#the cruel prince pack

[abramsicon]

the cruel prince pack — like or reblog if you save.

[thejudeduarte]

When you've been looking forward to it's arrival ALL YEAR but when it finally arrives it's completely wrecked, ripped and ruined (alliteration not intended)

[swiftiedits]

lover act headers 💐 (maatbp, the archer, lover, yntcd & cruel summer)

like or reblog; ♡

[pepper-steam-milkshake]

important things: just dreamt about heather chandler and veronica making out. while switching perspectives. that was an experience.

[brucewaynehater101]

My personal favorite way ppl write janet is when she’s a stone cold bitch. She’s sharp and cruel and manipulative and people fear her. Her marriage to jack is an empty one. But if theres anything in this world that she would reach up to tear the heavens down for, its her baby. Her Timothy, her little prince. Her child who learned how to soften his face and feed other pretty lies and draw them into his web. Her little miracle who she carried and bled for who she taught to manipulate and trick because she saw this tiny, tiny boy and knew he would never pack on muscle but she would be damned if she didnt give him every weapon and card he could ever need. A janet drake who bears a large resemblance to her son, whether its physically or not.(its also hilarious when in these types of fics, bruce is just absolutely terrified of janet/ was terrified of janet when they were kids lmao. 10/10 trope)

Fuck yes. Give me cruel, cutting Janet who dotes on her son.

Show me Janet and her obsessive all-consuming love. The way she teaches Tim to pull strings and manipulate. Her lessons on protecting what is theirs even if it causes the world to crumble at their fingertips.

Perhaps there was a time when she loved Jack, or maybe she was always using them for her goals.

Give me morally grey Janet. She loves Tim even if she's not home enough or her teachings are not healthy. She doesn't need to be a morally sound character, but one that instills Tim with his burning, consuming love.

Janet was always fiercely protective of her son, but her type of protection morphed when she saw her child (maybe six) being preyed on (either by other kids or something darker). She saw how weak and helpless he was and vowed to change him into a Drake.

She showed her son the various masks she wore, the intricate double (or triple or quadruple) meanings behind words, and how to read people. If Tim couldn't physically protect himself, she'd teach him how to get others to do it for him.

That is her child. Even if her love was distant, it was a feverent, vigilant love.

Tim would have whatever tools he needed to be safe.

(Also, agree about Bruce. It is hilarious when fics show Bruce flinching when Tim acts a little too much like his mom)

[lalunanymph]

MARRY THE TRAITOR ; gojo satoru

⟡ the day you met your demise is the same day you met gojo satoru, your betrothed from a world so different from yours—a cruel prince who is undoubtedly in love with someone else. as the stakes rise and you race against the clock to beat your brutal fate, can you make the ultimate choice between your heart or your happily ever after?

includes: mentions of food, mentions of murder, talks of death, predator/prey dynamic, sword to neck trope, reader gets restrained, mentions of injuries, arranged marriage, enemies to lovers, unrequited love, slow burn, yandere!gojo, prince!gojo, princess!reader, reader is referred to as 'cerena', princess cerena has pink hair and feminine features, reader is in cerena's body, isekai-ed reader

⟡ masterlist

ACT 1, SCENE 3: THE VILLAGE

Life at this little village offered you a gentle respite from the fears eating at your soul, putting the memory of Satoru's bloodthirsty desires momentarily out of your mind.

Whilst under Aeva’s care, you learned how to use an old fire stove, sweep the floors with a broom made of brambles, and prepare some of Northern Haleway’s most famous fare—pigeon mince pies. 

In return, she offered you the room in her attic, a quaint, cozy space that did not perturb you with its lack of size but instead, reminded you fondly of your own bedroom back in your real world. 

When you weren’t busy with chores and cooking, Aeva gave you free rein to roam about the village with the condition that you were to never reveal your true identity to the poor villagers. You took her worries in stride, always leaving her home with your hood and cloak on; Cerena’s signature pink hair plaited neatly and wrapped under the scratchy hood. 

The reason for your excursions to town were simple: you wanted to find out the truth about why you were here in the first place. 

You struck up conversations with various healers, visited the village shaman, and even spent an hour talking to the friendly barman on the merits of body swapping and waking up in a different life. 

But, your research barely yielded anything fruitful.

It only served to increase your worries, driving you to the brink of a mental breakdown at the fact that you may never go back to your real world again. 

That you may never see your mother or listen to her laugh as you both drank rice wine on a veranda; happy memories illuminated by the sun setting over the paddy fields. You may never roll your eyes at your best friend’s piss poor attempts at setting you up on blind dates, or enjoy your morning commute with a cup of turmeric latte.

Every single thought drew you deeper into a pit of despair.

But, you knew you had to be strong. 

This was a temporary setback and you have to believe that you will return home. You have to believe that life would not be so cruel as to leave you stranded here, in a place where you were despised and ridiculed. You had to keep the faith; had to hold onto the hope that you would make it home in one piece. 

There was no other option. 

-

Satoru slowed his horse to a trot once he arrived in the market square, the guards flanking his sides dispersing to find you at his terse nod. 

Those unyielding blue eyes swept across the square, noting the various sellers and stalls surrounding him. The smell of horse dung and rotten food scraps burned through his nose with the force of a thousand fires, and he made a face, wanting nothing more than to get this search party over, find you and take you back to the King. 

For a man used to the trenches of war, peasant life will always astound him with its stink and squalor. Children with dirt-packed faces and blackened hands chase after each other. A skinny, malnourished dog feebly lifts its head when his horse trots by and a heavily pregnant woman with scars running down her arms gives him a scrutinizing look while she hangs up her linens to dry. 

Satoru intended to keep this visit brief, and he is no more looking forward to the reality of finding you than he is at the thought of how you would react.

It was obvious that this was one of your usual tantrums in retaliation for not getting what you want; an act of rebellion made to paint him in a bad light.

His jaw ticks and his mood darkens at the thought of what he would do if he ever saw you again.

First things first, Satoru wouldn’t hesitate to threaten you by sword point to return back to the castle. Then, he will interrogate you on where you had been, who you spoke to, how you escaped in the first place so he can put anyone and everyone who aided you in this resistance to the sword.

Those flinty cerulean eyes shift across the market square, hoping to find a glimpse of the hooded and cloaked figure Miri had informed him about. But, all his gaze does is meet more exhausted faces; the villager’s blackened, fatigued air drawing his lips downward into a grimace. 

He was close to redirecting the search party into the forest where he believed you would be hiding, when he sees the figure of his hunt.

A waifish, hooded and cloaked woman made her way past the fruit stalls, stopping to purchase an apple.

Satoru doesn’t spare another second. He threw his horse into a gallop, reaching for his sword and drawing it out of the scabbard.

The hooded woman seemed to sense his murderous intent for her all the way across the square and lifted her head.

Satoru’s eyes widened when he noticed the familiar slope of your nose; the parting of your cherubic lips frozen in a silent scream. 

“Cerena!” 

The blasted woman takes off, running as fast as she could straight to the forest’s edge. Satoru doesn’t know what compelled him to disembark off his horse, hastily tying the reins around an apple tree and tearing after you with his longer, stronger legs.

Your terrified expression seared through his brain when you turn around to flash him a pleading look. Satoru gritted his teeth, his larger lung capacity and fitter body making it easier for him to sweep past the trees, darting under the brushes and jumping over fallen logs to chase after you.

There is nothing but the thought of escape in your mind. 

As you weaved through the trees, bounding across brooks and fell logs, your breath came out in icy pants, crystalizing right in front of your face. 

You wanted to turn around and plead and beg with him to spare you, the sight of the broadsword in his hand pumping your veins full of adrenaline and the need to escape. Like a hounded prey, the predator behind you was closing in, near enough that you could hear his jagged breaths.

“Cerena—stop running!” 

You pushed yourself harder, ignoring his words, forcing your legs to bring you towards a gnarly apple tree. Using muscles you haven’t utilized since you were four when you were wildly swinging from jungle bars, you expertly swung your body up the tree, clambering the thick trunk and using the spruces as your support—trying to get off the ground and hide in the foliage so he would give up and leave you alone.

But, luck was never on your side, especially when it came head-to-head with Satoru’s determination.

He circled the tree you were hiding in, those frantic blue eyes darting through the thick leaves, trying to get a glimpse of you.

“Cerena, stop this madness at once and come back home!” Satoru bellowed, cheeks splotched red with anger and frustration. “You mad woman! Get down and face your repercussions, dammit!” 

A slight movement from the corner of your eye catches your attention, and you rush to unleash your dagger, cutting through the stem of the hornet’s nest just a few inches from you.

Sensing danger, they hummed, digging their stingers into your vulnerable hand, but you paid the bites of pain no mind—focused completely on evading Satoru.

The prince’s keen ears catch a rustle, like the sound of something being sawed and he looks up into the trees, jaw clenched and icy blue eyes wild.

“Cerena! What are you doing up there? Come down, dammit!” 

Without warning, a lump of something brown and scraggly falls right at his feet.

Satoru barely had time to react before he’s surrounded by a swarm of nasty wasps, stinger-triggered and ready to attack him. The sight of him swinging his broadsword to ward off the wasps would’ve been hilarious, if you didn’t use this as an opportunity to scamper down the apple tree and take off like your life depended on it. 

“—Cerena!” 

Your stomach sank to your feet as you quickly whipped your head back to catch him speeding up to you, the mottled flesh of his face from the wasp stings and those raging blue eyes shocking you through the core with pure, unadulterated fear. 

“Please!” 

You screamed, needing to run back to Aeva’s hut. She will protect you; she has to. 

Sliding into the clearing, you’re almost to the home run when you feel a hard tug around your neck. Your head jerks back and you go crashing to the ground, Satoru’s bigger body enveloping yours. 

“No—no!”

The shine of his sword nicks your neck, and you’re both breathing hard. 

Satoru’s fiery icy azure eyes bore right into you with such potent hatred, you throw your hands to your face, bracing for the blade to slice through your neck hotly. 

One second turned into two. His heavy breathing becomes a grunt, and he yanks you unceremoniously to your feet. 

His arm tightened around your trembling body, face a few inches from yours as he sneered. 

“You will pay for what you did to me.” Those reddened lesions from the wasps littering his neck and cheeks strike terror into your numbed heart. 

“If only you hadn’t ran away from me,” he clicked his tongue as if in disappointment, and to your mortification, brought out a coil of rope from his jacket. “Then, your punishment would not be so severe.” 

A hushed sob slips from between your gritted teeth as he lashed your hands together with the rope, tying it tightly enough so you wouldn’t think of running away from him again.

“Please,” you started to cry. “Please, do not hurt me. Do not harm me.”

He grunted, looping the tie into a double knot. “What in the devil are you blubbering about, woman? I have no intention of hurting you.”

Your tears trickled your cheeks like fragments of icy shards, slipping down your neck as you attempted to resist, pressing your bound palms to his broad chest and trying to push him away.

Satoru growled: “Cerena! Behave.” 

The flash of disgust and anger in his eyes instantly brought to mind how he had held the sword to your bare neck—how he had wanted to kill you. 

Terror seized your lungs, your scream shattering the calm quiet of the forest.

“Help me! Somebody help me! Please!” 

You sobbed loudly and with full abandonment, balking whenever he tried to reach out for you, batting your useless hands against his chest and neck to try and buy yourself some time for someone to help.

In the midst of the struggle with Satoru, you missed a wizened figure stepping out of the hut, her bow and arrow pointed right at the crowned prince.

Gojo, noticing the intruder in this scene, raised his eyes, sneering at the lowly woman who dared believe she can take him on with a flimsy weapon.

“You dare point that at me? The crowned prince of the region?” 

Aeva steadied her aim, the tip of the arrow quivering. The expression on her face was of fierce protectiveness, surging from seeing you being manhandled like a sack of potatoes by a man who was supposed to honor you as his fiancé.

For a brief moment, you felt a shining sense of hope—that you were going to be safe. 

But, he does not yield. Despite not saying a word, his frigid glare is all the loathing he needs to dissuade Aeva from releasing the arrow. Her rheumy eyes shifted from your tear-streaked face to his furious glare and to your dismay, she slowly lowered the weapon, letting it dangle by her side.

Your gasp rang with betrayal and alarm. “Aeva… please…”

Smug that he was let off without much of a fight, Gojo used his raw strength to lift you over his shoulder, your bound hands dangling across his back, your slippered feet kicking in mid-air.

“Please! Don’t let him harm me! Aeva! Aeva—” you choke off a broken sob, unable to bear her devastated expression through your tears. 

With every jarring step he took, you get further and further away from the safe house; from finding your answers and plotting your return back to your world.

Satoru didn't just tear your hopes of returning home from your hands, he also stomped them to the ground with the impending dread of his promise to Miri.

The promise to kill you should he see you again.

Crippling agony washed over you, enough to make you bitterly wail, your cries weaving through the trees as fearful images of your mangled body flashed through your mind, the end of your life brought about by this cruel prince's hand. 

“Enough with the dramatics,” Satoru muttered frostily as he trudged through the thick snow, reaching his behemoth of a stallion. With barely an iota of effort, he heaped you onto the saddle, giving your thigh a hard squeeze in warning not to do anything funny. 

Mounting behind you, he used his sturdier build to keep you caged in between his arms. Gripping the reins and snapping it once, his great white horse whinnies, moving to a trot as the forest and the safe house you spent these three blissful days in disappeared from your view. 

You never thought your fate would end up like this: bound atop a horse like fresh game being brought back after a hunt, while a sadistic man who wants nothing more than your demise sat behind you, stoic and silent despite your hushed cries.

Anguish welled deep in your soul, manifesting as endless tears streaming down your face which you tried desperately to hide from him. 

His voice broke through your frantic thoughts as a low, baritone warning. 

“I told you I will force you take accountability for your actions,” Satoru muttered darkly, slowing his horse to a cant.

Without any warning, he grasped your chin and tugged hard, eliciting a gasp of fear from you, forcing your teary eyes to meet his enraged ones. 

“And your punishment has only just begun, Princess.”

mtt fun fact: minced pigeon pies were brought to northern haleway by merchants from the south who introduced this alternative meat source during one of the country's harshest famines

dawn says: what kind of 'punishment' do you think satoru meant? 👀

!! reblogs and feedback and asks about this series are so beloved and appreciated and will motivate me to update and write faster <3

©️ all rights reserve to lalunanymph. do not copy elements of my story, repost or claim as your own.

