below, you feel a sense of finality, but also a strange kind of peace. You are your mother’s daughter. You are bonded to a dragon as mighty as Vermithor. You do not need anyone to tell you who you are.

And yet, you cannot help but wonder what it might mean to carry the fire of both Rhaenyra and Daemon, to have the blood of two dragons raging inside of you.

#house of the dragon #hotd #hotd daemon #hotd x female reader #hotd x you #hotd x y/n #hotd x reader #hotd platonic #daemon targeryen x reader #daemon x y/n #daemon x you #daemon x reader #daemon targaryen #daemon platonic

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heylittleriotact · 1 month ago

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⚰ＷＩＰＷＨＥＮＥＶＥＲ⚰

I've been tagged by @xxnashiraxx and love seeing their work pop up on my dash - thank you <3

The Soup du Jour is... smut! Plotless, pointless, porntacular, horny Emmrook smut.

We've got praise kinks, we've got flashing, we've got grinding, we've got trying-to-distract-this-poor-man-from-his-work, we've got Rook biting off more than she can chew when Emmrich calls her bluff. It is in this piece that I am (ultimately) going to make good on my threat of Emmrich reciting erotic poetry intimately into Rook's ear while he makes deeply passionate love to her, because that idea has lived rent-free in my head for days now and I need to manifest it. But first I need Rook to be a brat, and for Emmrich to... deal with that.

I was having doubts about this one because I am forever afraid of writing OOC, but honestly I'm just trying to chuck it in the fuck it bucket and have fun.

Tagging: @preciouslittlebhaalbae (you have TIME now MWAHAHAHA), @allofthebarks (don't hold out on me), @emmg (I know you're cooking 👀)

Under the cut because it is ✨EXPLICIT✨

𝒱𝒾𝓈𝒾𝓉𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃:

A funeral event where the prepared body of the deceased is reposed in the casket (open or closed) so that mourners may pay their respects, say their goodbyes, and grieve communally prior to the formal funeral service.

She knew exactly what she was doing when she pulled on the flimsy little camisole. She had very specific plans in mind when she slipped into the thin leggings that she knew were just a little too tight. There was a distinct reason she had chosen to completely forgo underthings.

She tied her thick hair into a low bun at the base of her skull so her neck was clearly visible… as was the somewhat faded love bite from their previous encounter - the one that made Lace turn beetroot when she laid eyes on it at breakfast. The one that prompted Taash to reach over the table with a congratulatory high five. Emmrich had coughed awkwardly and subtly adjusted his own collar, clearly hoping the marks Amina had left on his neck in return were concealed.

She padded barefoot down the hallway to the laboratory, stomach fluttering and turning on itself in a not unpleasant way with the sheer anticipation of being in his proximity again. She couldn’t help but be drawn to him - his immense gravity could not be ignored; her need to be near him was insistent. She put little stock in the novelty of fate before Emmrich, but there was no doubt in her mind that there must have been some sort of cosmic ruling in which they were unwittingly sentenced by the stars to find one another. Her belly smouldered at the thought of such a thing… of such belonging.

She knocked gently on the door. “It’s me - may I come in?”

She didn’t have to wait for an answer, nor did she have to turn the knob herself: she heard a chair scuff over the flagstone, the muffled jingle of gold - a sound that set her heart racing more often than not these days - and the door was flung open. Emmrich stood in the threshold, beaming affectionately down at her.

“Of course, darling.” He took her hand and pulled her into the room, reaching over her shoulder to shut the door once she was inside. She might have been embarrassed that the sound of the lock clicking behind her made her breath catch solely due to its implication, but she was having a hard time feeling much of anything but barely restrained lust for the man in front of her.

He drew her in close with an arm around her waist, still holding her hand between them, massaging her palm with his thumb as he bowed his head to kiss her sweetly. Her knees went weak when his lips met hers and his familiar scent filled her nose, rendering her brain incapable of anything other than inwardly chanting the same base sentiment over and over for as long as the kiss lasted: Home! Home! Home! Home! You’re home!

He straightened and looked at her, smiling as though he hadn’t heard the hungry little moan that had slipped from her, nor perceived the way she’d pressed as much of her body against him as she could during their embrace. “How are you today?” He asked, genuinely interested - as always. He knew. Surely he knew that she was positively bursting with need for him.

“Fine,” she breathed, returning the smile, watching as he started back towards the desk that was covered with books, inkpots, and parchment. “I’m well, thank you. Just thought I’d come say hello, see what you’re up to.”

He pulled a chair over to the opposite side of the desk for her to sit on. She opted to remain standing instead, her eyes flitted over the pages of drying ink spread over the desk.

“More letters home?” She waited until he was settled in his chair again, the quill back in his hand, and she bent at the waist to take a closer look at a recent anatomical drawing he’d completed. She could feel the cozy heat of the laboratory caress the exposed peaks of her breasts as the insubstantial shirt draped downward, offering a generous eyeful to anyone who might be sitting directly across from her.

Her eyes flicked up from the drawing when Emmrich didn’t answer right away, a clever smile pulling at the corners of her mouth when she caught him red-handed; his eyes locked on the dainty swell of her breasts.

He came to his senses when he felt her eyes on him and he comprehended the coquettish smirk on her face. “Yes.” He licked his lips. “Yes. Maintaining alliships and channels of communication is vital as we draw closer to our confrontation with the gods.” He swallowed and smiled again as Amina straightened and rounded the desk, settling against the wood on his side now.

“A fine plan,” she concurred, leaning back on her hands, her very visible nipples more or less eye level for the handsome academic to admire. “I hope I’m not distracting you: it’s so rare that I get a few hours to just relax these days.” She made a bit of a show of tilting her chin up and slowly rolling her head from side to side, stretching out the muscles of her neck and making sure Emmrich could see the soft plum-tinted bloom of colour he’d imparted on her skin as he sent her over the edge with his name on her lips, buried to the hilt between her legs as she clenched hard around him, her fingers curled tightly in his soft, thick hair. ‘You are incredible, darling,’ he had sighed against her tingling skin afterwards when they were little more than a tangled, panting heap of limbs. It had taken a good hour after that before she could walk again…

Amina squirmed against the desk a little at the thought, aware of the burgeoning wetness that was accumulating at the juncture of her thighs.

Somehow Emmrich managed to maintain the discipline required to look back at the letter he was working on, his lips curling quaintly. “Not at all, my dear - quite the contrary in fact: I’m so glad that you’re finally taking some time to look after yourself.” He dipped the quill, tapped it once, twice, and then brought it to the paper.

She observed him in silence until he seemingly made peace with the fact that she was not going to sit on the chair he’d brought over for her, and instead pushed his own back slightly, pulling her down onto his lap where she perched gleefully, having gotten what she wanted.

“I must concede that you are somewhat distracting, so I will need your assistance in proofreading these before they’re sent out - I do have an academic reputation to maintain, regardless of the beautiful woman on my knee.”

“Is that so?” Amina purred, nuzzling into his neck, her lips barely ghosting over his skin that smelled organic and clean - crisp soap and freshly cut sage… a lingering hint of pipe tobacco and expensive brandy.

Oh yes, she was going to be one hell of a distraction…

“She sounds like a real piece of work, this woman. It’s a marvel that you get anything done at all with her around.” She tilted her hips ever so slightly. Not enough for it to be claimed that she was trying to get a rise out of him, but enough so that the fingernails of his left hand dug into her side a little where he gripped her. A pleased smile took her lips at the feeling of him against her, already half hard: he could pretend to be aloof and composed all he liked, but she knew that there was only one possible outcome for this encounter.

“I was just having a similar thought, as it turns out,” he murmured, breath catching slightly when Amina ground against him more deliberately this time. “She’s cornered me in my laboratory no fewer than three times this week, you see: my productivity has utterly plummeted.”

The way he whispered those words, his voice so sinful and cunning…

“Oh dear…” Amina tutted. “Well we can’t have that now, can we?” She moved to slide from his lap, fully prepared to at least pretend that she cared a whit about Emmrich’s ‘productivity’ of late.

He held her fast though, keeping her on his lap with his hands and arms, and the sheer fact of his existence alone. She rewarded him with a satisfied hum and another agonizingly slow roll of her hips, suspecting that she was probably beginning to soak through her thin pants.

His hand dropped from her waist to her thigh and he palmed the expanse of hard muscle there, dragging his fingers towards her hip as he leaned forward and his hot breath washed over the sensitive shell of her ear, driving a small gasp from her as she flinched in his grasp: he had not been idly boasting during that dinner date about his anatomical prowess.

“I fear I wouldn’t have it any other way…” he confided, those artful, nimble fingers of his straying to her waistband and slipping beneath it. He sharply inhaled through his teeth and uttered a soft ‘oh’ when he found her waiting for him, slick and needy. There was a slight tremor in his voice when he said, “She is intoxicating, you see…”

She moaned encouragingly as he swirled a finger through her, clearly enjoying the experience of her arousal alone: she could distinctly feel his hardness against her rear now.

Oh how she longed to ravish him - ride him to completion on this very chair, or on the floor perhaps. Maybe against one of the many bookshelves that lined the room - they had dallied against one the week before, her leg hitched up around his thin waist, pulling him deeper as he set a pace that stole her breath from her lungs and hit angles that caused her to see stars.

Or she could bend over the railing of the balcony upstairs and feign interest in the curious nature of their environs while he slammed into her over and over again, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips…

Of course there had been the rather awkward instance a few days earlier where Manfred had wandered in on them both in a state of partial undress: Emmrich’s waistcoat hanging open, Amina dragging her hands through his hair, her own shirt piled in a careless heap on the floor nearby and Emmrich’s hand down her pants as she tried to kick off her high-heeled lilac slippers without removing her lips from his skin. Manfred had launched himself between the two of them with a consternated hiss, clearly interpreting their entanglement to mean they were fighting instead of well… the other thing. The following day, Emmrich gave his first in a series of many lectures to Manfred about the birds and the bees - and reiterated the invaluable virtue of always knocking before entering a room that might have someone else in it.

