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targaryenrealnessdarling · 6 months ago

Text

Flower Faced

Aemond x wife female character

Summary: a series of diary entries written by Aemond Targaryen following his tumultuous marriage and the realm's descent into war | word count: 13k~ | warnings: angst, smut, infertility, chronic illness, war, character death, wife features is described briefly, spoilers for f&b

15th day of the 4th moon, 128

They have made me a husband. A prince wed to a flower plucked too soon.

She stood before me by the Septon, trembling in her silken gown, her face pale as the moon. I was told her beauty would make up for her lack of standing. That her delicate disposition was proof of her good breeding, a prize unfit for a mere second son. How fitting, then, that it was to me she was given. A scrap for a scrap.

I find myself wondering how she might have appeared in better health, had her frame not been so thin, her skin not so colourless. She is the image of a flower wilting in the frost. I cannot fathom what my father intended when he arranged this match. Did he think her weakness would breed strength in me? That I would look upon her frailty and find myself tempered by pity?

Perhaps it is too kind to assume that my father put any thought into the matter. The one of little importance.

I feel nothing but irritation. A prince needs heirs, and she is as likely to bear a child as a winter rose is to bloom.

She retired early tonight, her maids fretting over her as though she were a babe in swaddling clothes. Preparing her for the bedding no doubt. Several lords approached me thereafter asking for a ‘bedding ceremony’. I fear her gentle heart would have given out if such a thing were to actually happen.

They tell me her name means ‘grace’ in the ancient tongues of the Reach. Grace, indeed. She moves as though her bones might shatter beneath her weight, her steps feather light. I suppose if I were to be truthful and perhaps kind, which I do not know why I should, I would admit there is a beauty in her fragility. Such is the beauty of a fine layer of ice on water in the early winter, easily broken with a mere breath to its surface.

I have no need for beauty, and no patience for weakness. Yet weakness is what I was served, wrapped in lace and trembling upon the bedsheets.

When consummation was inevitable, I thought I might snap the poor thing in two when I fucked her. She is so slight, so frail, as though the gods built her of spun glass and good intentions alone. She did not cry, though I expected it. She lay beneath me as one might endure the bite of a leech, silent, resigned, and still.

I despised her for it.

Not for her fragility, but for her acceptance. For the way she stared at the canopy, her lips pressed into a pale line, her hands gripping the sheets as if she feared being swept away by my storm. I do not know what I wanted. A protest, perhaps. A tear. Something to remind me that she was alive, that I was not bedding a corpse.

When it was over, she whispered, “Thank you, my prince,” so softly that I nearly thought I imagined it.

Thank you. For what? For duty? For what she believed was kindness? She did not look at me as she said it, and yet those two words have haunted me since.

It has been three nights now, and I have not returned to her chamber. Mother, ever dutiful, had broken fast with me the next morning to ensure ‘the act’ had indeed taken place, of which I confirmed it had. But she pressed no further on the matter, as if that was all that was important.

I tell myself it is for her benefit, that I do not wish to worsen her condition. But the truth, if I am to be honest here, is that I do not know what to do with her. She is no adversary, no equal, no dragon.

She is a flower pressed flat by the weight of its own stem.

2nd day of the 5th moon, 128

The rain has not ceased for a fortnight. King’s Landing reeks of soiled hay and wet stone. I've kept to my chambers to avoid the rancid air, but the storm intrudes all the same.

She has been ill again. The maesters tell me that her disposition is weakened, the damp worsening her condition. It grates on me relentlessly to think that something as simple as rain is enough to set my sickly wife abed for days on end. As if she is made of sugar and will dissolve if she steps outside for a single moment.

I half-expected to hear of her passing this morning when I visited her. Pale and fragile as she appeared when her maids opened the curtains. And when she rose out of bed to look out the window, it was painfully, like a stubborn plant forcing its way through frozen soil.

I asked her why she did not wish to rest.

Her smile was as weak as her body.

“Once these rains have washed away, the grass in the Reach will be as green as those in the Seven Heavens.”

She thought of her home even now. She did not consider King's Landing her home.

Since she uttered those words, I have tried to see it as she does. To see past the filth and shit of King's Landing and imagine the fertile fields and warm sun. As she hails from the Reach, she is drawn to flowers, hence why I noted that day that there were so many strewn about the room in various vases.

They wilt in the damp, just as she does.

Sometimes I find myself watching her more often than perhaps I should. I reason that as much as I loathe it, she is my wife. Whether she notices my watching her and says nothing or is ignorant to it, I do not know.

She moves slowly, as if not to shatter her fragile bones, but not out of fear I now see. She is afraid of little I have noticed, though she has every reason to be. A girl as sickly as her wed to a prince known for his temper, gods, she should tremble when I blink.

But she does not.

I regret I spoke harshly to her. Told her to rest. Save her strength. To let the flowers wilt if they must.

And before retreating back to her bedsheets at the will of her maid, she said.

“Even wilted flowers have worth, my prince.”

I had no reply for her.

11th day of the 6th moon, 128

She looks better today. Has done for several days in a row, much to the maesters relief.

The flush in her cheeks was neither from fever or strain, but life. And seeing her now as opposed to how I had often known her, she was beaming with it. Whether it was out riding or the gardens, she would routinely ignore the advice of those who cared for her health to bask in the sun, if only for a mere few hours.

Her breath was even, her voice was clear.

For the first time since our wedding, we spoke freely.

I had not meant to stay for long, truly. But we walked through the gardens on a warm early afternoon. Although I had to stop every few paces to allow her to bend to retrieve some half-wilted flowers so she might place them in her basket.

She said the maesters said she will likely never be strong enough to bear children. At least healthy ones, or ones who would draw breath once born. That feminine melancholy drifted over her face for a moment, as if she suspected I already knew that truth myself.

And truly I had. It was why I had made no attempt to bed her since our consummation.

I did not know how to respond. Usually women speak of such matters with carefully shielded delicacy, whereas she spoke plainly. But I could not bring myself to express the disappointment I should have felt, or the anger that had simmered beneath the surface for so long.

Anger, perhaps not. Weary, maybe.

My answer was not one she would have expected. That I never asked for children. But in my stupidity, I had in fact said, I never asked her for children.

It seems I have driven an already sheathed blade even deeper.

My words may have been misshapen but they were the truth and that is all I have to offer her, is it not? I hold no love for her, but I would never deny such a fragile creature as my wife what I would give any other.

She said nothing. She lowered her lashes and the silence that followed was so unbearable I considered leaving her altogether.

I never asked her for children.

True enough, I suppose. But even I can see how little truth matters in the face of what I’ve taken from her.

I know as well as anyone, what I have actually expressed is that I expect nothing from her.

And perhaps the latter is more cruel.

14th day of the 6th moon, 128

Tonight, we coupled for the second time in our long marriage.

I had avoided her bed for months, claiming duties, council matters and brief bouts of illness that she no doubt didn’t believe as reasoning for my absence. Though after a time, people were beginning to whisper, so I had no choice but to comply. And there was a time where I believed my own mistruth, that I was sparing her. But in truth, I did not wish to see her fragility laid bare again.

She never protested, and likely never would.

So I went to her.

Her chambers were lit by a single candle dotted at several points around the room. She sat at her vanity, pulling her hair free of tight braids and pins. Her hands were so small and pale, I wondered if this small action itself did not overwhelm her delicate nerves.

It was she who broke the silence.

“Have you come to pity me, my prince?”

I almost turned away then.

She let me unlace her gown, let me bare her to the dim firelight.

It was less frantic though no less awkward. She held me as though she feared I might vanish, and I let her. Perhaps it was the wine, or the quiet of the hour. When I touched her, she shivered. And when my lips accidentally brushed against her neck, she tilted her head back. The floral perfumes she had applied to her skin felt too much of a distraction.

When I finished she looked up at me. It has always unsettled me, her ability to look upon me without flinching. I am a dragon and she is a petal, and yet it is I who wilts beneath her gaze.

Even the bloodiest of injuries had no such effect on me.

- - the day of the 8th moon, 128

Aegon celebrated his nameday swiftly as he usually does. It is the third time in one month where he has had to be dragged from celebrations because he is unable to handle his wine. He had of course revelled in the attention, called for songs, dancers and yet more Dornish Red, as if he had not had enough.

The lords humoured him. The ladies pretended not to notice. Father was not even in attendance, it was mother and Helaena who sat diligently at the top table, faces sullen as if they held the weight of the Realm on their shoulders.

For my part, I watched from the shadows, as I often do. My appetite for such things is thin at best, and thinner still with the murmurs that reached my ears tonight.

They speak of her. My wife.