[mischiefmanagers]

Eris Vanserra Fic Rec Library 🍁❤️‍🔥

these fics are a mix of Eris x reader, Eris x OC, and a few general Eris fics with no pairing. if you've never read an Eris fic before, I highly recommend starting with the first rec below (gust & flame) because that fic made me fall in love with him. enjoy ✨

🌼 personal favorite 🥀 angst 💞 fluff 🔥 smut

by @invisibleanonymousmonsters

gust & flame (series) 🥀💞🌼

by @theostrophywife

here in your arms. 💞

like you wanna be loved 💞

by @acourtofmenandthirst

The Fox & The Hound 💞

by @leafsandstarlight

Destiny's Battleground (series) 🥀💞🔥

In Spite of Our Differences (series) 🥀💞🔥🌼

Great Rite 🔥

The Prince of Blood

by @profound-imagination

Finding Home 💞

Rose Gardens

by @munsons-hellfire

Happiness in the Heart 🥀💞

by @sweetcarolina-24

Scorched Shadows

by @azrielbrainrot

Fire on Fire

Mind Over Matter 🥀

by @danikamariewrites

Rescue 💞🥀

Fake Sleeper 💞

Peace 💞

Seekers 💞🌼

Did You Just Say No?

Song of Death

Starfall Revelations 🥀💞

Guilt 🥀💞

Kisses 💞

by @redbleedingrose

Till the End of Time 💞🥀

Pretty? 🥀💞

by @b0xerdancer-writes

It Wasn't Supposed to Happen Like This 🥀💞

by @thisblogisaboutabook

Bad Idea, Right? 🥀🔥

by @azsazz

Cherries, Juniper, and Orange Slices 💞

Fire & Water 🥀🔥

by @honeybeefae

Cauldron Fated 💞🥀🔥🌼

Forgotten Ties 🥀

Valentine's Mini Fic 💞

A Court of Wings & Fire (series) 🥀

Past and Present 🥀💞

Coronation Day 💞

Potions 🔥🌼

by @we-were-beautiful

The Fox and the Hounds 💞

by @bubbles-for-all-of-us

My little flame 💞

Her 🌼

My tears ricochet 🥀

by @2thestars-andbeyond

The Fire That Burns Within (series) 💞🥀🔥

by @simkaswriting

What if…Eris had danced with y/n instead?

by @jeannineee

Daylight 🥀💞

Breeding 🔥

by @jdeclerc

a brother's intervention 🥀

by @azrielsdove

Playing With Fire 🥀🔥Azriel x Reader x Eris

by @cassiefromhell

Unexpected 💞🥀🔥Azriel x Reader x Eris

by @fieldofdaisiies

Late Again 🥀

Brother 🥀💞 no pairing

Falling 💞🌼

by @azrielsoulmate

Covered in you 💞

by @cupidojenphrodite

Morning After 🔥

by @acourtofwhatthefuck

Loose Lips 🥀🔥

by @thelov3lybookworm

Remember me? (series) 💞🥀 from Rhysand x Reader to Eris x Reader

Bloodshed 🥀💞

Not what I expected 🥀💞🌼

by @fineghkst

How Eris acts around his mate 💞

by @ladyescapism

fractured bonds 🥀

by @clairebear08

Woven 🥀

Use Me 🔥

by @historiaxvanserra

If I Can't Have Love, I Want Power 🥀🌼

I Am Not a Martyr, I'm a Problem

by @shadowdaddies

Autumn's Eden 💞

Bramble 💞

by @azrielslightintheshadows

Fake love. 🥀

by @crypticandmachiavellianaugustine

Sweet Nothings 💞🌼

by @readychilledwine

Death of Peace of Mind 🥀🔥🌼

Safe Haven 💞

Relief

Unconditional 💞

Leap 💞🌼

Kissed By Fire

Lapcat 🔥

Pack Mentality 💞

Tainted Love 🥀

by @throneofsmut

Bound In Flames (series) 🥀💞🔥

by @parkerslatte

Overlooked 🥀🌼

Warm Me Up 💞🔥

by @prythianpages

Like An Angel 💞

Cruel, Wicked Thing

by @saphirered

Frozen lake 🔥💞

by @thehighladywrites

Professor Eris 🥀💞🔥

by @thevanserrras

Breaking Point 🥀

Den of Foxes 🥀💞

Happy Equinox at Last 💞

Wake Up 🥀💞 Azriel x Reader x Eris

Petty 🥀💞

by @secret-third-thing

Never An Honest Word 🥀 no pairing

by @nocasdatsgay

From the Ashes, the Wildflowers Grow (series) 🥀💞🔥🌼

by @lucienforhighking

Hounds of Love 💞

Dancing 💞🔥

by @callmeblaire

when fire and ice dance

by @moonlightazriel

Symphonies 💞

When no one hears your calls 🥀💞

by @sellyoursoulforagoodfic

Monstrous Secrets 🥀💞

by @florencemtrash

Flame, Shadow, Beast 🥀💞 Azriel x Reader x Eris

by @serpentandlily

Sly Fox, Dumb Bunny (series) 🌼

Last Solstice 🥀💞🌼

by @fever-fluff

Unconditional

by @yearning-for-autumn

Would That I

[afro-hispwriter]

My Dornish Love

Aemond Targaryen x Martell!reader

Warnings- arranged marriages, heavy implications of masturbation

Wc- 2.3k

I don’t intend for this to be the only part, but we’ll see.

part 2

-

A marriage proposal between Martells and Targaryens isn’t unheard of. But the Martells always refuse in the end. They were far too stubborn and prideful the council members would think. 

There was a war coming, and everyone knew. The greens need all the support they can get. And having Dorne on their side can turn things around heavily. Dorne may not have large numbers of fighters, but their skills make up for it. 

When Qoren Martell received a letter from Queen Alicent in hopes that he would accept a marriage between his eldest daughter and her second son. Everyone expected the prince to decline, but he surprised everyone by agreeing. It was a tour for her to get to know the Prince but it was clear the decision had already been made regardless.

When you, the princess, found out. You were furious.

“I don’t understand, we have never accepted anything that would mean having Dorne become part of the kingdoms.” You paced in front of your father.

“And it is time to change that.” He says and you huff. 

“You know why they’re doing this, the Targaryens are on the brink of yet another war and they are making sure to bring everyone into it.” 

“We don’t know that.” 

“Yes we do, and you’re putting me in it.” When he didn’t respond you turned away to start walking away.

“Its simply a tour to see if you are compatible, Y/n. You and your brothers will be sailing for Kings Landing in two days, be ready.” 

-

Those two days came by quickly. Your handmaidens had some of your things packed for those three weeks and the ship loaders were finishing up. 

“What if I don’t like him?” You ask your father as both of you wait on the docks.

“Then you don’t marry him.”

“Im sure the decision is already made. This tour is just a formality.” You cross your arms. “You won’t even be there.”

“Your brothers will be there in my place.”

“What if he is cruel? Targaryen men are said to be cruel.” 

“Then I'm sure his death will be deemed a mere accident.” His voice almost had an amusing tone. A shipmaster called out that everything was ready. Qoren grabbed you by your arms and turned you to face him. “Write to me.”

“I will.” Your lip quivered and he kissed your forehead before grabbing your hand to guide you to a boat. Your brothers, Ryon and Deziel jumped in after you.

“Don’t miss us too much,” Deziel says waving at the man and Ryon rolls his eyes. 

“Don’t destroy Kings Landing,” Qoren says and walks away with his hands behind his back.

-

Aemond knew this conversation would come. This is what he was waiting for. He would do his duty, and he hoped the Dornish woman would agree. 

“I'm sure you hear how unprincipled the women of Dorne are, brother.” Aegon laughed next to Aemond. “They are wild in the brothels now imagine the princess herself.” Aemond continued to ignore him and paid attention to his book. “But I'm sure you know enough thanks to me.” Aemond tightened his hand on the book. “But I never see you have fun so you might have to rely on your betrothed.” 

Aemond slammed the book shut and stood up. 

“They will be here soon.” He says and starts walking out of the library. 

“The ship was only recently spotted and even then they are still a few days out. Don’t get your cock in a bunch.” Aegon mumbled the last bit into his cup. “Or maybe you can’t wait to stick-.” He was cut off by the library door slamming shut. 

-

Once the ship flying the flag of House Martell was seen on the Blackwater. The people of King's Landing were eager to see the Princes’ and the Princess themselves as most of them had only seen Dornish merchants.

The royal family went by carriage. Alicent gave her children one of her talks about being on their best behavior. It was mostly pointed at Aegon who sat there bored, Helaena sat fiddling with a bracelet, while Aemond looked out the windows. The carriage stopped just a few feet from the docks and a queen's guard member opened the door. Alicent stepped out first, followed by Helaena, then Aemond, and finally Aegon. 

A few ships had already docked. Mostly merchants were eager to set up their shops or make deliveries. The ship said to be carrying the princess and the princes docked and a plank was lowered. A herald of Dorne stepped out first and looked at the family. 

“Prince Ryon, Prince Deziel, and Princess Y/n Martell of Dorne!” People cheered loudly and clapped as they watched the three of you step off the boat. 

You grab Deziel’s hand and he helps you step off. The guards stepped off after and cleared a path. Ryon and Deziel kept their hands on the hilds of their swords as they began walking.

“I see the Queen and her children,” Ryon says and juts his chin over the hill. You looked over and saw the red-headed woman and the three silver-headed princes and princess. 

You looped yours and Deziel’s arms together and Ryon led you up the steps. You instantly saw the man who is your betrothed. He stood tall by his family, hands behind his back and a stoic look on his face. 

“The terrible, Prince Aemond,” Deziel whispers in your ear and you roll your eyes.

“Stop, I'm sure they are just rumors.” 

“Sure.” 

Ryon opened his arms with a smile.

“Your grace, how well it is to see you.” He says and grabs Alicents hands with care and brings them up to his plump lips. 

“Prince Ryon, the last time I saw you, you were a child.” She says with a slight blush. 

“Yes, well as you see. I have grown quite a bit.” If you knew your brother, you were sure he gave the queen a wink and his charming smile that makes so many women and men fall at his feet. Alicents face went redder and Ryon squeezed her hands before releasing them. “As much as I enjoy your presence, your grace, I was hoping to see the Hand. Speak to him about my sister and your second son.” Ryon flashed a look at Aemond.

“My father has other matters but I assure you, the Princess will be taken care of.” Ryon looked around before nodding.

“My brother will ride with all of you to the Keep as well. I still have other matters to deal with for my father.” 

“Of course.” The Queen says then looks at Aemond. “Aemond.” She gave him a tight-lipped smile and he knew what that meant. He stepped forward, his long legs had him in front of you. 

“Princess, I'm glad you are here.” His voice was cold but his face was neutral. He grabbed your hand and kissed it softly. You squint your eyes at him before smiling brightly.

“Prince Aemond, it is lovely to meet you.” 

“Hmm.” He dropped your hand and held his own back behind him. He stared at you, mostly taking you in while trying not to linger on your cleavage. Did you have a belly piercing? 

“Oh darling you should cover up a bit, someone brings the princess something to cover up.” Alicent urged and you instantly frowned.

“No it's alright your grace, I wear clothes like this all the time.” She gave you a tight-lipped smile before nodding.

“Well we best get back, you must be exhausted.” Alicent walked back to the carriage and Aemond stayed by you.

“Apologies about her, she is very modest.” He says and you shrug.

“Well, she is going to have to get used to it.” You say to him softly so nobody can hear. You received no response making you roll your eyes. 

“Let's get you home Princess.” You frowned.

Home?

-

When you sat next to Aemond in the carriage, your perfume hit his nostrils. You smelled heavenly, like fruit with a twinge of the salty sea. Nobody spoke on the road back to the Keep. 

But you and Deziel admired the outside. You had never been to Kings Landing so it was all new territory for you. It made you nervous. 

The horses stopped in front of the Keep and the door popped open. The Queen and Helaena left first, then Aegon, followed by Deziel, and finally you and Aemond. The castle was huge, you and Deziel started at it in awe. 

“It's quite ugly.” He says quietly you gasp and slapped his arm. 

“Deziel! Don’t say things like that.” Everyone looked at you in confusion so you just smiled reassuringly.  

“Our handmaiden, Thea.” Alicent beckoned over one of the servants. She was a pretty girl, with brown hair, fair skin, and green eyes. “I have assigned her to your service, she will lead you to your temporary chambers until a decision is made. Your brother as well will be shown his way.”

“Thank you, your grace.” She squeezes your bicep before leaving to go inside.

“Princess, would you like me to show you your room? I'm sure you are tired.” Thea asks and you nod.

“Lead the way.” She gives you a big smile before turning around. You start to follow her and you see Deziel had already been led away. You locked eyes with Aemond who stood by the horses now, watching you. “I will see you later, Prince Aemond.” 

-

“Your things will be brought up shortly princess, would you like me to draw you a bath in the meantime?” Thea asks and points to the small tub in your new room. 

“Yes and if you have any salts that would be greatly appreciated.” They did a small bow before leaving. You were finally alone, even if it were for a couple of minutes. Your new room was only a bit bigger than the one back in Dorne but extremely boring. 

You took the liberty of stepping onto the balcony to see where you would be living. The view was beautiful. Birds flew and you could see how tiny the small folk looked. 

It all still looked so sad, maybe it was the time of day but it made you miss Dorne all the same. They came in with some help to fill up the tub with warm water. She then dumped some soothing salts into the water.  

“Would you like help in undressing princess?” She asks and you shake your head. 

“No, that's quite alright, I will send for you once I'm ready.” She bowed and left. You hovered your hand over the water, letting the steam hit it. You slipped the material of your dress down your shoulder and it pooled at your feet. You kicked your flats off so they clattered on the floor. You grabbed the edges of the tub and slowly settled into the water. 

The warm water was welcoming after being at sea for over a week. You could have slept in it if it weren’t for a knock on the door. 

“Come in!” You yelled out and the door creaked open and you heard footsteps.

“Princess?” It was none other than your betrothed.

“Over here, Aemond.” You say and turn your head to face the panels that cover the tub from sight. 

“I wondered-.” Aemond rounded the corner and the second he locked eyes on your state, his long legs had him behind the panels again. 

“My apologies, I will leave you to your business.” He said and there was a slight shake to his voice.

“Cut the shit Aemond.” You say and he freezes. “Come back, I want to talk to you.” He didn’t move but you could see the top of his head. “I want to see the face of a man I might marry when I talk to him.”

“You’re not decent princess.”

“Oh stop being so honorable for 5 minutes please.” He heard the water move around. Aemond sighed before rounding the corner and revealing himself again. His breath hitched when he saw your figure, you sat facing him and the lack of bubbles gave him a clear view of your breasts. “Soak it in my prince, who knows how long it will be before you see me like this again.” 

Aemonds face turned pink at your words and suddenly his boots were the most interesting thing in the world.