She was snapped from her musing at the sublime sensation of Emmrich’s finger dragging along the ridges of her walls as he slid the digit inside of her. She let out a small gasp at the intrusion and reflexively clenched around it, hips rocking against his once more.

“... but I really must finish these letters.” There was a playful, coy edge to his voice as he slowly withdrew his finger and slowly pushed it back in. “This striking woman of mine will need to exercise patience today, it seems…”

Something about being his striking woman in particular sent a jolt of arousal straight through her very soul. She could feel the cool metal of his rings against her feverish skin as he cupped her sex, his thumb brushing almost tauntingly over her aching clit.

“Please, Emmrich…” she whined, arching up into his touch, making her need plain.

The demonstration of manners earned her a second finger, but her lover did not deviate from his task as he leaned forward, dipped the quill, and began to write once more. “In good time, my precious love,” he soothed. “Try to relax for the time being - I shan’t take long.”

“It feels so good though…”

“That’s wonderful, darling - I want you to feel good.”

She fell silent, the wind in the sails of her desire to argue stilling as she let her head fall against the back of the chair and closed her eyes, allowing herself to exist in the moment - holding on tight to every emphatic response of her nervous system as Emmrich touched her with a capable familiarity that suggested he’d touched her a thousand times before; the erotic symphony of the quill scratching over the parchment mingled with the sound of his fingers moving within her… her breathy moans… his many bangles shifting gently with each purposeful gesture…

“You’re doing so well,” he murmured eventually - she had lost track of time - kissing her shoulder before returning to the letter. He had to be nearly done, hadn’t he? “So good for me… my sweet Amina…”

She whimpered at his words - the reverent praise tolling something deep within her that was starved and lonely. She writhed on his thigh as he placed tender kisses all over her cheek and crooked his fingers, stroking that euphoric place inside of her that made cognizant thought impossible and made her thighs tremble like she’d been in the training hall all day. He took her apart slowly, casually… effortlessly, and before long she was fluttering around him, cheeks and lips flushed a delicate pink, staring down an orgasm that was about to be everyone in the building’s business - she could feel it: the deep fire in her belly roiling and twisting on itself, going taut, so tense and eager that one more touch could snap it, yielding the most decadent release…

And then he was gone, the absence of his touch keenly felt as her walls flexed and tensed around the sudden nothingness.

She glowered at him, though her stomach flip-flopped enthusiastically as she watched him taste her on his slender fingers with a dignified poise she should have expected. “That was cruel.”

“Is it cruel to strive to linger in a garden of untold majesty forever, even knowing forever is unobtainable?” He stroked those same fingers gently over her lips and she caught the tip of one between her teeth, flicking the very tip of her tongue over the fleshy pad of it. “I want to savour you, my dear.” He buried his nose in her hair and inhaled her scent. “Let me take my time.”

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kiwriteswords · 2 months ago

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Tonight, you’re on my mind, so you’ll never know…

Chapter Two Out of Four (Possibly Five!)

Masterlist || Ao3

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Female Reader

Word Count: 7k

Tags/Warnings: Canon-typical themes, sexual themes, hurt/comfort, angst, pining, mutual pining, spoilers for Criminal Minds seasons 1-12, friends to lovers, first-time, loss of virginity, grief, trauma, timeline of 8 year old!Hotch—Post CM!Hotch–please let me know if I am missing anything!

Sypnosis: Years have passed since you and Aaron Hotchner first crossed paths, but the connection you shared has never truly faded. In the wake of personal loss and career demands, your lives have taken different directions, leaving unresolved feelings and unspoken words lingering in the background. As fate pulls you back into each other’s orbit, you must navigate the delicate balance between duty, grief, and the possibility of rekindling something you thought was lost forever. In a world of danger, distance, and emotional walls, will you and Aaron finally confront the past—or let it slip away once more?

When Haley died, not long after you saw him, you felt the earth shift beneath your feet.

You had known Aaron long enough to understand how much he loved her, how fiercely he had fought to keep her and Jack safe. The news of her death reached you like a punch to the gut, and you knew—without a doubt—that Aaron would never be the same.

You couldn’t bring yourself to go to the funeral, though you thought about it, agonized over it, until your hands shook with indecision. You wanted to be there, to offer your support, to let him know he wasn’t alone in this unbearable grief.

But every time you imagined standing among the mourners, watching Aaron from a distance, you felt like an intruder on his pain, an uninvited ghost from his past.

Instead, you sent flowers—a beautiful, understated arrangement of white lilies and roses. You knew it wasn’t enough; it could never be enough. But it was all you could bring yourself to do.

You wrote a simple note to accompany them: Thinking of you and Jack. I’m so sorry for your loss. – Y/N.

As you sealed the envelope, you wondered if he’d even know they were from you, if he’d understand that behind those few words was an ocean of sorrow and regret, that you were mourning for him too.

The truth was, you never stopped thinking about him. You thought about him constantly—especially at night, when the world was quiet and you were left alone with your thoughts. You wondered how he was holding up, how he was managing to be strong for Jack when his own heart was shattered. You imagined him sitting alone in the dark, trying to keep it together for his son, and it broke you in ways you didn’t have words for.

The business card he’d left for you all those years ago was still tucked away in your desk drawer. Every now and then, you’d pull it out and trace your finger over his name, over the number that you’d never dialed.

There had been so many nights when you’d come close, phone in hand, his number half-dialed, your thumb hovering over the call button. But each time, you hesitated, thinking that maybe too much time had passed, that maybe reaching out now would only complicate things, reopen old wounds.

You were terrified that he’d think you were only calling out of pity or obligation, not realizing that you never stopped caring, that you never stopped wanting to be part of his life.

So, you let the moment slip through your fingers, again and again, convincing yourself that staying silent was the best way to honor the memory of what you’d once had.

You could confidently say you were strong on all accounts, but the heartbreak that haunted you like a ghost caused by what could have been was a bear you did not want to poke or agitate more than already occurred.

What you didn’t know was that Aaron had been waiting for that call. He’d left his number for you because he thought—he hoped—that maybe you still felt something, that maybe you’d reach out when the time was right.

But as the days turned into weeks, and then into months, with no word from you, he took your silence as a sign of disinterest, as confirmation that whatever feelings you’d once had for him were buried and gone.

He convinced himself that you had moved on with your life, that you were happy and content without him, and the thought of that hurt more than he ever let himself admit. He buried his feelings for you the way he buried everything else that hurt too much to face—deep inside, behind walls that even he couldn’t always tear down.

In the days after Haley’s funeral, Aaron Hotchner’s world felt like it had been turned inside out. He moved through the motions, numb and detached, his focus entirely on Jack and keeping his son’s shattered world from falling apart. Grief clung to him like a heavy fog, clouding every thought, every breath. It wasn’t until the house finally emptied of well-meaning guests, leaving him alone with Jack’s quiet sobs in the middle of the night, that he allowed himself to truly feel the weight of it all.

Amid the sea of sympathy cards, casseroles, and flower arrangements that had been left behind, there was one that caught his eye—a simple, understated arrangement of white lilies and roses.

Something about the elegance and restraint of it made him pause, a flicker of recognition passing through his mind. He reached for the card tucked into the blooms, the handwriting familiar in a way that made his breath hitch.

Thinking of you and Jack. I’m so sorry for your loss. – Y/N.

Aaron stood there, the note trembling slightly in his hand. For a moment, he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. He read those words over and over again, feeling each letter like a whisper from a life he’d tried so hard to bury. You had sent them.

Of all the people who might have reached out, it was you. The person who had once been his anchor, the one who always seemed to understand him in ways no one else ever could.

He ran his thumb over your name on the card, his mind swirling with a thousand thoughts he didn’t know how to untangle. Behind those few words, he could feel everything you hadn’t said—an ocean of sorrow, regret, and something deeper that he’d never been able to fully let go of. It was all there, hidden between the lines, like a message meant only for him.

He thought back to all those nights when he would sit alone in the darkness, the crushing weight of grief threatening to pull him under. He had tried to be strong for Jack, to hold it together for his son, but there were moments when the pain was too much, when the silence of the house echoed with memories of Haley and all the things he couldn’t change.

And now, in the midst of that grief, knowing that you were out there somewhere, thinking of him—mourning with him—made it all the more unbearable.

The truth was, he had been waiting for something from you. Anything. A sign that you still cared, that he wasn’t alone in his grief.

He had left his business card with you all those years ago, hoping that maybe you would reach out when the time was right. He had clung to the idea that you’d still feel something when you saw his number, that you’d dial it when you were ready.

But as the days turned into weeks, and then into months, and still he heard nothing, Aaron convinced himself that your silence was his answer. That whatever feelings you’d once had for him were buried under the weight of time and lost chances.

He told himself that you were happy, that you had moved on, built a life that didn’t include him. It was a thought that hurt more than he’d ever let himself admit—a pain that he buried deep, behind walls he couldn’t afford to let crack.

What he didn’t know was that, in the quiet of your own nights, you held that same business card in your hands, your fingers tracing the letters of his name over and over again. That there were countless moments when you almost called, when his number hovered on your screen, and you hesitated—not because you didn’t want to reach out, but because you were terrified of what you might find on the other end of the line. That your silence wasn’t indifference, but fear of reopening old wounds, of complicating a life that seemed to have settled without you in it.

As he stood there, looking down at the lilies and roses you had sent, Aaron felt a wave of regret so intense it threatened to break him apart. He wished you had fought for him, wished you had asked him to pick you back when he still had the chance to choose. He had always believed that if you’d only said the words, if you had only asked him to stay, he would have done it in a heartbeat.