“Too weak to attend,” one said. “She’s been frail since the wedding,” said another.

I could feel their eyes upon me, their pity or curiosity or judgment, I could not say which was worse. It felt such a disservice for others to remark upon her the way I have.

Nobody was as shocked as I to see her when the doors to the hall opened. There she stood, walking carefully into the light, bathed in a dress that was not crimson, not dark, never. But red all the same, as if she had thought of honouring the house she wed into but not yet willing to loosen the reins on herself entirely. The colour was pale, muted, a shade more suited to her, though it did little to disguise her frailty. Truth be told, she does look sickly in red.

I knew she had wanted to wear it, though. That was why she had chosen it.

For a moment, I thought she might collapse under the weight of the eyes and silence on her.

I thought to rise as she approached me, but for some reason I did not. She inclined her head to me so faintly I doubt anyone else saw, and I saw her locks were adorned with jewellery she had not usually worn.

She inquired as to the whereabouts of my brother, no doubt asking whether the celebrated prince was on his very own nameday, but she did not seem downtrodden when I informed her he had retired to his chambers. As if it were a mere formality.

“Shall we dance, husband?”

I thought to refuse her, to spare her the strain, but the look in her eyes silenced me. And I could not very well be seen to refuse my own wife. She extended her hand, pale and trembling, and I took it without a word.

I thought it would embarrass me, this spectacle before the court. Her weakness had done so before, and I had no doubt it would do it again. But I could not bear to say the words aloud, not when she had dressed in my house colours for me.

I led her to the centre of the hall, her small frame so light beneath my guiding hand that I wondered how she had summoned the strength to stand, let alone to dance. When I placed my hand at her waist and we began to move, I noticed almost immediately that she was struggling to keep pace with the beat. Her breaths were short, shallow, her fingers tightening on my shoulder as though holding herself upright by sheer force of will. Still, she did not stop.

“I hope I have not made a spectacle of us,” she whispered.

I only said there was no need for her to apologise.

When her steps faltered again, I acted without thinking. I lifted her slightly, guiding her feet onto mine so that she would not have to move. She blinked at me, startled, but did not protest. For the first time that evening, her breaths seemed to ease, her grip on my shoulder loosening ever so slightly.

I kept my gaze forward, refusing to meet the eyes of the court. If they found it amusing, I would not give them the satisfaction of seeing it bother me.

I told her that when I was born, it was said I was half the size of Aegon, but twice as fierce. He had cried louder, but they said I fought harder. That perhaps it was the cruelty of the gods to make those of us born weaker feel as though we must prove ourselves twice over.

She studied me, with her soft eyes, but I did not meet them. I regret that now.

When I lost my eye, I told her, they pitied me. Looked at me as if I were a thing to be mended, or worse, endured. And that is I imagine how she feels when they look at her.

She said nothing for a moment, but the faint pressure of her hand against my shoulder told me she had heard.

“Yet, you have made yourself strong. Where I have not.”

For a moment I could only stare at her. But when I found my voice, it was hushed, so that others dancing around us might not hear.

“Strength is not always shown through the sword.”

She replied with nothing.

Perhaps we are not so different, she and I.

19th day of the 10th moon, 128

She is with the maesters today.

I knew this but I found myself in her chambers regardless.

Aegon, in his perpetual state of drunkenness, had the gall to make a joke of it. Saying that she was with child. The court laughed of course, unable to tell the difference between a joke and insult. I am grateful she was not present to hear it. And for the fact that I did not defend her.

Her desk was an array of papers and cuttings as if she had left in a hurry. Lately she was more tired than usual, and instead of chills and shakes, she was hot to the touch and feverish. Perhaps nobody will understand her condition truly, but I am told that she has been this way since birth.

Lately I have found that practicing with the sword does not steal my attention the way it used to, so there I found myself, looking through the smatterings of paper and flowers, and I doubt it will be the last time.

A leather bound notebook sat snugly atop everything else, the pages fanned out as though abandoned mid-turn. I thought perhaps it was a diary, not unlike the one I keep myself, somewhere to keep my thoughts and worries if they arise. But the little writing that was present was descriptive, brief, and so feminine in its curves and loops that I could barely read it.

When we were first wed, and for several months since then, I had watched closely and from afar as well as she insisted on walks through the gardens, even despite the advice of the maesters. She could not be stopped. She would fill her basket slung over her elbow with wilted, near-dead flowers, the petals curling inward, their stems drooping,

I had not thought to ask her why then. Why she collected such things if they were already so close to falling short of bloom.

The flowers are pressed between the pages of a book, their fragile shapes preserved as though she has defied time itself. Beside them, in her careful script, she has labeled each one, names I recognise, though I have never cared to remember them before. A rose, a poppy, a sprig of thyme, rosemary. Even weeds have found their place here.

She has always been given to sentiment, to seeing beauty where others would not bother to look. It is a softness I have long struggled to understand. But she has made them more than what they were, given them a purpose beyond their fleeting bloom.

It was an evening primrose, its pale petals pressed so thin they seemed almost translucent. Beneath it, in her neat script, she had written:

“Evening primrose. For quiet devotion.”

And below that, a date, the day after we were wed.

I stared at it for a long while.

And as I stand there, I realise I have never seen her hands tremble when she writes.

I cursed myself when I returned to my chambers and remembered I had not restored the book to the page I found it on. She will know I have touched it. Her sacred little book.

27th day of the 12th moon, 128

The Keep is more quiet than it has been in months, as the year comes to its close. The usual tensions of the Realm remains, as does my father, who is more akin to a walking corpse than a man most days. He can no longer walk up the steps by himself, and my mother does not have the strength to assist. Even Aegon has managed to hold his tongue of late, though I suspect it will not last.

She has been visiting Helaena more often than usual as of late. Seated together in her solar, embroidering, their voices soft and indistinct, like the murmuring of a distant brook. A casual observer might have mistaken them for sisters, though I doubt either would care for the comparison.

“Soft in the head,” Aegon says of Helaena. “Soft in the body,” he says of my wife. He does not mean it as a compliment, though he says it with a grin, as if he expects me to laugh. I do not.

Though I don’t agree, the two do share a certain gentleness. An ethereal charm that I am not able to form into words. They are both easily dismissed, glanced over in a crowd of boisterous and overzealous personalities. Dismissed by those too blind to see. Aegon, is one such fool.

When I approached, Helaena looked up first with her pale eyes that were so familiar, but said nothing. And my wife, to my surprise, greeted me warmly, and seemed surprised to see me. When I spoke to Mother later, she insisted that my wife was a good influence on Helaena. And that she has a calming presence. One she says I should feel grateful for.

I did not tell her that I am.

2nd day of the 1st moon, 129

The belly of King’s Landing celebrated the turn of the new year more so than any within the Keep. The thunder of laughter and dancing seemed to stir the very grounds beneath me. The merriment of the season seemed to warm the chill in the air, and it seems almost everyone has felt its embrace.

She surprised me tonight.

I had not expected her, not at this hour, and certainly not in such a state. Her usual pallor was touched with faint color, her step more certain than it had been in weeks. There was a lightness to her gaze, an energy that I had not seen in some time, and for a moment, I thought her appearance a trick of the dim firelight.

I motioned for her to sit, though she declined, choosing instead to stand near the hearth. For a while, neither of us spoke.

But then she said she had been thinking about her place here, at the Keep and by my side, as my wife. I waited, unsure of where this conversation might lead.

“I know I am not the wife you might have wished for,” she continued. “I know what the court says of me, of my frailty, my weakness. And I know what it is to be a man of your station.”

Her meaning became clear, though I did not wish to hear it.

“If you were to take a mistress.”

I did not mean to startle her by interrupting, but I could not bear to hear the rest. Had she no respect for herself? That she would assume I am so restless that I cannot stay one moment without bedding another woman, simply because I am afraid she will break beneath me? What could I say? That I did not desire anyone else? That the thought of betraying her, even in name, made my stomach turn?

And then she asked why. I offered the only truth I could manage.

“I do not know. I only know that I do not wish to. Is that not enough?”

She replied with a simple, but quiet, “it is.”

She did not stay long after that, but she lingered yet in my mind as she does now, writing this entry at the hour of the wolf. Sometimes when I look upon my delicate wife, it feels as if she is other-worldly, plucked from some distant place and planted right here to wither in the sun. She seems less a creature of flesh and blood and more a whisper of something eternal, a soul untethered by time.

There is a stillness about her, a quietness that feels unnatural, as though she is not bound by the same rhythms of life that govern the rest of us. She exists in the space between moments, the breath held just before the candle flickers out.