“You stand strong but standing in the presence of a naked woman you shrink.” His fists squeezed. “Would you like to feel the touch of a woman?”

“What did you want to talk about my lady?” He says harshly, making you smirk. 

“I want to talk about our potential betrothal. Regardless of our choice, its clear this is dire enough that we need to get married but I will ask you , Aemond.” He looked up, this time his eye solely on your face. “Will you sleep with anyone else?”

“No, I will remain faithful to you during this as long as I receive the same from you. This isn’t Dorne.”

“I am aware, Aemond.” You frown. “I would like to get to know you though, maybe something good can come out of this.” His jaw tightened but it then relaxed.

“Of course, my lady.” 

“Y/n.” You say. “Call me by my name Aemond, we are going to get very close.”

“As you wish.” Aemonds hands went behind his back. 

“As much as I enjoy having you here, I'm sure they are close to bringing my things, so I can either make room in this tub for you or you best be on your way.” You say and grab the bar of soap and washcloth. “Or you can watch and just hide.” There was an amusing look on your face. 

He let out a ‘Hmm’ and gave you a small smile. 

“Another time, Y/n.” Your name rolled off his tongue so fluently. Aemond walked away until he made it to the door and shut it behind him. 

“You will be the death of me Aemond Targaryen.” And your hand dips into the water to find a home in between your legs.

-

Likes, reblogs, and comments are always greatly appreciated, they help me keep going!

[thewritetofreespeech]

Nowhere is Safe

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Summary: you are awoken in the middle of the night to find out your nephew-in-law is dead and Aemond is trying to throw you out.

----------------------------⚔️--------------------------------

It was the dead of night. Which seemed to be when the most horrible, cruel, inconceivable things tended to happen.

You were fast asleep when the commotion woke you. The feeling like a dream. To the point that you try to ignore it and follow the path of more pleasant dreams fading off into your mind’s distance. The door flinging open, nearly off its hinges, was what fully woke you. ��Bleeding hells!!”

“Thank the Gods you’re alright.”

You had seen wild looks in Aemond’s eye before. His schemes. His dark thoughts. His cunning designs. But this wild look was not something you were familiar with. Fear. Enough to invoke the Gods? Something you were fairly certain he didn’t even believe in. “What’s going on?”

The prince said nothing as he rushed across the room with all the speed & grace those years of fighting had afforded him and took you in his arms. Aemond was nowhere near as cruel as Aegon, but he wasn’t one for overly affectionate displays. The closest he would come were peaceful, tender moments after your most intimate times. Now you were starting to sprout fear. “Jaehaerys is dead.”

You pulled back from Aemond to look at him in disbelief. His expression smooth and calm like always. Impossible to read for most, but you knew he was telling the truth. “What?! How?!”

“He was murdered by an assassin in our walls.”

The words are so impossible to believe that you think you might still be dreaming. Yes. Dreaming. This was all a bad nightmare. A terrible nightmare. Who would murder a child?! Who would murder someone within the castle walls? Yes, this was war, but deep down you thought none of them really meant to hurt one another. A child….

“You need to pack.”

Startled from your thoughts and swelling grief at Aemond’s words as he moved away, already helping himself to one of your trunks, you manage to ask, “What…? Why? Where?”

“Anywhere but here.”

He was already throwing all manner things into your trunk. Books, trinkets, some sheer manner of clothing that was more decorative than clothing. All of it going into the trunk with reckless abandon. “Aemond. Aemond stop. Aemond look at me!” He eventually stopped when you grabbed his arm. Ready to throw a vase, flowers, water, and all, in with the rest. “I’m not going anywhere. Alright. I’m not.”

“You have to.” He insisted. “The palace isn’t safe. We must get you somewhere—“If the Keep isn’t safe, then nowhere is safe.”

Aemond seemed to want to argue, but his jaw shut and closed tight. Those sharp lines in his face looking like daggers in his anger. Because he knew you were right. If they could get in here, they could get in anywhere. And more the fools they, but the point was that nowhere was safe now.

“You can’t stay here. I…I cannot protect you here.”

That’s why he was afraid, you realize. Not that you might be dead, though he would torrent the skies if that had been true, but he was scared he couldn’t protect you.

You wrap your arms around Aemond and hold him tight. Who would be next in this ridiculous feud? Aegon’s other children? Rhaenyra other sons? Helaena? Aemond himself?

You feel your grief mounting as you think on it. Who would be next, and who was now lost. Of Jaehaerys sweet face and how you would comment often that you hoped your future children were half as sweet as him. He’d make a fine king, as long as he spent less time with his father. He..would…have made a fine king.

You didn’t realize you were crying until Aemond lifted your head from his chest. “You need to leave.” He brushed the tears from your cheeks, but they all scatter again as you shook your head furiously.

“No. Never.” How could you leave him here, alone, in this place. Where nothing and no one was safe. If you were to die it would be with Aemond. It was the promise you made after all.

The prince let out a sigh. More heaving of shoulder than want of sound. Then he pulled you into his arms again. “You’re a damned fool.” Still, he doesn’t ask you again.

part II III IIII

[relia-robot-writes]

I am the Princess in the Tower.

You know, people hear that, and they say, "Oh, that poor Princess, she must be so lonesome up there. Some cruel fate must have befallen her, to be trapped so."

It's true, to a certain extent. I am lonesome. There's no shortage of princes and princesses - I have to wonder where they all come from - who come to try to rescue me from my captivity. None of them ever get particularly close, of course. The Tower is surrounded by a dark and tangled wood, monsters of flesh and stone stalk the grounds, invisible barriers and devious traps block all entry, and even if they got to the base of the Tower, they'd have to figure out how to climb up a sheer, frictionless vertical surface while automatically triggered fireballs rained down upon them... it's pretty well defended, is what I'm trying to say. Every single one of them gets sent packing, cursing the wizard who built the Tower and imprisoned me.

Which is, you know, pretty funny, when you get right down to it.

I mean, it's only natural to assume that, right? Wizards are mysterious, they pop in and out all the time. If one decides to suddenly vanish one day, well, he's probably just off calculating the angles of reality, or whatever, he'll be back. And if a girl appears in his Tower, well, of course he kidnapped a Princess for his own unfathomable wizard purposes.

It hardly matters that there aren't any kingdoms missing a Princess.

I don't correct them, anyway. It's safer for me if nobody knows who I am, or how I've changed. Safety was, after all, why I built the Tower in the first place. You think wizards do this for fun? Out in the middle of nowhere, forced to conjure food and water? Having to walk up and down twenty flights of stairs if I feel like going outside?

Wizards build towers when they are scared shitless.

See, I cast this divination spell when I was an apprentice, and I fucked it up. It constantly shows me visions of my own doom...

Not buying it?

Well, there was this devil, see, and I tricked him into thinking I'd signed my soul away, so now he stalks me forever, seeking vengeance through the very shadows themselves...

No good?

Well, I was cursed as a wee babe, and now all the world is my enemy, from the mightiest warrior to the softest blade of grass, and each one thirsts for my blood!

...I would have died to that one, like, immediately, huh.

Okay. Fine. I'm just... a coward. I built my Tower as far away from everything and everyone that could possibly do me harm as I could. I studied magic because it felt like the best way to avoid any and all hard work, conflict, and danger. I held off on telling anyone anything about who I truly was or what I wanted until I felt I could be absolutely safe.

And still, with "rescuers" at my door just waiting for my hand, I can't bear to look at them. The idea of one even getting close enough to attempt to climb the Tower (it's happened more than once) is terrifying. I could ask them to stop, but who would believe me? "Yes, I, the Princess in the Tower, am totes fine, please go away forever thanks, I am not an evil wizard." That'd go over well.

There's another princess that just made her way through the Woods and slayed one of my constructs. She'll be at the Tower base soon. She's got really pretty hair

I wish

I hope that you

Please don't

I'm writing this down here, and then I'm gonna go hide. If you're reading this,

The blue-armored princess flipped the paper over to the other side. It was blank. Her hair smoldered from the fireball she'd almost dodged, and she drummed her fingers on the hilt of her blade as she reread the first side. Aside from the paper, the room - and, indeed, the entire interior of the Tower - seemed completely empty.

[onlyangel4]

life of pain. LL30. part one. smau + written.

liam lawson x chronically ill reader

reader has dealt with pain for as long as she can remember but what she did not respect was for her pain to be the reason she met her soulmate.

author's note: i shall be writing this from experience so reader suffers from elher's danlos syndrome, chronic pain syndrome and chronic fatigue syndrome. but if you have a different chronic illness please do imagine it as that

faceclaim: kristine froseth

part two

y/ninsta posted a story

written: think i just won daughter of the year

y/ninsta posted a story

written: pj day

y/bff replied to this story: are you alright y/n you only wear pjs all day when it is a tough day

y/ninsta: i'm okay just been suffering the past week

y/bff: aren't you going to vegas soon

y/ninsta: fly out tomorrow

y/bff: just be safe okay love don't push yourself too far

y/ninsta posted a story

written: can't wait to celebrate you this weekend, love you dad

y/ninsta posted a story

written: fit check

y/ninsta posted a story

written: finally here

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

"great more walking", you whispered under your breath as you tucked your phone back into your handbag. this was not your dad's fault, he had no idea that you had hardly gotten out of bed all week and now you were in las vegas pushing your body to do things that it really did not want to do. your lids were already heavy, ready for bed and it was barely 9pm, a feeling that you were used to but would never feel normal.

you had decided that you wanted to get good pictures from this trip, so you had only packed heels, a cruel way of forcing your pained body to wear the fashionable shoe rather than slipping into your good old faithful worn out sneakers.

slowly weaving through the crowd you made sure to keep your head up and not slump shoulders, a way of making sure the shooting pain in your shoulder didn't get worse. but as you walked your eyes looked up to see a large group of people walking towards you, they already looked drunk. fucking brilliant.

you just continued to walk forward feigning importance with each step but even then you got shoved by one of the men. your brow furrowed, no one got to disrespect you like that. you turned to get a look at the man who had shoved you and give him a piece of your mind but you quickly regretted that choice.

you twisted badly on your right near and as you were in heels there was no stopping your right knee from dislocating. something that happens all the time but does not get any less painful. your joint quickly popped out of place and then back in but the damage was done as a yelp left your lips and you crumbled down to the floor.

the people in the paddock were too preoccupied with the excitement that comes with attending a formula one race that they just did not notice you on a crumpled heap on the ground hand grasping your knee just to make sure that it was properly back in place.

you were getting yourself ready to stand back up all by yourself when you noticed a blonde man with his eyes looked on you making a beeline towards you. "shit are you alright, you took quite a spill there", he spoke and your brain registered the accent instantly. "i'm okay i do stupid stuff like this all the time", you spoke and the man gave you a gentle smile, "what exactly happened that looked a little more than a small fall?"

"my dislocated", you spoke seeing the usual horror spread on his face.

"shit do i need to call an ambulance"

"no, like i said this happens all the time"

the man looked at you with pure concern on his face, you could practically see the cogs turning in his head as he tried to work you out.

"i have elhers danlos, you probably have never heard of it but it just means my joints like to dislocate all the time"

prince charming slowly nodded, "okay lets get you up and then i can help you find your friends"

"i'm here with my dad, he text me saying he was in the williams garage. i was trying to find him"

"okay i'll help you find him", he spoke before wrapping his arm around your waist.

"if you are going to touch me like that i better know your name mister", you teased as you heaved yourself up into a standing position.

the man looked a little taken back by your question almost like you should have known who he was, "i'm liam", he smiled

"nice to to meet you liam, i'm y/n", you spoke before beginning the walk with him, his arm still around your waist, just helping you keep your balance as you hobbled over towards the williams garage.

the walk to the garage was really nice, liam was asking you all sorts of questions like where you were from and what your medical condition really meant for you. you yapped on about your life, enjoying the man's company as you got to the williams garage.

your father was stood outside eyes searching for you but when he spotted you and your company his mouth opened wider, "Oh y/n", he called out as you and liam approached him.

"you worried me girl, did something happen", he spoke still side eyeing liam making you quirk an eyebrow.

"i'm okay, my knee dislocated, i'm fine though", you spoke knowing how worried your father got sometimes.

but your father was a little more focused on the man next to you, "liam", he spoke, "it is lovely to meet you", he smiled and you frowned a little, how did your father know liam?

"i am very happy to see you back in f1, you drive brilliantly"< your father spoke and you gasped.

"shit, you are liam lawson, the new rb driver", you spoke turning to him, "i am so sorry i didn't recognise you, i am a casual f1 fan, my dad here is the real superfan", you explained to the man rambling on a little bit.

"that is okay y/n it was kind of refreshing to meet someone that doesn't know who i am", he spoke kindly, "i'm going to have to head back over to the garage for some media bits but i was wondering if i could have your number. i could hustle you two seats in the rb garage for the race", he spoke, "it will a lot safer there for you", he smiled.

your father was looking at you two starstruck and you just nodded, "of course", you spoke before he gave you his phone and you plugged your number in, "thank you for helping me liam", you spoke before waving him goodbye.

he left you stood there stunned as your father asked you ever question under the sun about your interaction with the driver.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

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[medusapelagia]

14 The betrothal

written for @steddieangstyaugust (prompt: Lake), @augustwritingchallenge (Prompt: prince and princess ), @aug-kissed (prompt: Hand Kiss) Rating: Mature Relationship: Steve/Eddie TW: omegaverse, Omega Steve Harrington, Alpha Eddie Munson, Beta Robin Buckley, violence, blood and injuries, vomit Words: 1563

If Steve was a proper omega he wouldn't be on that stupid carriage, to be shipped from Loch Nora's Kingdom to Forest Park like an unwanted pack.

A proper omega would honor his family, stay home, cross-stitch animals and flowers, and learn poems and music. But Steve never was a proper omega and after he rejected his last suitor his father told him that he wasted his last opportunity to choose a proper alpha and that he was going to find one willing to take in a rebel omega like him.

Male omegas are a blessing and a curse: they are very rare, so Steve's father was able to ask for a high dowry from whoever wanted to marry him, but there weren't many alphas willing to tie their life to a male omega. 

Steve has heard talking about Forest Park. A lot. And never in a good way.

They have a very bad reputation, but they are rich, so Steve has no doubt that his father got a really good dowry for selling him to those people. Well, not selling, betrothing him.

Thankfully, Robin is coming with him. Moving from one Kingdom to another and being completely alone would have been terrible, at least his beta best friend is trying to make him laugh by making silly comments and distract him from the long journey.

Even if the carriage is big and cozy, spending hours sitting on a carriage isn't that comfortable, and Steve's royal ass is in pain.

He doesn't even have enough space to stretch his long legs because in the carriage with them, there are the two guards King Munson himself sent to escort the future bride.