But now, in the quiet aftermath of his grief, he realized that he had been waiting for a sign from you all along—a sign that never came. And in its absence, he’d built a life that looked whole on the outside but felt empty on the inside. A life where the memory of you was always there, lingering just beneath the surface, like a song he could never forget.

He stared down at the flowers one last time, his fingers brushing over the petals, and let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He had spent so much of his life building walls, hiding the pain behind a stoic facade.

But now, in this moment of raw vulnerability, he let himself feel it all—the longing, the regret, the love he’d never quite let go of. And he knew, with a clarity that cut straight through his grief, that the only thing worse than losing Haley was knowing that he had lost you, too.

Because he had loved you then, in ways he never fully let himself admit. And a part of him still loved you now, even if it was too late to say it.

It did not take much to snap him out of the moment, though. Duties called--ones far greater and more significant than anything a badge could offer: Fatherhood. He knew he had to step up to the plate as a father, but more so now, trying to fill the very empty shoes Haley once wore.

After Haley's death, Aaron found himself sitting in the dim light of his office late at night, the house silent except for the faint sound of Jack sleeping down the hall.

He stared at his phone, your name already typed into the message field, his thumb hovering over the keys. The grief was suffocating, pressing on his chest in a way that made it hard to breathe, but you were the only person who had ever made that weight feel lighter.

He started to type, the words fumbling through his mind—I don’t even know how to begin...—but then he stopped, his hand trembling as the memory of Haley’s last moments flooded his thoughts.

Haley had been there through every transition, through the chaos of law school and the early days of his career. With her, things made sense. Their relationship was built on stability, on a history that he didn’t have with anyone else.

Even now, sitting in the quiet of his apartment, he knew that choosing Haley wasn’t just about love—it was about the life they had built together. It was about Jack, about providing a family, about keeping the promises he had made. Haley was his constant, the person who helped him stay grounded when the weight of the world felt too heavy.

With you, it had always felt like a choice he couldn’t afford to make, because choosing you meant tearing apart everything he had already built.

It wasn’t the right time. He wasn’t ready, and maybe, he told himself, neither were you.

With a quiet, resigned sigh, he deleted the message, tucking the phone away as the loneliness of the night settled back in.

It wasn’t long until you found yourself in the same shoes, your finger hovered over Aaron’s contact, hesitation gnawing at you. Before you could overthink it, you pressed the call button. After a few rings, someone answered, but it wasn’t Aaron’s familiar voice.

“BAU, Agent Morgan.”

You froze for a moment, taken aback. “Hi... I was looking for Aaron. Is he available?”

“He’s not here right now, he’s overseas on an assignment,” Morgan replied, his tone polite but measured, offering no further details. “Can I take a message?”

You hesitated, a lump forming in your throat. “No, that’s okay. Please don’t tell him I called. It’s nothing urgent.”

As you ended the conversation and the call, a sense disappointment washed over you. Your thoughts were taken over by your door bell ringing. The guy you decided to give a chance--the nice guy who looked good on paper, you finally agreed to a first date.

Here goes nothing, you thought.

The next time you saw Aaron was years later. By then, you were the head of trauma surgery at a major hospital near the BAU headquarters.

You’d built a life for yourself that you were supposed to be proud of—rising through the ranks, saving lives every day—but even with all your success, something always felt like it was missing. You told yourself that you were over Aaron, that your feelings for him were relics of a past life. But some part of you knew that wasn’t true.

You had moved back to D.C., you couldn’t stay away. The call to return too great to ignore. In some weird ways you wondered in the back of your mind if that pull was him.

Then, one afternoon, you got the call that changed everything. Agent Hotchner had collapsed, from internal bleeding and he was being rushed into your ER. The words echoed in your mind, your world narrowing to a single point as you tried to process them.

Your hands shook as you gave the order for your team to take over, citing a conflict of interest that left your colleagues glancing at each other in confusion.

You looked over his chart and felt as if the years you had missed were being connected through Aaron’s traumatic medical chart. Damaged hearing, a stabbing…it was all too much.

You watched from just outside the trauma room, your eyes fixed on Aaron’s pale face as your team worked to stabilize him.

Your heart ached with the sight of him lying there, vulnerable and unconscious, so different from the strong, composed man you remembered. The urge to be by his side, to hold his hand and reassure him, was almost overwhelming.

But the weight of all the years of silence, regret, and missed chances pressed down on you, keeping you frozen in place.

After a few tense moments, you saw the rest of his team gather in the waiting area, anxiously watching their fallen leader through the glass. They looked worried, their bond with him clear in their expressions. Taking a deep breath to steady yourself, you decided you couldn’t leave things unfinished, not again.

You approached them slowly, the sterile hallway stretching out before you as you made your way to the gathered group of agents.

Your white coat felt heavier with each step, like it carried the weight of your past along with the present. When you finally reached them, you offered a small, professional smile, even though your nerves were betraying you.

"Hi, I'm Dr. Y/N L/N," you said, your voice calm and steady despite the swirl of emotions beneath the surface. "I’m the head of trauma surgery here. I wanted to let you know that we’re doing everything we can for Agent Hotchner."

The team turned their attention to you, a mix of relief and curiosity flickering in their eyes. Penelope Garcia stepped forward first, her expression softening with gratitude and something close to desperation. "Thank you, Doctor," she said, her voice tinged with raw emotion. "He’s… he’s one of us, you know? We’d be lost without him."

You hesitated for a moment, your gaze drifting to the floor before looking back up to meet their eyes.

"I actually know Aaron," you said, the admission almost surreal after all this time. "We go way back—grade school, actually. We lost touch for a while but reconnected in college. We were close for a time before life took us in different directions."

As soon as you said those words, you noticed the subtle shift in their expressions. David Rossi’s eyes narrowed slightly, a spark of recognition lighting up his features. He exchanged a knowing glance with Derek Morgan, who raised his eyebrows in surprise. Rossi’s lips curved into a small, intrigued smile.

"Wait a second," Rossi said, his voice carrying that signature blend of curiosity and understanding. "You’re the one from that photo on Hotch’s bookshelf, aren’t you? The old picture from his college days. We always wondered about the story behind it."

You felt your cheeks flush slightly, caught off guard by the revelation that they knew about the photo. The same picture Aaron had kept all these years, the one you didn’t even know was still a part of his life. You nodded, a soft, bittersweet smile tugging at your lips.

"I guess I am," you said quietly, your voice tinged with a touch of nostalgia. "We were close once, a long time ago."

Penelope’s eyes widened in surprise, her mouth dropping open slightly as she glanced back at Rossi and then at you.

"Oh my gosh," she said, shaking her head slowly. "We’ve all seen that photo a million times and tried to guess who you were. He never talks about it—never mentioned you, not once. But I guess that’s typical Hotch, huh?"

You gave a tight smile, your gaze softening as you thought of Aaron’s habit of keeping his deepest feelings locked away, even from the people closest to him.

"That sounds like him," you said, your voice laced with a fondness you couldn’t quite hide. "He’s always been good at keeping his mystery."

There was a moment of silence as the team absorbed the significance of what you’d just shared. It was as though a small piece of the puzzle that was Aaron Hotchner had suddenly fallen into place for them. They knew he didn’t open up easily, and to learn that you were someone important from his past felt like they were being let in on a part of his life they never fully understood.

With a slight hesitation, you reached into your pocket and pulled out a small piece of paper with your personal phone number written on it. You held it out to Penelope, feeling like you were offering up a piece of your own heart.

"When he wakes up," you said, carefully controlling the tremor in your voice, "could you give this to him? Just tell him that I was here and that I thought he might want to reach out, if he feels like it."

You knew you could call. Life seemed too chaotic for Aaron and you did not want to be an inconvenience. You wanted the ball to be in his court--you wanted him to make the move. You didn’t want to burden him.

Penelope took the paper from you with a tenderness that surprised you, her eyes softening with empathy. She looked at you like she understood more than she was letting on, like she could see the layers of unspoken history between you and Hotch.

"I’ll make sure he gets it," she said, her voice warm with kindness. "And, for what it’s worth, I think he’d want to know you were here."

You offered her a grateful nod, but the moment felt heavy, like you were leaving something unsaid, something lodged in the space between who you were and who you used to be. With one last glance at the group, you turned and walked away, each step feeling like you were tearing yourself from a past that refused to let go.

You stood just outside the hospital room, your hand resting on the doorframe, watching through the small glass window as Aaron lay unconscious.

Every instinct told you to go in, to sit by his side, to be there for him like you had been so many years ago. But something held you back—something more than the sterile walls of the hospital.

It was the weight of everything he had been through. Haley’s death. Raising Jack alone. His life was already so heavy, and you couldn’t bear the thought of adding another layer of complexity to it.

Was it selfish to want to see him? To reconnect, knowing how much he had already lost?

Your pulse quickened, your heart warring with your mind. You weren’t sure if stepping back into his world would heal old wounds or tear them open again.

Inside the room, Aaron stirred slightly, but he didn’t know you were there, just beyond the door.

Even in the haze of pain and medication, his mind circled back to Jack—his first thought always his son, as it had been ever since Haley’s death.

He had built his life around being a father, and any decisions, even those tied to lingering feelings for you, had to take that into account. He had pushed his emotions down for years, focusing on what Jack needed, on what the job demanded.

But lying there in the quiet of the hospital room, his thoughts kept drifting to you. What would it mean to let you back into his life, to let himself feel again, after everything he had lost? Could he afford that risk? Jack needed stability, not more upheaval, and Aaron wasn’t sure if he could be both—Jack’s anchor and someone who opened his heart again.

You lingered for another moment, torn between wanting to reach for the handle and the fear of disrupting a life that wasn’t yours to complicate.

