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arabellasleopardcoat · 1 year ago

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Capital (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: You think you married the plainest woman on earth, and you look away for one second and suddenly she is not. Typical. At least, for Daemon.

Warnings: Mature language, sexual thoughts, canon typical violence.

Requested: Yes! But since I am particular about my aesthetic, I didn't answer there. Jealousy + arranged marriage. Brought to you by the seven deadly sins.

Gluttony /ˈɡlʌtəni/

the habit of eating and drinking too much.

Claw Island is as good as getting vanished from the court. You know it. Your Lord husband knows it. Even the tenants know it. Why else would the King order your marriage to Daemon Targaryen?

It was not as much of a punishment as the King had hoped. The Celtigars are a prestigious family, one of the few left with Valyrian blood. While not ones to flaunt their riches or seek for great power, you led a luxurious lifestyle.

The finest wines. Myrish rugs. The newest books. And of course, the riches from the surrounding sea. Beautiful pearls, a fleet that, while small, sailed with speed. The best foods.

The small island was your perfect little world, sequestered away from the troubles of the mainland. What else could a person long for, when they lived in a paradise? Claw Island had it all. Miles and miles of tempestuous sea, soft sands and gorgeous wildlife not seen anywhere else. Humble, but good people. Natural riches enough to last a lifetime.

But as of late, your breathtaking lands did nothing to bring you peace. Sometimes, in truth, as you walked along the shoreline, you wished for a tremendous sea wave to swallow you whole.

It would be better than this. Among the crabs, the sea life and wreckage of old ships, you would feel at ease. At home, even. And finally, finally untroubled. But things were not as you wanted them to be. With your Lord Father at court, someone had to mind the island. And no one knew the lands as you did.

You shuddered to think of something happening to you. In that case, the island, and its people, would go to your husband. Considering how much he hated it here, Prince Daemon would make a poor ruler.

You glare. He glares right back. Remembering your manners, you serve him a cut of spider crab seared in butter. The meal is rich and decadent, a show of the best Claw Island has to offer.

“Crab, Lady Wife?” Daemon raises both eyebrows. “Again?”

“What else does the Prince wish to eat?” You do your best effort at keeping your tone even. You try hard to not raise your voice at him, remembering the rumors about what happened to his last wife. So far, it seems to be working. Despite being older than you, the man behaves as a child. You have found he benefits from being managed as one, too.

Ever since you got married, he has been desperately trying to rile you up. The Prince always seemed to deflate when you refused to engage. He was clearly itching for a fight, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction.

“You seem too willing to indulge in cannibalism for my tastes.” Daemon, in what he surely believed to be the absolute demonstration of cutting wit, smirks. You smile at him, sedate. You have heard enough remarks about crabs to last a lifetime. “It’s worrying.”

You could answer him. Perhaps make a mockery of his inability to perform in bed and the behavior of the female praying mantis. You do not. Instead, you force yourself to give him a tight smile.

“Don’t worry. I will ask the servants to bring you fish.” You took your napkin out of your lap and placed it on the table. Dutifully, you rang the bell to call for a servant.

“Again?” Daemon complained, sounding much like a petulant child. You smiled and went back to your seat. Your crab was getting cold, and it would most likely be by the time your husband’s fish was served. But good manners dictated you could not start eating without him. You resigned yourself to another night of eating a cold dinner.

“You should write to the King, my Prince. I would serve you venison, were it not for the fact that your dragon has nearly extincted the population here.” While you were by no means poor, feeding a dragon was an expense you didn’t care for, especially one so picky as Daemon’s was showing to be.

While a dragon was a marvelous creature, and having one guarding your lands was a great perk, it was also hard. Caraxes ate the same as five grown men in a day, if not more. He didn’t eat just anything you served him, either. Much like his owner, he was picky. He had come with dragon keepers, and needed to be built a shelter.

You had hoped that his serpentine appearance would mean that he would eat a lot in one sitting, then hibernate, but no such luck. Your island couldn’t keep up, no matter how hard you tried. Animals didn’t reproduce at the pace required.

“Of course, my Lady. Of course.” Daemon says, in a dismissive tone. It’s then, when a servant comes in with his fish.

Your crab is cold. Again. Daemon is not pleased with the fish, but seems wary of extending dinner even more. For once, he doesn’t complain.

Dinner is eaten silently. In your head, you make plans for tomorrow's meals. Perhaps oysters, served cold, will withstand the wait better. You finish dinner and settle down to read some before bed.

When the time comes for it, you close your book. Daemon departs with a cold kiss to your cheek. You go to your bed, just as cold and empty as the kiss was, and fall asleep.

It’s around the witch's hour when he comes back to you, getting into the bed next to you. He stinks of cheap perfumes and oils. As he pulls you closer, to be able to hide his face on your neck, you can feel the smell of sex and alcohol induced sweat. It comes from the clothes Daemon hasn’t even bothered to shed before getting in bed with you.

You don’t like him drunk. He gets sloppy. You do better when he hides his indiscretions, the proofs of your failure as a woman. As a wife. He seeks his pleasure from other bodies, never yours. With you, he is unable to perform to completion.

Perhaps the same happens to him with others, on nights like these. That thought soothes you, and it’s the only reason why you allow Daemon to seek comfort in your arms. Sometimes, he has nightmares. It’s expected then, too, that you are the one to soothe him back to sleep.

Shifting in his grip, you rub his back, gently. You card your other hand through the matted strands of blonde hair, as a mother would do to his child. In many ways, you guess he is one. You pity him, your husband. A man with a void so deep, not even all the vices in the world could fill it.

You are unable to fall back asleep. You lay there for hours, staring at the ceiling. When you hear the rooster’s first crow, you roll out of bed. Sleep is not coming for you. Daemon, unperturbed in his slumber, only sprawls more. You tuck him in.

When you get to your vanity, you catch the servants leaving the correspondence for the day on it. She giggles when you point at the bed and the mess of clothes, gesturing for silence. It makes you feel better, that they think your husband comes from the pleasure houses straight into your arms for more than just cuddles.

One of the letters catches your eye. It’s written in the strange alphabet used for High Valyrian, bearing both the royal seal and the King’s name. You don’t mean to pry. In fact, you open it because you are worried your husband has upset his brother even more.

Marriage is like being tied to a ship. When the tides are good and the ship strong, you soar above the sea. But no one wants to be tied to a sinking ship. It’s that fear what leads you to heating a knife on your candle’s flame and lifting the seal.

You read as you brush your hair, unrushed. You know Daemon won’t be awake for at least six more hours. But the more you advance, skipping polite greeting, the more your stomach sinks, and you jump from sentence to sentence.

“And while I understand your dislike of Claw Island, it is a less harsh punishment than you deserve. Much you complained of wanting a Valyrian bride, and now the opportunity presents itself, ripe for the taking. Yet, you do not seem keen on it. Is it, again, the lack of a throne you find off-putting? Perhaps, the lack of a child bride you can manipulate? Your Lady Wife might not have purple eyes or silver hair, as you mention, but she is a maiden in the bloom of youth. Tales of her beauty have graced the court, shared among the eager mouths of her family and previous suitors. Both Lord Velaryon and Lord Mooton agree that the woman is a delight, well-mannered and easy on the eyes. She has impeccable breeding and education. I will not grant you the annulment. I will not allow you to go back to your whore.”

There is a coppery taste in your mouth. Blood, you realize. From biting your tongue so hard to avoid letting out a scream of rage. It feels like being stabbed, countless times. In your back, and in your heart. Betrayal and deep, hurtful sorrow.

What have you done to deserve this? To be blindsided so? You have stood firm through all the humiliations your husband puts you through. Never once reproaching the way he goes out after dinner and does not come back until sunrise. Never complaining of his audacity to search comfort in your arms when he is drunk and stinking of whores. Never once raising your voice at the insults to your people, your home, your family.

But for Daemon Targaryen, it wasn’t enough. You would never be enough. Childishly, when you had first heard of your betrothal to him, you had hoped for companionship, if not love. At least, you thought, you would have a friend. But you hadn’t been enough of a woman to keep him in your bed, you had not been enough of the blood of Old Valyria for him to give you children, and you had not been enough for him to stay married to you.

He took from you, and took from your island and from your family, and not once was he satisfied. Not once, he was sated. And now, Daemon has done the unspeakable. Not satisfied with making a mockery out of you, with his constant unfaithfulness, he seeks to ruin you further. It’s only King Viserys who protects you and your family from further embarrassment.

You have underestimated him, pitying him while he planned your demise. The ruin of your house. You have been sharing your bed with the enemy. The thought frightens you and fills you with anger at equal parts. What will happen, when the King dies and the awful Princess with whom your husband was so taken ascends? Will you be put to the sword, accused of an imaginary crime to get you out of the way? Treason, perhaps? Hands shaking in anger, you fold the letter and reseal it as carefully as you can.

That is the day you decide you will retreat into your shell, like any good crab. You will close yourself over, put up walls and keep him as far away as you can. And you will wait for the day to stab at his heels until his physique reflects exactly the useless kind of man he is inside.

One day, this man might kill you. You will have to make sure he does not get away with it.

Envy /ˈenvi/

the feeling of wanting to be in the same situation as somebody else; the feeling of wanting something that somebody else has.

It’s not often you are summoned to the court. But your father is about to be named Keeper of the Keys, a prestigious position often held by members of your house before being promoted to Master of Coin. The implication is clear. Soon, another Celtigar will be handling the finances of the Kingdom. It’s a ploy, to intertwine you further with the Royal Family. As soon as King Viserys dies, it will be your father who serves on Princess Rhaenyra’s council.

Hence, the need for a celebration. Traveling from Claw Island to King’s Landing is exhausting, especially considering that you do the journey by ship while your husband does so in his dragon. He seems overjoyed about it, but you can only think of how much the separate travel is costing your purses.

Daemon arrives early, because of course he does. Meanwhile, you spend your time preparing to put on the play of your life. You must be the most dutiful wife in the Seven Kingdoms, or else he might find a reason to get rid of you. Setting apart your most fashionable dresses, preparing gifts for the King and Queen and otherwise looking radiant.

Knowing Daemon, he is already whispering poison in his brother’s ear. You need to dazzle the King and the whole court, convince them you are not only an adequate wife but a perfect one. No stain must be perceived in your reputation.

You arrive punctually, just in time to prepare for the feast. It’s inside the Hall where you meet Daemon, and greet him with a kiss on the cheek. Chaste, but affectionate, performed under the King’s approving look. You are radiant in your house’s colors, with subtle references to Targaryen’s ones.

The feast is torture. Viserys, Daemon and Rhaenyra are all seated at the same table. They get along wondrously, while you, Queen Alicent and Ser Laenor are ignored despite being next to them.

The only thing that calms your heart is watching your father, sitting at the table of the Master of Coin.

“My Queen.” You say to her, hoping to curry favor. The Gods knew you needed as many allies as you could. “I brought you this.”

You take out a beautifully engraved rendition of the Prayers Book. It’s a gorgeous edition, with a gold finish. You hope that at least, if she doesn’t like it, she would think it is a gift to the babe she carries. It’s a thoughtful gift, the kind of thing you excel at.

“Oh, Lady Targaryen!” The Queen says, and takes it, admiring it in the light. Fortunately, she seems truly charmed by it. “It is the most wonderful thing!”

“I have one myself.” You tell her, as if you had not purchased it for exactly this moment. “When I heard you were from Oldtown, I couldn’t think of a better thing to bring.”

“It’s lovely.” Alicent says, as your husbands ignore both of you. Viserys and Daemon are too busy having their fun to care about what women are doing. “Will you join me in prayer tomorrow?”

“I would be delighted to.” It’s the first genuine smile you wear since your arrival. And it’s the first time that someone from the royal family smiles back.

You do attempts towards Rhaenyra and Laenor. They both ignore you, and so, you decide to keep strictly to conversing with Alicent. You decide to leave Viserys out of it, despite your gratitude to him because you would rather not look like much of a sycophant.

Your happiness at finally making a friend between your in-laws makes you oblivious to Daemon’s silence. During the whole dinner, he barely taunts you. None of the crab-based insults he so favors are present, either. That should have warned you. If you have learned something about your husband is that there is never a time when he is quiet.

He bides his time. The desserts are already served when Daemon delivers his greatest insult up to date. Some couples are even swaying to the rhythm of the music already, no matter if the tables have yet to be cleared.

“I wish to dance, I think.” Daemon says, getting up from his seat. You start to get up too, knowing you cannot refuse him, but he turns towards Rhaenyra. “A dance, niece?”

Rhaenyra preens under the attention and takes his hand. For a second, you stay frozen, hand falling uselessly by your side just when you were about to reach for him. You feel like you are being stabbed. Again.

The humiliation is so great you wish for some great disaster, perhaps one of the couples bumping against a table and overturning it, just to get the attention away from you. Half the hall has now seen you get rejected by your husband. In a celebration meant to honor your father, nonetheless.

You struggle to keep your face emotionless, curved into a polite little smile. You have made a fool of yourself. Hot tears gather in your eyes, threatening to spill.

Noticing your despair, Alicent places a hand on your arm, softly.

“Thank you, Lady Targaryen.” She exclaims, loudly. “With the babe getting bigger and bigger every day, I find it harder to stand. You are very thoughtful.”

Her rescue, as she stands and walks down the dais, helps you save face. Your smile turns more genuine.

“It’s but good breeding, my Queen.” You answer, just as loud. “What kind of noble could see a Lady of your station and not aid her?”

Alicent smiles, and she cradles her stomach.

“Indeed. Only a savage, I would think.” Her glance at her own husband is unmistakable. But Viserys is too busy watching Rhaenyra and Daemon dance to help his pregnant wife. His eyes never leave his brother and daughter, his expression twisted into one of annoyance.

Alicent makes her way towards a table where a few knights sit. Most of them are from Oldtown, and you cannot help but smile at her doing the rounds her husband so neglects. But her rescue, and quick exit, leave you in an uncomfortable position. King Viserys and Ser Laenor are engaged in conversation, including you only when they remember your presence, which means once every half an hour.

Without Queen Alicent, you have no conversation partner. The only thing you can do is watch. Daemon twirls around the room as if he were not a married man, taking every eligible bachelorette in the room for at least one dance. He is enchanting, pulling blushes left and right. He dances twice with Rhaenyra and Laena Velaryon.

You play your part to perfection. Each time he glances your way, you give him an indulgent smile or a sweet tilt of your head. Even when he dances again with Rhaenyra, your expressions don't shift. Instead, you lift your cup to them and even find it in yourself to give a small clap.