The guards are heavily armed, as they were expecting something to happen, and Steve isn't totally surprised. After all, Forest Hill has a terrible reputation. Their King was an outlaw before he rebelled and became king by killing everyone and conquering the castle, so Steve isn't really looking forward to moving in the same bed with a notorious assassin. But it’s not his choice anymore.

Savages, that's the kindest word Steve’s mom used to define those people, while what everyone thought but none dared to speak out loud was that King Munson was the new Warlord.

A warlord. Not a high-born, just a man with enough power and money to hire the strongest knight and mercenaries to help him keep his power. And Steve is going to get married to a Warlord’s son, or nephew, he's not really sure. Bloodlines are mixed in their Kingdom and they don't give a fuck about dynasties and the only blood that they care about is the one the blood spit by their enemies.

Steve has heard terrible stories about how cruel and violent those people are. One of Steve's servants has told him that Prince Munson killed his first wife with his own hands because she wasn't too sick to give him a child.

Being a male omega Steve knows he can bear pups, even if his heats are irregular and it's harder for him than for other omegas, but he never thought that the ability to bear a child or not could have been the cause of his premature death.

His scent gets sour and acrid while he thinks about the monster that he's supposed to wed. Maybe he should have been more pliant with his previous suitor. Lord Hagan wasn’t that bad after all. A little bit too presumptuous for Steve’s taste but he doubts he would have had him killed if he wasn’t able to bear a child.

"You ok? Do you want to take a break? Stretch your legs a bit?" Robin proposes, drawing soothing circles with her thumb on Steve's hand.

"Yeah, that would be nice." He confirms, rubbing a hand through his hair.

"No break and no stretching. We are still in hostile territory." One of the guards replies without even looking at Steve.

"Couldn't we stop just for a moment?" Robin insists, "We have been on this stupid carriage for hours!"

But an arrow flying through the window and ending his journey a few inches from her face makes her shut up.

"Stay down!" One guard yells, yanking Steve toward the carriage’s floor so abruptly that he falls badly on his own wrist, spraining it, but he doesn't have time to yelp because the carriage stops in the middle of the woods.

"Stay inside!" The first guard yells, jumping out of the carriage and drawing his sword. For a moment Steve catches a glimpse of a bloodied body staring blankly at him with a long arrow in the one eye socket.

"It's ok. It's ok." Robin tries to soothe him, releasing beta relaxing pheromones, but the other guard stops her, complaining that he can't afford to get relaxed by her pheromones, so Steve and Robin hug each other, trying to hide themselves from the attackers.

"He's here!" Someone yells, kicking the carriage door open, but the second guard is quick to pierce the intruder from side to side, what he wasn't expecting was someone else opening the door on the opposite side and grabbing Steve with no kindness, yanking him by his hair.

Robin screams, reaching out toward Steve, the guard turns his head just for a moment and another attacker takes his chance to stab him in the leg while Robin keeps screaming, but the clenching of the metal armor is so loud that Steve almost can't hear her.

A strong hit on the back of his head makes everything turn a warm black and he loses consciousness.

***

When he opens his eyes, Steve is surprised to find himself resting with his back against a big oak tree. In front of him the bluest lake he ever saw.

He puts down his hand, trying to get up, but immediately desists when a bright pain makes him whimper.

"I would stay put if I were you. Your wrist is sprained and you took a nasty hit to the head. Are you feeling dizzy?"

Steve startles, looking around himself, and finally finds a tall man with dark eyes and a nasty scar on his face staring at him with an amused smile.

His kidnapper!

The omega tries to crawl backward, but the unknown man is right, his wrist hurts too much and he still feels lightheaded.

"I think I'm going to puke…" he mutters, before turning on his side and emptying his stomach on the green grass.

Surprisingly, his kidnapper is quickly at his side, holding his hair out of his face, whispering encouraging words while he holds him to his chest with one arm.

When Steve's body gets limp into the kidnapper's arms, he takes a moment to breathe in his scent.

Embers and earth.

An alpha.

A proper omega should never be left alone with an alpha who's not family!

Steve tries to wriggle out of the stranger's hold, but he gently chuckles and pushes Steve's neck closer to the scent gland on his neck, "You're fine, omega. Nothing to worry about."

"I'm betrothed." He objects in a soft voice, while the alpha pheromones make him pliant and docile.

"That's what you're worried about? your honor?" The unknown alpha chuckles. 

He has a nice laugh, Steve decided in his drugged state of mind, and he smells delicious. No other alpha ever smelled so good to him.

Steve must have said something because a very pleased rumble comes from the alpha's chest.

"You don't smell bad yourself, sweetheart." 

Steve should be ashamed of himself, but the alpha's sturdy body is holding him tight and for the first time in his life he feels safe in an alpha's embrace.

"That's good. Come on, sip some water for me to wash away that bad taste."

The omega prince doesn't really know if the alpha is using his alpha's voice, or if he's already scentdrunk or whatever, but the only thing he wants to do is obey this alpha.

Steve spits a few times to clean his mouth from the horrible taste and then drinks some water, while the alpha keeps holding him tight.

The man’s wearing a beaten armor, stained with blood, and for a moment Steve wonders if he will kill him, but the way he keeps holding him makes him think that he’s affected by Steve’s scent as he is from his.

They aren't left alone for long. When Steve turns his head someone is riding toward them. Too many people.

Steve turns toward the alpha with eyes wide with worry, "You have to go. My future husband will kill you. He's a warlord! He won't be pleased you kidnapped me!"

"Kidnapped?" The alpha asks, staring with confusion at the omega, feeling Steve's head with gentle fingers, "How badly did they hurt you, omega?" he asks worriedly, and this time is Steve's turn to frown in confusion.

“I might not look so but I’m a prince. And I was on my way to wed the Forest Park’s Warlord's son. If they catch you, they’ll kill you.”

Eddie bursts out in a loud laugh, shaking Steve who quietly complains of being jostled by the huge Alpha's body.

"Let me introduce myself," the alpha says, grabbing Steve's uninjured hand and kissing the palm of his hand in the most chivalrous way, "I'm Edward Munson, King Munson's nephew, your betrothal." 

[starrynightmuse]

Sign of the Times 🏛⏳️ I. Broken Dragonfly Wings

Aemond Targaryen x reader, Library of Alexandria AU

(Title inspired by the Harry Styles song)

Blurb: It's summer in Alexandria, Egypt, and the heat has reached sweltering heights. Children dash toward the banks of the Nile, eager to find relief in the cool waters while ladies fan themselves under the shade of palm trees. Thick mud huts keep families cool under the boiling sun. It would be 1,892 years before the first ice cubes would be invented and nearly two millennia until air conditioning. Even Jesus Christ wouldn’t be born until another 48 years. But you have the teachings of Aristotle and the works of Euclid. You're the first and only female scholar at the Library of Alexandria, the first institute of its kind. All your life has been spent in the pursuit of knowledge — until the arrival of a mysterious young scholar named Aemond. 

Series warnings: period typical misogyny, ancient academia, teacher x student relationship (but they're the same age), violence, fire, sexual content (18+), reader is loosely based off of Hypatia of Alexandria, Targaryens x Ptolemies crossover, character deaths, inaccurate history for the sake of storytelling, accusations of witchcraft, debates on fictional religions, Plato, Daemon being a menace.

Word count: 5,380

Series Masterlist

Your heart was racing, terror coiling in your stomach like a serpent, but you refused to let it show as you looked out at the mob of angry faces around you in the pavilion.

“Traitor!”

“Death to the witch!”

“Kill her!” 

You knew there was no escaping this. This was the end. Yet, even as fear flooded your chest, you refused to let go of your pride. You held your head up high as Prince Daemon approached you where you kneeled. He looked down at you, his cold eyes gleaming in sick satisfaction.

"I'm giving you one last chance, witch," he said, his voice hard and uncompromising. "Renounce your unholy ways and convert to the Faith of the Seven, and you shall walk away unharmed."

You looked up at him, refusing to back down. You hypocrite, you thought. When you spoke, your voice was steady and firm. "I cannot.”

The prince's expression darkened. He stepped closer to you, his lips close to your ear so that no one would overhear.

“There is nothing left for you. It's over. Save yourself and the crown will grant you mercy,” he hissed.

You spat at his face. "If the right to think is treason, then I embrace it proudly. I refuse to remain supplicant to a crown that fears the power of knowledge and labels it treachery."

Daemon's lips formed into a cruel snarl. He stepped back and turned to the crowd, opening his arms in a dramatic display. "The punishment for witchcraft is death!" his voice boomed. The crowd erupted, snarling and roaring like a pack of lions.

Your heart raced as the people closed in with stones in hand, hungry predators circulating their prey. You took a final deep breath, bracing yourself for the onslaught. The first stone hit you, a dull throb of pain that quickly gave way to sharper, intense sensations as more stones followed. You feel your knees collapsing to the hard floor. In reflex, you cover your head with your arms. You shut your eyes, and the last thing you saw was the memory of a single blue eye.

🏛⏳️

6 months earlier.

There's a buzzing in the air, and not just from the hum of people in the atrium outside. Inside your classroom, a large blue dragonfly lazily flies in circles, your students taking turns swatting at it as it zips by. It’s an epaulet skimmer, or an orthetrum chrysostigma, a common dragonfly found around Egypt. Last month, you helped survey them with a fellow scholar who was putting together an account of all the various insects along the Nile River delta. The research project was commissioned by the Princess Helaena Targaryen herself, whom you've heard was quite fond of natural history. 

In the midst of your lecturing, the buzz of the insect feels amplified. In front of you sit nearly fifty pupils, all perched on wooden benches. Most of them are in their teens and early twenties, and all of them were young men with restless energy with wandering minds. While a few showed genuine curiosity, you knew that attendance was merely a formality to half of them, who were only present because their parents were wealthy aristocrats. Yet, you knew it was your duty to broaden their minds and instill some semblance of knowledge into their minds before they go on to graduate and become lords who make decisions that impact hundreds of people.

“Whether you believe in the Seven or the old gods, we accept that the divine has created all that we know,” you say, your voice carrying across the room. “Yet, the mechanisms behind how their creations work are a mystery to us mortals.”

There's a blur of blue near your eye when the dragonfly makes a landing on your nose. You swap it away and continue. 

“For example, what are the gears that drive a drought? Elders of the past have said that a drought is punishment from an angry sun god. Holy men today say it is the repercussion of having vexed the Seven. But how, precisely, do these divine beings bring this drought upon us?” You pause, pacing around the room. “Like observing the work of a craftsman, we can observe the handiwork of the gods. We can observe that volcanic eruptions are one tool that the gods use to give us droughts. Likewise, miasma from a plague, which spews vaporous acid into the atmosphere, can cause rising temperatures and dry up rivers. (Modern Fact check: Miasma does NOT cause plagues. They are caused by infectious bacteria and viruses.)

“Every natural disaster has forces, or causes, behind them. Although perhaps only the gods may know the truth of the workings behind these events, philosophers and believers of science have theorized why certain disasters come to be. Take earthquakes, for example. Compared to droughts, it is much harder for us to determine how earthquakes are created. Aristotle, for one, suggested that it is caused by winds in subterranean caves.”

One of your pupils seated on the front row raises his hand. Ebony curls, dark eyes that remind you of beetles, his robes a deep plum that only money can buy.

“Perhaps Aristotle failed to consider that earthquakes could just be Atticus's mother walking to the market,” he says, a cocky grin spreading across his face. His friend gives him a hearty slap on the back, nearly doubling over with laughter.

You offer a tight-lipped smile. "Thank you, Flavius." 

Some of your students were more mature than others.

Flavius's jolliness is short-lived, however. The dragonfly suddenly decides to dart into his eye and he lets out a startled shriek. He swats at the insect and tumbles forward off the bench. His friend roars even harder with laughter. Meanwhile, the dragonfly falls onto the floor, its delicate blue wings now broken. A couple students in the back crane their necks in curiosity as Flavius stomps his feet on the insect's body, crushing it mercilessly against the tile floor. Tiny blue limbs smear across the tiles, its wings in pieces like shattered glass. A life snuffed out in the blink of an eye.

Flavius settles back onto the bench, straightening his toga with an air of nonchalance. "Apologies, miss. Please, continue," he says.

You choose to ignore his interruption, redirecting your attention to the rest of the class. 

“When we attempt to unravel the mysteries behind the divine's creations, we begin to understand the natural world,” you say, thinking about the dead bug in front of you, its blue wings, the blue of the Nile, all the species of flora and fauna that have survived for eons thanks to its life-giving waters. “This is why we study the discipline of science.”

“Beyond these walls, I have heard many who deem it to be blasphemy,” a voice interjects. 

Your gaze shifts to a young man at the rear of the room. You've never seen him before, not in your classroom nor around the Library. If you've seen him, you would know. With his sharp features, nearly white hair cropped close to his head, and a leather eyepatch covering an angry scar on his left eye — his was not a face you would forget. 

“What do they call you?” You ask curiously, piercing blue eye meeting yours. He seemed a bit older than the rest of your students — perhaps in his mid-twenties, around the same age as you. You briefly wondered where he was from. His features stood out in a sea of dark haired Alexandrians.

"I am called Aemond, ma'am," his voice remained composed and respectful. "Just Aemond." There was a refinement in his speech that hinted of a privileged upbringing, yet the absence of a surname intrigued you. Perhaps he was an educated slave, adept at tutoring and managing the finances of the master's household — literate slaves were not uncommon in the Roman Empire.

"And what have you heard, Aemond?" you inquire.

"It is said that scientific inquiry is seen as an offense to the Seven," he responds evenly, referring to the gods. "Questioning their creations is considered sacrilegious." Several students nod in agreement around the room.

You paused for a moment, gathering your thoughts.

“It is true that outside these walls, the belief that science is sacrilegious is held by many people,” you say slowly. “Perhaps even now, some of you are wrestling with the idea, torn between conventional thinking and what you are learning at this institute. If this is the case, I implore you to consider this —” 

You look out at the faces of your pupils. Some are focused and deep in thought, while others are frowning. A lone blue eye is fixed on you.

"—What act of love is greater than seeking to understand the object of your affection? Mathematics, physics, and astronomy are not merely academic pursuits but they are expressions of love. They are avenues through which we seek to comprehend and appreciate the intricate beauty of our world.” You gestured around the room. “I am aware that some of you are followers of the Seven. Some of you are devoted to the old gods. But science does not seek to refute the existence of one God over another, nor does it attempt to debunk the existence of the divine altogether. Science seeks only to understand.” You look in Aemond's direction. He's watching, listening intently. “In attempting to understand the natural world, we may better love the divine and appreciate their creations.”