She is not a woman to me, not entirely. She is something deeper, something I lack the words to name. Perhaps that is why I cannot bring myself to stray, why the thought of betraying her feels like a sin greater than I could bear.

Indeed why not? I could not answer her then, and I doubt I could answer her now.

5th day of the 2nd moon, 129

Am I not a man, but a beast.

She accompanied me this morning to break my fast. Something we now often do to please Mother.

She sat across from me, the light through the windows pebbled across her face, showing how the flush that had decorated her cheeks was starting to fade. A fleeting bloom I did not wish to see vanish.

She picked at the honeyed bread with delicate, little bites, savouring its sweetness. I hardly touched my breakfast. I find it difficult to eat in the morning. But here I sat, too focussed on the golden sheen of the syrup upon her lips.

When she licked the honey from her lips and fingers, I felt a sharp, sudden pain to my chest.

I do not know what possessed me then.

One moment, I was watching her across the table. The next, I was upon her. My hand tangled in her hair, my tongue licking along the seam of her lips to taste the sweetness that lingered there. She gasped against me, I remember her warm breath, startled but pliant.

It was not quick, though it was desperate, as if I could mold her body to mine, as if I could press all I was, all my essence into her fragile frame. My hands gripped her waist, her hips, her thighs, heedless of her delicacy.

I was a creature of need, of raw, unchecked hunger. And her sweet cunt tightening around me was the only thing that could sate it.

Her breath hitched as I fucked her, but said nothing. Her hands held my shoulders, as if to keep herself steady. I did not stop to think, to question.

When it was over, she lay beneath me, her breathing shallow, her hair tousled. And for a moment I could not bring myself to move. I stayed inside her, relishing the warmth of her sweet womanhood, breathed in her scent at her neck, and felt I might weep.

She smelled of vanilla and amber.

What have I done?

I did not dare look at her, but equally she said nothing.

I fear I have hurt her. Both in body and spirit. And yet, I cannot regret it. Though now I must wonder if she looks upon me with fear, with pity.

6th day of the 2nd moon, 129

I sought her out today.

The guilt has gnawed at me. Sharp and aching. I thought she might be angry. Or worse, afraid.

She was in her chambers, a shawl around her shoulders to stay the chill that seemed to find her easily, a book rested in her lap. When I entered, she looked up, her expression unreadable.

I said I owe her an apology. Which was a difficult enough thing to admit to myself than to her.

She closed her book slowly, and moved to stand. The shawl made her look frail.

“For what?”

For that morning, I replied to her. For taking liberties. For being selfish and only thinking of myself.

She interrupted softly. “You have nothing to apologise for.”

She must have seen the confusion on my face.

“You did not hurt me,” she added. Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, “I was…surprised, perhaps. That is all.”

Surprised?

She answered that sometimes she felt undesirable. Repulsive. And the words from such a delicate, little thing were like a blade to my heart.

How do I tell her that I desire her more than I can bear?

She told me that she said nothing during the act because she felt it was improper for young ladies to desire such things. To enjoy them. And she had.

I only said that she is not simply a lady.

She is my wife.

She uttered so quietly I thought I might miss it.

“I did not think I could make you feel this way.”

Gods. She can.

She is not what I expected, not what I thought I wanted. But she is what I need, in ways I am only beginning to understand.

4th day of the 3rd moon, 129

Father is dead.

I've repeated the same sentence in my head for hours now, and yet they still feel hollow. Echoing like the toll of a dull bell. Everything has changed.

Though not unexpected, the whispers of his failing health have been constant for years. Even as long as I have been alive, I'd wager. But the finality of it. The truth. The realm will stir into chaos, as Mother had always warned us it would.

They mean to crown Aegon. They mean to gift him what Father had always upheld was Rhaenyra's.

Any whisper of treason is swiftly dealt with. Otto Hightower sees to it. Nobody is safe, it feels.

My wife has been locked in her chambers, barred from leaving as if she were a criminal. I am forbidden to see her, but I am told by the maesters that her condition is too delicate to bear the strain of what is unfolding around us. The stress, they claim, has worsened her already fragile health.

I am furious. The thought of her, alone and frightened, makes my blood boil. She is not a pawn to be hidden away while the realm burns. She is my wife, and I will not be kept from her.

Mother has tried to calm me, speaking of duty and order, of the chaos that would erupt if the truth of Father’s death were known before the plans are set in motion. But I see no order in this, only madness.

She does not understand. How could she? She has never known weakness, never known what it is to live under the constant shadow of her own failing body. My wife has. And now they confine her to her chambers, as though the isolation will preserve her.

Surely they must know it is not the noise of court or the weight of the realm that will break her. It is the solitude.

If they think to keep me from her, they are fools.

I will not allow her to be dragged head first into the mess Mother has made of this.

9th day of the 3rd moon, 129

Aegon is king.

The bells rang to usher in a new era. A new king. Grandfather had organised the crowds to gather in the Dragonpit, to witness the moment the conqueror’s crown was placed upon my brother's brow, and Blackfyre thrust into his grip.

For all his faults, Aegon is no stranger to spectacle. He held our great ancestral sword aloft, and the smallfolk roared their approval, blissfully ignorant of the blood that stains this crown and the chaos that will surely follow.

I stood beside Helaena. She was dreamy as usual, and barely looked in her husband's direction. She knew as well as I, that it all stank of desperation.

My wife attended, though she was likely too unwell to. It wasn't difficult to guess she had been spoken to by Grandfather, instructed what to do to appear as if she was supportive of this farce. But still, she insisted on standing by my side.

She had applied rouge to her cheeks in an effort to mask her pallor, but it did little to fool anyone. Her face was thin, her movements careful.

The smallfolk noticed. I saw the way they whispered to one another when their eyes fell upon her. They are a superstitious lot, always quick to see omens where there are none. A sickly wife at the hasty coronation of a king.

Her hands trembled as she gripped mine, her strength waning with each passing moment. I whispered to her that she should sit, but she shook her head, her resolve unbroken despite the frailty of her body.

And then the ground shook.

Meleys burst forth, the Queen-Who-Never-Was seated at her neck. And the smallfolk that were not stuck beneath her claws scattered like leaves in the wind. My wife’s knees buckled, her strength finally giving way. I caught her before she could fall, my arm wrapping around her waist as I shielded her from the chaos. Her breath came in shallow gasps, her fingers clutching at my sleeve.

But Meleys did not strike. Nor did Rhaenys speak.

I did not release her until the crowd began to stir again, until the danger had passed. Even then, I could feel her trembling against me, her breath shallow and uneven.

My house has been fractured. Our futures uncertain.

And all I can think of is her pale face, her trembling lips, as she said. “Are you alright?”

I could have laughed if I were not so angry.

12th day of the 3rd moon, 129

The maesters still hover over her, though I have been here at her bedside since the coronation.

She is more fragile than I remember, her breath shallow, her skin too pale beneath the warmth of the fire. Her gaze follows me everywhere, as if afraid I might vanish. Perhaps she sees me as fleeting too.

Perhaps she fears that I might not return.

I did not think I would be the person she would cling to. And at times I do not know how to feel about it. She has not changed, and yet I used to look upon her with contempt and irritation.

Could it be that I have changed?

I must go to Storm’s End soon.

The Baratheons are key to ensuring an alliance, to strengthen my family's claim to the throne by rallying the great houses of Westeros to our cause. I resent Aegon's rule, yes, but I do not wish to see my whore sister on the throne even more so.

Should that happen, my wife would be in danger as well.

It is Daeron who I must barter a marriage for. It is a necessary journey, one I cannot avoid, no matter how much my heart aches at the thought of leaving her.

She knows this. She knows my duty to the family, to the crown, and yet when I spoke of it, a shadow crossed her face. Her lips parted as though she wished to speak, but she remained silent. The fear in her eyes, however, was enough.

“Will you come back to me?” she asked me.

She is afraid. She fears for my safety, just as I fear for hers. And equally, though she does not speak it, she resents that I have been dragged into this cause.

I promised her I would return.

When I kissed her before I left, I did not want to let go. Her hand gripped mine as though she might shatter with the slightest breeze. She did not speak again, but I saw the unshed tears in her eyes, and it nearly undid me.

I do not wish to leave.

I do not wish to leave her.

- - - - - -

I am living in a nightmare.

She sleeps as I write this. So deeply I keep looking over my shoulder to make sure she is not stood right there.

The journey from Storm's End to Kings Landing was a blur. And when I returned and dismounted Vhagar, I was soaked to the bone from rain. I did not stop to speak to Mother. Could not bear to.

I had not meant for it to happen. But what does intent matter now? The boy is dead.

Lucerys Velaryon is dead.