It’s torture. It’s exhausting, having to play the devoted but never jealous wife, when he is doing his best to embarrass you. Finally, the King retires, but orders that the celebrations do not stop. You consider making your way towards your father, uncaring if leaving Laenor sitting on his own is rude.

Just as you are getting up, a knight, dressed in a fine green gambeson, steps in front of you. You look up at him, wondering what he could possibly want.

His voice is soft and eloquent, with the barest hint of an accent. His voice reminds you of someone, but you cannot quite place who.

“Lady Targaryen. You look beautiful tonight.”

“Thank you.” You answer him, politely. Is he about to ask you for a dance? Is this a ploy for your husband to embarrass you further?

The knight smiles. He is tall and slender, very different from your husband, yet handsome just the same.

“If I had a wife as pretty as you, she wouldn’t be sitting here.” He compliments, and startles a laugh out of you. It has been months since the last time a man complimented you so. Before marrying, you had quite the suitors, but no one dared practice courtly love with the Rogue Prince’s wife. And your husband never once spoke to you kindly.

It’s a thrill, to feel wanted and appreciated again. You love having his eyes on you. It fills you with a forgotten kind of confidence. As the daughter of the man whose star in court is rising, as a beautiful woman and as the wife of a Prince, you deserve to be admired. It’s not your fault your husband can’t see it, you are desirable. People should be currying for your favor. You shouldn’t be begging for the scraps of a man whose only interest is his niece.

“Would she be on the dance floor?” You tease the knight, falling back into the practiced flirtations that had made you so popular before. You feel like you are glowing again.

The knight shakes his head, a hint of mischief appearing in his brown eyes.

“I would forbid her from leaving my chambers.”

At that, you laugh again, blushing. Despite how charming he is, you are still a married woman. You cannot give anyone reason to suspect or judge you, else Daemon might have basis to rid himself of you.

“I am not your wife.” You say, politely. The knight gasps, as if wounded, making you laugh again. You do not realize someone is glaring daggers at you, entranced as you are by him. “But perhaps a dance might suffice?”

The knight gives you a cheeky grin. He takes your hand and pulls you to your feet, gently.

As he leads you towards the dance floor, you barely notice Daemon looking disgruntled on the edge of it. You look over and see Rhenyra dancing with some tall and broad knight. He is probably jealous of him.

“You must give me your favor, for tomorrow's tournament. We are, after all, celebrating your family.” The knight says, making you focus back on him. His eyes are brown and kind, so soft. They remind you of someone, but once again, you can’t tell who.

“Ah, I see you are a tough negotiator.” You tease, your tone turning slightly more girlish. This time, it is the knight who laughs.

“What can I say? It’s in my blood.” The man winks, as he starts to twirl you around.

“I think, my lord, you have yourself a deal.” You grin.

It’s only when a Hightower knight approaches the stands the next day and offers you his lanze, you realize the mistake you have made.

Wrath /ræθ/

extreme anger.

Daemon can’t believe his ears. Out of nowhere, a sweet sound reaches him. It’s the sound of a Lady’s laughter, but something about it makes him turn his head.

Perhaps, the fact that the sound has managed to catch his attention at all, despite the loud music, chatter and other laughs. Perhaps it is that the sound is familiar to him. He doesn’t know what it is, but as the piece finishes, he steps aside and tries searching for the source.

It’s then he sees you. His wife. Glowing and laughing on that Hightower cunt’s arm. And no, it’s not Alicent he is referring to. Otto’s spawn seems to have a proclivity for you because this is the other one. The elder.

Gwayne. His hands all over you, a gentle touch to your lower back to guide you forward. And are your eyes brightening? For him? As you pass by Daemon, you barely spare him a glance. He manages to hear a piece of the conversation.

“Your favor, for tomorrow's tournament…” The man has the gall to ask, as if he could win you the flower crown! The nerve of that Hightower pup, to think himself able to win. It’s clear he doesn’t remember the last time he faced Daemon, and while he was already planning on entering, now he knows with absolute certainty he is competing. Gwayne Hightower seems to have forgotten his lesson. He needs to remember his place.

“… Tough negotiator…” Your cheerful voice answers. Probably telling him he has to win if you do so because you are Valyrian and proud like him. Surely, the idea of getting crowned Queen of Love and Beauty appeals to you. You want a flower crown? Daemon will get you the damn thing.

When he was no more than a boy, his father used to have a particularly overzealous hound. Daemon had taken great delight in setting him free just when ladies were visiting. The dog loved sniffing beneath the ladies' skirts and humping their legs. The whole scene often ended up with Daemon getting yelled at, either by the ladies or their husbands. Now, as he looked at the proverbial dog humping his wife, Daemon understood why the ladies' husbands were so enraged.

He should cut his hands. Hightowers. No sense of shame at all, with their whorish ways. They were all the same. There went Alicent, throwing herself at Viserys when poor Aemma was not even in her pyre. There went Gwayne Hightower, placing his paws all over you and trying to charm you when Daemon was still in the room.

Couldn’t he tell you are his? It’s not that Daemon likes you, but it’s an affront to his honor. You are the wife of a Prince. The mere fact that a measly knight thought he could compare it’s outrageous. And the fact that he dared touch you! The nerve!

It’s Daemon who shares your bed, back in Claw Island. It’s Daemon you hold during the night, who pays for your silly little dresses. It’s for him you have clearly gotten all pretty today. How dare he, that Hightower fool.

He can’t have you. Gwayne Hightower is not allowed to just swoop in and try to steal his woman. You are meant to sleep by his side, be his solace. You are not the kind of woman for whom a simple knight would be enough. Just like him, you love the lush life. Could Gwayne Hightower buy you a dress like that? Could he use a dragon to protect your little island?

Daemon clutches at his cup so hard, he thinks he might bend the metal. You are his bride. He is the only one allowed to have you. If he doesn’t want to, he doesn’t want to, but it doesn’t mean someone else can.

Rhaenyra approaches him again, no doubt wanting another dance. But not even her allure, which is usually so hypnotizing to him, manages to get him out of his bad mood. He hates when other people touch what is his.

Daemon decides to retire for the night, before she can reach him. He needs to think. How he longs for your shared rooms back at Claw Island. At least that way, he wouldn’t spend the night tossing and turning, wondering if the Hightower cunt escorted you back to your rooms, and if so, at which hour.

Strange, isn’t it? Such a small act can cause such a big shift in perspective. So many months, he had spent thinking of Claw Island a prison, longing to be able to come back to court. Now, he sees it as it was. A shell made to protect the most valuable pearl the sea had produced.

Had Daemon known men at court would try to steal his bride, he would have never authorized this trip. Your father could have been named Hand, but you would have never stepped foot outside your castle if Daemon had known. You would not be taken with Gwayne Hightower if he had a say in it.

He had a plan. The knight would make a fool out of himself. Daemon just had to encourage him in the right direction.

Daemon is up and about as soon as the sun is. He strolls towards the space prepared for the tournament, armor in hand. He changes slowly, giving plenty of time for Gwayne Hightower to arrive.

The foolish knight does. So do you, sitting next to your father in the stands, all pretty and glowy under the sun. You wear a red gown that compliments not only your skin tone, but pays homage to both of your houses. After all, both House Targaryen and Celtigar have red on their coats of arms. A clear show that you were meant to be his, and his alone. What would you even look like, if you were married to a Hightower fool? Red and green would look hideous in a dress.

As the highest-ranking competitor, Daemon gets to make the first challenge. To no one’s surprise, he picks Gwayne Hightower.

Daemon waits with bated breath, already seated on his horse. Does the man dare? Oh, he dares! The Hightower cunt gallops towards the stands. You don’t rise, looking towards the Hightower whore. It’s then he realizes you must be truly innocent. You are either doubting the boldness of the man or are not aware of his house, and do not recognize him under the armor.

But as Gwayne Hightower reaches the stand, Daemon close on his heels, he takes off his helmet. You gasp.

The Hightower whore makes a move as if to get up. Her brother’s voice cuts her off.

“I was hoping to get a sign of your favor, my Lady.” The man says to you, and your eyes widen. You stand, shakily. You look at Daemon, then at the cunt, then at him, then back at the cunt. Daemon arches an eyebrow, visor lifted. “For you have already struck me with your beauty, and the fact that you cannot be mine. Allow me the consolation of placing a crown of flowers upon you, and soothe my wounded heart.”

You gasp at the bold declaration. Daemon has to admit it, the cunt has some nerve. Not only has he praised you in ways that are too bold even for a couple courting, but he has slighted Daemon in front of the whole court. He has made explicit mention of your marriage to him.

Viserys eyes him warily. Daemon scoffs. The distrust is unnecessary. Why would he slaughter the Hightower now, when he has the chance to plummet him into the ground without consequences in just a few minutes? Besides, it would be in bad taste, slaughtering the brother of his sister-in-law.

Your father urges you forward, with a forced laugh. You grasp one of the favors from your box, which has only two, and place it upon the Hightower’s lanze. The pretty ribbons sway in the wind. White and red from House Celtigar proudly displayed.

Daemon clears his throat, and presents his own lanze.

“How touching.”

You ignore him, as Rhaenyra approaches. Surely thinking how he will want to wear her favor, after his rejection of last night. Curse him, Daemon thinks. He should have danced with you. If he had known that up jumped son of a rat was going to try his luck, you would have not left Daemon’s arms the whole night.

“Thank you, niece. But today I fancy wearing my wife’s favor. For it would be a shame for her to be lacking her crown once her champion undoubtedly disappoints.” He loudly declares, uncaring if his niece’s face falls. Rhaenyra will get over it. But this has turned into a manhood competition. He can’t let Gwayne Hightower, of all people, win.

“Can I do that?” Daemon hears you whisper towards Viserys and his whore. “Can I have two champions fighting each other?”

Viserys, as if this is the most fun he has had in a while, answers cheerfully.

“Of course, my dear girl.” It probably is the most fun he has had in a while. Really. It must be very amusing to him, after hearing Daemon complain about you for months. Who would have known he would have to fight some Hightower for your attention? Laughable, really. A Prince groveling. “Double the chances for you to get the flower crown, is it not?”

“Of course.” Your father jumps in, clearly trying to prevent a scandal. “Go on, love. Give the other one to your husband. If more are needed, we will get more ribbons.”

You approach Daemon, pretty little favor on your delicate hands. You smile at him, pleasantly. But this close, he can tell you are shaken by the power play happening right in front of your eyes.

Daemon lowers his lanze as you stretch to place your ribbons. You give him a confused and hurt look. He stretches closer.

“Save that one.” Daemon says, as he places a hand on your hair and pulls out the red ribbon that holds it back. “I’m your husband, I get some privileges.”

His gesture makes you laugh. Daemon feels on top of the world. He gives a superior glance to the Hightower cunt, as if saying: Look at me, I do not need half your effort and get double the results.

Daemon is not so deluded as to think the laugh is more than half nervousness and half playing the part of the dutiful wife you are, but to Daemon is still a win. He can see why the other lords want you. With your hair loose, smiling and with your skin glowing from the sun, you are actually quite pretty.

He ties the ribbon around the pommel of the lanze.

“A kiss, for good luck?” Daemon knows he is pushing, but cannot help but be smug. His pretty wife gave him her hair ribbon to tie around his chosen weapon, for all the court to see. Smugness radiates out of his pores.

Without any expectation, the sweet peck you give him is even more of a delight. Even more sweet is the disgruntled look on Gwayne Hightower's face.

Safe to say, the man gets unseated so fast, it has to be the quickest defeat ever registered. The crunch he makes as he falls from his horse it’s the most satisfying sound Daemon has ever heard. The crowd gasps and cheers. The man does not get up.

That will teach him, he decides. Gwayne Higtwoer will never again even look your way. Daemon turns his horse back around, ready to face his next opponent, but it’s stopped by the pages.

“Ser Gwayne Hightower has requested to continue with the sword.” At that, his blood boils. He nearly jumps off his horse, discarding the lanze and unsheathing Dark Sister.

“What will it be, boy? First blood?” He saunters towards the man, and the sight of him this close only serves to anger him more. He shares Otto’s slender build, tall and slight. In Hightower armor, he even looks like him. Daemon is going to enjoy this.

“Why stop there?” The knight asks, hatefully. “Until one of us yields.”

“As you wish.” Daemon charges, forgoing his shield. He is just too angered for politeness. This is not jousting anymore, it’s his hate for Higtowers, and the fact that this man has tried to take something that’s his. He should have never looked your way. Never. And if it’s up to Daemon, perhaps he will leave the arena without the ability to repeat the feat.

The fight is quick and dirty, but even when he has disarmed and cornered him, Gwayne Higtower refuses to yield.

“What are you..?” Daemon asks, utterly confused because the little savage is grabbing Dark Sister with gauntled hands and pulling.

“Just as marriage is not an excuse for not loving…” He grins, teeth bared in a feral little grin, and Daemon lets go of his sword in surprise at the boldness of the fool. “No weapon is no excuse for yielding.”

He loses it, then. Later, he will only remember red. Daemon throws himself at him and starts punching him, until the asshole goes limp on his arms and has to be pulled away from him.

Only the fact that the Hightower fought back is what allows him to keep participating in the tournament, instead of being exiled again. The split lip and bleeding eyebrow do serve to build a case in his favor.

He wins the tournament without any opposition. With bloody hands, he places the flower crown on your head. Your horrified look is not as satisfactory as he would have thought.

Pride /praɪd/

the feeling that you are better or more important than other people.

Daemon manages to get a hold of you before you vacate the stands. You are trying to avoid the crowds, waiting patiently in your seat. He doesn’t allow it, urging you towards his chambers with a firm grip on your wrist.

Some other ladies titter and giggle, pointing towards the two of you. No doubt, they think he is about to ravish you. They are not wrong.

It’s not often Daemon feels desire for you. In truth, while you have a pretty mouth and a soft body, you do little for him. But today, you are enchanting. The flower crown still sits atop of your windswept hair, making you look like a forest nymph. There are a few red stains along your temple, left there by Daemon’s hands when he placed the crown on top of your hair.

Never has there been a woman more deserving of the title of Queen of Love and Beauty. As you walk with him down the halls, he feels a smug sort of satisfaction. Here is the woman half the court wants, Daemon wants to scream. Here is my wife.

The feeling is not unfamiliar to him, but it is in relation to you. His possessive nature so far has only extended towards members of his house. The lust is new, too. Daemon has experimented it many times, but never towards whom he should.

As soon the door closes after you, he kisses you forcefully, only for you to shove him away.

“What are you doing?” You ask, as you spit out some of his blood. You are remarkably strong, having been able to push him while still in armor. But what shocks him the most is the fact that you did it at all. Months of marriage and you have done nothing but smile, regardless of what Daemon does.