🏛⏳️

The remainder of the class concluded smoothly, and due to the sweltering heat, you dismissed everyone earlier than usual. Despite the hour not yet reaching midday, the air was thick with humidity, making the classroom feel oppressive. You had no desire to keep your students in the stuffy classroom for longer than necessary.

As the others rush to leave the room, you notice that Aemond was kneeling down and using a handkerchief to clean the dragonfly off the floor.

“Thank you,” you say to him earnestly. His brow is furrowed in concentration as he delicately holds the insect through the thin white cloth. He picks up a broken piece of an iridescent blue wing, the shimmer catching the light.

"It's an epaulet skimmer," you remark softly. But you're not looking at the bug, you're looking at him.

"Orthetrum chrysostigma," Aemond responds, using the scientific name. You regard him with curiosity. 

“My sister has a fondness for insects," Aemond explains. "She is extremely gentle with them. She maintains an extensive collection in her room — beetles, caterpillars, dragonflies, and the like. But she only gathers them once they've passed on. Her heart is too big to confine them before they've lived a full life." He gazes at the broken wing in his hand with a hint of sadness. You suspect that he is thinking of more than the fate of the squashed bug.

“Some cultures believe that dragonflies were once dragons who were tricked by a jackal to change shape into insects,” you say, looking at the wing in fascination. “Once they became a dragonfly, they couldn't transform back. As a result, they represented change and illusion.” 

You notice that Aemond's gaze is now fixed on you, a blue eye that reminds you of iridescent wings and the shimmering surface of the Nile on sunny days. You think of mirages in the desert, blue lapis lazuli on polished gold rings, the holographic shells of scarab beetles. 

“They must've been very grand in their past lives,” he remarks.

There's a short silence as you observe him, unsure of what to make of this strange new addition to your class. As your gaze shifts from his eyepatch to his eye, you notice that he's studying you too. Suddenly, you feel very exposed, as if he was somehow reading your entire life story just by looking at you. 

Breaking the tension, you extend your hand. "I realize I haven't properly introduced myself. It's been a pleasure having you in my class," you say, stating your name. He accepts your gesture, clasping your hand in a firm shake.

“You're the daughter of Theon. Your father is the greatest mathematician in all of Alexandria,” Aemond says. “I know who you are.” 

“Do you study mathematics?” 

“No. History and philosophy,” he replies. “But I've read enough across all the disciplines to know who the greats are.” 

“I don't think I've ever seen you around here before,” you note.

"I just started my studies here," he explains. "I arrived last night."

"Where else have you studied?" 

“Nowhere else. All my education has been from tutors hired by my family at home.”

"If you don't mind my asking, where do you come from?" 

He hesitates. “I've been around,” he says at last. 

🏛⏳️

That afternoon, you decided to teach your next class in one of the classrooms overlooking the sea. Arriving early, you unlatch the tall, arched windows, hoping to coax a gentle breath of ocean breeze into the room. As the soft light of the late afternoon filtered through, you arrange your teaching materials as the first of your students trickled in.

The class was on Euclidean geometry. As it happens, this was one of your favorite subjects to teach. You loved to move around the room, using various objects — such as a discus, a sphere, and even a pineapple — to illustrate geometric shapes and their properties. It was more than just memorizing formulas; it was about seeing and understanding the spatial relationships and practical applications of mathematics in the physical world.  

Two thousand years from now, Euclidean geometry would be the foundation for computer graphics, radiology, and geographic information systems. Without Euclid, you wouldn't have video games or anime. There would be no x-rays to help doctors treat broken bones. Without Euclid, there would be no Google Maps, nor would you be able to stalk your crush's location on Snapchat. 

Abruptly, you are cut off mid-lecture as a series of bold knocks echo off the door. You excuse yourself and open the door cautiously, finding yourself face-to-face with six armored men adorned in gold cloaks. You step out into the atrium.

"What is your business?" you ask, your gaze sharp and guarded.

“Prince Daemon Targaryen wants to speak to Theon of Alexandria. I'm told you're his daughter,” the guard at front says firmly.

“My father is indisposed. Whatever business you have with him, you can discuss with me.”

A sudden laugh rings out across the atrium. Every movement in the hall comes to a standstill as scholars pause their tracks and turn their heads. In front of you, guards quickly part ways for a tall man with long silver hair. His armor clinks as he strides towards you, his eyes mischievous like those of a jackal, reminding you of the ancient depictions of Anubis on temple walls. Adorning his shoulders is the same golden cloak worn by his men.

It was the unmistakable Prince Daemon Targaryen, brother of King Viserys and the consort of the crown princess Rhaenyra. But to the smallfolk, he is known as the merciless commander of the City Watch. 

Daemon looks at you like you are the scum on his shoes. “I don't have time for games, girl,” he says mockingly. “Where is your father?”

“Like I've said, he is indisposed,” you repeat, meeting him with a steady gaze.

“I have come a long way from the palace,” he says, offering a false honeyed grin. “You will fetch him for me.” 

You give a smile that mirrored his. It was common knowledge that Prince Daemon frequented the company of his mistress in the city more than he did his own wife at the royal palace.

"I speak the truth when I say my father cannot be here right now, and I apologize on his behalf. However, I am willing to assist you,” you assert calmly.

"This does not concern you," Daemon retorts dismissively. "I am here on business concerning your father's governance of this... academic institution."

"I am a professor here and a senior member of the Library of Alexandria," you counter, maintaining your composure. "After my father, you will find no one more knowledgeable about the affairs of this institute than I am."

Daemon scoffs, his tone condescending. "There are matters too serious to discuss with a woman.”

“Then I'm afraid you will have to come back another day, my prince.” 

“Where is your father?”

“He is sick. Unless you have a direct order from the king, I would prefer not to disturb him from his much-needed rest."  

The unspoken truth hangs heavy in the air — the Library is under the protection of the crown, and Daemon, despite his authority, is not the king. The prince's expression darkens, a sneer painting his features as his knuckles grip around the handle of his sword on his waist. You find yourself locked in a tense staring contest, both unwilling to yield. Moments tick by in silence, each waiting for the other to give in. Then —

“Very well,” he concedes, letting go of his grip on the sword. But you knew from his expression that this was far from over. Daemon casts a disdainful glance around the atrium as if the place offended him before turning and walking away from you. His gold cloaks follow him, their armor clanking all the way to the main doors of the library. 

It is only when the last of them exited onto the street that you allow yourself to release the breath you've been holding.

🏛⏳️

“Daemon Targaryen? What was he doing here?” You hear Cregan before you see him.

You're in the far corner of the main reading room, kneeling before a crate with a new shipment of scrolls that came in from Greece. Gently opening the lid, you discover a signed note from the head of the Platonic School of Athens. Ἕν οἶδα ὅτι οὐδὲν οἶδα. Αὕτη ἡ γνῶσις ἐμοῦ ἐστιν, it reads at the end. One thing I know, that I know nothing. This is the source of my wisdom. It is a quote by Socrates.

Cregan emerges from behind a shelf, his gray eyes wide with exasperation.

“I can't say that I haven't expected this,” you say to him, picking up a scroll and lightly dusting it off. “It is no secret that Daemon puts up with us only because of the pharaoh.”

“Well, yes. But to barge in here and demand for the Professor—” he means your father Theon.

“He's been sending us threats for months.”

Cregan paused. “When did this start?”

“Four moons ago, when King Viserys reinstated him as Lord Commander of the City Watch.” 

Daemon had been the commander of the city watch once before, but that had been years ago, and back then he was more interested in dealing with criminals in the worst parts of the city. But after some scandal with the Princess Rhaenyra, Viserys had exiled him to Rome. Now, he was back and had regained both his old post as leader of the city guard and the Princess Rhaenyra, whom he took to wife. However, this time, Daemon was turning his policing to the University of Alexandria, more commonly referred to as simply the Library. Apparently, scholars are the new criminals.

“Why didn't you tell me?” Cregan asked, clearly frustrated.

“I didn't want to burden you with it," you reply honestly. "You've been occupied with your research with Princess Helaena these past four moons.”

Cregan rubs his eyebrows. “What has he been threatening?”

With a sigh, you rise to your feet, making space on the shelf for the new scrolls. Cregan joins you, handing over scrolls from the crate as you arrange them carefully in their designated spots on the shelf. 

“He wants to shut down the Library if we don't — and I quote his words — ‘tone down on the science’,” you explain. "He's pushing for censorship, insisting that everything that is taught and published here must be 'safe' for the public. He claims it's about protecting the moral well-being of Alexandrians."

Cregan snorts derisively. "I wonder what his wife thinks of his moral well-being."

"That's an ad hominem attack, Cregan," you chide gently. But you're smiling.

“We're the best scientific research institution in the Mediterranean,” he says. “And, let's face it, we're probably the best in the entire world. We owe it all to King Jaehaerys's proclamation over 50 years ago, protecting our intellectual freedom. Even Daemon Targaryen can't derail something like that.” 

“Daemon doesn't like anything he can't control,” you say. “Nor does he like taking no for an answer.”

“He's a cunt,” Cregan muttered angrily. “His word isn't law but he sure does want to act like it. Did you hear he's been trying to ban all Northerners from entering Alexandria? Unless they're slaves, that is. It's utterly absurd. He's a Northerner himself. His entire family hails from the north—well, not the North, but north of the Mediterranean. Valyria is a small city-state in Greece. Still, that's north of us. If he wants only true Alexandrians in the city, maybe he should consider leaving as well." The Targaryens, although originally from Greece, had become the longest-reigning dynasty in Egypt, despite their non-Egyptian origin.

"What does Princess Helaena think?"

"Of Daemon?"

"Of the North."

Cregan blushes slightly. "She's mentioned that we should visit there together someday," he admits. “For research purposes, of course,” he adds quickly. 

You grin. Cregan has been your closest friend since childhood, and you swear you've never seen him as happy as he's been the past few months.

"She wants to see the direwolves and the aurora borealis,” says Cregan. “I promised her I'd show her around Winterfell when we go." Winterfell, Cregan's hometown, nestled in a far-off corner of the world where snow and frost dominate most of the year — a large contrast to the sandy dunes of Egypt.

“You like her,” you mused.

“Don't be absurd,” Cregan says, but he's failing miserably in hiding a smile.

There's a rustling among the shelves behind you, and the next thing you know, you're face to face with a single blue eye that reminds you of ocean water and iridescent wings.

"Sorry, I was told that the texts about Plato are in this section?" Aemond asks.

"Oh. Yes. Absolutely," you reply quickly, gesturing around you. "I mean, they're all here. Everything on this wall is Plato. We've just received a new collection of his works from Greece and we just finished cataloging and setting them up. They're on this shelf. Here." Your words stumble out awkwardly, and you feel your cheeks flush with embarrassment.

“Perfect,” Aemond says, looking at you. Neither of you move. Cregan eyes the two of you with amusement. 

“Well, I was just about to head out,” Cregan says cheerfully, sashaying past you. You turn, widening your eyes and mouthing no to him. Cregan simply grins as he disappears behind the bookshelves, leaving you with Aemond. 

“You read Plato?” you ask.

Aemond nods. “I am an admirer of his work,” he says. “You were one of my first introductions to him, actually. I read your thesis on him, An Exploration Into the Metaphysics of Plato, when I was sixteen.” 

“I can't imagine there would be many copies of that,” you say with amazement. “I wrote it when I was—”

“Sixteen,” Aemond says. You blink. He clears his throat. “I've been a follower of your work,” he adds shyly.  

“Oh. I'm flattered.” You’re blushing.

“Is it true that you started studying at The Academy when you were fourteen?” He means the Platonic School of Athens, founded by Plato himself over 300 years ago. Most scholars called it The Academy. It is the first university to ever open in western civilization.

You nod. “I learned mathematics and astronomy here, but my father wanted me to get a hellenistic education on top of it, so he sent me to Greece. I stayed there for four years before returning to Alexandria.”

“I have a brother who studies there,” Aemond shares, leaning against a bookshelf. “My mother, being an Athenian herself, insisted he be sent there. He writes to me sometimes, telling me about the professors he works with. I had considered studying there myself.”

“What made you choose Alexandria over Athens?”

Aemond smiles. “I'm at the center of the world here. It seemed foolish to want to go anywhere else,” he says, his gaze sweeping the library around him. After a pause, he asks, “What made you want to teach?”

“The fear of oblivion,” you reply. "It's the realization that everything we do, everything we learn, and everything we create could be forgotten someday. Teaching, for me, is a way to combat that inevitability. By sharing knowledge, by shaping young minds, I can hope to leave a lasting impact — a legacy that outlives me."

Aemond nods thoughtfully. "So it's about leaving a mark on the world?"

"In a sense, yes," you affirm. "It's about contributing to something greater than myself, ensuring that knowledge endures beyond individual lives and fleeting moments."

He smiles faintly. "That's a noble pursuit."

"It's what drives me," you conclude. As you look at each other, you feel his gaze tracing over your face with a strange emotion. Awe? Admiration? Before you can decipher his thoughts, a scholar approaches the shelf behind you, prompting you to awkwardly step aside.

"I hope you find the resources on Plato you're looking for," you say to Aemond, refocusing on the moment. You pause. "We're hosting a seminar on Plato's metaphysics tomorrow afternoon in the Rose Hall. You should join us."

Aemond smiles. “I’d be honored to.”

🏛⏳️

Daytime in Alexandrian summers can be hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk, but when the chill sets in at night, the city transforms into a completely different land. It is under the cloak of darkness that Alexandria truly comes alive.

You’re wrapped in a headscarf, its tail fluttering in the gentle wind from the Mediterranean as you navigate the narrow streets of the night market. Oil lamps and torches cast a soft, flickering glow as shadows danced across buildings decorated with a mix of hieroglyphs and hellenistic art. On the streets, you hear people speaking in both Greek and Egyptian, but also Persian, Moroccan, and other various African and Asiatic dialects. Various aromas filled the air— spices mingled with the savory scents of grilled meats and the sweet notes of baked pastries and delicacies from the far corners of the world. It was the New York City of the ancient world.

Weaving between stalls adorned with colorful fabrics and gleaming trinkets, you spotted one of the gold cloaks from earlier that day. Upon noticing you, he gave you a brief, curt nod before turning his attention sharply towards a group of rowdy children who were blocking the path of a passing wagon.

You make your way to an apothecary stall, securing the medicine your father needs before turning to leave. Suddenly, a hooded figure trips over a wooden crate and crashes into you, causing both of you to tumble to the ground. You fall flat on the cobblestones, his weight on top of you. Your basket with the apothecary vial shatters on the road.

“Ow!” he yelled. You struggle to push him off and get to your feet, then reach down to help him up, steadying him as he sways unsteadily. His hood falls back, revealing a mess of unruly white curls. 