In the end, you stepped back, leaving the connection between you suspended, unresolved. You weren’t sure if it was the right decision, but you told yourself that staying away was what Aaron needed, even if it wasn’t what you wanted.

You waited until Aaron was stable and as you left the hospital that night, your mind raced back to the picture Rossi had mentioned—the one of you and Aaron from those college days. The fact that he’d kept it all these years, through everything, felt like a thread that still connected your lives, no matter how far apart you’d drifted.

But when you went home to your fiancé—a man who was kind and stable, the kind of man you thought you needed—you couldn’t shake the image of Aaron lying in that hospital bed. And you realized, with a dull ache in your chest, that a part of your heart had never really stopped waiting for him to come back to you.

As the night wore on, the realization hit you like a wave crashing over your carefully built defenses. You were living a lie. You couldn’t marry this man, not when your heart had always been tied to someone else, someone who still held a piece of you after all these years.

You broke it off with your fiancé, your voice shaking as you told him that he deserved someone who could love him completely. It was one of the hardest things you’d ever done, but you knew it was the right decision.

When Aaron Hotchner finally woke up, the bright lights of the hospital room made him squint, his head pounding with the remnants of his collapse. As his vision cleared, he saw Penelope Garcia sitting by his side, her face lighting up with relief the moment his eyes opened.

"Aaron, thank goodness!" Penelope exclaimed, her voice wobbling with emotion. "You scared the hell out of us. Don’t you ever do that again!"

He offered her a faint smile, trying to sit up despite the weakness in his limbs. "I’ll do my best," he said, his voice hoarse. "What happened?"

Penelope filled him in on the details of his condition, but then her expression shifted, a knowing glint in her eyes. "Oh, and by the way, you had a visitor," she said, a little smile playing on her lips. "Dr. Y/N L/N, the head of trauma surgery. She was here when they brought you in. The one I looked up for you all those years ago!"

Aaron’s breath hitched, his heart skipping a beat at the mention of your name. "Y/N was here?" he repeated, his voice barely a whisper.

Hearing your name again, spoken aloud, was like a rush of warmth and memories flooding back into his chest. Memories of college, of late nights and soft conversations, of what could have been.

"Yep," Penelope said, her smile widening. "I didn’t realize she’s the one from the photo in your office. She even left her number for you to call her when you’re feeling up to it." She handed him the slip of paper with your number on it, and he took it, staring at it like it was a lifeline to something he thought he’d lost forever.

But before he could fully process what this might mean, Penelope's face softened with a hint of guilt.

"Okay, confession time," she said, wincing slightly. "I may have done a little updated cyber-stalking on Dr. Y/N, and well... she’s engaged, Hotch. To some guy who looks like he has an investment portfolio and a golf handicap. You know the type."

Aaron’s heart sank, the hopeful flutter in his chest turning to a heavy thud. He looked down at the piece of paper in his hand, your number staring back at him like a taunt. All those years ago, he’d left his number for you, hoping you’d reach out, hoping you still cared. When you didn’t call, he’d told himself that you’d moved on, that you were happier without him in your life. The flowers to Haley’s funeral were welcomed, but that time in his life was such a blur, yet he can still remember the arrangement if he closed his eyes long enough.

And now, here you were, engaged to someone else, seemingly on the brink of starting a new life that didn’t include him. It felt like history was repeating itself, like he’d opened himself up to the possibility of you again, only to be reminded that maybe it was never meant to be.

He tucked the piece of paper into his pocket, forcing a tight smile onto his face for Penelope’s sake. "Thank you, Garcia," he said softly. "But I don’t think I’ll be using it."

Penelope looked at him with a trace of sympathy, understanding the hidden hurt in his eyes. "You sure, Hotch? She seemed really worried about you. And... I don’t know, it felt like there was more there."

His fingers tightened slightly around the slip of paper, and for a moment, he was tempted to crumble it up, to discard the hope that had briefly flickered to life. But instead, he carefully folded the paper and placed it on the small tray table beside his bed, his expression unreadable.

"Thanks for letting me know, Garcia," he said simply, his voice steady and controlled, giving nothing away.

Penelope nodded, her usual chatter subdued as she took in the calm but distant look in his eyes. "If you need anything, or if you want to talk about it, you know where to find me," she offered, her voice softer now.

Hotch gave her a small nod, a flicker of a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "I appreciate that," he said, and it was clear that he wasn’t going to say anything more.

When Penelope finally left the room, Aaron lay back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling, his thoughts a tangled mess of emotions he kept locked away.

He thought about you—about how you always seemed to show up in his life when he least expected it, like a constant he could never quite shake. The thought of you engaged to someone else, building a life without him, was like a knife twisting in his chest, but he would never let anyone see that pain.

More time had passed since you last saw Aaron Hotchner, and you had tried to bury the memories of your connection deep within the responsibilities of your demanding career. You had almost convinced yourself that he was a part of your past, that life had moved on without him. But then, fate threw him back into your life once more.

The ER was filled with its usual chaos when you caught wind of the commotion coming from one of the trauma rooms. The sharp, familiar voice drifting through the slightly open door stopped you in your tracks. It was a voice you hadn’t heard in what felt like a lifetime, but one that still had the power to make your pulse quicken.

"No, I’m fine," you heard Aaron Hotchner say, his tone clipped and full of irritation. "I don’t need to be here; I need to get back to my team."

"Sir, you need to be evaluated," the attending doctor insisted, exasperation clear in their voice. "We don’t even know what drugs you were exposed to."

You pushed open the door to the trauma room, your gaze locking onto Aaron almost immediately. He was standing there, stubborn as ever, his expression a mix of frustration and determination. His suit was disheveled and dirty, his tie hanging loose, and a laceration marred his otherwise composed face. Despite everything, he still looked like the man who had once held your heart.

"Excuse me, Doctor," you said, stepping in smoothly. "I’ll take it from here."

Aaron’s eyes shot up to meet yours, the annoyance in his expression softening into something else entirely—something that looked like relief mixed with surprise.

"You’ve got to be kidding me," he muttered, a faint smile twitching at the corners of his mouth despite the circumstances. "What are the odds?"

You ignored the flutter in your chest as you gave him a stern look.

"Sit down, Hotchner," you said, crossing your arms. "Let me do my job, or I’ll sedate you myself if I have to."

He let out a small, resigned huff but obeyed, lowering himself onto the examination table.

"I see you haven’t changed much," he said, his voice softer now, almost teasing.

"And you haven’t changed at all," you replied with a grin. "Still as stubborn as ever."

You began checking his vitals, your fingers brushing lightly against his wrist as you took his pulse. You could feel the tension in his muscles, the way he was holding himself together, like he was fighting to keep control.

"Tell me what happened," you said, your voice more clinical now as you tried to focus on the task at hand.

He sighed, "The unsub we are dealing with," He shared the minor details of the case--what he could, filling you in on all he could share. It flowed easily talking to you though. Easier than it did over the years trying to tell Haley--or even Beth some of the gruesome details of his job. It was as if he knew you could take it--you were a different brand of strength than they were.

You gave him a pointed look as you adjusted the blood pressure cuff around his arm.

"Humor me," you said, arching an eyebrow. "Let’s make sure there aren’t any lasting effects before you go charging off to save the day."

He opened his mouth to argue but then shut it, watching you work with a mixture of frustration and something else—something softer that he didn’t quite let reach his eyes.

You ordered a few tests to identify the drug in his system, then turned your attention to the small laceration on his face. You took out a suture kit and began to clean the wound, your touch gentle but precise.

"Hold still," you said, focusing on your work. "I’d hate to be responsible for ruining that beautiful face of yours."

A ghost of a smile crossed Aaron’s lips, a rare lightness in his expression. "I didn’t realize you cared so much about my looks," he said, a playful glint in his eyes.

You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you. "Just trying to keep the world’s best profiler looking his best," you shot back. "Can’t have you intimidating the bad guys with a face full of scars."

He chuckled softly, a sound that sent a warmth through your chest that you hadn’t felt in a long time. For a moment, it was like you were back in college, bantering over late-night coffee, before life got so complicated.

As you finished the last stitch, you gently dabbed the area around the wound. Your hand lingered on his cheek just a second longer than necessary, and when you pulled back, you could feel the shift in the air between you—like the unspoken words were almost too loud to ignore.

"There," you said, taking a step back, your voice a little shakier than you intended. "You’re good to go, Hotchner. No excuses now."

Aaron held your gaze for a long moment, his expression unreadable. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then hesitated, his brow furrowing slightly. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and tinged with a vulnerability you weren’t expecting.

"Why didn’t you ever call?" he asked, his eyes never leaving yours. "All those years ago, I left my number for you, and you never called."

You felt the words hit you like a punch to the gut, all the memories and regrets rushing back in a flood you weren’t prepared for. You opened your mouth to respond, but the words got tangled up with your emotions. You hadn’t expected this moment, hadn’t expected him to ask.

"I—" you started, then stopped, taking a breath to steady yourself. "I wanted to, Aaron. I really did. But I convinced myself it was better this way, that you had your life with Haley and Jack, and I didn’t want to complicate things."

He watched you, his eyes searching yours like he was trying to read every thought, every hesitation you’d ever had.

"You never complicated anything," he said quietly. "You were the one thing that always made sense."

You swallowed hard, blinking back the tears that threatened to fall. "I was afraid," you admitted. "Afraid that maybe I missed my chance, that too much time had passed. I over thought time and time again, the email I sent…or the time you didn’t call me after you collapsed."

It was as if you were rambling now--the once confident and sure doctor now felt small and worried over details of what could fill a book with you and Aaron as the protagonists.

Aaron reached out then, his hand covering yours where it rested on the table. His touch was warm, grounding you in a way that made you feel like maybe, just maybe, there was still a chance for the two of you.