“Shh, Lady Wife. Nothing unusual, I assure you.” He pulls you back in, kissing along your neck. This time, you push him even harder.

Daemon stumbles and blinks, hard. Are you rejecting him? He sits down on the bed and takes off his helmet. He has beaten the Hightower fool half to death and won you the silly flower crown. Why would you reject him?

“You prefer him, don't you?” That has to be the answer, surely. You must be having an affair with the cunt. Why else would you reject him? It’s not allowed. While Daemon is not particularly keen on forcing you, you are his wife. He has a right to your body, and you shouldn’t deny him. You know it. Never before have you refused him, due to the same reason. So this must be something else.

“What nonsense are you on, now?” You barely lift your eyes from your work, busy with pouring some water in a bowl and taking out clean linens. Efficiently, as if a seasoned healer, and not a soft lady from Claw Island, you rip them apart.

“Don’t play daft, wife.” Daemon reproaches, scowling. Your innocent act is starting to tire him. You can’t possibly believe him so dumb. “It doesn’t suit you.”

“If this is about Ser Gwayne…” You start and he feels the urge to scream. He can’t help but cut you off.

“Of course it is! Of course it is about that fucking Hightower.” Daemon’s voice goes high-pitched, imitating yours. “Ser, Ser.” He rolls his eyes. “How easily they hand titles now. Is every scum in this realm a knight?”

Your face doesn’t even twitch. That is one of the things about you that drive him to insanity. No matter what Daemon says, he never seems to get a reaction. It’s infuriating. You are all manners and dimples, even in the face of the most vile insults he throws your way. You either have no honor, letting him stomp all over you, or you think him right. Pathetic. Even the Bronze Bitch bit back.

His nostrils flare. Softly, you step between his parted legs and dab at the cut on his brow with a soaked linen. Ever dutiful.

“You do know adultery is a crime.” Daemon says, in a low, threatening tone. You give him a pleasant smile, squeezing water out of the cloth. It runs red and fast down your wrist.

“So is incest.” Your voice is far too cheerful for someone who just got accused of a crime that’s punishable by death if he so chooses. And not only that, but you have the nerve to threaten him.

“I am a Targaryen.” Daemon practically growls. You glare at him. He should be angry, but instead, his loins seem to heat up. Who can fault him? Any man would feel the urge to take you over and over, when faced with those eyes and those lashes.

Surely, after it, you would understand you were his and not Gwayne Hightower’s. It was not such an ambitious plan. Perhaps a lesser man would have trouble with it, but not Daemon. Give him ten minutes between your legs and you would be singing his praises.

“And I am a Celtigar.” His pause has allowed you enough time to form a retort. You press down on the cut on his brow with a viciousness that startles him. Daemon winces in pain. No getting distracted, he notes. Less you murder him when he is not paying attention. “To stifle the blood flow.” You explain, but Daemon can see the bloodlust in your eyes. You want him to hurt. The past few months have not gone in vain, it appears.

“Mine, you are mine.” He replies, gruffly.

You let go of the cloth, hands on your hips. Your mouth opens and closes, astonished.

“You don’t have any right to speak those words to me.” How he longs to grab you and show you exactly who is in charge. There you are, screaming! You! The woman who Daemon doubted knew how to make sounds louder than polite conversation. “Am I not the bride you never wanted? Your chain? Well then, sail free. Go!” You scream, and Daemon needs to pick his jaw off the floor because never has he seen you this angry.

Are you screaming at him? He feels the urge to pinch himself, to see if he is dreaming. But the way you are pointing your finger towards the door seems very real. Still a bit confused by the sudden personality change, Daemon does not obey.

It feels like a dream. Like stepping into a parallel world. The words that come out of his mouth are spoken by a stranger, and he can only watch as you turn more and more furious.

“No. Come here.” Daemon grabs at your gown, trying to pull you into him. He doesn’t really know what he is going to do if you budge. Place you in his lap and placate you with a kiss? He doesn’t get to find out. Grabbing you has clearly been the wrong move.

You slip out of his grip with a harsh jerk. Daemon is not as young as he used to be, but the sight makes his lust bubble up. You are alluring when angry, all passionate lines, and bloody temples. Valyrian, in a way you had never been before, with your darker coloring and soft manners. Yet, when mad? You are a conqueror goddess made flesh.

“No! I will not. I am not yours. We might be married but I will…” You stomp your foot at him, all angry little crab. For the first time, he sees fire in you.

Such a shame this is the moment you chose to grow a spine. He couldn’t understand where you had been all this time. So many months wasted with the meek little wife, when he could have had you instead.

Why had you decided to show you had a personality now, of all times? It was not fair, if it was for that Hightower cunt.

“Why Gwayne Hightower? Out of all the men on earth?” Daemon mutters, clearly not low enough because you answer him.

“This is not about Gwayne Hightower.” You glare, crown of flowers balancing precariously on top of your head. As you move, a few petals fall down. Angry little dryad that you are, you bat them away.

“If not, what is it about?”

“You!” You scream at him. It’s hateful, it's rage filled, it’s everything you are usually not. A true Valyrian goddess, letting mere mortals feel her might. Daemon would have enjoyed the display more if he wasn’t the mortal in question. “I forgot what it felt like to be wanted. To be looked at as someone who was desirable. Do you know how I have felt? Begging for scraps of attention, trying to make this work?”

“Wife…” He pleads because now there are tears in your eyes, and while Daemon doesn’t do begging, he doesn’t do comforting either.

“Do not call me that! Didn’t you petition for an annulment?” And how had you found out about that? While he had not been exactly secretive with his correspondence, he didn’t believe you to be proficient in High Valyrian. He has no time to ponder on it because you intend to go further. “Well, you are in luck! I will make my own request!”

“Viserys will not allow it.” Even if Daemon has to go beg him on his knees to not grant it, you are not annulling this marriage. Not when he is just starting to see the real you.

“Fine! Then I am going back to Claw Island. Stay here.” You scream, and you look so determined it scares him. For a second, he actually thinks you have the power to ban him from the island and force him to stay, giving you plenty of time to receive visitors. Male visitors, all surrounding you, courting you, as if he were already dead and not just exiled.

“Look. I’m sorry. Can we start over?” Daemon offers, in his most pleading tone. He has not apologized since… Gods. He barely remembers how to do it.

“You made me forget I deserved more than scraps.” You laugh at him, as his first apology to someone in more than ten years is the funniest joke existing. Then, enraged. “It will be a cold day in the Seven Hells, when I give you another chance.”

Hurt. He realizes, as you throw the flower crown at his feet and slam the door. Hurt. You are hurt, not angry. He has done the worst thing a man can do to a woman. Damage her pride.

Lust lʌst/

very strong sexual desire, especially when love is not involved.

Much to your dismay, every time you try to speak alone to the King, you are swiftly intercepted. If it’s not Corlys Velaryon asking you to help him pick a book in the library, it’s your Lord Father summoning you to his chambers. It seems like the whole palace is in it because even Princess Rhaenys asks you to stroll with her through the gardens when you lurk too close to Viserys’s chambers.

Daemon was smarter than you thought. He had taken to using your own weapons against you. The need to be polite kept you from rejecting all these new invitations, and so, you often ended up stuck an entire afternoon with nonsensical plans.

As time passes, your rage starts to subside. Much to your disgust, it morphs into shame. You cannot believe how you lost control in front of Daemon. Everything you have worked so hard on could vanish for a single afternoon pf foolishness.

You would rather not be his enemy. When the time comes for the two of you to go back to Claw Island, Gwayne Hightower is still bedridden, despite it already being days. Daemon is a dangerous man to cross.

Strangely enough, he doesn’t seem angry, or even resentful. In fact, your husband has never been more attentive. With the talent of existing just at the right moment, Daemon appears at your side each time there is a door to be opened or a chair to be pulled.

“No one has ever seen him like this.” Queen Alicent marvels, as he watches him go fetch you a blanket in case the room is too cold for your liking. “Whatever you did to him…”

“Nothing, I assure you.” You answer, sternly. You don’t want her getting funny ideas, like that you are dabbling in witchery or the Seven knows what. It’s not something you can afford. Already balancing on a tightrope after the fight, any accusation could be your ruin. You do not trust Daemon’s change of heart. He is probably just biding his time.

Noticing something is amiss, Daemon comes back with the blanket, wrapping it around you. Alicent falls quiet.

Daemon stares at you, his hands lingering on your back more than necessary. He seems to be taking you in. His eyes fixate on your bosom a tad too long before you realize what he is doing, and you cover yourself more with the blanket.

Your cheeks heat up. You cough. Alicent’s brows raise.

“You are so beautiful, wife.” Daemon says, a bit dumbly.

“And you are a fool.” Your response is heated, and stupid, too. But you feel too embarrassed to care. Alicent is still sitting there, with a scandalized look on her face. Anyone would be ashamed to be the object of such obvious ogling, much less when they have never been exposed to it.

You are unused to this side of your husband. At most, when trying to consummate, Daemon would glance at you with disdain and proclaim it was all your fault. His eyes would never watch the heaving of your chest as you breathed, or the sway of your skirts when you walked. Were you superstitious, you would have thought him a man possessed.

Daemon laughs, either at your comment or your expression. It’s good, you suppose. At least he has not taken offense. You would have thought he would be angered, never one to suffer affronts to his pride without reacting.

“Your fool.” He leans down and places a kiss on your forehead, before walking away.

You stare at him. Alicent stares at you. Neither says anything. You are not sure what to make of it. It’s strange. It’s him now, who serves you dinner. The choicest cuts of meat, the sweetest of wines and meads, never asking for anything in exchange.

He has gotten unusually affectionate. Or possessive. Whatever it’s going through his mind, you don’t know. Daemon has never been open about his thoughts and feelings with you, unless they stem from displeasure.

Perhaps it’s a burst of boastfulness. He flaunts you, a hand on your waist, lower arm, whatever he can get away with. He is suddenly interested in the dresses you wear, commenting on them and gifting you new ones just because he thinks they would suit you. You do not miss the fact that the dresses are always in his house’s colors or styles he personally favors, with intricate needlework and embroidery.

It’s interesting. Once again, his testing of boundaries seems to come back. His hands are always playing with the curls at the nape of your neck, or the folds of your skirt. You have even caught him toying with the buttons of your bodice. It borders on the inappropriate.

“You are pushing it.” You say to him when his hands curls around yours as you dance. He is supposed to keep his hand extended for this step. He doesn’t seem to care. The other guests give him amused looks. No one is about to chide a Prince for his lovesick behavior towards his wife. Especially in a goodbye feast for the couple.

In truth, you are starting to think most of the fathers at court are relieved. If the Rogue Prince is chasing after his wife, then he is not chasing their daughters.

“Holding your hand is pushing it?” Daemon holds your hand more securely, as he makes you spin. This is another new and unexpected development. Now, he only dances with you. No heated looks at Rhaenyra, no longing glances towards Laena. You are not sure how you feel about it.

“It is. You are inconveniencing everyone.” You say, as he spins you again with a flourish. Despite wanting so badly to keep being cross with him, you cannot help but laugh with childish delight. What girl doesn’t want to be twirled around and made to feel special? “You are supposed to exchange partners.”

The balance of the dance has been thrown off by his refusal to let go of you. Any time there needs to be a switch, the couples flounder around the two of you. It’s childish on his part, but he seems unwilling to let you dance with another man.

“Oh, you haven’t seen me pushing it yet.” Daemon laughs, and pulls you in until your body is flush against his. It’s improper and probably not allowed. Scandalous, even. Yet again, no one is about to say anything.

Much less you, suddenly realizing that being pressed so close to Daemon is quite enjoyable. He smells surprisingly clean this evening. No trace of alcohol on his skin, or other women’s perfumes. Instead, he smells of the soap he usually favors and some sort of aromatic oil.

“Will you push further, then?” You raise your brows. It’s sort of amusing that Daemon is trying so hard. You would have not taken him for the seducing type, not when he had been so keen on dissolving your marriage.

“I will.” Daemon leans in, to whisper in your ear. His voice is low, thick with desire. It makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. “I want you. I burn for you. I need you in my bed, on top of me, under me, any way you will let me have you.”

You give a scandalized little gasp, softly hitting his shoulder. Daemon grins, pulling you in even more. The two of you are so close, you imagine you can feel his heart beating against yours.

“I’m not done.” He chuckles, leaning in to kiss your jaw. Daemon’s lips trail kisses towards your ear, teasingly blowing some air against it. “I want to spend the nights feasting between your thighs, on the valley of your breasts…”

“Stop it! We are in public.” You squeak, yet you look up at him like a flower searching for the sun. The attention he bestows on you is flattering, and you can't help but want to hear more.

“Do you want to hear a secret, wife? Every time you walk, I find myself lost in the sway of your hips. I want to drown on it. Drown on you. Until no trace of another remains, until the taste of your lips is the only thing I know.”

By this point, your skin feels so hot you worry you are about to combust. You gape at him. Not only has he dared to make a bold declaration, but he has done so in a room full of people.

You take a moment to gather yourself. Daemon could be bluffing for all you know, and so, you decide to match him. You brush your thumb against his cheekbone, feather-light.

“Then do it. No one is stopping you. Come to bed. Drown on me. Drink me, take me, ravish me.” You are trembling, and you only realize it when Daemon holds you tighter against him. You feel feverish, voice lowered to an urgent whisper. “Give me Valyrian sons, to hold my island when we are both gone.”

“No. No.” He says, against the curve of your neck, embraced much closer than the dance requires, making a spectacle. “I want them to have your smile and your eyes, and that infuriating curve of your shoulder. Give me daughters with your smart mouth, and your even temper. I want them to be proof of the love I had for you.”

You tremble more. Love. He really said… Oh, by the Seven.

“You are shaking.” Daemon kisses your brow. “Don’t. Unless it is from pleasure.”

Laughter rings in your ears. It's yours, but it feels foreign. You are too stunned to think clearly. Daemon tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear.

“Are you still there, Lady Wife?” He taps at your lower lip with his thumb. There is a teasing tilt to his smile, but his eyes are nervous. Vulnerable. Daemon was clearly not planning on confessing tonight. “Or have I broken you?”

“Prove it.” You say, still caught up on the love part. His declaration has sent your mind reeling, and shown you all of your latest interactions in a new light. You don’t know if Daemon knows what he is doing. He is a deeply passionate creature, much like his house’s sigil. Daemon doesn’t do infatuations, nor does he do dislikes. He loves or hates, and there is no in between.

“I will.” He promises, playing with a stray piece of hair that has fallen out of your up do. “Our whole lives. But perhaps I can start tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” You frown, puzzled. You even pull back from his embrace to be able to look at his face. What an odd thing to say. Despite it, you admire the utter shamelessness he has about it. Were it you the one accidentally confessing, you would be a bundle of nerves.