His body fell from the skies, his dragon broken and bloody. And I just watched. Fear gnaws at me, but not for myself, but what this means for my family and all those that live under my protection. Rhaenyra will want vengeance for this.

My mother, grandfather, they will want for me to claim I wanted this, just so they might shift their judgement onto me instead. Claim that I began this war and not their scheming. They will whisper, I know they will, that this was revenge for the boyish quarrel that left me half-blinded.

And such has ended in his death.

It is not so simple. I know what I have done. I know what they will call me. A kinslayer. A monster. And worse, I fear that she, my wife, will see it too.

When I returned to our chambers, she was sat in a nest made of pillows, propped up to avoid strain. Hearing my arrival, she sat up straighter, though she looked weak, and shakily got to her feet despite my initial protests.

Her eyes still looked upon me with softness, as if I were deserving. And I was unprepared for her reaction. She saw me, soaked and trembling but did not speak. Did not ask what had happened, though she could see some turmoil in me.

Her hands, small and trembling, undressed me without rush. Stripping me of not only my clothes but the weight that slumped my shoulders. She did not judge, did not speak of what was so plainly written across my weathered face.

Her silence was a gift. One I did not deserve.

And yet I leaned into her touch. It was so warm against my skin. I even allowed her to remove the leather over my stolen eye. Something I rarely do in her presence.

I was bare, laying beside her, shaking. And she shed her clothes so that we might embrace without the confines of fabric. Her hands ran through my hair, untangling the salty strands delicately with all the patience in the realm.

“I killed him.”

I whispered it into the dark, without seeing her face.

“Lucerys. I killed him.”

She did not ask why or how. She slid closer, her tender breasts against my back, and ran her hands down my arm.

I told her everything. What I said. Threatened. How I flew after him in the storm. Vhagar.

Her voice in response had no anger. Only sadness.

“You returned to me. That is all that matters.”

12th day of the 4th moon, 129

I went to her chambers tonight as if the Gods had paved the path for me. I could not summon the strength to summon her to mine. Not after what I have done.

She did not question the shadows under my eyes. She simply welcomed me as she always does, with a tenderness I do not deserve.

When our bodies came together it was a communion of two souls. Deliberate. Not a conquest in the least. She is the only thing anchoring me to this world. And each scrape of her fingernails against my back felt heavenly. Kissing me softly. Tracing the scars that mark my body with the same hands that never tremble in my presence. Even now, when I feel I am beyond forgiveness.

For a night, I did not feel like a kinslayer.

14th day of the 4th moon, 129

I was not there.

I was not there. And I should have been.

I was with her instead. And in my place, it was Helaena’s chambers they reached. Their names I forget, but they were grotesque as if from some old wives’ tale. I cannot stomach to imagine their faces in my mind.

My nephew is gone. They made my sister, my blood, point him out, as if he were meats fetching a good price at the slaughter. If I had been there, in my chambers, as I was supposed to be, would I have been able to stop this? Could I have spared my sister the sight of her son’s blood soaking the stone floors?

I cannot think of it without bile rising in my throat.

The court is ablaze with questions, panic rippling through every corner of the Keep.

Where were the guards? How could this have happened?

I, too, demand answers. For all her faults, I never believed Rhaenyra capable of such an act, sending assassins into the heart of the Keep to put Helaena, of all people, in danger. But this? This cruelty? She has proven herself to have even less humanity than I once dared to credit her.

Helaena has not spoken and not emerged since. I do not know if she ever will.

I cannot protect my family, even in my own home. Though my wife reassures me, I feel like a kinslayer twice over. Even once I returned to her bed after the commotion had died down and Aegon too, she reached for me, and I let her. Her hands were frail, but somehow steady when they touched me. Like tiny little stems curling into my blood. Growing more and more. Like a gentle annihilation of the man I think I am.

She wept for the child. For Helaena, who would never again hold her son.

And I wept with her.

25th day of the 4th moon, 129

The boy was paraded through the streets, wrapped in silks and embroidered fabrics. My mother and Helanea followed, and any level-minded person would guess that this is desperation. Something I would not forgive grandfather for if he forced such a thing onto me and my wife, if we had a child of our own.

Aegon has ordered the ratcatchers put to death, every one of them, as if blood could somehow wash away blood. I doubt it will ease his conscience, if he has one left. He claims it is vengeance, justice. It is anger. It is shame. It is fear, thinly disguised.

At the council, I learned that Aegon had dismissed my grandfather as Hand. His replacement? Ser Criston Cole. A decision as reckless as it is insulting.

Mother’s face said what the rest of us could not. She sat in silence, her hands folded tightly in her lap, her lips pressed into a thin line. I said nothing either, though the weight of her displeasure mirrored my own. Criston may wield a sword with skill, but a Hand must have wit and reason. He has neither.

I know I hold little love in the eyes of my own mother now anyway. She looks upon me like I am a monster, as if I have been my whole life. As if this is not what she has made of me.

I returned to my wife afterwards. We rarely speak now, though her presence is a balm I cannot name. The illness has caught her chest again, I can hear it in her breath. She told me to keep my distance, fearing I will catch it, as if I care for such trivial things.

I stayed regardless, seated in the chair by her bed as the fire burned low. She did not scold me for it. She simply turned her head to watch me, her eyes soft, almost apologetic. I reached for her hand, and she let me take it. I can see the fear of what is to come weighs heavy on her.

This quiet between us. Is this feeling what those countless ballads harp on about? Could this marriage, born of resentment and difficulty, become love?

2nd day of the 6th moon, 129

Aegon’s hold on this war is akin to his grip on a cup of wine at the hour of the wolf. Slippery, at best. He sits in council and speaks of Harrenhal with such conviction, as though Criston Cole marching there will be anything more than foolishness. Daemon holds that cursed ruin, and we all know what awaits Criston if he tries to pry it from him. Yet Aegon seems blind to reason, drunk on his desire to pull victory from thin air.

I suggest a different course. Rook’s Rest. But he will not see reason. And of course it was met with hesitation. Aegon’s indecision is a rot that will take him black, and Mother’s silence does nothing to stay it.

They all think me hungry for blood and battle. Aemond One-Eye.

There is a part of me that longs to prove myself. To be remembered for something other than the boy who lost his eye or the prince who killed his nephew. My wife knows an Aemond the realm does not. The one that sits beside her as they lays coughing at night. She sees a man, a good one perhaps. Whereas the court merely whisper of me as if I am a dark shadow.

The realm will never know the man my wife sees. There is a power in them seeing only what I allow, what I need them to know. Strength. Fire.

Sometimes, I wonder if she mourns the parts of me that the world will never have.

She listens to me speak of my plans, hands clasped, seeing the fractures in her husband, the places where pride and vengeance run too deep to cut out. I wonder if she pities me for it. If she doesn’t, perhaps she should.

13th day of the 6th moon, 129

Rook’s Rest still burns, I'd wager. Though it has been several days since the battle. The wind still whips at me, I feel, as I watch Meleys hurtle towards the earth. Her dragonrider still pitched to her back.

Aegon does not relish in his victory. He lays near death, every breath a struggle. Not dissimilar to how I have seen my wife oftentimes.

I returned to her chambers as soon as I was able. The Keep feels hollow these days, and there I might find peace, where none exists inside me.

She looks frailer than she did when I left, though she insists otherwise. The maesters prattle about her condition, and I find myself snapping at them more than I ought. They are failing her. Everyone is failing her. Even me.

When she tried to rise from bed to greet me, I could not stop myself, I barked at her to stay put, the words sharper than I intended.

I hate myself for it. But the thought of her straining herself, of her fragile body bending beneath the weight of this cursed war...it twists something in me, something I cannot name.

She is mine. My wife. My delicate flower. The one thing in this accursed world that is still soft, still untouched by the poison of the crown and the war.

I will not lose her.

She, of course, asked what had happened. Having heard the unfortunate nature of the king’s condition. Having heard the whispers. I said it was recklessness. Incompetence. But she has always been perceptive.

She sees the darkness in me. The flicker of doubt that darkens her beautiful eyes, one she does not dare speak aloud.

But I cannot speak to her of the shadow that is cast over my heart. So instead, I spared hers, and told insisted it was Aegon's folly that lead to his downfall. Nothing more.

She nodded. But her gaze lingered on me. Searching. I know she does not believe me.

She reached for my hand, and I held hers too tightly. She winced.

I watch her even now, as she sleeps, her breath too shallow for my liking, her form too still beneath the furs. My mind races with thoughts I cannot quiet. What if she never sees me return again? What if I leave and come back to find her gone?

I will not let it happen.