Prince Aegon Targaryen. You’ve seen him a few times while going around the city. The eldest son of Queen Alicent, known to frequent the streets of Alexandria often. Aside from Daemon, he was the only royal that most of the smallfolk could recognize by appearance.

"Prince Aegon," you say cautiously, helping him steady himself. "Are you alright?"

He blinks a few times, focusing on you with bleary eyes. "Why, hello," he slurs slightly, attempting a lopsided smile. For a prince, he seemed dirtier than Diogenes and his barrel.

"Let me help you," you insist, guiding him away from the scattered shards of glass. You maneuver him towards a nearby bench, ensuring he sits down safely.

"I’m alright, I’m fine," he murmurs, running a hand through his disheveled hair. He groaned and vomited on the ground next to him. You pat him on the back awkwardly as he empties his stomach.

“Did my mother send you?” he said abruptly.

“What?”

“My mother. She sent you, didn’t she? I can’t catch a break these days,” he grumbled. “The woman is a menace. She’s become crazier since my brother got exiled. I can’t even drink in peace now. She’s sending her spies everywhere.”

You frowned. “I’m not a spy, my prince.”

Aegon wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and sits back heavily on the bench. He tilts his head up at you, scrutinizing you, and then he sighs and hungs his head.

“Forgive me,” he mutters, almost to himself. “I’m tired of the games. Tired of the scrutiny. I’m tired of the standards that she sets for me, and I’m tired of her disappointment when I fail to meet them. Can’t she see I don’t want any of this? Can’t she just let me be?”

You hesitate, unsure how to respond to the prince's candidness. He was clearly drunk and you’ve only just met him, and you’ve heard unsettling rumors about him. Stories of his frequenting brothels and fighting rings, of fathering illegitimate children and neglecting them. But in this moment, he seemed far from the crooked prince that people whispered about. He seemed like a child in need of comfort.

“Your mother worries about you,” you say gently. “She only wants what’s best for you.”

He scoffs bitterly. “Does she? Tell me, have you ever had a mother who would rather marry you to your own sibling for political gain than let you live your own life?”

You shake your head slowly. “I cannot say I understand fully, but I know you carry a heavy burden.”

“Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever be free of it.” Aegon leans back, staring up at the night sky with weary resignation. “My brother was lucky. I’d do anything to exchange places with him.”

You recalled hearing news of Queen Alicent’s second son, who had been condemned to work in the mines of Nubia as punishment for the murder of his nephew. The usual penalty for murder was death, and much worse if the victim was a royal, but since the criminal was a prince himself, it changed a few things. The Nubian mines were typically reserved for lesser crimes in Alexandria.

“The one who was exiled to Nubia?” you asked Aegon.

He chuckles bitterly. “My brother didn’t get sent to Nubia. Mother loves him too much for that.”

You stayed quiet, not knowing what to say. You had a feeling that you weren’t supposed to be hearing this piece of information. Yet, Aegon didn’t seem to expect a reply. He’s looking up at the stars, as if he wished to fly off into the heavens and leave his miseries on the ground.

“Thank you,” Aegon finally said, breaking the quiet that had settled between you. Thank you for listening, thank you for not judging, thank you for watching out for my drunken mess. He rose to his feet, a bit unsteady but more composed than before. He took out a pouch of coins. “This is for… what I broke,” he said, gesturing to the remnants of the vial around you, shards of glass glittering under oil lamps. You thought of the broken dragonfly wings from earlier in the day.

You accepted the pouch gingerly. What he gave you was worth much more than the cost of the medicine, but you didn’t want to offend him so you decided not to mention it.

“Should I call the guards to escort you back to the palace?” you asked.

Aegon blinked, his gaze drifting momentarily. “No, no,” he said, waving dismissively. “They’re my uncle’s people. They don’t like me.”

"Will you manage on your own?" you pressed gently.

Aegon straightened his cloak and mustered a tired smile. "I always do," he said. 

With that, the prince turned and started to walk away. You watched as he disappeared into the narrow streets, his figure gradually blending with the shadows.

Chapter II: Coming Soon

[nightlyrequiem]

Hiii, so I have a request, would it be possible to make a story where Valeria is the evil queen in her kingdom but her fiancée is the sweetest person in the kingdom? Also I love your work, keep it up, kisses, kisses ❤️💋

Hiii!

Before I even started writing fanfiction for Valeria, I wanted to write something like a royal/regency AU! I never got around to it because I never knew what to do. This was fun and definitely more challenging then what I usually do thanks :3

Also thank you lots XX

Tags/Warnings: WLW, Royal!AU, Implied Time Period Misogyny (But Not A Lot.), Implied Time Period Homophobia (Barely), Wedding

Blue Blooded

Valeria is as cold and cruel as the unforgiving north. She's led her own army to many different battles over the course of her twenty-year reign. Uncommon for rulers and even less common for women. She caused quite the stir, many believing women were too delicate and weak for war. Valeria's name quickly became known and feared. Reina de la Muerte. She leaves a trail of bodies wherever she goes. The treatment of her servants is poor, and the treatment of her subjects is worse. She rejoices in the fear induces.

One of the duties of a ruler is to produce an heir. Her advisors have been pestering her about finding a husband since she was coronated at seventeen. Something they quickly learned to stop doing. Her patience for men has always been low. Not once has she ever looked at one and felt any sort of connection. Valeria knew it was likely that she never would. Not when she only felt something when looking at another woman. 

You were nothing more than a peasant. With a family who owned a failing farm. Cruelty breeds cruelty. Valeria's subjects have been forced into selfishness to survive. There's very little room for empathy when you're one day of work away from starvation. And yet, there you were. Dancing and laughing with a pack of filthy children. Despite the dullness to your skin and hair, you almost seemed to glow. Like there was a light inside of you strong enough to dispel the darkness Valeria had cast over the land. You were the most beautiful creature she had ever seen. It wasn't a one-time moment. Valeria had never noticed you before but one she did it's like she couldn't ever not see you. Using what little precious coins you have to buy food for the erratic beggar. Offering casual conversation to the local hag. Showing love to the mange-ridden strays prowling the cobble streets.

when Valeria was fourteen, her father had tried to set her up with princes of neighboring kingdoms. A political move to bring peace and potential allyship. Valeria fought tooth and nail. Refusing to even meet with the men. How she hated these traditions. Why should anyone but her decide who she marries? And yet, she found herself darkening your doorstep, nonetheless. Armed guards at her back. Your home was hardly more than a shack. Thatch roof coming loose at the ends and the smell of rot in the wood. The soil on your land was barren. Only cacti and weeds able to grow. A few sickly chickens ran loose around. Your father had answered the door, eyes yellowed from having one too many a drink. Asking for your hand in marriage was met with little resistance. His only trifle being that you were both women. Even that trepidation of course, was only told to her through his body language. Only the most stupidest of people would be willing to challenge the wants of Valeria. 

Though with her reputation and promises of a handsome dowry... it didn't take long to get his agreement. Not that it would have mattered. Valeria would have burned down your little farm down and taken you anyway.

The night sky is clear. A dark, inky, endless void. An infinity of stars stretches across its expanse. It's only a week until your wedding and with every day Valeria spends you, she only becomes more enamored. Valeria gently grasps your left hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles. There is no escort to keep watch over you two in the castle gardens. Just another rule and tradition Valeria has stomped on and discarded like nothing.

"You look lovely in the moonlight." She murmurs. you blink and look away nervously. You're as timid as a wood mouse. Something that both endears and irritates Valeria. She wants you to be comfortable. To bare your teeth in an uncontrolled smile, she longs to know what your laugh sounds like. 

"Thank you."

She sighs. Lowering her hand and yours into her lap. Her thumb brushes over the back of your hand.

"Tell me how you feel about the wedding." She says.

"I am looking forward to it." You reply politely. A cool breeze blows through the area, disturbing her dark hair.

"No," Valeria shakes her head. "be honest with me. Tell me how you feel about the wedding." She demands softly.

Valeria watches you hesitate, trying to decipher if this is a trap or not. That you'll suffer harsh consequences for your honesty. Valeria isn't playing mind games with you, nor will she punish you. There is no wrong answer. Just a lovestruck woman desperate to know her fiancée's true feelings.

"I'm... anxious." You admit, not looking at her. Your free hand picks up a stray leaf, moving your thumb over the lines and groves.

"And me? What are your feelings around me?" She asks quietly. Valeria is no fool. She knows you don't really love her yet. That you're wary of her.

"... I'm not sure how I feel about you." You sigh. Letting go of the leaf. It flutters to the ground. You raise your gaze and meet her eyes. "When I came home, and my father told me of my betrothment to you I cried. You are cruel and unjust."

All things true, Valeria knows. She even prides herself on it, but hearing you say it doesn't make her feel as good about it. Your eyes dart across her face, searching for any sign of anger. When you find none, you continue.

"I thought I may faint when you asked to meet for the first time. I was dreading it." You murmur. "But then you weren't like anything I expected."

"I am exactly like how you expected." She counters gently. Giving your hand a small squeeze. "I am mean, and selfish, and bad. Everything said about me is true and I regret nothing. But I promise you this, I will be none of those things to you."

Your eyes seem to dim in disappointment. You had assumed that perhaps she was misunderstood. Valeria hates to disappointment you, but she won't hide what she is. A monster in royal robes.

"Oh." 

"You're as precious as the crown." Valeria whispers. "An angel in the flesh. It's rare to meet someone not turned bitter by their circumstances. My - our - subjects will love you."

"But they don't love you." You reply. Frowning.

"I don't need their love, but they need yours." She sighs. She needs it too. Something that will soften her sharp edges.

Valeria sighs and leans towards you. Resting her forehead on your shoulder. For a second, she's a child again, not yet corrupted by her own cruelty. Like that inherit goodness inside of you is contagious.

Valeria seldom feels nervous, but waiting at the altar in her wedding gown, she can feel her palms growing clammy. Eyes are locked onto Valeria while she waits for her bride to be walked down the aisle. Subjects who silently disagree with how everything is progressing but hold no power to speak out. You and your father round the corner. Your extravagant white dress trailing behind you, an intricate lace veil hiding your face from view. The sight makes her heart swell. Your father walks you up to the altar and hands you off to Valeria. signifying the beginning of your new life.

Valeria takes your hands, catching the barest of glimpses of your face beneath the veil.

"We are gathered here today in the royal unification of these two individuals." The officiant begins. "Repeat these words after me before the lord, 'I promise to love you always, in sickness and in health, in poverty and in wealth, and to be true to you until death.'" You and Valeria both repeat his words. Valeria with a little more enthusiasm. You two say your 'I do's'. "Then by the power invested in me, I pronounce you... wife and... wife. You may now kiss the bride."

Without hesitation Valeria lifts your veil. Your eyes glint in the light. She grabs ahold of your face with all the gentleness she can muster and brings her lips to yours. Finally tasting you for the first time. Your lips are soft, moulding to hers with ease. The kiss is short lived, but it won't be the last. Valeria pulls away and smiles. Something small and genuine, reserved only for you. To her surprise, your lips twitch up ever so slightly. Returning that sweet smile for a moment. The public crowd rises and gives their reluctant cheers. A few sounding more genuine than the others. Perhaps hoping that your kind nature rubs off on her.

[drabblesandimagines]

Portrait

Joshua Rosfield x (painter) female reader Commissioned piece, 4,600 words (minor end game spoilers) Thank you so much for the commissioner for commissioning me in the first place and for letting me share here with you all! x

“No, no, no.” You’d swear the woman before you should be stomping her foot along to her words, her mannerisms being similar to those of a petulant child not getting their way.

The Empress of Sanbreque is usually a picture of decorum – carefully composed expression, hands clasped, never a hair out of place nor a wrinkle in her gown – but her façade appears to have cracked for she is scowling at you with clenched fists by her side. “Did you not understand my directions?”

You open your mouth, and quickly shut it again. Your mind is blank on an answer, probably looking foolish as you do so. You look at the portrait you’d unveiled moments ago for her private viewing, trying to see what she’s taken umbrage with, though you’re sure you followed her instructions to the letter.

“Your Grace, I-”

She raises her hand, stopping you before you can even begin a defense.

“It is quite clear that you did not.” Olivier, her three-year-old son and the subject of the portrait, sits at her feet, disturbingly well-behaved for his age, even for one of noble blood and upbringing. His eyes almost seemed lifeless at times – unnervingly so – with a cruel smile that was beyond his years. You’d tried to soften it out, is that what had upset her so?

“His Grace has been most pleased with my previous works.” You’d been brought in under the Empreror’s service first – endless commissions of he and the crown prince to celebrate every momentous occasion over the last few years.   

“His Grace has, yes, but only of Prince Dion.” The way she pronounces Bahamut’s name is as if it leaves a foul taste on her tongue. “But these won’t do at all for my darling Olivier.” She pinches the bridge of her nose in exasperation as she casts her eyes over your work once more. You swallow your pride. After all, it is far better to keep in the Empress’ good books than make an enemy of. “I will start anew-” “No – I’ve seen enough. You are dismissed, without pay. Come, Olivier.”

He grabs her hand obediently, but not without throwing you one last cruel smile.

--

Although you knew it would be difficult to remain in the city, you hadn’t expected a group of soldiers to appear at your door that very evening – armed with swords and spears, one holding a scroll of decree and beginning to read to you the moment after your name was confirmed.

“By decree of Empress Anabella Lesage, you are hereby commanded to leave Orinflamme at once.”

“Leave?” You’d planned to move – you knew her handmaidens would make quick work of spreading the gossip of your dismissal, whispering in certain noble ears to make sure the word spread far and wide – but to be banished altogether?

“Leave.” The captain of the guard confirmed, no sign of emotion on his face. “Refusal to comply will be seen as treason, of which the punishment is execution. You are to be gone by sunrise.”

You look around your small abode, trying to work out what you could possibly pack up and take in such a small timeframe – could you scrape enough gil together to rent a chocobo for the travel?

“Furthermore, all of your possessions are now the property of Empire. You may, however, retain the clothes upon your person.” The way in which he says it makes you think that he believes that is being far too generous.

“Excuse me,” a familiar voice calls and the crowd of guards splits. Prince Dion Lesage, regaled in the armour of the Dragoons and spear at his side, walks forward with purpose.

“My prince, there is no need to trouble yourself with such matters as these.”

“The Emperor himself requested my presence to make sure the Empress’ wishes are fulfilled. If you will excuse us, I assure you I have it handled from here and you may return to your other duties.” He casts a scathing eye over the seven men. “I doubt this task required this many of you either.”