“I suppose we were both hesitant,” he said, his voice quiet but resolute. He paused for a moment, his eyes meeting yours with a steady intensity. “But it doesn’t have to be too late. Not for us.”

You looked up at him, your heart in your throat, the weight of all your missed chances hanging in the air between you. For the first time in years, you allowed yourself to hope—that maybe this time, the universe would finally let you and Aaron Hotchner find your way to each other.

And in that moment, as he held your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world, you knew that this was far from over—that there was still so much left to say, and that this time, you weren’t going to let him slip through your fingers.

Aaron’s hand was still resting on yours, his eyes holding yours with a kind of intensity that made it impossible to look away. For the first time in years, it felt like the universe was giving you both a moment to finally be honest with each other, to close the gap that had always seemed to stretch between you.

But then, just as you opened your mouth to say something, the shrill ring of his phone shattered the moment. Aaron’s eyes flicked downward to the screen, his face softening slightly when he saw the caller ID.

“It’s Jack,” he said, a mixture of warmth and concern in his voice. You could see how quickly his priorities shifted; everything about him changed when it came to his son. There was a tenderness there, a fierce sense of responsibility that never wavered, even in the face of all the chaos around him.

You offered a small, understanding smile, even though your heart sank just a little. You were reminded of being there--seeing Aaron the day Jack was born. What, was that nine? Ten years ago?

“Go,” you said softly, nodding toward the door. “He needs you.”

Aaron hesitated, his hand lingering on yours for a moment longer. He seemed torn, like he didn’t want to leave without making sure you both knew where things stood between you. Finally, he gave your hand one last squeeze before letting go, the warmth of his touch lingering on your skin.

He answered the call, turning slightly away from you as he spoke to Jack. His voice softened, the way it always did when he was talking to his son, full of patience and love. “Hey, buddy,” he said, his tone gentle. “Yeah, I’m okay. I’m at the hospital, but everything’s fine. I’ll be there soon, I promise.”

When he hung up, he turned back to you, his eyes searching yours with that same intensity that always seemed to cut right through to your soul. “I have to go see Jack,” he said, and the regret in his voice was undeniable. “He needs me right now.”

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat, knowing that this was who Aaron Hotchner was—a father first, a protector. It was one of the things you’d always admired about him, even when it meant he had to walk away.

“I understand,” you said quietly, offering him a small smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Go be with him. He’s lucky to have you.”

Aaron took a step toward the door but then stopped, turning back to you one last time. His expression was conflicted, like he was fighting to find the right words. Finally, he asked the question that hung in the air between you like a lifeline, a chance to reach out for something real.

“What next?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper, but heavy with meaning. The vulnerability in his eyes was raw and unguarded, the kind of look that left you breathless.

You let out a shaky breath, your heart pounding in your chest as you realized that this was it—the moment you’d both been waiting for, the chance to finally lay all your cards on the table.

“I don’t know,” you said honestly, your voice cracking slightly. “But I want to find out. I don’t want to keep missing our chances, Aaron.”

A small, relieved smile spread across his face, like the answer you gave was exactly what he’d been hoping for.

“Me neither,” he said softly, his eyes never leaving yours. “I’m tired of being out of sync with you.”

For a heartbeat, you both stood there, neither of you quite willing to break the connection, even as the reality of his world and yours pulled at him. You could see the weight of his responsibilities in his eyes, the knowledge that his life would always be complicated, always full of shadows that might pull him away at any moment.

He reached out, brushing a thumb lightly over your cheek, a gesture so tender it made your heart ache.

“I’ll call you,” he promised, his voice steady but laced with emotion. “This time, I won’t let it slip away.”

You nodded, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill, knowing that you’d hold him to that promise. “Be safe,” you whispered, your voice almost breaking.

He gave you one last lingering look, the kind of look that spoke of all the things he wanted to say but couldn’t find the words for. Then, with a reluctant smile, he turned and left the room, his figure disappearing into the chaos of the hospital corridor.

You stood there for a moment, staring at the empty space where he’d been, your heart still racing from the intensity of everything that had just happened. And even though he was gone, you felt a sense of hope that you hadn’t felt in years—a feeling that maybe, this time, the timing could finally be right.

As you turned back to your work, a small smile played on your lips, the warmth of his touch still tingling on your skin. You didn’t know what was next, but you knew one thing for sure: you weren’t going to let him slip away this time. Not without a fight.

Tag List:

@zaddyhotch

@estragos

@todorokishoe24

looking1016

@khxna

@rousethemouse

#aaron hotchner #criminal minds #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner x female reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #tonightyoureonmymind #kiwriteswords

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syllvane · 2 years ago

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beginnings pt 2- nikolai lantsov x reader

You don’t get the luxury of figuring out that it’s an ambush until after you’ve been clocked in the head with a rifle, too focused on scope of your rifle to hear the footsteps coming up behind you.

When you wake up, it’s to the impact of your body being dropped out far in the harbor, too far out for anyone from the shore to hear you scream and cinderblocks tied to your legs to drown you.

“Kaz!” You screamed, your voice hoarse. “Jes!”

No response, no sound other than your own struggling in the water.

A tide pulled you under and submerged you, pulling you further away from the shore, the city of Ketterdam becoming mere lights in the distance.

You swam up desperately, panting from the effort and lack of air.

You couldn’t survive like this for much longer.

You submerged yourself again and only as you instantly descended 10 feet as you gave up resistance did you realize that you had signed your death warrant.

There was no more going up for air.

And so, you sink.

No mourners, no funerals.

When you wake up, it feels like a horse has kicked you in the chest and your throat burns when you breathe.

You open your eyes to see three sets of unfamiliar faces looking at you and so, you use all of the little energy you have to fight, knocking the person on the left off-balance, though you’d attribute that more to surprise than the actual skill demonstrated in the swipe.

You manage to stand up- not without feeling nauseous, but at least you’re standing - as you move to engage with the other two.

“I had a feeling you would wake up and immediately start throwing punches.” A familiar voice said and your head whipped to the front of the ship to see none other than Sturmhond at the helm.

Of course.

“How did you-”

“You can thank the twins and Toma, our tidemaker. They’re the ones who sensed you out there and brought you in.”

You looked at the two people standing directly in front of you, who you now had the perception to see that they were clearly related.

You opened your mouth to speak and when no words came, you simply gave them a deep nod.

The woman returned it and the man, taller than her, gave you a smile.

“I’m not going to stop you from thanking me though as well.” Sturmhond said and you shot a glare at him.

“And what should I thank you for? Did you lift my body out of the water with your own two hands?” You asked and he shook his head, shrugging.

“I mean, you are on my boat, and I wasn’t planning on charging you for saving your life or passage. Perks of me liking you.”

You ignored the last part of that statement, ignored how warm your cheeks felt and how your heart sped up.

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see the woman stifle a smile.

“I need to go back to Ketterdam.”

“We’re already a day away from Ketterdam, and we’re on a tight schedule to find the Sea Whip. I’m sorry.” Sturmhond said and you shook your head, looking around for any sign that he was joking or lying.

You felt a strong hand on your shoulder and you looked to your side to see the woman.

“He’s not lying, I’m sorry.”

tags: @a-disturbing-self-reflection

#beginnings #nikolai lanstov x reader #nikolai x reader #nikolai lantsov #sturmhond x reader #shadow and bone x reader #shadow and bone imagine #shadow and bone #six of crows imagines #six of crows imagine #six of crows x reader #six of crows

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euphoniumpets · 2 years ago

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THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM PROLOGUE

Warnings: violence, blood and gore.

Prompt: ''As long as I can rememer, I've been protecting Alina, it's always Alina who I will protect,'' You told him, looking at Nikolai. ''But who will protect you?''

Pairing: Nikolai Lantsov x Starkov! Reader

A/N: OK, SO, not going to lie, i fell in love as soon I saw Nikolai on screen and this has been on my mind ever since. And yes, I will publish this at the same time I'm writing No mourners, no funerals! Tag list are closed!. I haven't read the king of scars duology yet! so, beware that I've written Nikolai from what I think and from what I've seen in the series and he could be ooc! this series follows season two of shadow and bone but could have some flashbacks during season one.

prologue - one - two - three - four - five - six - seven - eight - nine - ten - eleven - epilogue

Y/N Starkov. That's all you've ever known of. The older sister of Alina Starkov and the second mapmaker of Ravka. Ever since you were a child, you were known to be at Alina's side and even Mal, your childhood best friend. However, when Mal gets into the Fold with the second Army, you knew, that Alina won't hesitate to do whatever it took to follow into his footsteps.

And you both did follow him through the Fold. However, it didn't go as planned when you get attacked by the Volcra. Seeing Mal on the floor and your sister being dragged by a Volcra, you didn't knew what was happening next.

A bright light that surrounded you and the next thing, your sister was being dragged away to the little palace. You and Mal tried to save your sister while the rumors of the sun summoner traveled fast around the world.

While trying to find the White Stag, you both realize that the plot of the Darkling was not the one you thought. With the betryal of the Darkling, and with Alina defeating him, the three of you is on the run.

While on the run, Alina is plauged by the nightmares as the three of you tried to find the next amplifier, the sea whip and the firebird. However, it was not an easy task and the question is: how long was you willing to go and save Alina, even if it meant to risk your life?

#nikolai lantsov x reader #alina starkov #malyen oretsev #jesper fahey #zoya nazyalensky #tolya yul bataar #tamar kir bataar #aleksander morovoza #the darkling x reader #nikolai lantsov #shadow and bone x reader

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lunarthecorvus · 4 months ago

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Kaz Brekker/Inej Ghafa Major Character Death fanfiction recommendations

part of Lunar's soc fanficiton rec series

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Slipping away by @ven-brekker

Wordcount: 1,689 Chapters: 1/1

Characters: Inej Ghafa, Kaz Brekker

Tags: Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Blood and Injury, Kanej - Freeform, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Pre-Canon, Touch-Averse Kaz Brekker, Whump, Major Character Injury

Author's summary/notes: “Keep talking, Wraith. Don’t slip away from me.” “But it’s what I do best.” - Six of Crows, Ch. 12 Inej waits for her Saints to finally have her. My summary/notes: Now this fic is the of major character death whump. There is no ambiguous ending its a death fic to its end. It cuts deep and would definitely fulfill the death fic mood. It HURTS and will make you bawl.