19th day of the 6th moon, 129

The council have chosen me as their Regent. Me, over Mother. It is as it should be. For all her wisdom, her place is not there. Her gentle sex does not suit the burden of governance, no matter how much she believes otherwise. She clings too tightly to something she herself has denied Rhaenyra, and I will not stand idly by and listen to her hypocrisy.

The council at least know my worth.

Already I have begun to shape the crumbling realm back to stability. The first act began with Mother, relegating her to duties befitting of a Dowager Queen, and one she did not take lightly. It is not cruelty. Necessary. There is no place for soft murmurings of mercy at my council. She will understand in time.

The work is endless. The weight immeasurable, but one I wear with pride. I have longed for this. To show I am not weak, but formidable, with no time for distraction.

The realm needs me now more than ever.

28th day of the 6th moon, 129

Regency suits me well. It is a shame I was not born first.

The first real edict was to close the city gates, to forbid people from leaving and also to avoid our enemies sneaking past our fragile lines. King’s Landing must be fortified, protected from the vipers who would see us undone. Let the smallfolk whisper and grumble, their safety is ensured only because I am willing to make the hard choices.

Trade has slowed, of course, but I care little for the merchants’ squawking. Better that they lose their coin than lose their lives when Rhaenyra’s forces march upon us.

Though the power is intoxicating it is not without its burdens. I see the faces of the council as they defer to me, the uncertainty that flickers behind their eyes. They doubt my youth, my ability to lead, but they dare not say it aloud.

There are moments, fleeting though they are, when I wonder if I have already given too much of myself to this war. But I cannot dwell on such thoughts. The realm does not wait for doubt, and neither shall I.

7th day of the 7th moon, 129

I had nearly forgotten her.

The council chamber was quiet when she appeared, the hour so late that even the most loyal attendants had taken their leave. I sat, pouring over papers and maps, looking up as she stood at the doors draped in translucent fabric, her fragile frame looking almost ghostly.

She had come all the way from her chambers, weak as she is, just to see me.

For a moment, I was struck dumb, caught between guilt and irritation. I had not sought her out in days, too consumed by the weight of my duties.

I asked her, sharper than I intended, what she was doing here and that she should be resting. And she did not flinch, but I could see her eyes flicker downwards.

“I had to see you.”

It was as if she wanted to see if I still existed. And that I was not some otherworldly vision, told only through whispers and rumours. For she had not seen me in near a fortnight. Her voice was so soft that it struck a chord I did not need for it to resonate.

I could not say anything more than the realm expects more of me now. The demands on my shoulders. I cannot spare a moment.

Her voice strained. “I had to see you because otherwise I scarcely know my husband lives and breathes.”

Her words erupted guilt and irritation alike. Buried beneath a thin, black veil I have carefully fabricated.

I could only insist I do all this for her. To keep her safe.

“How is it for me, Aemond? All I see in you is this desire for power. You speak of the realm, of me, but this is just sheer ambition, and you are too blind to see what it is doing to you. And I will not be your excuse for how tightly you cling to what you seek.”

I snapped and said how could she know. She has not ruled and never will. She does not understand the burden I bear.

“Perhaps I don't understand. But I know the man I married, the one I grew to love. And all I see is him slipping away.”

Gods, she sounded so wounded I was not sure whether to resent it or pity it.

The man she grew to love.

I was rendered so shocked I could not say anything. Even when her eyes begged for a response. And she turned to leave, her steps weak and faltering with every second. And I did not help her.

I did not help her.

I cannot shake the look on her face.

I know I should go to her, but I cannot. Her weakness, her frailty, I am afraid it will take me down with it.

And the realm cannot afford more weakness from the crown.

24th day of the 7th moon, 129

Everything is unravelling.

Rhaenyra has thrown everything she has at us, now even her bastards ride dragons. It is a cruel mockery of what we were meant to be. Blood of the dragon, sullied by lowborn filth. And Helaena, sweet and broken, refuses to aid us. Her grief holds her captive, and I cannot rouse her from it. I need her dragon, but she will not hear me.

Today was unbearable.

The council drags their feet and the walls close in. The smallfolk riot in the streets from hunger, one Rhaenyra herself has caused but that they seem to forget.

I came back to my chambers after the council adjourned, weary and enraged. And there, on my desk, I found them. Snapdragons. Flowers of bold pinks and oranges, fierce and alive, their edges tinged with red like the tips of dragonfire.

She has been here.

There was no note. No explanation. The flowers spoke what she did not.

It is a reminder of who I am, or rather the man I should be. The man she loves, not the beast I fear I am becoming.

I stood there for what felt like an age, staring at the blooms as if they might speak to me. In that moment, I made my decision. I must go to Harrenhal soon, to face Daemon, but I will not leave without seeing her first. Without making amends.

When I went to her chambers, there were no maesters, but her fever was heightened, and so she slept with sheer clothing and no bedsheets. She looked like a nymph, laid there, her breasts visible through the fabric and flowers at each bedside.

Like she didn't belong in the confines of the Keep. She belonged out there, amongst the trees and rivers, to exist in breath and wind.

She looked up, rose from her gentle slumber, and looked at me. Her eyes soft and searching.

I kissed her and she did not pull away. She let me touch her, hold her, gasped as I slid her nightgown up her hips and nipped at her thighs to taste the sweet nectar that poured from her.

She was warm and heady, an intoxicating mix of salt and sweetness, like honey warmed by the sun. I drank from her as if parched, savoring the way she trembled beneath me, the way her body seemed to bloom under my touch.

Her breath hitched as I lavished her with my tongue, her fingers desperate as her nailed pulled pleasantly at my hair. Each sound she made was a victory, each shiver a testament to the power she held over me. For all my strength, all my fury, I was undone by her, reduced to this, worshiping at the altar of her body.

Even as she cried out I could not stop. And when it became too much, I rose, her flavour still clinging to my lips. And we coupled slowly, tenderly, for hours. Devouring her as if by doing so, I could take some of her kindness, and bathe me clean of the darkness that lingers within.

She is no fool.

“My love. Do not make love to me as if I will never see you again.”

I could not answer her. She knows I must go. To Harrenhal. Now on my own, if nobody else will assist me.

I felt her fingers on my cheek.

“If you cannot promise me that. Promise me this. Write to me. Wherever you are. Whatever you do.”

I could not find it in my heart to deny her such a simple thing. I will send her my words, if I cannot send my body, soul and love.

I realised right there, her small body spent in my arms how many weeks, months even, I had spent unappreciative of the flutter she always gave me. The unending kindness she would offer. The truth, even when I didn't want it.

I had forgotten to treat her with tenderness.

1st day of the 9th moon, 129

Harrenhal is mine.

The stronghold of the Strongs fell with little resistance. The castle itself, vast and cold, looms like a beast over the land, its ruins whispering of past glories and darker tragedies. House Strong is no more. I have seen to that myself.

Save for one.

Alys Rivers remains. She claimed she had visions of my coming, of my victory, and of greater things yet to unfold. She spoke in riddles, her eyes fixed on me as though she could see into my soul.

Her words, her presence, are tempting in their way. Alys Rivers is a beautiful woman, older than I expected, with a certain allure born of her confidence and mystery. She has made no secret of her willingness to warm my bed, to offer herself to me in exchange for her life.

But I did not take her. I will not.

I told her plainly that she would live for now because her visions may serve a purpose. Nothing more. Let her think she has some measure of power over me if it keeps her pliant and useful. Yet even as I write this, I know I should send her to the sword, for the danger she represents.

My wife would see it how it is. Desperation.

I have not written to her yet. Not my wife. Not the only soul who would calm the storm within me.

I will tomorrow.

For tonight, the shadows of Harrenhal linger too heavily, and the blood on my hands feels too fresh.

17th day of the 11th moon, 129

Now I know why Daemon left this wretched place behind.

Harrenhal is not a castle, it is a carcass. Its halls are hollow, its walls crumbling, and its very air feels like a curse pressing down on my chest. The fires that claimed this ruin have never truly died. They linger in the stones, in the bones of the dead, whispering their stories to anyone who dares to listen.

And I am here now, breathing it in. I thought it would feel like a triumph, taking Harrenhal, but it is not.

I have not slept well since my arrival. And when I do, the dreams come. Muddled and confusing. Vivid and cruel things that weave consciousness into sleep.

Last night, I dreamt of her.

She was in her chambers in bed, sickly, her skin pale and translucent. The maesters swarm her like vultures for flesh, muttering useless words and hovering instead of healing. Her eyes found me, tired and hooded, and it was not a look of blame or fear, but something that still reminded me I am not the man she needed me to be.