“Yes, my prince.” The captain replies, tersely, with only a slight bow of his head, but none of the men make to move quite yet.

Dion’s hand tightens around the hilt of his spear and you are rendered speechless as he grabs you by the crook of your elbow and pulls you forward, out of your home – not even a chance to glance around and bid it goodbye - past the assembled guards and starts to lead you towards the city gates in long strides.

“I am sorry, my lady,” Dion says, softly, trying to avoid prying ears. You have always been fond of the crown prince – he had always treated you kindly in your interactions during portrait sitting sessions over the last few years. “I tried to speak to the Emperor to overturn the Empress’ command as soon as word reached me, but he would not be swayed.”

Your eyes widen at the idea. “Prince Dion, you shouldn’t have. That is far more kindness than I deserve.”

“Nonsense,” he chides. “I just wish I could do more. I saw the portrait before the Empress commanded it destroyed. I cannot think what has offended her so – it was the spitting image of Olivier.” He drops your elbow at last and retrieves a pouch off his belt, holding it out to you. “It isn’t much – shamefully, I am not adept of carrying gil around on my person – but hopefully it will be enough to see you through your travel.”

“No, your highness,” you shake your head. “I couldn’t possibly accept.”

“You must,” he presses the pouch firmly in your hand. “Do not make me order it so. It will be a long journey ahead - my concern is Northflame is too close to be out of the Empress’ influence.”

“I’ll head to Port Isodole – enough nobles reside there for me to gain employment once more, I’m sure of it.”

--

It was tricky upon your arrival to Port Isodole. You wanted to remain positive that you’d be commissioned on reputation alone by some of the Imperial nobles who resided there. Unfortunately, it soon became clear that the word had already wormed its way into eager ears, and those who sought the Empress Anabella’s favour wouldn’t dare to associate with someone she’d dismissed so blatantly and banished from the city itself.

You’d made do with work as a barmaid, part of your wages taking up with your food and board. Slowly, you’d built up your art supplies over the years and remained positive. Afterall, you could have had much worse luck in life than what you’d faced.

Finally, you decided to take a few of landscape pieces to market, hoping that surely enough time had passed - the Mothercrystal had been felled, Orinflamme abandoned in consequence, so why would the people of Port Isodole still hold such regard for the word of an Empress now stationed so far away?

“My dear, these are truly wonderful.” His voice is boomingly loud, surely drawing the attention of everyone in the vicinity. A tall, stocky, bearded man, dressed in finery looked in awe at your display and you so hoped pockets heavy with gil might be in store. “I feel as if I’m actually there, casting my eyes across the horizon once more.”

“Thank you, sir. Is there anything you’re looking for in particular?” “Mayhaps - do you dabble in portraiture?” “I do… or I did. It’s been a little while.”

“And who is your patron?”

“My… patron?” You hesitate, wary now that this is where Anabella’s tarnishing of your name would lead to your undoing.

“With a talent such as this, you must have one.”

“Well, I-“

“Lord Byron”, a man interrupts, looking scornfully at you and keeping his distance. A beautiful woman is hanging off his arm and looking mortified by the whole thing. “I’d be wary of her. Empress Anabella dismissed her from her services.”

“Oh… Oh, my.” He sets his face in a solemn expression and your heart sinks. “Thank you, my good man.” Byron nods his head, giving the man a hearty pat on the back and begins to walk away with the couple. You feel as if you may cry. Maybe coming here was a mistake, but it was as far as you could’ve gone with the gil Dion had kindly given you. Is Anabella’s scorn going to follow you round forever?

You try and steel your resolve for other potential customers – who would want to purchase anything from a tearful merchant? - though many pass without giving your wares so much as a second glance. A cloaked man strides past, hand scuffing your table as he does. At first you think he meant to swipe something from it, but there is only an addition in the form of a letter.

You lean over the table and pick it up, breaking the wax seal.

My sincerest apologies for how we parted. If you would be so kind, please attend the manor this evening and dine with me. I wish to discuss your talent further and, if I may, commission you, the Empress Anabella be damned. – Lord Byron Rosfield.

--

Lord Byron had heard tale of your portraits, it had turned out, but he still wished to see your work first hand before he would tell you what he truly wanted. A workroom was set up for your disposal, a plethora of supplies that made your eyes water at the potential cost, but he had waved it off, declaring himself a lover of the arts. He’d marveled at your portrait of him and bid you come the next day to see the project in full he wished to discuss. As you entered the workroom, the large table had been covered in rolls of what you thought were parchment, but instead turned out to be precious segments of his dear brother’s portrait – the former Archduke of Rosaria, Elwin.

“I fear it is far beyond repair – I was lucky to salvage enough as I did - but I wondered if you would be up for the challenge of a recreation.”

“I can certainly try. There’s definitely enough of his face to base from. And I have your likeness, my lord, to assist.”

--

“Oh, Uncle,” Clive has tears in his eyes as he beholds the new addition to Byron’s parlor. “It is just as I remembered – he is just as I remembered. How did you even get hold of this? I thought everything destroyed after the siege.”

“The original was beyond saving, torn and burnt in places, yes. This, my dear boy, I had it commissioned, using parts of the original as a guide. You see, I have taken into my patronage a very talented artist – allow me to fetch her.”

Joshua’s breath had been stolen when he saw the painting of his father. He could swear if he stared long enough, the eyes would blink in return, that he would see his father’s chest rise with breath once more. He couldn’t help but wonder if he’d be proud of the man he’d grown to be, if he had done the Phoenix proud before the Eikons were stripped from the world.

A warm palm rests on his shoulder. “It is like he is the room once more, isn’t it?”

“Indeed, brother. Quite remarkable. I… I worried I had forgotten his face, after all this time, but this…”

Clive squeezes his shoulder then, no more words needed.

The silence is soon interrupted by the heavy footsteps of their uncle as the door is thrown open.

“Lord Bryon,” you protest, trying to step back but his hand on your back remains firm, “My apologies, but I really am in no state to-”

“Nonsense, my girl!” It is too late for you are pushed in front of two of the most handsome men you think you have seen.

You curtsy, clumsily, and Joshua can’t help but grin. He said you were to meet his nephews and, as he was a lord, they deserved the same respect, however Bryon hadn’t even given you chance to wash your hands, nor check your face in the mirror for errant paint streaks before he’d ushered you to the parlor.

“My dearest nephews, allow me to introduce the talented painter behind this masterpiece.”  

Your cheeks feel hot, a little flustered in the way which Byron had pulled you in front of his nephews with no preparation. Joshua thanks the Founder that he was stood where he was, meaning that he gets to make your acquaintance first. Byron introduces you by name and turns to the blonde first, beaming.

“This is my youngest nephew – Joshua.” You offer out your hand but also curtsy again, forgetting yourself in the fluster. The Empress Anabella would not have stood for it. Before you can retreat your hand with an apology, Joshua takes it in his hand and drops to his knee, pressing a kiss across the back of it.

“It is a pleasure to meet the talented woman behind the masterpiece.”

“Oh,” your eyes light up and Joshua delights in it, already thinking of how he can achieve the same rush. “Thank you – that’s very kind. I admired Archduke Elwin very much – it was an honour to pay tribute to his memory.” Joshua slowly gets to his feet and relinquishes your hand.

“I… I served under your mother – the Empress Anabella - for a time.”

“Yes, before she was exiled for a portrait of Oliver Lesage not meeting her standards.”

“Ah. I pray you do not hold that against us.” Clive interrupts.

“Of course she doesn’t, my boy!” Byron booms once more. “This is my eldest nephew, Clive. Quite the rogue.”

“Uncle,” Clive gently admonishes. “I cannot see why our mother would be displeased with your work. This is… I feel like I can reach out and touch him. You’ve captured him remarkably well.”

You duck your head down in embarrassment, not used to receiving such amounts of praise. The Emperor would nod his approval, make no comment on style or substance, so to have the three sing your praises is a little overwhelming.

“Thank you.” You nod at Clive, a small smile across your lips and Joshua feels a twang in his chest at the sight of it – odd.

“And now this one is complete, I dare say we mu-“

The parlor door is swung open with a bang. Gav stands there, panting, hands on his knees to try and catch his breath. “Sorry, like, but we gotta scram. Imperial soldiers heading this way – caught wind of Cid the Outlaw sniffing about.”

Joshua did not see you for another year.

Regrettably, other matters had taken precedence. Ultima at first, a period of recovery for both him and Clive – Dion lost in the fight, and then focus had turned to helping nations adapt to a crystal-free life and the rebuilding of Grand Duchy of Rosaria. Parts of the castle were still under construction, but the capital itself had been rebuilt and ready to usher in the new Archduke.

“Your grace,” a servant called, diverting his attention from the latest pile of missives left at his desk, “Lord Byron Rosfield has arrived.”

“Uncle!” Joshua beamed, descending the stairs from the castle into the courtyard where Byron was emerging from a carriage. “We were not expecting you quite yet.”

“My dear boy,” he pulled his nephew into a firm hug. “I’m afraid I was far too keen to give you your gift to wait any longer.”

“A gift, Uncle? You shouldn’t have.”

His eyes widen as you emerge from the carriage, a hesitant smile on your face as you nod your head in greeting.

“Nonsense! The Archduke needs a portrait to mark this historical day.”

“Your grace.” You begin, cautiously. “I’m not sure you remember me, but-“

“My lady,” he begins, slyly taking your hand and pressing a kiss against your knuckles in greeting. “Of course I do. I assure you I could not forget one of such talent, nor of such beautiful visage.”

“You are too kind, your grace.”

“Joshua – I insist.”

“Joshua.” The word feels precious on your tongue. “Lord Byron is quite keen for me to paint a portrait of you and your brother, though I’m aware that this is probably quite a busy time for you to have long sittings.”

“Nonsense. You are welcome to my time whenever you wish, my lady.”

--

Joshua would never openly admit to it, but he had been somewhat jealous of Clive in their childhood. Not of the distain his mother had shown towards her first-born son, no, but of the freedom that maternal neglect had permitted him. Though Clive had taken the burden of being the First Shield upon his shoulders without a word of complaint, it was not as if Joshua had asked to be the Dominant of the Phoenix, nor that he had a choice in the matter at all. So many people were relying on him, championing him on, but when he was laid up in bed, downing elixirs and tonics made by the castle healers, he didn’t feel as strong as he needed to be.

Clive could go out wherever he wanted, do whatever he wanted without the watchful eye of Anabella or the gaggle of her handmaidens. He could wear whatever he pleased too, practical things, even. Joshua instead had been draped in the finest fabrics, shipped in from Dhalkmekia that he would be scolded over for dirtying even slightly.

He thought he was old enough to no longer experience such a childish notion as jealousy – he could wear what he wanted, go where he wanted, no longer burdened by Ultima in his chest or the Phoenix in his being… But the foul feeling is getting harder to ignore when he is forced to sit there as you grip Clive’s bicep, moving his arm a fraction of an inch to the left, or the way in which you shyly adjust his shirt, claiming it’s important to have the outfit the exact same in order for the shading, but you never show him the same courtesy. He had hoped for more private sittings, to have your company to himself – perhaps sitting shoulder to shoulder with Clive’s muscular form was doing him no favours - but Byron had requested the two men together in a portrait, so the sessions had been arranged for when they were both free so you could at least get the outlines down, as well as some initial colouring.

You tug Clive’s shirt down a little to try and get it to lay flat – face burning with how your hand ghosted across his muscular chest - it had ridden a little and bunched when he sat. Clive stared straight ahead, hands clasped, ever the gentleman, and Joshua found himself shuffling in position, hoping his shirt might misbehave.

The Founder does not bless him so, as you return back behind the canvas.

--

Joshua arrives for his sitting in a good mood for two reasons – one, it is just to be him as Clive is away in Eastpool for a day or so, and two, he had a plan.

He did have a morning and early afternoon of meetings and reports to get through, but he had promised the late afternoon and as much as the evening for his sitting to take place, and that is certainly enough time to put said plan into action.

“Hello,” You smile brightly as he enters, taking his usual position on the chair.  Joshua has his pose down to a fine art, whereas Clive needed more co-ercing to settle. “Are you sure you have time for this today? It might be a rather long one, I’m afraid I have a lot to get through as Lord Byron is keen for it to be ready for the day.”

“As I said, I am all yours for as long as you can stand me, my lady.”

You nod, stepping behind the canvas and pick up from where you left off. He doesn’t make his move for a good while, watching carefully as your eyes flick between the canvas and him and you begin to mix up paints once more, trial and error as usual as you worked diligently to find the right shade.

He makes his move when you turn back to the table to grab a clean brush, tugging the knot on the laces of his shirt clear and then shrugging his shoulder, revealing a little more of his chest than was previously on display.

You turn back round and your gaze flick between Joshua and the canvas once more… only for you to doubletake. He bites back a grin in celebration. It must be the candlelight playing tricks on your eyes because you could’ve sworn Joshua’s shirt laces were most definitely tied a moment ago. Mayhaps you should open a door – are the paint fumes going a little too much to your head after being sequestered in here all day long?

“Is everything all right?”

“Your, erm…” You put down the paint brush. “Your shirt laces have come undone.”

“Oh, have they?” He shrugs again, his top slipping down his shoulder a little more. “Oh, the shading, of course. My apologies.”

“That’s all right.” You wipe your hands clean on a rag, wondering how it had come quite so undone, before walking over to your subject. “May I?”

“By all means.”

You pull his shirt up his shoulder, lining it up with his ear -  a good reference point - and pull the laces taught to tie off once more. You step back, cock your head this way and that, and then forward again to adjust it once more.

“There.”

“Wonderful.”

You return back to the canvas and begin to paint, brow furrowed in concentration, whilst Joshua feels absolutely giddy that his plan had been somewhat successful in achieving your touch.

So much so, that he cannot resist a tug at the laces once more the very next time he sees you turn your back – this time to take a deep drink of water - shrugging his shoulder once more, so it reveals more of his collarbone. He composes his features, he can’t give the game away by grinning like a child.

You turn back after a few moments and this time notice immediately, opening your mouth to say something but not quite knowing what to say. You’re sure you tied the knot firmly enough to stay put.

“What is it, my lady?” He tilts his head in intrigue.

“Your… Your shirt, it’s come undone. Again.”

“No,” he feigns disbelief, looking down at his chest in surprise. “I only stretched, I assure you.”

“Of course – mayhaps I didn’t tie it tight enough.” You wipe your hands clean again on the rag and stride over, a little less cautious this time as you tug his shirt back up, now standing between his spread legs – when did that happen? - lining it up with his ear once again and tighten the laces before securing it in a knot. You nod, more to yourself, as you check over your handiwork and go to step back.