Daemon doesn’t even blush. Of course, there is the small fact that he believes himself to be the Seven’s gift to humankind. You suppose if you believed yourself to be irresistible, you wouldn’t be nervous either. Cockiness wasn’t something you thought did it for you, but it seemed like you were learning new things every day.

“You will see.” Daemon smiles. You let him keep his secret, figuring it can’t be anything that bad.

You discover what he means when you arrive at Claw Island. A dragon egg waits for you, the fireplace clearly modified in a hurry, judging by the new stones and bricks that were added to the hearth.

“Even if it never hatches, I want you to have it. For you are as Valyrian as we are, and I was a fool not to see it sooner. You are worthy. It should have been on your cradle as a child.”

Greed /ɡriːd/

a strong desire for more wealth, possessions, power, etc. than a person needs.

The way his eyes trail after you now, it’s quite unfamiliar. Not lust, nor disdain. Something entirely new. Heavier.

Your afternoons have been filled with new entertainment. You coo at the egg, holding it over the fire. Sometimes, Daemon kneels beside you and helps you hold it, making a game of it. How long before either of you gets burned? How long can you endure, hands so close to the fire, before you are yelping and giving it to him?

When you think he is not looking, you speak to it in High Valyrian, whispering soft promises of how loved him or her will be once it hatches. There is no doubt in your mind it will. Perhaps not in weeks, or even months. Yet, your heart tells you there will be a dragon before your life ends.

Every night, you place the egg in the bed next to you. On your side, you curl around it, trying to share your warmth. Daemon reaches forward, sometimes. When he thinks you are asleep, his hand will curl over your waist and touch the egg, pressing it more against your stomach. You wonder what he means by it.

Does he know what he is doing? The low lullabies he half sings, half mutters under his breath indicate a yes. The way his lips curl into a soft smile against your nape show a longing that’s very much not subconscious.

Just as a pot of boiling water, the egg hatches a night no one it’s looking at it. Both Daemon and you are curled in a love seat, engrossed in a book. He is reading something about the doom of Valyria, your legs over his lap. You are submerged in a text about a man’s travels around the Free Cities.

One of his hands is wrapped around your ankle, in the sweetest of chains. Each time he flips a page, he will brush it with his thumb, softly. While not unwelcome, it’s strange. You are not used to being comforted in the same way you did for him during the first months of marriage. While Daemon doesn’t expect any kind of retribution, you find yourself granting it anyway.

The domesticity is quickly broken, however, when a strange noise fills the halls of your home. At first, you are unable to hear it through the background noise, but if you strain your ears, you can just make it out. It’s a shrill cross between a bird’s chirps and someone crying.

“Daemon?” You close your book and stare at him. Unable to help it, you get a little sidetracked, watching his face. His mouth is pursed in concentration, the candlelight giving his features a golden glow. Despite him being several years older than you, you cannot help but find him terribly handsome. Age has only turned him more distinguished. You betted he was dashing when younger, but unlike his brother, he has aged like a fine wine.

Sensing your eyes on him, he gives you a lazy smile.

“Little wife.” His voice comes out in a pleased rumble at having caught you looking. Your face heats up. Daemon's eyes shift from yours, to your mouth, then back to your eyes. You squirm under his gaze, trying to focus.

“Do you hear that?” You force yourself to utter.

“Hear what?” Daemon leans more towards you, his hand squeezing your knee. You give a small, delighted shiver. Good gods, what is it about him that gets you to turn into a puddle of want with the simplest touch?

“Some sort of animal crying.”

Daemon frowns. He tilts his head to the side, as if to listen better. You keep quiet, hoping to aid him. Then, his face breaks out in the biggest grin.

“It hatched! You amazing, wonderful woman.” He praises, pulling you into him. The hug is awkward, but it doesn’t last because you are too eager to see the baby dragon. Your dragon. You squirm out of his hold and rush out of the room, not even bothering to put on shoes, Daemon hot on your heels.

When you open the door to your chambers, you find the cutest thing ever. A baby dragon, slimy and confused, sits in the middle of his egg in the fireplace. It’s all big, dark eyes and long limbs, much like a baby horse. Unable to resist the temptation, you reach towards them.

“I do not…” Daemon tries to stop you, but the baby dragon climbs right up into your arms, curling close to your chest. Eager to touch it, you let it climb over your shoulder and nuzzle you, even if the sudden weight makes you stagger a little.

“That was really dangerous.” Your husband reprimands, trying to lift it away from you. The baby dragon snorts towards his direction, as if attempting to breathe fire. It only manages to give a cute little sneeze. Daemon glares.

“Aw, you are just like a baby.” You coo at the dragon, petting its head. Daemon looks even more disgruntled.

“Your dragon tried to burn me.” He complains.

“It’s a baby, husband. They don’t know any better.” You rub the scales on its back, soothingly. Unwilling to let go, you find yourself looking around your bedroom. “Let it stay here? Just for tonight.”

Daemon glares. You give him your biggest, most pleading eyes. He relents.

“Fine. But it’s not sleeping on the bed with us. And only for tonight.”

“Only for tonight.”

A month after, and the baby dragon is still sleeping in your bed. He has taken to laying between Daemon and you, leeching off your warmth. Daemon complains of having to sleep on the edge of the bed and his back being sore, but despite it, never once asks you to send the dragon outside with Caraxes.

The trouble starts, how not, with a trip to King’s Landing. This time, you ride with him, as a passenger to Caraxes, while the baby dragon follows. When Daemon lands, the dragon keepers fret around your baby, unsure of what to do with the unexpected visitor.

You command him to stay by your side, despite the protests of the dragon keepers. You are arguing and complaining and shielding your baby while Daemon only watches, amused.

Perhaps the commotion attracts more people, or someone calls for them, but you end up cornered as King Viserys makes his way to the dragon pit.

“What do we have here?” He asks, smiling at you. You give him a nervous look. Your dragon has gotten bigger, and so, you can not pick him up gracefully, but you usher him behind you regardless.

“Nothing, your grace.” You say, lacking your usual charm. You feel nervous about leaving the baby dragon on his own in the dragon pit. What if the other dragons don’t like him? What if he gets lonely?

With one hand, you reach for Daemon. His fingers meet yours halfway, squeezing reassuringly. More often than not, being a woman, your orders were not taken seriously. But if your husband gave an order, people would rush to obey. You hope he intercedes in your favor.

“Daemon, please.” You say, under your breath. “Don’t let them send him away. He will behave.”

“What do I gain, little wife?” He asks, interlocking your fingers together. Daemon gives his most charming grin to his brother, before pulling you into him. You go willingly, body lax and pliant for him. “A kiss, perhaps?”

“Please.” You turn to look at him, hoping to move him. This close, once again, you feel slightly distracted. Your husband smells so nice, and his hands feel so good around your waist, it’s no hardship at all. You press a kiss to his cheek.

“Must you always arrive with such a ruckus?” Viserys frowns. Daemon gives him a small smile.

“You know me.” Slowly, he starts to lead you towards the Red Keep, a hand placed protectively on your lower back. The message is clear. Daemon wants you to make your dragon follow you. You don’t even need to order it because your baby, smart as it is, is already following. The dragon keepers step back, muttering unhappily.

“Is it going inside?” Viserys point at your dragon. Foolishly, you had been hoping he didn’t notice, and so, your stomach drops. But Daemon doesn’t falter, strolling confidently inside as if he owned the place.

“He will behave. As long as no one touches her.” Normally, you despise when people talk about you as if you are not there. Currently, though, you can only feel relief that your dragon is not getting sent to sleep outside in the cold. He is just too little for it.

Viserys walks you towards his private dining room. A blonde child runs around, playing. The Princess and Ser Laenor are already there. And Alicent is even more heavily pregnant than before.

“How have you been?” You ask Alicent, sitting next to her. You half expect to be left out of the conversation as you were a few months before, and so, choose to sit next to someone who has been kind to you. The baby dragon hops on your lap when you take your seat.

Alicent looks absolutely horrified.

“Good enough.” She speaks, blinking slowly. It’s clear she cannot believe her eyes. She stares at the dragon in a mix of awe and fear.

“He is harmless.” You explain, petting it as if it were a small dog and not a baby dragon. “Do you want to pet him?”

Alicent reaches forward with a trembling hand. The dragon sniffs her, and curls to sleep again.

“… And I was thinking of changing the layout of the hall, to make sure he fits…” You hear Daemon complain, and your ears immediately perk up. Is he talking about your baby?

“So you keep it inside?” Viserys asks, sounding disbelieving.

“I have never seen such a close bond.” Daemon boasts. He sounds as if he is proud of you, you realize. It makes something warm flutter in your stomach. No longer are you the wife he never wanted and tried to get rid of. “Damn thing sleeps on the bed with us. It’s better trained than a dog, seriously. We should have given Celtigars dragons a long time away.”

“Why not leave it outside?” From where you are seated, you can’t see his face, but you imagine by his tone, Viserys is smiling.

“She will riot. She loves him as her own son.” Daemon explains. You keep your eyes trained on the nervous Alicent, who has managed to lay her hand on top of your dragon’s head. She looks about to bolt.

“Isn’t he the nicest thing?” You say to Alicent, excited. “He thinks I am his mom, or something. Isn’t it great?”

Alicent does not look as impressed as you hoped for, but she gives you a kind smile. She seems willing to tolerate your eccentricities if for the sake of not having to make conversation with Rhaenyra.

“Very nice.” She compliments. “Pretty colors. Prince Daemon was very kind, giving it to you.”

“He is.” You smile, softly. “Although he complains all the time.”

Alicent shrugs. This time, both of you tune in the conversation between Daemon and Viserys.

“Perhaps, as you build him something outside, you can distract her with an actual baby.” Viserys says. Alicent looks torn at the comment, and you can’t help but feel slightly embarrassed by the topic.

It’s not something you had thought about before. Well, you had. Never with him, though. As a girl, you dreamed of being a mother, and as a woman, Daemon and you had discussed the issue of heirs already. You had spoken about it during your last goodbye feast, in this same castle. But those words had been spoken in the height of passion, and neither of you had done anything about it.

“Trust me. Next time she holds a babe, it will be a proper human one.” Daemon says, and his hand finds yours over the table. You look up at him, meeting his purple eyes. He looks hungry. Starved, even.

You lower your eyes demurely. Viserys laughs. And Daemon, greedy as he is, lifts your hand to his mouth and presses a soft kiss to your knuckles.

Sloth /sləʊθ/

the bad habit of being lazy and unwilling to work.

The light filters in through the open curtains, giving the room a soft glow. Daemon’s face scrunches up, bothered by the sunlight in his eyes. He has tried to convince you to sleep with them drawn, but you are unwilling. To you, the best way to wake up is slowly, with the sun. Or so you say. He is not very convinced.

Daemon stretches. You reach for him in your sleep. He gives himself a moment to savor it, the fact that he can finally pull you closer. The dragon is finally gone from his bed, although he is no way near distracting you with a babe.

Dragons are not pets. Daemon had been taught that since the cradle, even before he had a dragon of his own. Their control over them was only an illusion, and so, they should be trusted but feared. He had lived by that rule, never once questioning it. Until you.

Watching you raise yours as if it were your own child had proven interesting. You lacked his education about them, but you made up for it by sheer enthusiasm. The fact that your dragon had not bitten your hand off yet or burned you to a crisp could only mean two things: You were some sort of forest nymph, or they were mistaken about their approach to dragons. He knew which one he thought was true.

How much was nature, and how much was nurture in their relationship with dragons? Trying to answer that question would occupy his entire lifetime. Daemon hoped that watching you gave him some insight. Even if he ended up discovering you were a nymph in disguise or some sort of goddess of the hunt. He wouldn’t regret it, fascinating as you were.

No matter how much food for thought you gave him, Daemon had been enjoying the joys of marriage. Perhaps, a little too much. Seeing you with the baby dragon had awoken some unexpected feelings. Targaryens were dragons, after all. When the time came, you would make a good mother. Not only were your instincts well-developed, but you seemed to thrive on having something to nurture.

Ah, the joys of domesticity. Daemon loves that you trust him enough now to allow him to witness you at your most fragile. Asleep and wearing a soft white night shift, you are deliciously innocent. Giving, too. You do not complain when his hands find your hips or when he pulls you flush against him. Nor do you move away when his face hides in your lovely locks, mussed with sleep.

Your expression is open and vulnerable in ways you are never when truly awake. Your eyes open just the tiniest sliver, before you hide your face on your pillow, rubbing against it like the sweetest kitten.

He adores you like this. Worships you, even. Obsessed with the curve of your hip, or the soft flesh above your womb. Daemon can’t help but rub it, hoping to manifest a child into existence without actually fucking you.

If he believed in such a thing, as so many fools in this realm did, Daemon would say this was the Seven Heavens. But he knew the truth. Just like you, who worshiped the Old Gods of Valyria, Daemon did too. How could he not when he had a tiny goddess sharing his bed?

Your nose scrunches up. You twitch. Worshiping a little nymph, now that was hard work. Especially when the nymph in question does her best to escape his personal worshiping time.

If Daemon could spend all day in bed, just like this, he would. He would trace your features with his mouth, peppering your face with soft kisses. He would feast on the soft curve of your neck, drink up all your sweet little noises. Trace a path down your soft limbs, draw nonsensical patterns on your stomach. But you are an energetic little thing, always jumping out of bed, no matter the pleasure he tempts you with.

Convincing you to stay is hard, but Daemon likes to think it’s an art he has perfected. It’s not a ritual, by any means. Each morning goes differently. Sometimes, you need to be kissed silly. Sometimes, you need to be gently worshiped and coaxed back to sleep. But his favorite mornings are the ones that go like this.

“I have to go check on the tenants, down by the shore. The rain season just started.” You complain, as he noses along your hairline. Suddenly, Daemon’s arms are empty. He opens his eyes to find you sitting up and pulling your robe over your night shift.

You look delectable in red. He should buy you more robes like that one. Especially because he is about to ruin it.

“Did you say at what hour you are going?” Daemon sits up as well, toying with the edge of your robe. You bat his hands away, playfully.

“No.” You are hurriedly standing up, perhaps knowing what comes next. Daemon grabs your robe, and pulls you back in, using all his strength.

No matter how much you try to keep your feet planted on the floor, you end up tumbling back into bed. You give a girlish shriek, a smile already forming on your face. You struggle, kicking the blankets off the bed.

“Come back here, you little minx.” He tugs you by the ankle, making you laugh. Your hair is sticking up in all directions and your chest heaves up and down with the exertion of putting up a fight.