In her eyes I saw my regrets. Every harsh word I spoke. Every moment I turned away. Every time I let ambition and anger drown out what little light we had kindled between us.

I tried to reach for her in the dream, but the distance was too great. I called her name, but she did not answer. And when I woke, my throat was raw, as if I had truly been shouting in my sleep.

In another dream, I was between her milky thighs, lapping at her sweet cunt like I had been starved of it for years. She moaned so sweetly as she always did. And when she clawed at my scalp to pull me closer to her it felt different. She was stronger. Less tender.

And when I looked up, her nectar glazing my face, I felt my heart grow cold and hollow. Her skin was pale, yes, but her hair darkened into something akin to raven feathers, her eyes sunk back slightly, cheekbones sharpened. And the soft, lightly colour there morphed into stark emeralds, lips red and quirked upwards.

Perhaps Harrenhal is cursed. Perhaps it draws out the darkest thoughts, the deepest fears, and forces them to the surface. Or perhaps it is only me. Perhaps I am cursed.

I must write to her. She is my tether, the only thing that keeps me from being swallowed whole by the darkness here. Tomorrow, I will write. Tonight, I will try to sleep and hope the dreams do not return.

Dearest Wife,

I write to you from the cold halls of Harrenhal, a place that holds no warmth, no life. Not like your chambers do. The days here stretch long, the nights longer still. It is a place of ash and shadow, where even the air feels heavy. And yet, amidst the ruin, I found something unexpected, a winter rose, growing stubbornly in the cracks of stone.

I have enclosed it with this letter. It is small, fragile, but it persists. A reminder, perhaps, that beauty can be found even in the bleakest places. I thought of you when I saw it. Handle it gently, as you always do.

How do you fare, my love? I pray the maesters have been attentive, and that the chill has not worsened your condition. I think of you often, though I fear my words fail to capture how much. I see you in every quiet moment, in every breath of wind. You linger in my thoughts as if you are a part of me, inseparable and eternal.

I do not wish to burden you with the trials of this place, nor the weight of my duties. But know that I am well, and I will return to you as soon as I am able. Until then, take care of yourself, for I cannot bear the thought of you suffering in my absence.

Yours Always,

Aemond

4th day of the 2nd moon, 130

Alys spoke of visions today.

She said she could see two dragons coming together, sharing the same fate above the great God's Eye. Then my wife, she saw our reunion, my wife's hair lit as if from the sun of the Seven Heavens. She sounded so certain, as if recounting events that had already transpired. She was so confident, I almost believed her.

Almost.

She sees so much, so she claims. Watching the flames dance along her eyes is, in itself, invigorating to watch. Her gentle mutterings are welcome sometimes in the quiet, hollow hallways of Harrenhal. They linger, pulling on the threads of my mind as if I am to her whim.

She moves through this great castle as if she has been a ghost here for generations. Her gaze does not cower before me as many others do, but she stands close. Perhaps sometimes, too close. And I think myself weak for not dismissing her.

She is a woman who knows the route to survival, and I cannot fault her for that.

They are brief, fleeting. The times where I wonder if she offers herself for something more than just survival. When she hands me a raven, her touch lingers longer than it should.

I do not know what Alys Rivers wants from me, nor do I care to ask.

I have not written to my wife of her. How could I? How do I explain this shadow in my midst, this woman who speaks of futures I do not wish to see? I tell myself it is unnecessary, that Alys is nothing more than a tool, a means to an end.

And yet, I wonder if I am lying to myself.

Daemon is coming. That much I believe. Whether Alys’s visions are truth or falsehood, the outcome remains the same. We are on a path that cannot be turned aside.

When the time comes, I will be ready.

My Dearest Husband,

Your letter reached me today, and I must confess, I wept to see the winter rose you sent. Such a small and delicate thing, so rare. I pressed it into my own book, so it may keep company with my other treasures. Thank you, my love.

I have pressed a snapdragon into these pages also. Last spring, you commented that the colour of their petals reminded you of a dragon mid-roar, and I wished to remind you of simpler times, before the world felt so uncertain.

I have soaked these papers in the oils I apply to my hair and skin. Perhaps a silly indulgence to some, but I thought perhaps it might bring you some comfort, a memory of home in the coldness of that dreadful castle.

The maesters say the chill has caught my chest, though it has for many here. You must not worry, I assure you it is nothing more than the season’s cruel bite. I have taken my draughts and kept warm as you would wish me to, though the days feel colder without you here to hold me.

I hope this letter finds you well. Write to me when you can, even if it is but a few lines. Your words are a light in these dark times, and I cling to them more than I dare admit.

I hope you campaigns in the Riverlands fare well. Remember you are my husband first, not a shadow of war or duty. Please do not forget or lose grip on the man I fell in love with.

Yours Forever,

Your Loving Wife

- - - - 130

The quill trembles in my hand as I write. Ink smears before I can make sense of my thoughts. This entry will be illegible by morning, I am certain. It makes no sense— how could it? Dreams are madness.

Alys.

Her belly was swollen, a grotesque curve rounded with child, one of my blood. Not hers. Not hers! I could not look at her without feeling bile in my throat, the heat of shame.

And then my wife.

My wife!

She was there, crumpling to the ground, her grief splitting the air like a storm. Her screams. Gods, her screams. I have never heard her voice raised in such a way, never seen her face contorted with such anguish.

I wanted to go to her, to explain, but I could not move. My feet were rooted, and the air was thick, choking me. She looked at me, her eyes wide with betrayal, and I felt myself drowning in them. No. Not in them.

In water.

My lungs burned. My limbs thrashed. The surface was a distant shimmer, unreachable. I could hear her still, even beneath the water, her screams warped and muffled, but no less devastating.

I woke gasping, clawing at the air as if I could still feel the water pulling me under.

What does it mean? What does it mean?

Harrenhal speaks as if it has a clawing, fearsome mouth.

Kinslayer. Usurper. Liar. Monster.

I am all and none. All and none.

The water, surely it does not drown me, it must cleanse me.

But it cannot. Nothing can. Nothing will.

My Dearest Aemond,

I write to you from my bed, as I have found myself unable to rise for much of late. The maesters are vigilant, though they assure me there is no cause for alarm and that I should not tire myself by writing. They say it is only the season and my own weakness conspiring against me. I do not tell them how I feel the cold seep deeper with each passing day, but I tell you, my husband, because I know you will not dismiss my words so lightly.

News of the battle at the Lakeshore has reached even here. The servants whisper of it, though I hear only fragments. There seems to be a changing of guards here at the Keep, but I do not leave my chambers, so I cannot see why. Are you well? Please tell me you are. It has been too long since I last heard from you, and I cannot help but worry. You are so far away, in such a dangerous place, and the weight of it lies heavy upon my chest.

I would not ask this of you if I thought it selfish, but please, write to me. Even a single line would be enough to still my restless heart.

Take care of yourself, my love. Remember that you are not alone in this, no matter how distant we may seem. You are mine, as I am yours, and nothing, not war, not duty, not even death, can change that.

All My Love,

Your Wife

My Loving Husband,

Why have you not written? Why do you leave me in this silence? The days are long without word from you, and the nights are even longer. I wait, and I wonder, and I worry. Is it so hard to take up your quill? Is it so hard to tell me that you are well?

Please, my love, do not let this silence stretch any longer. Tell me you are safe. Tell me you are whole. Tell me anything, for I am desperate for the sound of your voice, even if it must come to me through ink and paper.

Do you think of me, Aemond? Do you think of the nights we spent in each other’s arms? Do you think of the flowers I left for you, the words I whispered when the world felt less cruel? I hope you do. I hope you remember.

I have tried to be strong, for you, for us, but I am alas not as much as you. Please, my love, do not leave me to this silence any longer. Write to me. Ease my heart. I apologise for my heavy emotions, the ink smudges because of my shaky hands, and they are not as steady as they once were. Do not think poorly of me for it.

I fear I am beginning to lose my sense of time. Did I already tell you the maesters say I will recover? Forgive me if I repeat myself. My thoughts seem to wander, but they always find their way back to you.

I love you, Aemond. It hurts more than breathing. Please let me hear from you.

Yours, always and forever.

Your Loyal Wife

My Beloved Wife,

I read every stroke of your ink like a blade to my chest, not because they wound me so, but because I imagine your voice. Reminding me what I have left behind.

Do you know, my love, how much I miss you? How much I miss the feel of your hands on me, grounding me when the storms inside threaten to consume me?

Do not lose hope, for I cling to it still. If you cannot feel my arms around you, know that my soul reaches for you, across all the miles that separate us. Hold fast, my love, until I can come back to you.

Do not think poorly of your emotions, nor of your trembling hands. They have always been steady enough to hold me, to steady my own restless soul.