“Thank you.” Joshua catches your hand as you do so, stilling your retreat. “It is very admirable how dedicated you are to your work.”

“I think it is how I get them to seem as realistic as you say they are – the shading is everything.” Your heart is pounding in your chest by how close you are, stood between his thighs. “I should…”

“Of course,” he releases your hand and by the time you’re back behind the canvas, his legs are crossed once more.

You work in silence for a while, getting fully into the flow now that Joshua’s shirt appears to be behaving. He enjoys watching you work – the way sometimes you stick your tongue out when you are concentrating particularly hard on a certain element, how your brow furrows, how tiny smatters of paint begin to decorate your cheeks and your hair as you dab the brush onto the canvas.

As the time passes, he cannot refuse to chase the thrill of your touch one more time this evening. Clive returns tomorrow and maybe this will be his last chance for a while – he couldn’t so boldly unlace his shirt with his brother sat by his side. He waits for another opportune moment for your back to be turned, and tugs at the knot.

It holds firm.

Your back is still turned, so he tugs again.

Nothing.

He raises his other hand to try and help undo the knot, before leaning up in his chair slightly to see if he can see what you’re doing, how much longer you may be as he continues fighting the knot. He thinks you’re having another drink of water, so he risks looking down, finally pulling the knot free and frantically shrugs his shoulders – a little more vigorously than before as he feels his shirt slip down on both.

He looks up in relief, only to see you have turned back whilst he was looking down, your head tilted as you stare at him in confusion.

Joshua feels his face burn as red as his old cowl at being caught in the act.

You walk over to him again, trying to hold in a smile that is rapidly creeping across your face and feeling as bold as brass. “Although I would like to paint you sans shirt, Joshua, I don’t think your uncle would be best pleased.”

“You would?” His voice lilts before he shakes his head, embarrassment and shame overcoming him. “No, I beg your forgiveness, my lady.” He mumbles, tugging his shirt back up on his shoulders. “I have let feelings of jealousy drive my actions and it is most unbecoming of a future Archduke.”

“Jealousy?”

“I… desired your touch, but I understand that Clive is…”

“He’s…?”

“A finer specimen.” He feels entirely foolish and somewhat pathetic for even saying it aloud – his brother’s body had come from years of enforced labor, for Founder’s sake! “Please, my lady, I beg you for-“

You press your lips against his in a chaste kiss, before pulling back with a shy smile, heart pounding, hoping you’ve read the signs and heard him correctly.

“I assure you, Clive is not the one I desire.”

He lifts a hand to caress your cheek for a moment before pulling you back in between his thighs, a steadying hand on your back as your lips meet again once more – a succession of frantic kisses, as if you are both trying to squeeze in as many as you can before the moment is over.

The two of you begin to slow your rhythm as you nestle yourself upon his thigh, feel his tongue swipe across your lips, seeking entrance. You part them slightly and he is quick to divulge with a moan that makes you tingle.

You have to retreat to catch your breath at one point – never in your wildest dreams had you pictured the session ending with you sat on the future Archduke’s lap, his shirt now hanging open around his shoulders again.

“Please do not say you have to get back to the portrait, darling one.” He murmurs into your throat before pressing kisses across your jaw.

“No. Your complexion is too flush for me to continue,” you tease.

“Good. For I have something else in mind for the evening.”

“Oh?”

“A private showing, if you will.” He takes your hand and places it flat against the exposed part of his chest – you can feel his heart pounding through your fingertips.  

“Where would that be?”

“My bed chambers.”

--

Masterlist . Requests welcome . Commissions/Ko-Fi

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[wheneverfeasible]

pirate!Steddie AU

wc: 2.5k || rated: M (to be safe) || cw: reference to suicide, non-consent, and other general piratey things || ao3

When one thought of the phrase ‘Pirate King’ there were always certain expectations involved. An older pirate, grizzled and uncaring beyond his own interests, vicious with blade and pistol, quick to stain his hands red with anyone he deemed foe. To be fair, that had been his father.

The former Pirate King was truly a degenerate, disgraced nobility who stole from his provinces, who cheated and lied and stole from commoners and royalty alike. His failed coup would have had him and his young pregnant wife on trial for treason had he not escaped to the sea on a pirate ship with what portable wealth he had managed to secret away.

He had taken his wife along, at first, before dumping her at some port town to focus on his new rise to power. And rise he did over the next decade.

He was cunning, and ruthless, and he knew the tricks of the trade from how often he had hunted pirates in the past. He made a name for himself, dubbed The Fallen Noble, until that had not been enough for him. No, this time, he was determined not to fail the coup.

Eventually the Pirate King before him fell to his blade and he took it upon himself to pick up the crown, striking fear across sea and land both. His exploits were well-known, his viciousness the stuff of nightmares, and his taste for violence bloodthirsty. He had gone back to his wife and young son then, had stopped by occasionally during his rise though his son feared each one of those stops, and swept them away back into the world of deceit and power.

The son, only a young boy at the time, was raised like a prince, the Pirate Prince, and taught to be just as cruel and bloodthirsty as his father. And for a time, he was. The boy’s mother tragically passed away one fateful night when she was swept off the bow during a storm, though for the life of him the boy did not remember any such storm that night.

The boy, though raised first in negligence and then in violence, secreted the softness in his heart away, playing the role given to him to the point where he almost started believing it himself. Until he fell in love.

She had been stolen from her home with her young brother, with the boy meant to be inscripted into service while she was meant to be a prize for the Pirate Prince. She was unlike anyone he had ever known before and it wasn’t hard to fall in love with her. She would not be cowed, however, and he was not his father who took what was not freely given.

However, despite his love for her, in truth she loved another.

It would have been all too easy to dispose of the boy who held her heart, but that thick shell he had hidden within to be his father’s son had been cracked beyond repair. He aided her in her and her brother’s escape, watching the small boat drift away from his father’s ship and exchanging a solemn nod with the boy she loved who had come to rescue them.

His mask would no longer fit, he could no longer be who he had once pretended to be, and it was then that the boy became a man and in an act of defiance fought and slew his own father to end his tyranny once and for all. This young man stood above his father’s corpse as the new Pirate King.

Despite his young age, the Pirate King was not to be underestimated. When a mutiny rose of his father’s crew who remained loyal to the fallen tyrant and those who sought the power for their own greedy hands, the young man stood firm and dispatched those who coveted his crown. He would not bow to another monster.

Imagine his surprise when, only a year under his crown, the young brother of the girl he’d once loved returned to him to join his crew of his own free will. He did not come alone either, bringing with him a small pack of youths who wanted more than what society dictated for them, who heard of the fabled Pirate King, youngest in history, who refused to be the evil that had been his father and who protected those who bent the knee.

Though they had nothing in common, the Pirate King felt a kinship with these brave youths who wanted more, wanted to be more, and who stubbornly would not take heed when he tried to banish them off the ship. There was fierceness in their eyes, a hunger he knew all too well, and so while it at times made him feel more like a babysitter than a Pirate King with their youthful exuberance, he could do nothing but accept their honest fealty.

Along the way he met other wayward souls, including the sister of one of his greater rivals and the daughter of the man currently spearheading the hunt for pirates, as well as the young woman so desperate for a life of freedom, a life to be herself, that she soon found her way to being his second-in-command and who was almost as feared as he was.

Well. Feared by everyone except her and the youths he’d taken under his wing.

“Captain Dingus, sir, the rodent is on board.”

Steve Harrington, Pirate King and Captain of the Loch Nora, glanced up from where he was carefully sliding his dagger against the stone in his hand, a less than pleased expression pulling at his face at his quartermaster’s continued insubordination. He only sighed, however, since she at least had the decency to only do so when they were alone or among very select company.

Dropping his feet from his desk where he was leaning back in his thick, ornate chair that was more like a throne than anything else, Steve stood as he wiped his blade on a scrap of cloth before sliding it into home on his belt.

“Come now, Buck. He’s at the very least a snake,” he teasingly reprimanded with a grin as he moved towards her to follow her out of his cabin. “And just like one, he may be crawling on his belly soon enough if he isn’t prepared to pay off his debt.”

Robin was uncharacteristically quiet at that, and when Steve glanced over at her, he could see her teeth gnawing at her bottom lip. He raised his brows at that under the swoop of his hair, something telling him that he was going to find something far more interesting than the coin the man in question owed them. Whether that something interesting was going to be good or not was still to be decided.

It took only moments to move onto the deck of his ship, eyeing his crew as they stood encircling the kneeling figure in the middle. No. The kneeling figures.

Steve cast a quick glance Robin’s way at the sight before them, taking in not a chest or even bag of coins to pay off the man’s debt, but rather a younger man around Steve’s own age, bound and gagged kneeling next to the proverbial snake.

“Munson,” Steve drawled, and both pairs of dark eyes snapped to him. It was almost uncanny, making the resemblance even more obvious between the two kneeling men.

Alan Munson gave Steve a briefly panicked looked, before his mask of bravado settled over his features and he, neither bound nor gagged, shot Steve a smile that might have soothed his ruffled feathers had he not grown impervious to such looks thanks to his younger crew members’ own beguiling smiles. Munson clasped a hand over his chest above his heart.

“My liege, it is an honor to see you once more,” the older man formally intoned, bowing his head as though Steve were a real king and not just one who roamed the seas. His tone was light though, only the slightest tremor and the sweet dotting his brow belied the man’s nervousness.

Steve stopped in front of the two men, resting his weight on one leg as he brought his hands to settle on his hips. He cocked his head to the side slightly as he took in the tableau before him. Alan tried to meet his gaze with confidence he obviously did not feel, his eyes skittering away whenever Steve glanced at him, while the younger man glared up at Steve with all he was worth.

The young man’s eyes were rimmed with red, glassy in the way that spoke of past tears, and his thin chest heaved with the emotions swirling in his brown eyes so deep they were nearly black. The glare was not reserved only for Steve, however, as those dark eyes kept landing on Munson with anger and heartbreak and betrayal.

“Tell me, Munson. Are you hiding my money somewhere on your body in a questionable location, or are you planning on being another stain on my deck?” Steve said in an almost conversational way, though he had to withhold a snort as both pairs of identical dark eyes moved as one to look down at the dark stain inches from where they kneeled.

(The stain was actually due to Robin’s clumsiness spilling her dinner one night, but it made for a good impression.)

Munson recovered first with his smile only slightly shakier than it had been. He looked up at Steve in what he obviously hoped was a charming as disarming way. “I would never do you the disservice of cheating you, your majesty,” he said, and Steve might have believed him had the man not been infamously known in town to be a swindler and a cheat.

Munson’s eyes darted over to the younger man beside him before looking back up at Steve. “I regret that I don’t have your money at the moment—but I have something better!” he hastened to add on when the sound of drawn steel began ringing out as the surrounding pirates began drawing their various blades.

Steve held up a hand halting his overzealous crew mates, though he had to suppress a smile as well. Though most of the youngsters had once been squeamish at the darker aspects of the pirate lifestyle, they had since grown accustomed to the needs and requirements Steve placed on them. It helped that Steve did not needlessly shed blood, even when faced with the likes of Alan Munson.

“I am a very particular man, Munson. You will find that when I request my coin, it is not a request at all, nor am I interested in substitutions,” Steve's tone continued to drawl, though it became sharper towards the end as his wrist moved to settle meaningfully over the hilt of his sword at his waist.

Munson swallowed thickly with a jerking nod. “I understand, your majesty,” he rushed to say, before settling his hand on the young man’s shoulder beside him, causing said young man to flinch away with a shout muffled by the cloth in his mouth. When he tried to jerk away, two strong hands moved to force him back to his knees, courtesy of Steve’s crew.

Steve did not so much as bat an eye, merely lifting a brow to encourage Munson to continue. Without looking remorseful at all, he did so.

“My son, Edward,” Munson clarified, indicating the young man beside him though he did not reach out to touch him again. “I offer my own flesh and blood, my only child and son, into your generous hands. He is a hard worker, stronger than he appears, and capable of whatever task you set him.” There was not even a hint of a trace of hesitation on Munson’s face as he sold his own some out. “I give him to you to cover my debt, whether you keep him or sell him for profit.”

More angry, muffled noises came from the young man, from Edward Munson, son of Alan Munson, who was being treated as little more than chattel now and a bargaining trip to clear his father’s debt. Steve wanted nothing more than to slide his blade through Munson’s neck in that moment. His face hardened, but he let a deceptive smile curl over his lips.

Steve was, in the end, a pirate. And the Pirate King himself at that. His hands were hardly clean. The idea that a father would sell their child into slavery just to save their own neck, however, seemed far more evil than anything he had ever done, up to and including killing his own father.

Stepping towards the bound young man, Steve reached out to grasp the young man’s chin, squeezing sharply when Munson Jr. tried to jerk away. He angled the young man’s hand this way and that to examine him, before roughly releasing him to face the elder Munson.

“I will accept this trade only with a provision,” Steve began, Munson’s ecstatic expression dropping to one of wariness as Steve’s tone turned darker. “If your son does not perform his duties properly, or if he does not return to me what your owe with interest, I will gut him like a dog in front of you before doing the very same to you. Do I make myself clear, Munson?”

Munson’s eyes widened, his face rapidly paling, but he was nodding quickly once more. “Y-yes, I understand, your majesty. He won’t disappoint.”

“Let us hope so, for your benefit.” Steve glanced at the crew behind the kneeling man with a subtle jerk of his chin, the silent communication having them hauling him roughly to his feet and shoving him towards the boat they’d dragged him in on. Steve then cast his eyes towards Robin. For the benefit of the bound man still kneeling before him, he spoke his next order out loud, despite Robin already knowing what he would say.

“Mr. Buckley, see to it that Mr. Munson is left with a reminder as to why it’s important to always pay your debts promptly and fully,” he said with a small smirk, dropping his gaze to the young man who was struggling against his bonds and gag, his eyes desperately on his father. “Just something he can live without. Maybe a toe, or his little pinky finger,” he grinned.

Robin unsheathed her own blade strapped to her thigh with a dark grin of her own. “Gladly, Captain,” she replied with a nod, and he knew he would soon hear the pleasant music of a scream of fear and pain.

Steve’s eyes cut to the pirates holding Munson Jr. down. “Let’s be gracious hosts and escort our guest here to his quarters,” he said, tone ripe with sarcasm. “And then let’s get the hell out of here once the riffraff is gone.” He smiled as, at that moment, Munson’s scream filled the air, causing Munson Jr. to flinch as Keith hauled him to his feet and began pushing him to the brig below deck.

Steve had been correct, he thought as he gazed out to the sea, feeling the winds of change in the air. Munson’s payment had been interesting. Now he just had to decide what he wanted to do with his payment.

To be continued…

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Hostage tag: @derythcorvinus