Daemon secretly loves it. He would never tell you because you would be outraged, but he enjoys the idea of overpowering you. Perhaps, once you fully trust him, he could ask you to play like that. But for now, he takes what he can get.

“Or else what Lord husband?” You tease, still trying to escape him. More blankets and furs are sent flying off the bed. You give a mean little tug to his hair.

“That was it!” Daemon complains, and starts tickling you. The night shift rides tantalizingly up your hips, giving him an unintentional show. He feels his blood warming, arousal turning into a dull throb in his loins. Your legs kick wildly, you squirm on the bed, and your eyes fill with tears from laughing so much.

It’s only when your poor body can’t take it anymore, and you are crying from laughter that he stops. He thinks of how it would feel, to overwhelm you in a different context, make your body take and take until tears ran freely down your temples. A different sort of crown for his forest nymph, one made from her own silver tears. The visual is too much for him to take without giving himself away.

Daemon lies on top of you, smothering you with his weight. He licks a few stray drops of sweat from your neck, making you flay once again. There will be a day when play wrestling will turn into something much less sweet. That day, though, it’s not today.

“Get off!” You complain. “That’s disgusting.”

“I could eat you up.” He teases, nuzzling into your neck. It's the truth. Daemon loves the taste of your skin and your smell. If he thought he could get away with it, he would crawl between your thighs and feast on you. “You are delicious, wife.”

“Daemon.” You push lightly at him, trying to get up. Again. But your words lack their previous conviction. Daemon can tell he is getting to you. “It’s getting late.”

“The tenants can wait. Let us hide from the world a little longer.” He pleads, clinging to you. Under him, exhausted after the play wrestling, you go limp. He knows he has won then.

You spend the whole day in bed. The tenants end up being visited closer to sundown. Daemon does not regret it one bit.

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gi4hao · 11 months ago

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a story of garden parties

neighbor!seungcheol x gn!reader

warnings: a vaguely implied mention of alcohol, lots of mentions of food, cheol taking his shirt off *bites lip*

your neighbor’s friends warned you: they’re often around. but that only means seungcheol always has room for one more person, especially if that person happens to be you.

march 24th, 11:41am

it’s the very last thing on your to-do list. something you only allowed yourself to do after cleaning your entire house and unpacking exactly thirteen full cardboard boxes: changing the nameplate on your mailbox. proudly admiring the way your family name states that this is, indeed, a house that now belongs to you, you feel a great sense of accomplishment rushing through your veins. of course you’re far from being done with moving in, but you have a feeling everything will go easy now that the hardships of paperwork are behind you.

on your right, the sound of footsteps and friendly chatters make you look away from your brand new mailbox. you count not one, not two, not even three people walking towards you, but seven. for a moment you wonder whether your neighborhood is something worthy of touristic visits… but watching these guys closely, you realize they’re all carrying food and drinks of various kinds, therefore eliminating the tourist theory.

you greet the group with a polite smile, and the seven of them utter scattered heys and hellos. only one of them actually speaks up:

“hi! are you the new tenant?”

“i am, yeah! i just moved in today. are you guys… neighbors of mine?”

they’re quick to inform you that none of them is actually living in this neighborhood, but that they’re all headed to your actual neighbor’s house, making the most of the sun to have a little get-together. a barbecue, specifically.

you’ve met your neighbor already, although only through hurried exchanges during your two visits of the place. he seemed like a nice guy, although you couldn’t quite remember right now.

“well, don’t hesitate to come and say hi! my name’s seungkwan, you might see us a lot around here if i’m being honest”, the same guy tells you, and you think they all must be pretty close to invite other people to each other’s houses.

may 20th, 1:30pm

“thanks!” you tell seungcheol as he hands you the drink you’ve been advised to try for months now, a creation straight out of joshua’s mind.

and indeed, you understand what the hype is about from the very first sip. you face translates your satisfaction, and causes seungcheol to crack you a smile.

“i needed that”, you admit, putting the glass down on the kitchen table. through the patio door, you get a perfect view of jeonghan trying his hardest to push mingyu in the pool. “thank you for inviting me by the way, it’s always nice to hang out with you guys.”

this is probably a more acceptable thing to say than the actual truth: that the main reason why you accepted the invitation was seungcheol himself.

“no worries, we like having you around”, he replies, getting started on his own drink. “is everything okay though? you seem a bit tensed.”

well, so much for trying your best not to look like you haven’t spent your entire morning having a breakdown over a multitude of sudden bad news.

you’ve gotten closer to seungcheol lately. the sunny weather brought many occasions for spontaneous conversations in your driveway, a few drinks at each other’s houses when the timing seemed right, and even a couple of parties. in other terms, you’re close enough to tell him when you’re feeling down, but maybe not close enough to always tell him why.

still, he’s always listened to you with a patient and reliable ear, making sure your interactions always felt comfortable for the both of you. but this sense of comfort is precisely the reason why neither of you seem willing to make a move.

you take another sip of your drink before answering: “i’m okay, nothing my beautiful new kitchen lights can’t fix.”

he chuckles, knowing you’re referring to the latest thing he’s done for you around your house. and his cheeks feel unusually hot. “well, feel free to ask if you ever need anything else. i don’t mind at all”, he smiles before walking around the kitchen table, motioning you to follow him outside.

your drink in hand as you step onto his wooden patio, you have to make a conscious effort to look away when he lifts his t-shirt over his head. lying on their deckchairs, minghao and jihoon are sharing knowing looks behind your back.

august 6th, 11:56pm

“am i even doing this right?” you ask, not really knowing whether you’re talking to yourself or not.

two hands come to rest on your shoulders, and you feel cheol leaving a kiss on the back of your head, making you instantly melt. “looks perfect to me”, he answers, looking at the chicken and vegetables sizzling on the grill.

you would take that as a compliment if it had come from anyone else, but since cheol has a tendency to believe that everything you do is perfection, you’re not really sure how much truth is behind those words.

so you pick up a slice of bell pepper with your fork, blow on it and turn around to feed it to him.

“perfect”, he confirms with a content smile, before leaning in to leave a kiss on your cheek.

behind him, you catch sight of seungkwan frowning in disgust: “don’t spread your cheesiness all over our food please. what if it’s contagious?”

reacting much quicker than you, cheol throws a towel that hits him right in the chest, all while simultaneously telling him to start handing around the plates.

“wow, someone doesn’t like to be called cheesy…”, you remark in an amused tone as you bring the first batch of food on the table.

“is it cheesy to say you’re the only one who’s allowed to say it?” he questions and pulls you closer for a kiss, fully knowing the answer to his own question.

sure, you guys might be a bit cheesy, but if you were to come up with an explanation, you’d say it’s just the natural release of months of pent-up affection. but everything feels so right now, and you can’t even remember the last time you felt alone, cheol’s presence and sturdiness being your safety net at every inconvenience in your life.

and as much as seungkwan and the others love to tease you for it, they’ll always cherish your fondness for each other, as long as it keeps on making their best friend the happiest man ever.

#not sure how i feel about thisssss #kinda stressed ngl #anyways let’s go for the tags :o #seventeen fluff #seventeen x reader #seventeen imagines #seungcheol x reader #seungcheol fluff #seungcheol imagines #scoups x reader #scoups fluff #scoups imagines

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shinelikethunder · 1 year ago

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landlord gave me notice at 3pm thursday and by 9am tomorrow, sunday march 10th 2024, propelled by equal parts terror and incandescent fury, i will be putting in an offer to buy An Entire House.

i mean, it's a nice and low-risk little house, at a price that makes it a no-brainer to jump on it before it goes - but still, this is fucking surreal. i could technically have had the offer in by 3pm today; this is me taking the time to think it over. except there's not much to think over: i need a place and this one's solid, and the monthly payment is the exact same as what i was just offered in order to rent half as much duplex by the landlord who's kicking me out to renovate and price-gouge.

and i'm not gonna pretend one of the emotions driving my haste here isn't the vicious satisfaction of having just enough fuck-you money to pull this off. in all likelihood i'll be filling out mortgage paperwork by the time his ass even gets around to fitting a walkthrough of the half-duplex into his busy house-flipping schedule, and if he wanted his model tenant placidly paying the extortion rent on that place - two days before the first of every month like i've been doing for the five years i've lived here - then maybe he shouldn't have fucking dicked me around.

#i'm trying not to think too hard about the cat because whatever's going to happen with him will happen no matter where i move to :/#but also because if i think about that too hard i will make some choices that guarantee i'll never see a cent of my security deposit back #and i am about to need all the fucking cashflow i can get

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aziraphales-library · 6 months ago

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Hello!! I really appreciate your blog. I've been looking for fics told through, or just including, letters as a main theme. Thank you, have a lovely day.

Hi! You will want to check our #epistolary tag for more fics like this. Here are more to add...

A Selection of Unsent Letters from a Demon by Heretic1103 (T)

At the urging of his human friends and his grief therapy group, Crowley begins writing letters to Aziraphale that he never intends to send.

the wallpaper (slowly, slowly peeling off) by rainbowumbrella (M)

Aziraphale should put the letters away, he knew. He should just scoop them all up and slip them back into the box. No point dilly-dallying. Muriel was waiting, and so was Heaven. And yet - And yet he found himself scanning the contents of the first one in his hand, his back finding a rest on the shelf behind him, his legs crossing neatly beneath him, all without a single thought to his perfectly clean trousers. What did they matter? He hated them, anyway. *** A falling book leads Aziraphale to find a box containing all the letters he and Crowley have exchanged through the years.

Letters Unsent by Beet_Feet (T)

"You took my letter?!" Crowley sat up and twisted to look at Aziraphale with his mouth agape. "I did nothing of the sort! I found it in my notebook—the notebook in which I had written you a letter that mysteriously disappeared." "This letter?" Crowley reached down to the floorboard and held the letter up in front of Aziraphale's very flabbergasted face. He had dropped it when the angel appeared in the Bentley. "Where did you get that?!" "I found it on my car. I think someone has been playing us, Angel. Did Muriel pay you a visit today, by any chance?" (Crowley and Aziraphale vent their frustrations by writing letters they will never send to each other, but Muriel decides to meddle.)

A Letter for Later by ngk_is_cool (G)

"Anyway," his eyes returned to the newspaper, and he continued reading, “another exhibition is A Letter for Later. It will include clay tablets from Mesopotamia, vellum from Wessex, and even a modern Palm Pilot that was found at Battersea Park full of unsent love letters. It will explore the theme of unrequited love over the development of humanity…." His eyes scanned quickly the rest of the article, and he hummed in satisfaction. "It will open two weeks from now, and apparently in high demand, so much that the article recommended buying tickets in advance. Would you like to go, my dear?" Or - Crowley wrote and destroyed (or, at least, he thought did) love letters. Now they are about to be published, and he has a great plan to make sure it won't happen.

Postcards From Paris by ghostrat (G)

Crowley has just moved into his Mayfair apartment and finds a postcard addressed to the previous tenant. With no return address, he's left to collect and read the mysterious A.Z.F.'s adventures across Europe, where he hunts for bizarre bibles and rates ridiculously expensive wine in his free time. The question is: How will A.Z.F. react when Crowley finally gets his return address and writes back? --- It was different, he knew, to accidentally read someone else’s postcard versus intentionally perusing one in place of good newspaper over coffee. Crowley decided he was allowed that indecency, to balance out the good deed of safeguarding the mail in the first place. He kicked his feet up onto his desk, scooped up the takeaway coffee that was brought around by their newest intern, and settled in to read some of the most densely crowded handwriting he’d ever laid eyes on.

You’ve Got Mail by SouthDrarryReturned (T)

Aziraphale and Crowley are hereditary enemies, rival book shop owners engaged in corporate warfare. They are also pen pals that are perfect for one another. They don’t know about that bit though. A.K.A the Good Omen’s remake of the classic romcom You’ve Got Mail that no one asked for.

- Mod D

#good omens #ineffable husbands #human au #epistolary #love letters #mod d

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heartfullofleeches · 2 years ago

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Cinnamon Cream

Yan Couple [F+M] + G.N Reader

A.N: The winning pair from a poll I ran to satisfy my craving for edible partners. The duo are heavily implied to made out of the foods they represent as a heads up

"Care for another roll, Hun? Can't send you home on an empty stomach."

This woman was trying to kill you. The tinge of cinnamon fresh on your tongue, you couldn't fathom the consequence of taking on another pastry when you've only sampled the first. Your stomach being empty was the last of your concerns with how big it was. Your free hand lie flat on the table and even it was off by a few inches. She claimed to have made this batch smaller so you could finish the full dozen before you left which you found quite impossible. Prying the fork from your teeth, you let the woman down as best you could - praying to be let off with the rest to take home.

"No thank you, Mrs. Cinnabar - I haven't finished the first."

Her jovial demeanor is not lost as she takes the utensil off your hands. "You can drop the formalities, Love. We're all friends here. You'll have to forgive me for everything else. Izzy worked so hard on his part and I would hate for it to melt before you become addicted to us both."

The smell hits you before you take the bite she offers. No matter the date in time, she always smelled like a bakery. Mrs. Cinnabar has been your neighbor for about a year now following the disappearance of the last tenant not even a week before she and her partner moved in. A friendly face to all, she had taken a special liking to you when your paths finally crossed. Being next door neighbors was one reason, but she also told you she took an immediate interest to you similar to the instant attraction she felt towards her husband. He wasn't in the picture often, and so your company patched up the hole his absence left. With the combination of her loneliness and the rewards of free meals - who were you to say no when she asked for you to visit? Today's dessert was meant to be special and now you knew why.

Cheeks stuffed with pastry, the sweet bread takes up a new texture as you manage to scarf it all down. Rich, velvety cream with just a hint of vanilla; the cold, ceremonious blend to an otherwise warm and sticky treat. As the taste settles on your tongue, you could piece together traces of the ice cream mixed directly into the icing of the cinnamon roll - the delicate flavor you had trouble putting your finger on before. It certainly lived up to the hype set for it by the woman at your side. The scent of cinnamon is almost overpowering as Cinnabar sweeps her thumb up the corner of your sugar crusted lips; smile as sweet as the roll on your plate.

"Well, don't keep me waiting. You like it - don't you, Hun?"

"I-it's great... Wish I could give my compliments to your spouse."

Cinnabar peaks up in her seat; a chill running down your spine at the extend of her grin. For a brief moment she looks behind you. "Who said you couldn't?"