I do not deserve you, my delicate flower. But I am yours, wholly and utterly. I will write to you again soon, I swear it. I will not leave you in silence again.

Please, take heart, as I try to do. Remember that I love you, more than I have ever been able to say.

Yours, now and always,

Aemond

My Dearest, dearest Aemond,

Do you remember our first days as husband and wife? How cold you seemed, how distant? I used to think you disliked me, perhaps even resented me for my frailty. I was so small and scared then, unsure of my place in your life, in your heart.

But I see now what I could not see then. You are a man of storms, my love, and I was too weak to weather them. Yet, even storms have their moments of calm, and it was in those moments I found the man I have come to love more than life itself.

I do not know if this letter reaches you, nor if I have the strength to write another. But I need you to know, that I am wholly, and truly, yours. Now and always.

Please, remember me kindly.

Forever,

Your Loving Wife

My love,

It has been too long since I last wrote to you. For that I am sorry. I did not mean to worry you.

Truthfully I have left Harrenhal behind, trawling the Riverlands to those loyal to my sister still, even now. I head towards a confrontation I cannot avoid. Daemon wants his fight, and as much as I would like to be by your side, this challenge cannot be ignored. He is a fool if he thinks he can stand against me, but I must prove it nonetheless.

Once that is done, I swear to you, I will return to your side. This madness, this war, it has taken too much from us both. I long for the peace of your presence, the quiet of our chambers, where only you and I exist in our own world.

I do not know what awaits me when I return. I do not know what has become of you, though I hope you are well. Please know that, despite the distance and the bloodshed, you are always in my heart.

I will write again as soon as I can. Stay strong, my love. Wait for me.

I am yours,

Aemond

My love,

I await your reply like a lovesick child.

I fear the worst with each passing day, each hour that I do not hear your voice. Have I lost you? Is the cold consuming you, or have you fallen into silence for some other reason I cannot fathom? Please, I beg of you, send me word. Let me know that you are still waiting for me.

I have prepared myself to face Daemon, though I care little for the confrontation. His challenge has become a matter of necessity, but I cannot shake the thought of you, fragile and alone, while I am here, so far away. I would rather be by your side, taking care of you, than facing that traitor. But I have no choice now.

I am desperate, my love. A few lines in your gentle hand would give me the strength of a thousand men. Without you, what am I but a man trawling this desolate, darkened land, lost forever without your light to guide my way.

Please do write. My cherished flower.

Aemond

My darling wife,

I woke to a raven today. The words written within it seemed impossible, a cruelty that no man should have to face. It tells me of your passing, of your death.

But I refuse to believe it. I cannot.

You are not gone. I would have felt you, felt your soul leave this realm. I would have felt the Stranger take you from me, and yet, there is only the emptiness. The cold distance that stretches between us, yes, but not your absence. Not truly.

Were such a thing to happen, my love, I would have felt a pain so deep in my chest, I would have cried out. I would have howled until my throat bled. You are too vital to me for your death to be a mere whisper in the wind. No, this cannot be real.

Do not let the maesters fill my mind with their lies. Do not weaken the fragile hope I cling to, the only thread keeping me tethered to this world. Please, I beg of you, let me hold onto the belief that you are still waiting for me. That when I return, I will find you where you belong, by my side.

I will nourish you, body and soul, as I should have from the very beginning. For I do not believe that the distance, the war, the bloodshed, it has not been enough to sever the bond we share. When I come to you, I will fix what I have broken in myself, and I will fix what has withered between us.

This war has broken me, my love. I have witnessed too much, done too much, and it has hollowed me out in ways I cannot even express. But you, you always knew how to heal. Your touch, gentle, sure could mend what no one else could. And so, I beg you, when I return, lay your hands upon me.

Fix me.

Make me whole again. It has been so long since I have felt so. Without your touch, your voice.

I will come for you.

Forever Yours,

Aemond

21st day of the 5th moon, 130

The winds howl so loudly now.

They sing on the eve of what may be my last. Daemon is here and he waits for me. One of us must fall, though I have reassured my wife that it shall not be me.

I write this now because I do not know if I will have another chance. If the Stranger comes for me, I will not meet him with words left unsaid.

To my mother. You were the first to see me, even before I knew myself. When I was a boy without a dragon, I ran to you, tears staining my face, and you held me as though that could mend what I lacked. The day I lost my eye, the boy you nurtured was forced to become a man. A bitter man. Perhaps I lost more than my eye that day. Perhaps I lost the better parts of myself. If I am to die tomorrow, know that I never blamed you for showing your love to me the way you did, and though I may not have shown it, I am grateful.

My sister. Sweet sister, I am sorry. Sorry for your grief, sorry for your pain, sorry for all the ways I could not protect you from this cruel world. You deserved peace, and all you have been given is sorrow. I hope that, in another life, I might have been a better brother to you. I hope you will forgive me for failing you.

Aegon. Brother, I have resented you for much of my life. Perhaps it was jealousy, perhaps it was anger, perhaps it was something I will never fully understand. But you are my brother, my blood, and for all our differences, I have never wished you harm. Not truly. If I do not return, lead this realm as you see fit, but know that power is a fleeting thing. Do not let it consume you as it has consumed me.

To my wife, my delicate flower, if you ever read this: forgive me. Forgive the times I was cold, the times I let my anger and pride obscure my love for you. Forgive my silence, my absences, my failures to be the husband you deserved.

I see you even now, though miles lie between us. I see your smile, rare but radiant. I hear your voice, soft but sure. I feel your touch, delicate but anchoring. You made me feel whole, even when I thought I was nothing but a shattered thing.

Daemon may take my life tomorrow, but he cannot take what I carry with me, the memory of you, the warmth of you, the love you gave me even when I did not deserve it. That is mine, and mine alone.

If the Stranger does not take me, I will come back to you. I will hold you, care for you, and let the world crumble as long as I have you. But if I do not return, know this.

I loved you.

With all that I am, with all that I ever was, I loved you.

The winds howl louder now. Perhaps it is time I let them carry me. And if it is to be so, take me to her.

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stardust-thief · 5 months ago

Text

look after you

an: this my first x reader fic LMAOO, i needed to write smth and this spencer was on my brain :// i am in the middle of a rly long donna fic but i cba this was much easier. also i absolutley have not proof read this sorry

synopsis: you get hurt while hunting down an unsub, after some reluctance (and kind words from papa rossi) you let spencer take care of you, 1.7k words

cw: descriptions of violence, panic attack, spencer swears and can drive (the most un-canon thing abt him) umm italians..., the rest is just fluffy, hurt/comfort, x reader but no y/n

masterlist

The unsub had his gun pointed at you, the cold press of the barrel against flesh. He was ranting and raving about needing to be seen and understood, having spent his childhood in emotional neglect. Teachers and parents failed him at every turn, it’s not his fault that this happened but he can fix it if he just drops the gun. Rossi tried to tell him this over and over, but he only got more angry, pushing the gun in harder and harder.

If you were to open your eyes, you would’ve seen JJ and Luke there too, guns trained on the unsub. Their eyes glancing between you, the unsub, and the gun. But you didn’t. Not until the bang went off and you could breathe again.

The flashing lights of the ambulance do nothing to dissuade the pressing headache you feel coming on, the movement of people helps even less. You watch as the EMT’s cart the unsub away on a gurney, sheet covering him.

“You okay, kid?” Rossi asks from beside you, he had been hovering ever since the ambulance arrived.

“I’m fine, just need a good night's rest. I’ll be good as new.” You hummed half-heartedly.

David Rossi always knew when someone was lying to him, part of that talent comes from his job as a profiler, but it’s mostly because of some ancient Italian magic. “I’m gonna pretend you didn’t say that to me. Look, Hotch is on his way with Reid and Emily. They’re gonna be taking some witness statements, but I imagine Boy Wonder will be a little distracted. I want you to let him take care of you, ok? You’ve been through hell tonight kid, let him worry.”

Italians never lie, although you wish they did. Spencer had very obviously caught feelings for you, everyone on the team could see it. Unfortunately, so could you. Spencer Reid was one of the kindest, most genuine people you had ever met, always putting other people's needs before his own. A voice in your head kept telling you that there is nothing you have done to deserve someone like him doting all over you? You had only brought trouble to the people who loved you. Eventually you learned that it was better to just keep everyone at a distance; if you don’t let them in, they can’t get hurt. Which worked well, up until Spencer.

He had such a wormy way of getting into your brain at the worst times; whether it was when you were alone in your kitchen, or at slightly dangerous, very inappropriate times on a case. You couldn’t stop thinking about him and his stupidly cute (and sometimes ill-timed) facts. Some part of you wanted to let him in, in the end the stubborn side always took over.