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for once, my teeth bleed for you by @pbandjeremiah

Wordcount: 1,903 Chapters: 1/1

Characters: Kaz Brekker, Inej Ghafa

Tags: this is upsetting, Major character death - Freeform, Post-Book 2: Crooked Kingdom, Mix of Show and Book Canon, Hurt No Comfort, kaz and inej loving and respecting each other SO DAMN MUCH, i'm sorry this is sad but like, married kanej, shadow summoner kaz, kaz is a grisha

Author's summary/notes: For once, Kaz Brekker didn't have a plan. For once, it was going to cost him all that he had. Kaz and Inej are put on trial for murder and crimes against Ghezen. Neither of them are going to survive this. My summary/notes: This was one of the first kanej death fics I read and I still adore it now. It really shows the lengths kanej will go to protect and respect each others wishes.

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our youth will take the blame by @pinspec

Wordcount: 3,612 Chapters: 1/1

Characters: Inej Ghafa, Kaz Brekker, Jesper Fahey, Wylan Van Eck

Tags: Post-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Denial, Canon-Typical Violence, Angst, Sad Ending, Protective Kaz Brekker, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, kaz is so in love with inej it actually hurts, neither of them can say 'i love you', please don't sue me

Author's summary/notes: A mission goes badly wrong, and amidst the carnage Kaz fails to save his Wraith. My summary/notes: This shit hurts. Just everything about this hurts. However in my opinion the ending provides a sense of comfort at least...

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she was supposed to come back by maryadmitrievnalikesundays

Wordcount: 2,840 Chapters: 1/1

Characters: Kaz Brekker, Inej Ghafa, Wylan Van Eck, Jesper Fahey

Tags: Character Death, Death, Grief/Mourning, Madness, Descent into Madness, Insanity, Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Ambiguous/Open Ending

Author's summary/notes: She was always supposed to return. That was the deal—eight months at sea, four by his side. Eight months of letters and news clippings with her name saved in the locked drawer in his desk. Eight months of yearning, working, killing, waiting for her to come back and give it all meaning. And then The Wraith would roll into port, and the Ketterdam clouds would break, and the King and Queen of the Barrel would walk back home together, hand in hand. But ten months have come and gone since her last departure. And the sky is thick and dense with clouds, and the only thing in his hand is a knife. —— Or, the one thing that could push the Bastard of the Barrel past his breaking point. My summary/notes: I'm not kidding you, the title is enough to make my heart hurt. Be warned that this as depictions of very bad mental health, in case of any triggers <3

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Who lives, who dies, who tells your story by leehab23

Wordcount: 4,717 Chapters: 1/1

Characters: Kaz Brekker, Inej Ghafa, Jesper Fahey, Wylan Van Eck, Nina Zenik, Matthias Helvar

Tags: Sad with a Happy Ending, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Character Death, Some mourners some funerals, I just really think this whole city would go to pieces without him, Some rule of wolves spoilers related to Nina, Book 2: Rule of Wolves Spoilers, Minor violence in the beginning, Minor obstruction of correspondence at the end, somewhat happy I promise, or at least I think so

Author's summary/notes: He continued on, speaking of Kaz’s good deeds, of the great man that lay in hiding behind the terrible one. Of Kaz’s legendary brains, unbelievable grit, and overwhelming impact on the city he called home. As he spoke, he noticed movement in the back of the crowd. Fighting? Fleeing? Wylan couldn’t tell. The ripples grew wider, men and women tripping over themselves to move away from the center of the street. Suddenly a path cleared, as though the crowd had been cleanly torn in half by the point of a sharp knife. “Inej,” Jesper breathed. OR: All of Ketterdam is left reeling in the wake of Kaz Brekker’s death. Despite his frequent objections to the concept, there are mourners and a funeral. My summary/notes: When reading kanej death fics I have noticed that there is less Kaz death fics compared to Inej death fics. So if you're in the mood for a Kaz death fic (I have been many times, don't ask me why but I find it so interesting reading Inej's reaction to Kaz dying). You will feel Inej's pain and it hurts so much. And this fic has Nina helping Nina through the pain and them bonding over dead partners..

#inej ghafa #kaz brekker #kanej #grishaverse #crooked kingdom #soc #six of crows #kanej fanfic #kanej fanfiction #kanej fic #wylan van eck #soc fic #nina zenik #jesper fahey #matthias helvar #lunars fanfiction rec series ☾₊ ⊹#lunars fanfic recs #lunars fanfiction recs

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bubble--berry · 2 years ago

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GVBBRMB 2022: “Duplicitous” by @fandomscraziness22 + @desidarling123.

“After months of silence, Kaz calls Inej for an undercover mission at a Ravkan gala. But all is not as it appears on the surface... and not just for the mission at hand.”

Read on AO3.

My piece for this year's mini reverse @grishaversebigbang! I’ve never had anything written based off my art before so it’s safe to say I am completely stoked and honoured to read this fanfic!!

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clarafell · 7 months ago

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BOLD any fears which apply to your muse. Italicize what makes them uncomfortable.

the dark. fire. open water. deep water. being alone. crowded spaces. confined spaces. change. failure. war. loss of control. powerlessness. prison. blood. drowning. suffocation. public speaking. natural animals. the supernatural. heights. death. dying. intimacy. rejection. abandonment. loss. the unknown. the future. not being good enough. scary stories. speaking to new people. poverty. loud noises. being touched. sex. chains. inner demons. hallucinations. staring. going berserk. betrayal.

tagged by: @schxdenfreude (thank you!!)

tagging: @s-talking @wolfvirago @catncore @nagarese @heartbinders + anyone who sees this! Steal it from me!

#❛ ✧ ┊ she will not end the night again. dash games.#❛ ✧ ┊ no mourners; no funerals. chara study.#❛ ✧ ┊ blessed were the sins that stained our hands. tagged.

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the-writer-nerd-ro · 3 months ago

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Ohhhh we are popping the biggest bottles, it only took writing 25 fics (plus a small number of fics from other talented writers) but Sara and Hunter are FINALLY a recognized relationship tag on AO3

To celebrate, please enjoy:

Sara and Hunter are Two Rats

Hunter was exhausted after a long day of overseeing funerals. It was a stressful job, because mourners don't always behave tactfully and also because most funerals were for crows and crows tend to eat rats.

Her parents had had a much more friendly relationship with the local birds, but they'd been lost in a tragic rat poison incident and now Hunter was left running funerals for creatures that could eat her if they decided they didn't like the flower arrangements.

So she was a little on edge at the end of the day. All she wanted to do was collapse in her little hole until she had get up and go to work for the next murder victim or piece of roadkill that deserved a touching tribute.

The second she got comfortable and closed her eyes the hole filled with noise. She didn't have to open her eyes to find the source, she knew it was Sara.

Sara had acquired a zune from the humans and so everywhere she went she had background music. It was weirdly endearing- when you didn't have a skull splitting headache from a day of hard work.

“Hey! You want to go to the rat rave?”

“The what?” Hunter asked, which was a mistake. Responding meant confirming that she was awake.

“It's a rave for rats.”

“I should have known.”

“It doesn't get as crazy as the bat raves but those are pretty exclusive. I mean I can get in and I'd vouch for you, you do fit their aesthetic… Do you want to go to a bat rave?”

“Mmph.”

“How do you feel about being upside down?”

Hunter cracked an eyelid and looked at Sara. She loved Sara's enthusiasm and obscure party knowledge, but she couldn't match her energy on a good day and this one had been especially bad.

“Look, I almost got eaten today, so I don’t really feel like going out.”

Sara's eyes seemed to glow with anger at this revelation, “Who?”

“No one you know,” Hunter said quickly.

“Tell me their name and I'll hunt them down to the ends of the earth and make sure they never party in this city again.”

“Or,” Hunter suggested gently, “you can come over here and snuggle.”

Sara thought about it for a second, turning off her zune right as it was in the middle of “I Am” by Bon Jovi.

She came over and lay protectively in front of Hunter, so that any predators that found them in the night would have to go through her first.

“I'll keep you safe.”

Hunter nuzzled into Sara, “It's enough for you to keep me company.”

“I can do that, too.”

“Thanks for skipping the rat rave for me.”

“There will be other rat raves. But there's only one you.”

As she was falling a sleep Hunter kind of smiled and mumbled, “Yeah, I love you too.”

#sara pena #hunter richardson #drawfee fanfiction #drawfee #sara x hunter #hunter x sara #sphere au #two rats au #two rats #i am really incredibly impressed at how many people have written two rats fanfiction ready #y'all should be proud of yourselves #decided to add a link to the ao3 fic

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novaursa · 1 month ago

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To Win a Princess (driftmark)

- Summary: Once you come of age, the realm seeks to curry the King's favor once more by seeking a hand of his younger daughter. You.

- Paring: targ!reader/Tyland Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: heirs of the dragon

- Next part: the king is dead

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The air on Driftmark was heavy with salt and sorrow, the sea’s mournful roar underscoring the solemn atmosphere. The sky above was a pale gray, the sun hidden behind thick clouds that seemed to share in the day’s mourning. The courtyard overlooking the restless waters of the Narrow Sea was filled with black-clad figures, their faces somber as they paid their respects to Lady Laena Velaryon.