Leaning back in your seat, you come to find that the source of your chattering teeth is not her smile, but the hands of the man gripping the back of your chair. His glare is as icy as the frost radiating off him, your breath visible as you exhale in surprise. Stoic as a brick wall, his eyes show signs of satisfaction drifting over the missing forkful of the now frozen dessert. Ever so slow, he cleans the remaining crumbs off your face before joining his wife's side of the table. Perching an arm over her shoulder, he slides a metal ring into her breast pocket as she takes his hand.

"Y/n, Izzy. Izzy..." Cinnabar rests her head on his wrist. "knows all about you already. Nosy thing has listened in on all of our conversations before now and I'd say he adores your company as much I as I."

"but... I thought you said he was gone most of the day?"

"Oh, he is, Hun. Up in his study. Not too good at speaking with other humans. Specially cuties like yourself, isn't that right, Dear."

Izzy nods his head with a grunt - pale face just shy of a flush under the kitchen lighting.

"We both care about you so much, Hun. Watching you has opened so many doors for us so it's only fair we open ours to you. We've thought hard about how to introduce you to life with us, but the best start was showing you have well we work together. How good all of us could be for each other. I'll keep you warm in the winter, Izzy can cool you down in the summer. You...can just be you. We know this is a lot to take in now, but soon you'll see things our way."

Cinnabar retrieves a set of keys from her pocket, twirling the familiar ring round her finger. "We can talk more about this after you finish your dessert."

#Yandere spouse #yandere oc #yandere x reader #yandere #yandere imagines #yandere scenarios #yandere insert #yandere headcanons #yandere x you #yandere blurb #yandere drabble #male yandere #female yandere #yandere monster #poly yandere #cinnar my oc #izzy my oc

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unsoundedcomic · 4 months ago

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Whumptober 2024 - 21 - "Body Horror"

The Cather account was overdue by a day. A dozen contracts in triplicate, each three pages, each page nearly black with words packed as frugally and cruelly together as the 300 unwanted toddlers housed inside the Bantam Street Orphan Asylum.

The page count should be twice what it was. The deadline should be twice what it was as well. That cheap bastard Cather. Duane had spent the whole of the morning and afternoon working on the job, and had learned for the first time in six years that eye strain was possible with even the manner of eyes that one could remove and polish on one's sleeve.

Once each orb glistened to his satisfaction, they were slid again into his skull. A weary, unhappy groan from his artificial voice box shook his artificial lungs. Blast it all. His artificial tongue drily traced the backs of his artificially straight teeth.

Cheap bastard Cather.

A great one for the wine, that one, his landlady said (how she loved to gossip with her exotic Aldish tenant). Wouldn't let his wife cook for him either, ate every meal at one of the restaurants on the pier - belike fancied one of the serving girls there! Oh, men, they were each of them dogs led around by the prick. It's made him fat, too. Mr Adelier, have you marked the wattle! A fat turkey, him, strutting the paving stones, fanning his papers like a proud cock's tail.

Adelier! I need these by the morning, Adelier! Why can't you work nights, you lazy moulten Ald!

Duane leaned hard against the curve of his chair. By inches, he squeezed together his clavicles and rocked slowly further and further backwards, away from the edge of his desk. One by one, with dusty pops, each sere vertebra separated. But held. He'd first had to wire the lower column years ago, but every restringing afterwards was a wee bit better than the one before. He'd joked to himself - for his landlady would not appreciate the grisly thought - that he'd so mastered the art he might give up the scrivening and become a dollmaker, or perhaps try his hand at engineering a suspension bridge.

Still bent back, he raised one arm towards the stained ceiling, and rotated it at the shoulder clockwise. The slow turn of his flattened hand fascinated him. And there was nothing to stop it. The wires connecting it to his torso forbade naught; allowed all range of motion, even if it thrilled and horrified some primal part of his soul when he turned the arm further, and further, and further than any living man could. He counted the limb's each revolution, multiplying the 360s, reaching a factor of 20 before letting it spin back into place. Its final floppy turn caught his temple and knocked a mad laugh out of him.

Was anyone watching through the shop window? He should not be so careless. But, no, no. The street was empty. The dinner hour was passed. The shadows stretched long. They crept across the pavement outside like a crone's bloodless fingers. Golden had grown the light.

Cheap bastard Cather.

The contracts watched him watching them. Real estate loans for properties inland, towards the Beadman offices. What if a candle overturned. The paper would burn like autumn leaves. Would the properties alight too? Hundreds of acres giving themselves up as ash to the empyrean.

Cheap bastard Cather would not burn. No. Duane thought Cather would roast. Three-hundred pounds of flesh spit through the middle like a Treenahinn hog. His waistcoat would split open. Pale belly would glisten over the flames, then by degrees darken from ivory to umber. Fat would run from his wattle and hiss in the embers. They could carve him up and serve him tableside at that restaurant he fancied.

Duane crossed his arms over his chest and thinned his sore eyes at the flushed sky outside. It was a flesh colour, that flush. The tenderness of raw cheek. Could a dead man bite into it? If he could contort his limbs farther and bend his back further then could he not reach his starving maw higher? High into heaven. Dip hollow metacarpals through the honey-coloured clouds - part them like a woman's petticoats; part them and reach beyond, to the blushing pink-

Duane's thoughts swam as his insides curdled. Ssael, did he wish to bite that cheap bastard Cather, or bed him?

God help him, what did it matter. The pauper could dream of a roast leg of lamb or a roast leg of vliegeng; he would be receiving neither. Muttering invectives, Duane rose unsteadily from his chair amidst a riot of rattling bones and popping joints. The madness was flirting early tonight. His manacles called.

Reaching to shutter the front window, he saw the fingers missing from his right hand.

Distantly, as though recalling a face from twenty years ago, he realised he'd gnawed them off while fantasizing of cooking his client and violating the sky. The memory was there. Where had his mind been? His mind had been...

They'd have to be dug out of his abdomen in the morning. They'd have to be carefully rewired.

Anteit Vaosa.

The Cather account would not be finished tomorrow either. And Cather would come into his shop and scream and sweat and grow red as a candied ham-

The galit ran for its manacles, and had to lock them with its teeth.

#whumptober #unsounded

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axrynic · 1 year ago

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Sketch -> recent WIP (full on patreon)

Another piece I started several months ago. I think it's important to practice patience with ourselves when we start something but don't have the skills/time/energy to finish right away, especially creative endeavors! Learning that urgency is a tenant of white supremacy helped me to slow down and relax around my art (although it's an ongoing practice!). Art trends and social media can really put pressure on artists to produce instead of create, and to be fair, it is truly exciting when something you've made gets a lot of engagement and finding and making online community is amazing! It's a fine balance though because we can easily shift our motivations for creating away from our own internal satisfaction and fulfillment and become vulnerable to inscrutable algorithms and parasocial expectations.

Caitjinx is not a popular ship, and it's not my main ship, but I love the drama and how they're both foils and similar to each other!

#arcane #arcane fanart #caitjinx #caitlyn x jinx #jinx fanart #caitlyn fanart #caitlyn league of legends #WIP

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red-elric · 2 months ago

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aight i got some attention 😎 here's my thesis on classpects lol

ASPECTS:

- aspects in homestuck represent a fundamental part (or "aspect") of the universe. each aspect is a building block that, when used in combination with the other aspects, creates the universe as we (or the players) know it. the aspects primarily work in distinct pairs to create six fundamental tenants of the universe. three of these tenants exist on a more cosmic scale, and the remaining three exist on a personal scale. additionally, within each pair of aspects, there is one aspect that serves as an expanding, limitless concept with large amounts of potential; the other aspect in the pair serves to limit and guide the first with a much more concrete definition and power. (note: this is not to say the limitless aspect has more power or is stronger than the limiting aspect; there is power in limiting as well, and the broadness of the limitless aspects can make them difficult to interpret and utilize. no aspect is more important or powerful than another)

- the cosmic tenants are those that relate to paradox space, fate, the timeline, and the universe. these aspects exist on a grander scale than the personal aspects, but conversely they have little to do with actual people/players and their relationships and emotions. players that act in service to a cosmic aspect can find themselves limited in personal development; whereas those that rebel against the cosmic aspect assigned to them may find themselves personally fulfilled, but less effective in matters that the game deems important. the cosmic aspects are void/light, mind/doom, and space/time. (note that these six aspects all have symbols that are roughly circular in shape and are symetrical in at least one direction, often more than one direction.)

- VOID/LIGHT: this aspect pair deals with the tenant of CHAOS AND ORDER. void is the limitless aspect of nothingness; it is the chaos through which every concept might exist, but through the contradictory overlap it is meaningless. light limits void by giving it order, picking through the infinite possibilities and finding the one true path with meaning, creating a narrative. void and light also have associations with luck; while void represents the statistical inevitability that anything that could exist does, somewhere, light represents the infintessimal chances that any given possibility actually DOES exist in the reality the players exist in. light has a tendency to try to make things 'work out the way they should;' light players have an association with heroism and narrative satisfaction; they can seem more like characters in a story than any other players and tend to feel something is 'off' if things don't work out the way they 'should.' conversely, void has the capacity to understand that anything is possible; void players have incredible capacity to 'roll with the punches' as nothing can really surprise them, but they can veer towards nihilism and depression if they conclude 'nothing matters.' void and light are represented in a more literal sense by darkness and space (void) or brightness and sources of light (light); players that are more literal minded may end up with abilities relating to these representations, such as a prince of light being able to remove all light from an area to allow stealth attacks.

- MIND/DOOM: this aspect pair deals with the tenant of CHOICE AND FATE. mind is the limitless aspect of choices; it is the existence of every possible branching reality, brought upon by every individual choice that might be made. doom limits mind by definining the alpha timeline as the one that is 'real;' all other branches are 'doomed.' this does not mean they are meaningless, especially since doomed timelines frequently interact with the alpha timeline; it simply means the events in these timelines are not the ones fated to happen by paradox space. mind represents a player's free will, stating that their actions have distinct consequences; 'we make our own luck.' doom represents the determinism inherent to paradox space, stating that actions exist for the benefit of the alpha timeline; 'we've been doomed from the start.' doom players have a tendency to see the world in black and white, all in absolutes with no nuance; things are the way they are because thats the way they are. they may also tend to stagnate because of this; they accept things as unchangeable and are less motivated to action at times. conversely, mind players tend to take matters into their own hands; they see every outcome as something they are personally responsible for and can be extremely motivated to take decisive action. on the other hand, a mind player might find this responsibility overwhelming, while a doom player might find the predetermination freeing; it depends on the player's disposition. literal representations of these aspects include brains and dice/coins/any tool for random chance (mind) or death/decay and fire (doom); literal minded players may develop powers relating to these representations as well, such as a sylph of mind becoming able to heal someone from brain damage or mental impairment/inhibitors

- SPACE/TIME: this aspect pair deals with the tenant of BEGINNINGS AND ENDINGS. space creates limitlessly, ever expanding with dominion over all life, objects, locations, etc in existence; it sets the stage for all creation. time defines the ways life, objects, etc play out and brings them all to their proper resting point; it cleans up after space and closes chapters on space's creations. these aspects in particular and the cyclical way they interact with one another in paradox space are the most relevant aspects to the game of sburb/sgrub, because the goal of the game is to create a new universe, which lies heavily in space's domain, and it executes this goal through the paradoxical creation of players who are capable of playing the game as required, which is only possible through close association with time. this is why sessions without a space player are doomed to fail (especially considering the frog must be bred on a space player's planet) and sessions without a time player have an extremely low chance of success (the time player takes the role of making sure all loops are closed as they should be, and is naturally predisposed to clean up after paradox space). time players have strong associations with endings, particularly death, and tend to see things from the perspective of the end result. they may veer towards nihilism or determinism through this perspective, or they may find a sense of peace through knowing how things will play out in advance. conversely, space players have strong associations with beginnings, particularly birth and growth. they have the perspective of the starting potential, and may be optimistic about all the possibilities open to them, or they may be anxious from the potential ways things might go wrong. literal representations of these aspects include frogs, plants, and matter (space) or gears, corpses, and clocks (time) and more literally minded players may develop powers related to these manifestations, such as thief of time physically turning back the hands of a clock to travel backwards in time

- the personal aspects deal much more primarily with the matters of players and individuals, and players with these aspects are rewarded for developing their personal life and conversely not as poweful if they focus too much on the fate of the game and paradox space itself. each pair of personal aspects is directly parallel to a pair of cosmic aspects, they just deal with matters on a different scale. the personal aspect pairs are RAGE/HOPE (parallel to void and light), HEART/LIFE (parallel to mind and doom), and BREATH/BLOOD (parallel to space and time).

- RAGE/HOPE: this aspect pair deals with the core tenant of INSTINCT and PHILOSOPHY. rage is the aspect dealing with base, instinctual emotions and reactions, tied closely with behaviors in one's pure self interest, without trust in others and community. hope is the aspect dealing with enlightened thought, faith, and heroism; it surpasses rage's instincts by presenting lofty ideals for people to believe in, and produces heroes and strength for light's narrative. rage inspires fear in the isolated; hope inspires strength in the community. these aspects represent two schools of thought in the philosophy behind peoples' behaviors; rage insisting we are ruled by our instincts and the needs of our bodies, and hope insisting we have evolved beyond that and are ruled by thought, which can overcome those instincts. both philosophies have a degree of truth to them and combine to explain general human (or inhuman, depending on the player) nature, despite their contradictions. hope players have a strong connection to the narrative of the hero's journey (or, depending on their alignment, the villain's journey), though they are much less likely to be cognizant of this than light players. they deal with grandeur and lofty ideals about life and purpose, and can be either inspired by or overwhelmed by this, often feeling pressure to 'be a good person.' conversely, rage players have a strong connection to base emotion; they are good at finding core emotions that drive us and the fundamental feelings behind instinctual reactions. they deal with the innate, rather than the cerebral; some may find peace in their understanding of these subconcious emotions, while others may feel disturbed by the idea that they are controlled by their feelings alone and overwhelmed by this connection. literal representations of these aspects include angels and light (hope) or clowns and darkness (rage), and more literal minded players may develop powers related to these physical manifestations, such as a witch of hope summoning and controlling angels to fight for them

- HEART/LIFE: this aspect pair deals with the core tenant of SOUL AND BODY. heart is the aspect dealing with the essence of who a person is, including constants across all iterations of the person as well as their limitless potential to change across different iterations. mind represents all possible choices that can be made to influence reality, while heart represents the possible results of those choices on a single person. life is the aspect dealing with the physical and limited form that a soul inhabits; it represents the defined, exact iteration of a person in this reality and the form they take. the body (including the specific circumstances that create this body) houses the soul and limits it to one instance of a person, but the body without a soul is worthless. life players can (depending on their class), however, heal and raise the dead by reminding the body of the soul it previously held and reforging that connection. life players have a tendency to feel strong connections to their own sense of self, and can show strong confidence in their own actions; alternatively, they can feel overwhelmed by the limitations of the body they are 'trapped' in and feel as though they cannot break out of bad habits. conversely, heart players can feel overwhelmed by the enormity of their understanding of themselves, and their personal iteration of themselves can feel dwarfed by the possibilities of what they could have been; alternatively, they could also feel empowered by these alternatives and their ability to change themselves to better suit their goals and ideals. physical representations of these aspects include literal hearts and energy (heart) or plants and other forms of life (life); more literal minded players may develop powers related to these representations, such as an heir of life finding their enemies strangled by plant life.

- BREATH/BLOOD: this aspect pair deals with the core tenant of INDEPENDENCE AND COMMUNITY. breath is the aspect dealing with freedom, a disconnect from worldly and personal ties to focus on one's self. it has associations with the limitless ideals of nirvana, of removing one's self from others to achieve personal enlightenment, without the distraction of connections. blood is the aspect dealing with connections and relationships, choosing to focus more on the team or community as a whole than one's self. it utilizes connections with others to achieve social fulfillment, locking away personal freedoms for the opportunity to interact with others and creating strong social power. blood players are very often the best among all other aspects at helping other players work together towards a common goal. they are good at leadership, as long as they have and understand a goal; however, they are more focused on the team itself than the actual goals and may become lost if teamwork is not necessarily the priority. conversely, breath players are not generally good at working with a team, preferring to forge their own path, but their commitment to freedom and individuality can in itself be very inspiring to those who watch them, and they may be considered leaders in their own right (though a breath player would never consider themselves a true leader). these two aspects are not any more or less important than other aspects; however, due to the cooperative nature of the game and the game's focus on individual fulfillment and growth for the players, the aspects are strongly related to the themes of the game from the players' point of view, and as such blood and breath players are often held in high regard by others (though there are exceptions to this. it depends how commited the players are to realizing their aspect, and how contrary their non breath/blood teammates feel). physical representations of these aspects include wind, air, and literal breath (breath) or vows, family, and literal blood (blood); more literal minded players may develop powers related to these manifestations, such as a thief of blood having the ability to drain all the blood from an enemy's body.

CLASSES:

- unlike aspects, classes in homestuck deal entirely with the personal and not at all with the cosmic scale. a player's class represents how they interact with their aspect (broadly, in a constructive or destructive way), as well as whether they are benefited more by using their aspect power for themselves (active) or for others (passive). the classes are divided into 7 active and passive pairs, and both classes within a pair interacts with the aspect in a very similar way, but with the purpose of meeting a different goal depending on which side of the active/passive scale the class falls upon. these pairs are divided into three sets of contructively aligned classes, three sets of destructively aligned classes, and one pair that has ultimate control, both constructive and destructive. this exception is, of course, the master classes (lord and muse). it is this pair we will discuss first.

- LORD (-)/MUSE (+): this class pair interacts with their aspects using ULTIMATE CONTROL. unlike all other classes, lords and muses can both create and destroy their aspect and representations of their aspect, and have very few limitations to their connection with the aspect. the limitations that do exist lie within the differences between the two classes. the lord is purely an active class, and can bend their aspect to their will, and their will alone. they will struggle greatly with using their aspect to benefit others, but they will likely not feel compelled to do so in the first place. conversely, the muse is a purely passive class, and can only inspire their aspect to act in ways that benefit others. they, too, are capable of great power, but this power often comes at great personal sacrifice and they must rely on others to defend and protect them. however, by aligning yourself with a muse, you will have acess to great power frorm their aspect; their aspect will help you with your goals, so long as the muse feels as though they can place their trust in you.

- the destructively aligned classes associate their aspect with destruction in some way, whether that is by directly destroying the aspect, or using the aspect to destroy other things. the three pairs of destructive classes are prince/bard, thief/rogue, and page/knight.

- PRINCE (-)/BARD (+): this class pair interacts with their aspects using PURE DESTRUCTION. they are both often surrounded by their aspect in some way, and perhaps overwhelmed by it, and can find great power in destroying it or using it for destruction. the prince, as an active class, directly destroys their aspect in a desire to feel control over it, and must balance this with the power their aspect grants them when it is in abundance around them. too little of the aspect, and they have nothing left to control and use; too much of the aspect, and the aspect uncontrollably overwhelms them. the bard, as a passive class, invites destruction through their aspect, inspiring rather than controlling directly. their presence in a group must also be balanced; given too much influence, the bard's power could destroy everything around them uncontrollably, but with too little influence, the bard is supressed and unhelpful.

- THIEF (-)/ROGUE (+): this class pair interacts with their aspects by REMOVING AND RELOCATING. they both may feel a lack of their aspect around them, and cannot create it themselves; they must take it from others instead. both are also especially adept at turning the intangible concepts behind the aspect into something quantifiable and real. the thief, as the active class, draws their aspect to work for themself vampirically, taking representations of it exclusively from others to benefit themself. they are able to precisely control their powers and understand them implicitly. the rogue, as the passive class, struggles more with their understanding of their powers, and cannot control them as well, especially if they feel as though they are attempting to take their aspect for their own benefit alone. however, if they have a robin hood-esque motivation to rebalance their aspect and help their friends, they are capable of similar things as thieves.

- PAGE (-)/KNIGHT (+): this class pair interacts with their aspects by WIELDING them as a WEAPON. they both draw great power from their aspect and can channel it to great destructive force. the page, as the active class, is capable of channeling and controlling huge amounts of their aspect as raw power. however, this power is only accessible if the page desires it for themself; they are often predisposed to let their desires sit by the wayside and can feel lots of pressure from others to achieve their true potential, and that pressure can make it possible for a page to awaken their true power. the knight, as the passive class, can also wield their aspect as a powerful weapon, but their skills are most effective in helping or protecting others. the aspect is not kind to the knight themself, and often great power for the knight comes at great personal sacrifice.

- the creatively aligned classes associate their aspects with creation in some way, whether that is by directly creating the aspect or using the aspect to create other things. the three pairs of creatively aligned classes are maid/seer, witch/sylph, and heir/mage.

- MAID (-)/SEER (+): this class pair interacts with their aspects by COMPLETE UNDERSTANDING. they both have an innate connection to and knowledge of their aspect and can channel that information towards constructive purposes. the maid, as an active class, works in service of the aspect completely in exchange for dominion over the aspect itself; they become 'made' of their aspect. they have a fundamental understanding of the aspect that cannot be compared to another class's relationship with the same aspect, and can use that knowledge to their own great benefit. the seer, as a passive class, uses their aspect as a conduit to better understand the actions and paths they and their party must take for ultimate victory. while many seers are predisposed to work alone, their skills are much better utilized to guide others in the use of their own skills, and they are rewarded for taking an advisory position instead.

- WITCH (-)/SYLPH (+): this aspect pair interacts with their aspects by MANIPULATION AND CREATIVITY. they, like thieves and rogues, can take hold of conceptual ideas of how an aspect works, and can bend the aspect to their own will. a witch, as the active class, has incredible control over the aspect and creatively uses it to mold an optimal reality. however, their manual control over their aspect can sometimes lead to catastrophic mistakes if they are not careful. the sylph, as a passive class, struggles to reach this same level of control, but if properly motivated by the desire to help those around them, they can achieve similar abilities as a witch, albiet in a more roundabout way. the sylph in particular is drawn towards healing, and a sylph of ANY aspect might find a creative way to justify that power.

- HEIR (-)/MAGE (+): this aspect pair interacts with their aspects by PURE CREATION. they both manifest their aspect around them in abundance, conciously or not. the heir, as the active class, will find that their aspect protects and serves them, initially without concious control on the heir's part. they are beloved by their aspect and can wield it freely. the mage, as the passive class, is also surrounded by their aspect; however, the aspect is more aligned to helping those around the mage than the mage themselves. the mage can find benefit from this by surrounding themselves with friends; surrounding themselves with enemies will lead more towards detriment.

#it me #homestuck #classpecting #the fundamental thing im trying to do here is promote symmetry and elegance in how the classes and aspects interact #im basing a lot of this on what alt callie says towards the end of the comic about paradox space and reality and just. extrapolating #if u have questions plz lmk and ill talk more about this!#ftr 'i think a different method is better' is not a question lol

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nerdieforpedro · 8 months ago

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WIP Thursday

The smut is still ever present. And has leaked into many a fic. The word leak may have been used in some of them, or not. Nerdie is unsure and quite unwell. Like I’m physically fine but you, the mind is swirling.

Anyway… 👀 The docket for this week: One Tim, One Marcus, Two Dieters and a trickle of Din.

I was tagged by @syd-djarin 😎 Thanks for the reminder and all your fics look awesome! 😘

First up, Tim (he’s got plot to get through thank you!):

Doc and Rockford are seated outside of the diner. The cool air feels excellent on her skin. She feels like she’s burning up. Tim likely understood what his brother meant by her satisfaction or lack thereof and that’s before even mentioning him putting your lab coat on her, complimenting her or touching her stomach. Doc still has to process that. So much has happened. “You wanna talk about why you were out with my brother, the outfit, or me getting you in the car Esme? Which elephant do you want to tackle first?” Rockford would have phrased it differently, but he’s tired from the late night paperwork, being worried about her and now trying to think about how he’s going to react to whatever she has to say.

Second, Marcus Pike (because he's adorable):

“Hey beautiful! You ready for to go? I’m just going to put away some files and we’ll be ready to go.” Marcus doesn’t miss a beat in giving a swift kiss to Imani’s forehead then heading over to his desk and fiddling with drawers. He’s shuffling papers while stealing glances at the woman seated in his office. “Between the shade of orange, your smiling face and those luscious legs tempting me from across the room, we might be late for our reservation.” The good agent Pike wiggled his eyebrows which had his lady friend holding her stomach in laughter.

Lastly, I wrote some Din (because we don't appreciate Din's early armor enough):

Still holding the knife, she lowered it and nodded, “Yes thanks to you. May I know your name to thank you? I can’t see you very well there, could you step forward?” Taking two steps toward him, she stopped three feet before the shadows from the building obscured him. Heavy boots and what sounded to be metal clinked with his steps. His armor was the answer, he wouldn’t need to really tell her. Silver that reflected the moonlight with a t-visor helmet and a modulated voice. None of his skin was exposed, covered in a mix of brown metal and durable cloth and a black cape at his back. Hints of silver dotted his armor from different pieces and from his weapons. Those are a major tenant of their culture - their beliefs.

The graphic above is for the pending Din fic. 😀

And I have one for a pending Dieter fic ( @angelofsmalldeath-codeine this is 30% your fault - thank you. 😊)

Technically, she’d met one of her best friends at a table read for ‘Graceland’ but it didn’t register who he was until there was an entire season making him more central to the plot on the second show. Aisha appreciated that he was serious about getting the character right, adding in changes to better express what the writer’s room was trying to convey. He didn’t do it so much for the slick escapist show on the USA show but she really saw him shine on the screen as Agent Marcus Pike in ‘The Mentalist.’ One thing that the writer’s room voted to write out for his character was all the eating. “No agent is gonna be eating like that,” they always said. Once Dieter Bravo ate the takeout in the scene while dolling out his lines, the director loved it so they quickly pivoted on that creative choice.

And I can’t leave Dieter and Maya out you know! I haven’t been chipping away at them slowly, there’s a lot to figure out. I’m don’t have much on them unfortunately. 😭

No pressure tags: @megamindsecretlair @soft-persephone @connectioneverywhere @boliv-jenta @mysterious-moonstruck-musings

@pedroshotwifey @perotovar @julesonrecord @chaithetics @avastrasposts

@slippinninque @rosecentaur1916 @westside-rot @inept-the-magnificent @tinytinymenace

@jessthebaker @sin-djarin @morallyinept @604to647 @djarins-cyare

@djarinmuse @pedroshotwifey

#wip thursday #pedro pascal characters #fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #din djarin #frankie morales #the mandalorian #Tim Rockford #marcus pike

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toooldforthisbutstill · 6 months ago

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So, since I got two different translations of the Tenant of Wildfell Hall, I decided to start by reading the older one - from 1947 - which is an abridged version, it seems. And I find the translators (they were two) note at the beginning... quite puzzling.

Like, drawing parallels between Anne Brontë and her heroine is one thing, but deciding to re-name the book La Recluse de Haworth is another. ("It is not betrayal, but quite the opposite, for the sake of faithfulness" wut)

Then there's the way of presenting the characters and the story itself...

"(Arthur) is the scapegoat. Anne wants to depict a rascal, a gambler, a lecher who will die from his vices.

Truth be told, Anne doesn't really manage to get this point across. Arthur Huntingdon is likeable, even more so during the scenes of his agony when Helen's true nature is revealed with a scary harshness.

Arthur's biggest crime, let's say it, is loving women. More serious: Arthur is amorous, a lover. Helen wouldn't be able to forgive it. She could do with 'less caressing and more rationality'. Everything is an excuse to deny him, with virtuous satisfaction! the conjugal room. The myth is crystal clear."

Of Markham, they said:

"Anne has wanted to confer (Gilbert Markham) manly virtues and rectitude. However, he's almost dull and he provokes, insults, knocks out savagely a friend he mistook for a rival. Anne spends a lot of time on this aggression. Her pleasure is obvious and her motive no less clear: Gilbert, the devoted admirer, bows down before Helen Graham, who dominates him with her personality"

About Helen:

"It can be said that, by giving life to her heroine, Anne Brontë made a desperate effort to free herself. In vain. Helen Graham doesn't love. She stays haughty, despising, stuck in her pride, in herself, recluse. Therein lies her tragedy."

Then come words of praise for the novel, and as a conclusion:

"This novel is a delight to the reader, to the psychanalyst, a document."

Well. I don't know yet about the novel, that's true, but I'm sure this note is already some kind of document.

#the tenant of wildfell hall

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ltash · 9 months ago

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Venom

Part 4 "Fear"

Ghost x female OC

He was his target but she was becoming his prey the moment he knows the truth about her.

But the damage was done,

The moment our eyes met.

Ghost returned from the bar, a grim satisfaction etched on his face. He relished the memory of breaking the mouth of that obnoxious man, a clear message to anyone who dared to cross him.

"Cheeky Bastard!" he cursed under his breath, recalling the pathetic look of fear in the man's eyes. It had been too easy, almost disappointingly so.

Unlocking his apartment door, he stepped inside, his senses on high alert despite his momentary amusement. Ghost was always vigilant, always prepared for the unexpected. His gaze flicked towards the door of the apartment opposite his, the one that had recently become occupied.