You stood beside Tyland, your hand resting lightly on his arm, drawing strength from his steady presence. His crimson and gold cloak, dulled in its design for the occasion, marked him unmistakably as a Lannister, though he wore it with solemn dignity. Your children were gathered close—Loren, Rhaelle, Kevan, and Alysanne—all dressed in mourning attire, their usual energy subdued by the weight of the occasion.

To your left, Rhaenyra stood with her sons, Jacaerys and Lucerys, and her husband, Laenor. Laenor’s grief was evident, his shoulders hunched as his gaze remained fixed on the coffin, his face pale and drawn. Rhaenyra’s expression was calm, but you knew your sister well enough to see the truth. She grieved not just for Laena but for another loss—the death of Harwin Strong. The fire at Harrenhal had claimed both Harwin and his father, leaving her without the man who had fathered her sons.

Her grief was a private one, unacknowledged by the court, but you could see it in the way her hands trembled as she clutched her cloak and the way her gaze lingered on her boys. She could never publicly mourn Harwin, and the weight of that silence was etched into every line of her face.

Your eyes drifted to Daemon, standing apart yet not alone. He was with his twin daughters, Rhaena and Baela, their young faces pale and tear-streaked as they clung to his arms. Daemon’s expression was unreadable, his usual smirk replaced by a solemnity that seemed foreign to his features. He stood in stark contrast to the man who had once sought your hand, his confidence tempered by the loss of his wife. The memory of his proposal flickered in your mind briefly before you turned your attention back to the present.

Farther away, Alicent stood with Otto at her side, her children—Aegon, Helaena, and Aemond—clustered around her. Alicent’s posture was straight, her expression composed, but her sharp gaze missed nothing, flitting across the gathering as if taking stock of every mourner. Otto, ever the calculating Hand, stood with his hands clasped, his face a mask of quiet observation.

As Vaemond Velaryon began his funeral dirge, his voice carrying across the courtyard, you couldn’t help but notice the tension in the group. Corlys and Rhaenys stood at the forefront, their grief palpable, though expressed differently. Corlys’s stoic demeanor was belied by the tightness in his jaw, while Rhaenys’s tears fell freely, her hand clutching her husband’s for support.

The dirge was somber, filled with reverence for the sea and the Velaryon bloodline. It spoke of the strength of their House, of Laena’s beauty and courage, and of the inevitable return to the waters that gave them life.

“She deserved more time,” Tyland murmured beside you, his voice low so only you could hear.

You glanced up at him, his usually confident features softened by the solemnity of the moment. “She did,” you agreed quietly, your voice tinged with sorrow. “But fate doesn’t care for what we deserve.”

His hand covered yours briefly, a silent gesture of comfort. Your gaze shifted back to Rhaenyra, whose attention had turned to her boys. Jace looked up at her, concern flickering in his dark eyes as he clutched her hand tightly. Rhaenyra gave him a faint smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes, and whispered something you couldn’t hear.

“You’re watching her,” Tyland observed softly, his voice tinged with curiosity.

“She’s grieving,” you replied, glancing back at him. “Not just for Laena. There’s more she can’t say.”

He nodded, understanding without prying further. His gaze flickered to Daemon, who now watched you from across the courtyard, his piercing eyes meeting yours briefly before shifting away.

“And he’s watching you,” Tyland murmured, a hint of displeasure in his tone.

You sighed softly. “Let him. His gaze holds no power here.”

Tyland’s lips twitched, not quite a smile, but enough to soften his stern expression. “I doubt he sees it that way.”

Before you could reply, the dirge ended, and Vaemond stepped back, his voice falling silent as the sound of the waves filled the void. Corlys stepped forward then, his voice steady as he spoke briefly of Laena’s strength, her love for her family, and her unyielding spirit. When he finished, Rhaenys placed a hand over her heart, her gaze fixed on her daughter’s coffin as it was prepared for its final journey into the sea.

The gathering remained silent, the weight of loss pressing down on everyone. You tightened your grip on Tyland’s arm, grateful for his steady presence as you stood among the mourners. Whatever grief the day held, you knew you could weather it together, just as you always had.

The hall at High Tide is quieter than one might expect after a funeral, the muted hum of conversations filling the air. The gathering, though somber, serves as a moment for family and allies to come together, to share in grief and strengthen bonds. Servants move unobtrusively, offering goblets of wine and trays of modest refreshments. The atmosphere is heavy with a mix of sorrow and the subtle currents of unspoken tensions.

You stand with Tyland near the far side of the room, your children gathered close. Loren and Rhaelle, always poised and observant, stand with Kevan, who fidgets slightly under the weight of the solemn occasion. Alysanne clings to your skirts, her wide violet eyes scanning the room with quiet curiosity.

You crouch down to her level, smoothing a strand of her silvery hair. “Alysanne,” you say gently, “why don’t you go with your brothers and sister? Jace and Luke are just over there.”

She hesitates, her small hands clutching your gown. “Will you come too, Mama?”

You smile softly, brushing a hand over her cheek. “Soon, my love. I need to speak with someone first.”

Tyland steps forward, placing a hand on Loren’s shoulder. “Take your siblings, Loren. Stay close to your cousins and keep an eye on them.”

Loren nods, his golden hair catching the light as he straightens. “Yes, Father.”

“Good,” Tyland replies, his tone firm but kind. “Go on now.”

The children move as instructed, Loren guiding Rhaelle, Kevan, and Alysanne toward the cluster of their Velaryon cousins. Jace notices them immediately, his face brightening as he waves them over, while Luke grins and begins speaking animatedly.

With the children settled, you turn your attention back to the task at hand. Your gaze drifts across the room, searching for Daemon. He is easy to find, his silver-gold hair catching the candlelight as he stands near the edge of the gathering, flanked by his daughters, Rhaena and Baela. His posture is relaxed, almost nonchalant, but there’s a tension in his expression that belies his usual bravado.

Tyland follows your gaze, his hand resting lightly on your arm. “It’s best to approach him carefully,” he murmurs. “He’s not one for empty gestures.”

You nod, glancing up at him. “I know. But it’s important. He lost his wife, and whatever animosity exist between us, we must show respect.”

He hesitates for a moment, then inclines his head. “Very well. Let’s go.”

Together, you cross the room, weaving through the clusters of lords and ladies. Tyland’s presence at your side is a steadying force, his calm composure a stark contrast to the undercurrent of unease that ripples through the gathering. As you near Daemon, his sharp eyes flicker toward you, his expression unreadable.

“Uncle,” you begin, your voice soft but steady. “Our condolences for your loss. Lady Laena was a remarkable woman.”

Daemon’s gaze shifts from you to Tyland, his lips curling into a faint, humorless smile. “Condolences,” he repeats, his tone dry. “A kind gesture. But words do little to ease the sting of loss.”

Tyland, ever diplomatic, inclines his head slightly. “True, but they remind us that we are not alone in our grief. Your daughters are fortunate to have you to guide them through this.”

Daemon’s expression softens slightly at the mention of Rhaena and Baela. He glances toward them, watching as they stand with Rhaenys and Corlys, their small figures dwarfed by the crowd. “They’ve lost their mother,” he says quietly, more to himself than to you. “And the world offers no comfort for that.”

You take a small step closer, your voice gentle. “But they have you, and each other. And they will find strength in that, even if it takes time.”

His eyes flicker back to you, and for a moment, something unreadable passes over his face. “You’ve always had a way with words, niece,” he murmurs, his tone almost wistful. “Perhaps that’s why Viserys let you marry a Lannister instead of pushing you into a match closer to home.”

Tyland stiffens slightly beside you, but you place a hand on his arm, a subtle gesture to keep the peace. “The decisions of the past are behind us, Uncle,” you reply, your tone even. “Today is about honoring Laena and supporting those she left behind.”

Daemon regards you for a moment longer before nodding, his usual smirk returning. “Very well. Your words are appreciated, even if they change nothing.”

Before he can say more, Rhaena tugs on his sleeve, her tear-streaked face tilted up to him. “Father,” she whispers, “can we leave soon?”

Daemon’s expression softens as he looks down at her, his hand resting on her shoulder. “Soon,” he murmurs, his voice gentler than you’ve ever heard it.

You step back slightly, offering a small nod. “If there’s anything we can do, you need only ask.”

Daemon doesn’t respond directly, but his gaze lingers on you and Tyland for a moment before he turns back to his daughters. Taking that as your cue, you step away, Tyland’s hand returning to the small of your back as you walk toward the center of the room.

“That went better than expected,” Tyland remarks under his breath, his tone dry.

You glance at him, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “Daemon is… complicated. But even he knows when to accept kindness, no matter how reluctantly.”

As the two of you rejoin the gathering, you feel the weight of the moment settle over you. The tides of grief and politics are shifting, and you can only hope to navigate them with care—for your family, your children, and the legacy you are building.

The salty breeze from the sea filters through the slightly ajar window, carrying the sound of distant waves crashing against the Driftmark cliffs. In the chambers provided for you and Tyland, the air is thick with warmth, intimacy, and the scent of the ocean.

Tyland's hands roam your body with practiced ease, his lips tracing a fiery path along your neck. Your fingers tangle in his golden hair, pulling him closer as you lose yourself in the fervent passion of the moment. His voice, deep and husky, murmurs your name against your skin, a low growl of desire punctuating his movements.

“Y/N,” he breathes, his hands tightening on your hips as he draws you closer. “You drive me mad.”

You smile against his lips, your voice teasing. “Good. It’s only fair after all the chaos you bring to my life.”

He chuckles, his laugh vibrating through you as he lowers you back onto the bed, his weight grounding you in the moment. His lips capture yours again, urgent and consuming, as the outside world fades into nothingness.

Just as his hands move to the ties of your gown, an abrupt, loud knock shatters the moment. The sound echoes through the chamber, jarring you both from your haze. Tyland freezes, his forehead resting against yours as his breath hitches, a low growl escaping him.