He couldn't help but think of the red-haired girl from the bar. She had been feisty, despite her apparent fear. There was something intriguing about her, something that piqued his curiosity.

He looked at his guitar-shaped sniper case and methodically checked his apartment, ensuring everything was as he had left it. His mind wandered back to the girl's wide blue eyes, the way she had looked at him before fleeing.

Ghost shook his head, pushing the thoughts aside. He couldn't afford distractions, not in his line of work. There were always threats lurking, enemies plotting.

Yet, as he settled into his nightly routine, he found himself wondering about the girl. Who was she, really? And why had she seemed so out of place in that bar?

Ghost leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the ceiling. There was something about that girl, something that didn't quite add up.

Then his mind raced to her accent. She had a distinct Russian lilt, a detail that stood out now that he thought about it. His instincts, honed from years of navigating treacherous situations, told him this was no coincidence. A Russian girl in that bar, seemingly out of place? It was too convenient to ignore.

He replayed their brief encounter in his mind: her wide blue eyes, the way she had looked at him with a mix of fear and something else he couldn't quite place. She was scared, yes, but it felt deeper, more complex than just a reaction to the immediate threat.

Ghost leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and rubbed his temples. He couldn't afford to be careless. Russians often meant trouble in his line of work, and he had crossed paths with Makarov's kind before. Could she be connected to them? A plant? A spy?

His thoughts were interrupted by the faint sound of footsteps in the hallway outside. He tensed, listening intently as the steps grew louder, then faded away. Probably just another tenant, he thought, but he made a mental note to be more vigilant.

He stood up and moved to the window, pulling the curtain aside just enough to peer out. The city lights twinkled below, the streets quieter now. He scanned the surroundings, looking for anything out of place, any sign that he was being watched or followed.

Ghost knew better than to dismiss the girl as a mere coincidence. If she was connected to Makarov or any of his affiliates, she could be a significant threat. He needed more information before making a move.

Tomorrow, he would begin his surveillance. He had resources and contacts that could help him dig deeper into who she was and why she was there. For now, he needed rest. As he lay down, his mind refused to quiet. The Russian girl with the striking blue eyes haunted his thoughts, a puzzle demanding to be solved.

His instincts told him this was only the beginning. The game was on, and Ghost intended to win.

Anastasia reached her apartment, slamming the door shut behind her and leaning heavily against it. Her heart pounded in her chest, racing a million miles a minute. The image of Ghost's brutal efficiency haunted her thoughts, the way he had smashed the man's face against the bar, bludgeoning him without hesitation.

Could he be Simon Riley? The question gnawed at her, fueling her anxiety. She was no match for his strength, his speed, or his ruthlessness. She hadn't brought any weapons with her, knowing that airport security would have confiscated anything lethal. All she had was a kitchen knife, resting in the drawer—a pitiful defense against a man like Ghost.

Makarov had warned her about Ghost's reputation. He had described him as ruthless, merciless, a force to be reckoned with. But she had dismissed those warnings, thinking he would be like the other targets she had taken down before. She had underestimated him, and now she was paying the price.

Anastasia pushed away from the door, her legs trembling slightly as she made her way to the kitchen. She opened the drawer and took out the knife, its weight reassuring in her hand. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing.

She felt the walls closing in on her, a suffocating pressure that made it hard to breathe. She was badly stuck, trapped in a situation far more perilous than she had anticipated. The reality of her mission crashed down on her with brutal clarity: there was no way she could harm Ghost, not with his unmatched strength and lethal skills. And if he ever discovered her true identity, God forbid what he would do to her.

"Vladimir! You got me badly stuck." She talked to herself.

She ran a trembling hand through her hair, trying to steady her racing thoughts. The weight of Makarov's expectations bore down on her, but the fear of Ghost's retribution loomed even larger. Her every instinct screamed at her to run, to get as far away from this deadly man as possible. But there was no escaping now. She was in too deep, with too much at stake.

Pacing the small apartment, Anastasia felt the cold reality of her isolation. She had no allies here, no backup plan. The only weapon she had was a kitchen knife—a laughable defense against someone like Ghost. She was outmatched, outgunned, and utterly alone.

"God! Help me please." She clasp her hands together.

Her mind flashed back to the bar, to the moment their eyes had met. There was something in those eyes, something more than just cold, calculated violence. But whatever it was, it didn't change the fact that he was her target, and she was his prey if he ever found out the truth about her.

She knew she had to play her part flawlessly: a gentle, docile girl, completely different from the hardened agent she truly was. Makarov had trained her well, turning her into a terminator in her early twenties. Now, she had to use every bit of that training to survive this mission.

As night fell, she tossed and turned in bed, her mind racing with thoughts of Ghost. His presence loomed large in her mind. What if he knew? What if he had already seen through her facade? The thought of him breaking into her apartment at night sent a shudder down her spine.

She lay in the darkness, listening to the sounds of the city outside her window. Every creak and rustle seemed amplified, her nerves on edge. Her imagination ran wild with images of Ghost slipping silently into her apartment, his deadly skills making short work of any defenses she might put up.

She forced herself to take deep, steady breaths, trying to calm her racing heart. She couldn't afford to let fear control her. She had to stay sharp, stay focused. Ghost was dangerous, but she wasn't helpless. She had survived worse and would survive this, too.

She wondered what he was doing now, whether he was thinking about her as she was thinking about him.

Finally, exhaustion took its toll, and she drifted into a restless sleep, her dreams filled with shadows and danger.

Morning sun filtered through the windows as Anastasia woke up, the soft light casting a warm glow across her small apartment. She sat up slowly, the events of the previous night replaying in her mind. The bar, the men, and most of all, the intimidating figure of the man in the skull-printed balaclava.

Her heart still raced at the thought of him. The way he had effortlessly handled those men, the raw power and precision he had displayed. She had to remind herself why she was here, who she was up against. Ghost. Simon Riley. The mission loomed large in her mind, a constant, heavy weight.

Anastasia forced herself out of bed, determined to stick to her cover. She had to appear as an ordinary, gentle girl, far removed from the ruthless agent she truly was. She had a role to play, and any slip-up could cost her everything.

In the small kitchen, she prepared a simple breakfast, her mind racing with strategies and contingencies. She needed to gain his trust somehow, to get close enough to him without arousing suspicion. The thought made her stomach churn, but she steeled herself. Makarov was counting on her.

As she sat down to eat, she glanced out the window, taking in the unfamiliar sights of Manchester. The city was bustling, a stark contrast to the cold, often desolate places she had known in Russia. She pushed those thoughts aside, focusing on the task at hand.

Anastasia dressed in casual, unremarkable clothes and stepped out of her apartment. She paused briefly at her door, casting a wary glance at the apartment across the hall. There was no sign of movement, no indication that anyone was home. Good. She had time.

As she descended the stairs and stepped into the street, she felt a surge of determination. She would complete her mission, no matter the cost. But for now, she had to play her part, to be the gentle, docile girl that no one would suspect of harboring deadly secrets.

She decided to do some groceries first. She had none since she moved in, and it was essential to establish a normal routine. Venturing out, she made her way to a nearby ATM to withdraw some cash. As she completed her transaction, she noticed from her peripheral vision that someone was watching her.

Her training kicked in, and she kept her movements casual, avoiding any sudden reactions that might reveal her awareness. She retrieved the cash and slipped it into her wallet, then turned to leave, using the reflective surface of the ATM screen to get a better look at the observer.

She saw nothing unusual. The street seemed ordinary, filled with people going about their daily business. But her instincts told her otherwise. She knew when she was being watched.

Anastasia walked slowly, blending into the morning crowd, making her way towards the grocery store. She took a few detours, casually checking her reflection in shop windows to see if anyone was following. But the sense of being observed never left her.

Ghost had been watching her from a distance, his keen eyes never missing a detail. He had followed her to the ATM, blending into the shadows, ensuring she didn't notice him. His suspicions about the new neighbor were growing, and he intended to find out exactly who she was and why she was here.

She reached the grocery store and grabbed a basket, moving through the aisles with practiced ease. She had to appear normal, ordinary. But every fiber of her being was on high alert, every sense tuned to the slightest hint of danger.

As she finished her shopping and exited the store, she felt a sudden chill. Her eyes darted around, but again, she saw nothing out of the ordinary. Yet, she couldn't shake the feeling of being watched.

Returning to her apartment, she climbed the stairs and turned the corner, her thoughts still on the mysterious observer. As she reached her door, she collided with a solid figure. Stumbling back, she looked up and found herself staring into piercing brown eyes behind a skull-printed balaclava.

Ghost.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Anastasia's heart pounded in her chest, her mind racing to process the sudden encounter. The man before her was even more imposing up close, his presence dominating the narrow hallway.

"Watch where you're going," he growled, his voice low and menacing.

"I'm sorry," she stammered, trying to steady herself. "I didn't see you."

Ghost's eyes narrowed slightly, scrutinizing her. She could feel his gaze boring into her, assessing, analyzing. She had to stay calm, play the part she had prepared for.

"No harm done," he said after a tense moment, his tone less aggressive but still guarded. "You're the new neighbor, right?"

Anastasia nodded, trying to appear nonchalant. "Yes, I just moved in. Nice to meet you."

"Simon," he said, extending a hand. The name struck her, but she managed to maintain her composure as she shook his hand.

"Anastasia," she replied, forcing a polite smile.

His grip was firm, his hand warm despite the chill that seemed to emanate from him. He held her hand a moment longer than necessary, his eyes never leaving hers. It was as if he was trying to read her soul, to uncover her secrets with a single look.

"You seem jumpy," he remarked, finally releasing her hand. "Everything alright?"

"Just getting used to the new place," she lied smoothly. "It's quite different from what I'm used to."

"Where are you from?" he asked, his tone casual but his eyes sharp.

"Russia," she said, knowing it was pointless to lie about her accent.

He nodded, as if that explained everything. "Well, welcome to the building. It's usually quiet around here."

"Thank you," she said, hoping the conversation would end soon. "I appreciate it."

Ghost stepped aside, allowing her to pass. "If you need anything, I'm right next door."

"Thanks," she murmured, slipping past him and unlocking her door with trembling hands. Once inside, she leaned against the door, her heart racing.

So, this was Ghost. Simon Riley. The man she was sent to kill. Her first impression was of overwhelming strength and an aura of danger that was almost palpable. She had her work cut out for her.

As she unpacked her groceries, her mind raced. Ghost was already suspicious, and she needed to tread carefully. The mission was more complicated than she had anticipated, but she couldn't afford to fail.

Meanwhile, in his apartment, Ghost watched the door close behind her. The encounter had left him with more questions than answers. There was something off about her, something that didn't quite fit. He'd keep an eye on her, but for now, he needed to stick to his routine and not let on that he suspected anything.

Both of them were caught in a dangerous game of cat and mouse, neither fully aware of the other's true intentions, but both wary and ready for whatever came next.

Being just across from his apartment gave her anxiety. She had terminated targets before, but she had never let herself be vulnerable in front of them. The proximity to Ghost was unnerving. Every sound in the hallway, every creak of the floorboards, set her on edge. She couldn't afford to slip up, not even once.

She had memorized Makarov's number because she deleted the call log every time he called her, and he sometimes used different numbers for safety purposes. Frantically, she dialed Makarov's number.

"Hello, dear Anastasia!" Makarov's voice was smooth and calm, speaking in Russian.

"Vladimir! Thank God you picked up the call. Where did you get me stuck, Vladimir?" she burst out, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and frustration.

"Calm down, Anastasia," he replied, his tone almost fatherly. "Tell me what's troubling you."

She took a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves. "It's him. Simon Riley. Ghost. He's not like the others. He's... he's right across the hall from me. I ran into him today. He suspects something."

Makarov's silence on the other end of the line was deafening. After a moment, he spoke, his voice low and measured. "I warned you about him. You must be cautious. Gain his trust. You have the skills, Anastasia. Use them."

"He's already suspicious," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "What if he finds out who I am?"

"He won't," Makarov assured her. "Not if you play your part well. Remember, you're just a young, innocent girl who's moved into a new place. Stick to your cover story. Make him believe it."

Anastasia nodded, even though he couldn't see her. "I will. But... if it comes to it, if he finds out..."

"Then you do what you must," Makarov said coldly. "You eliminate him. But only if there's no other choice. We need him distracted, not dead—at least not yet."

She shuddered at the thought, but she knew what was expected of her. "Understood."

"Good. Keep me updated. And remember, you are not alone in this. We are always watching."

The call ended, leaving Anastasia alone with her thoughts. She put the phone down, her hands still shaking. She had to regain control, had to stay focused. Makarov was right; she had the skills. She just needed to use them.

She spent the rest of the day trying to appear normal, organizing her apartment, doing mundane tasks. But her mind was always on Ghost. Every noise in the hallway made her jump, every shadow seemed like it could be him.

As evening fell, she knew she had to take the next step in her plan. She needed to start building a rapport with him, to make him see her as nothing more than a harmless neighbor. She rehearsed her lines in her head, going over her story again and again until she was confident she could deliver it without hesitation.

Finally, she gathered her courage and stepped out into the hallway. She knocked on Ghost's door, her heart pounding in her chest. When he opened it, she gave him a nervous smile.

"Hi, Simon. I just wanted to thank you for helping me at the bar last night. I... I was really scared."

Ghost looked at her, his eyes searching hers for any sign of deceit. She held his gaze, willing herself to appear as innocent and vulnerable as possible.

"Don't mention it," he said gruffly. "Just stay out of trouble."

She nodded. "I will. But... if you ever need anything, don't hesitate to ask. It's nice to have a friendly neighbor."

His expression softened just a fraction. "Thanks. I'll keep that in mind."

She turned to leave, but before she could, he spoke again. "By the way, what brings you to Manchester? Seems like a long way from Russia."

Anastasia took a deep breath, ready to deliver her rehearsed story. "I needed a fresh start. A change of scenery. Russia was... too much for me. I wanted to find somewhere quiet, somewhere I could just be myself."

Ghost nodded slowly, still watching her closely. "Alright. Well, welcome to Manchester. By the way, have ya found any job here?"

She hesitated for a moment before replying, "Yes. I work remotely as a software engineer in Russia."

"Impressive," he nodded, his eyes still scrutinizing her. "Not many can manage a job like that from so far away."

"Thank you," she said, forcing another smile. "It's challenging, but I enjoy it."

He didn't respond immediately, just kept looking at her with that intense gaze that made her feel exposed. Finally, he gave a curt nod. "Well, if you need anything, don't hesitate to ask."

Thanks," she murmured again, turning and finally making her way to her door. She fumbled with the keys, her hands still trembling slightly, and let herself into her apartment. Once inside, she leaned against the door, her heart pounding in her chest.

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