“Seven hells,” he mutters under his breath, his voice rough with frustration. “If that’s someone asking about council matters at this hour…”

The knock comes again, more insistent this time. “My lord, princess,” a familiar voice calls through the door. It’s Ser Harrold Westerling, his tone urgent. “You are needed at once. There has been an incident.”

You exchange a glance with Tyland, the heat of the moment giving way to concern. He sighs heavily, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before pulling away. “Stay here,” he murmurs, reaching for his tunic. “I’ll handle this.”

“No,” you reply, sitting up and adjusting your gown. “If it’s urgent enough to send Ser Harrold, I should come too.”

Tyland pauses, his brow furrowing slightly, but he nods after a moment. “Fine. But stay close to me.”

You both rise quickly, the intimacy of moments before now replaced by a shared sense of urgency. Tyland helps you secure your gown, his hands lingering briefly on your shoulders before he moves to open the door.

Harrold stands just outside, his expression grave. He bows his head briefly. “Apologies for disturbing you, my lord, princess, but you are needed urgently in the throne room.”

“What’s happened?” Tyland asks, his voice calm but firm.

Harrold hesitates, his jaw tightening. “I am not at liberty to say, but I suggest haste. The situation is… delicate.”

You step forward, your heart quickening at the weight of his words. “Very well. Lead the way.”

As you and Tyland step into the corridor, the cool air a stark contrast to the warmth of your chambers, you feel a knot of apprehension tightening in your chest. Tyland’s hand brushes against yours briefly, a silent reassurance as you follow Ser Harrold through the dimly lit halls of High Tide.

The sound of your footsteps echoes against the stone, each step bringing you closer to whatever awaits in the throne room. Though you exchange no words, the shared glances between you and Tyland speaks volumes.

The night, once filled with the promise of passion and respite, now held only questions and foreboding.

The moment you and Tyland step into the throne room, the air hits you like a wall—filled with dread, anger, and the coppery scent of blood. Voices rise and fall in a cacophony of chaos, and the scene before you stops you in your tracks.

At the center of it all stands Aemond Targaryen, his face pale, blood staining the side of his head where his right eye used to be. Alicent is at his side, her expression a storm of fury and desperation as she clutches his uninjured shoulder. Next to her, King Viserys sits slumped in his chair, his face ashen with shock, his cane trembling in his grip.

Not far from them, Luke stands with blood trickling from his nose, his small frame trembling as he clutches Jace’s arm for support. Jace himself is battered, his lip split and his cheek swollen. Baela and Rhaena are nearby, their dresses torn, their faces streaked with tears and grime. And there—your heart drops—your twins, Loren and Rhaelle, stand amidst the chaos, their faces pale, their clothes bloodied and torn, with visible cuts and bruises on their arms and faces.

“Loren! Rhaelle!” you cry, rushing forward with Tyland close behind. They turn at the sound of your voice, relief flashing across their faces as you kneel before them, your hands trembling as you check their injuries.

“We’re fine, Mama,” Loren says quickly, though his voice shakes. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

Rhaelle nods, her lower lip quivering. “We tried to stop it, but…”

“Stop what?” Tyland demands, his voice sharp as his gaze sweeps over the room, taking in the chaos. “What in the Seven Hells happened here?”

Before anyone can answer, the doors burst open again, and Rhaenyra strides in, her expression frantic as her gaze immediately lands on her sons. “Jace! Luke!” she exclaims, rushing to their side. She drops to her knees, pulling them into her arms despite their injuries. “What happened? Who did this?”

Daemon follows her in, his steps slower but no less deliberate, his piercing gaze taking in every detail of the room. His eyes narrow when they land on Aemond, and then on Alicent, whose fury seems to ignite further at Rhaenyra’s arrival.

“This,” Alicent hisses, her voice sharp enough to cut through the noise, “is what happens when your bastards think they can act without consequence!”

Rhaenyra stiffens, her arms tightening around her sons as she rises to her full height. “How dare you!” she spits, her voice trembling with rage. “You will not speak of my children that way!”

“They’ve maimed my son!” Alicent screams, pointing a trembling finger at Aemond. “He has lost an eye because of them—because of your lack of discipline!”

“Enough!” Viserys’s voice booms, though it lacks its usual strength. He struggles to rise from his chair, his cane shaking as he leans heavily on it. “You will not bring your grievances before the court like this! What is the meaning of this madness?”

Jace steps forward, his voice shaking but defiant. “He—he called us bastards,” he says, glaring at Aemond. “He called my mother a whore.”

Luke, still clutching his nose, nods vehemently. “He started it! We were defending our family.”

“That doesn’t justify this,” Alicent snaps, her gaze flickering to Loren and Rhaelle. “And what were your children doing, Princess? Joining in this chaos?”

“We were trying to stop it!” Loren interjects, his voice breaking as he steps forward. “We didn’t want anyone to get hurt.”

“Silance!” Viserys shouts again, his face red with exertion. “I will have order in my court! Explain yourselves, now!”

The children hesitate, exchanging glances, before Baela steps forward, her hands clenched into fists. “It was Aemond,” she says, her voice strong despite the tears streaming down her face. “He took Vhagar. He claimed her without asking.”

The room erupts into another wave of shouting—Corlys and Rhaenys have entered silently, and Corlys’s booming voice demands answers. Daemon, now standing beside Rhaenyra, smirks faintly, though his gaze remains cold as he surveys Aemond.

“She was my mother’s dragon!” Rhaena shouts, stepping forward. “You had no right!”

“She’s mine now,” Aemond says, his voice low but steady despite the pain etched across his face. “Find another.”

“You dare?” Rhaenyra snarls, her fists clenching as she steps toward him. “You steal what belongs to my family and then insult my children?”

“He’s the one maimed!” Alicent snaps, pulling Aemond closer to her. “You’ll protect your bastards over the truth!”

The word hangs in the air like a weapon, sharp and deadly. Tyland’s hand tightens on your arm, his voice low and steady as he murmurs, “Stay calm. This will only get worse before it gets better.”

You nod, though your heart pounds in your chest. Your gaze flickers to your children, their wide eyes filled with fear and uncertainty. Whatever had happened tonight, the repercussions would ripple far beyond this room.

The room was quiet, save for the occasional hiss of pain from Rhaenyra as you carefully worked a needle through the torn flesh on her arm. The cut was shallow but angry, a souvenir from Alicent’s unhinged lunge during the chaos a few nights ago. You worked with steady hands, though your heart was heavy with the weight of everything left unsaid between you and your sister.

Rhaenyra sat stiffly on a chair near the window, the light streaming through and catching the silver in her hair. Her face was pale but resolute, her jaw tight as she bore the sting without complaint. She had endured worse, after all.

“You’re lucky it wasn’t deeper,” you murmured, knotting the thread before snipping it clean. “A fraction closer, and she might have hit the vein.”

Rhaenyra’s lips twisted into a humorless smile. “Alicent always did have impeccable aim. Whether it’s with words or daggers.”

You set the needle and thread aside, wiping your hands on a clean cloth before sitting opposite her. “Alicent has always been precise, yes. But this… this was beyond even her. I can’t believe she actually—”

“Lost control?” Rhaenyra finished for you, raising an eyebrow. “I can. Years of swallowing her resentment, of feeling overshadowed, of watching her sons take second place to mine—it was bound to happen. She’s not as perfect as she pretends to be.”

You sighed, leaning back as you regarded her. “And yet, she’s still trying to sway Father. Even after everything, she’s pushing now for Aemond to marry Rhaelle.”

Rhaenyra’s brow furrowed, her gaze hardening. “I know. I’ve heard the whispers. She’s trying to strengthen her hold, using marriage to bind everyone to her cause.”

“She won’t stop,” you said softly, your voice tinged with frustration. “And now, with Aegon betrothed to Helaena, she has even more reason to push.”

Rhaenyra’s lips pressed into a thin line, her fingers brushing absently against the stitched wound on her arm. “It won’t matter. Aemond won’t marry Rhaelle. Not while I have a say in it.”

You hesitated, your gaze dropping to your hands. “Rhaenyra…” you began, your voice soft, “I’m sorry. About Harwin. I—I know you can’t grieve him openly, but I wanted you to know that I’m here for you. If you ever need to talk.”

Her breath hitched, and for a moment, the mask of strength she wore cracked. Her eyes glistened, but she blinked back the tears, shaking her head. “Thank you,” she murmured. “But there’s nothing to say. He’s gone, and there’s no bringing him back.”

You reached across the table, your hand covering hers. “I’m still sorry. For everything you’ve had to bear.”

Rhaenyra squeezed your hand briefly before pulling away, her composure returning. “It’s not just me who bears things,” she said after a moment, her tone shifting. “Daemon still speaks of you, you know.”

Your entire body stiffened at her words, your eyes snapping to hers. “I don’t care,” you said quickly, your voice sharper than you intended. “Whatever he says, it doesn’t matter. I have Tyland. I’ve always had Tyland.”

Rhaenyra tilted her head, studying you with a faint smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Of course you do. But Daemon… he’s not one to let things go. Be careful, sister.”

You exhaled, forcing yourself to relax as you leaned back in your chair. “Daemon can think and say whatever he likes. My life is with Tyland, my children, my family. Nothing will change that.”

Rhaenyra nodded, though her expression remained unreadable. She glanced out the window, her gaze distant. “It’s strange, isn’t it? How quickly everything can change. One moment, you think you have time, and the next…”

She trailed off, and you knew her thoughts had turned to Harwin again. You reached for her hand once more, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

The two of you sat in silence for a long moment, the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air. Outside, the waves crashed against the cliffs, a reminder of the relentless march of time.

Neither of you knew it then, but in a few short months, Laenor Velaryon would be found dead, and the fragile balance of your family’s world would shift once more.

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