Before long, you heard the worried cries of Spencer trying to find you in the chaos. Rossi called his name and gave you a pat on the shoulder, “Remember, you deserve to be looked after too.” and left to find Hotch.

“Oh my god, are you okay? We tried to get here as soon as we could, but they managed to take down the unsub right? What happened, did he hurt you? How did you get so close? Talk to me are-” Oh, how he rambles.

“Spencer, I’m fine. I just need to… rest, you know. He didn’t hurt me that bad, just a sprained wrist, couple bruises. Could’ve been worse.”

He spluttered, “Could’ve- you know, that doesn’t make this any better, I was so worried about you. He had a fucking gun to your head, I was going insane thinking about what could’ve happened. What did the EMT say about your wrist?”

“Just to rest it, and use an ice pack if it starts to swell or hurt.” You couldn’t look him in the eye, he was so worried about you. It made butterflies dance in your belly, but there was a twinge of guilt there too. He was so busy, he worked so hard and then went home to look after his mom. He had too much on his plate, how could you add more to it? “Spence, I’m really sorry about worrying you. I should be fine to leave now, so I’ll just head home and sleep it off. Have a good night.” You pushed yourself off the ambulance, eyes focused downwards, restless fingers fidgeting with the already frayed bandage.

“No- wait what are you talking about? You’re gonna drive yourself home in this condition? I can’t let you do that, even thinking about it makes me feel sick.” He lowered his head to yours and spoke softer this time, “Please let me take you home. I don’t have to stay, I just want to make sure you’re ok, ok?”

Fuck that voice did things to you. Leaning from side to side, you thought about what Rossi had said earlier. Maybe, it was ok to let someone in? It would be cruel to let him suffer more, not knowing if you were ok or somehow got in a car crash with 5 other vehicles on your way home. Just this once, you think.

Looking up into his soft eyes, you give a small nod. His lips immediately turned up into a smile, his hand comes up to cup your head, fingers stroking your cheek. It felt… nice. His thumb was calloused but he still moisturised enough for it to feel smooth, and he smelled like lemongrass and ginger. His hand fell to the small of your back as he guided you to his car. Ever the gentlemen, he opened your door and softly placed his hand over your head as you got in. Manoeuvring himself into the driver's side, he pulled out his phone and typed something, then quickly stuffed it away into a pocket and turned on the engine.

The sky was dark when you woke up. The unsub had a gun to your head at dusk, and Spencer was walking into your apartment when the moon was out. He took off his shoes and the door, and walked into your living room.

“I’ve never been here before,” he mused. “I like it.”

He looked at ease wandering around your apartment, his shoulders had relaxed and he let out soft musings as he perused your photo collections.

“Oh Spencer, not that one, it’s embarrassing!” You tried (with not a lot of effort) to pull him away from the frame.

“No this is cute, was this when you were at University?” He asked, wrapping an arm around you.

Oh my god. “Yeah, um- those were some of my friends at the time. I try and keep in touch but, you know.”

He hummed, pulling you closer into him. Finally content, he looked down at you. “How’s your wrist?”

“It’s ok,” you shrugged, “just a little tender now.”

“Where’s your kitchen, I can get some ice.”

“Spence-” you wanted to tell him no, to go home and look after himself. But his body was so warm, having him so close to you melted your brain, leaving you unable to think of any good reason as to why he should leave. “It’s the first door on the right.”

His grip tightened for a moment before he swiftly navigated you to the sofa, and turned to leave for the kitchen. The cold of the apartment rushed to get you as soon as he unraveled his arms. You hadn’t been alone all day since the unsubs attack, it somehow felt more claustrophobic. His hand on your throat, squeezing the air from your lungs. The way he grabbed your arm, contorting it so he could throw you to the ground. The gun, pressed into your forehead. The knowledge that the only thing between you being alive, and you being in a ditch, was a madman's finger on the trigger. Reality faded as each memory pressed further and further into your mind. You weren’t in your apartment anymore, you could feel the cold concrete beneath your hands. The thick air in your lungs, Rossi and the unsub shouting.

A hand on your knee, a soft voice bringing you back. There was no unsub, no gun to your head. You were alive. You were alive and Spencer was in your apartment, wiping the tears that had fallen down your face.

“You with me?” His voice was so soft, you couldn’t recall ever hearing Spencer raise his voice in anger. He was so gentle when he touched you.

The floodgates burst, choked sobs made their way past your lips. Your shoulder shook as you cried, pressing yourself into Spencer’s arms. “Oh honey,” He murmured, pressing his lips into your head, softly rocking you back and forth as you sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. It was too much. You could have died today. Very nearly did. You weren’t ready to die, not yet at least.

As your cries softened into hiccups, you pushed yourself back from Spencer. “I’m sorry, that was so disgusting. It just all- I don’t know.”

“Hey, you don’t ever have to apologise to me ok? What you went through was really scary, I’d honestly be more shocked if you didn’t cry.” His hand moved to draw soothing shapes along your back as you leaned back into him. “You want to watch something to calm down? I brought you some water and an ice pack for your wrist.”

He would be the death of you. You nod and push yourself back into the sofa, moving your wrist to rest in your lap. Spencer gently places the ice pack across your wrist and grips the tips of your fingers. He leans forward to push your cup of water towards you and grabs the TV remote, then turns and leans back so your side is pressed into his front. Truthfully, Spencer didn’t seem like the type to watch cable TV but he navigated the menu with somewhat ease.

“Look at what’s on! It’s your favourite isn’t it, you want me to put it on.” He said as he nudged your shoulder.

He remembered your favourite film, of course he would remember it he has an eidetic memory. You hummed a yes as you relaxed your body further into his, finally content. Maybe Rossi was right, having Spencer close really wasn’t so bad after all.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fluff #spencer reid one shot #fluff #hurt/comfort

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writingfics-passingtime · 16 days ago

Text

Empty Threats

synopsis: stranded in a one-room safe house overnight with Loki, you learn the consequences of teasing him.

pairing: Loki x female reader (sexual / romantic)

word count: ~6700

cw: swearing, tickling, making out, closed-door sex, innuendo and other sexually-charged exchanges, light bondage (with magic), less romance more fwb vibe? you be the judge

minors dni: this fic does not contain smut, but does contain steamy moments and closed-door sex between the reader and an adult-aged character. I am not comfortable with engagement from anyone under the age of 18. Thank you for your understanding and respect.

note: horniest I'll ever be on main. future smut will be posted on nevermath.tumblr.com

The escape craft was some older thing. Ancient and rickety, by SHIELD standards. Definitely not built for an ice-storm.

You can't remember the last time you felt so unsafe in the air - and that included a handful of situations involving heat-seeking missiles, plummeting free-falls, and one especially memorable brush with a Chitauri cannon.

The turbulence knocks the controls hard to the left, you wrestle them back with a grunt, jaw tight, adrenaline burning under your skin. A flick of your eyes towards your passenger seat makes your blood pressure spike for an entirely different reason.

Loki looks bored.

Actually... worse; he looks vaguely amused.

He's lounging, one leg crossed over the other, hands steepled in his lap. Not a single hair out of place, nor muscle braced. Whether that means he trusts you to fly safely out of this storm, or simply doesn't care whether the damn thing goes down in flames, you're not sure. You don't ask.

You don't want the answer.

So when the radar pings a safe-house just a hundred clicks off-course, you make a hard turn toward it with zero apology.

The landing is rough. Metal groans as the craft slams down on a barely-visible patch of ice-washed earth. But she holds. Barely.

You unbuckle fast, tossing Loki a look over your shoulder. "Hope your highness can handle a night in a little mountain shack."

His brow raises. His smirk is slow, knowing.

You don't give him the satisfaction of looking flustered. You just shove the hatch open and duck out into the freezing sleet with a scoff.

You'd never usually leave a craft in the open like this, but the visibility is shit and the airspace is fucked; no one will be flying overhead - not even the combatants that'd been pursuing you fifty-odd clicks back.

The safe-house cabin appears like a ghost out of the storm, flickering through thick sheets of sideways rain. You reach the door, slap your hand on the bio scanner, and hear the click of the lock just as Loki falls into step and you both slip out of the weather.

The door shuts with a solid thud - and for the first time in hours, silence rings.

Peace. Safety.

Both of you stand still, breathing hard. You're not sure if it's the cold or the tension. Maybe both.

But it’s tranquil in here. Nice, even. Far from a little mountain shack.

You step further in, the dim lights automatically fading on, and you glance at the windows, which seem to be holding tight against the icy rain lashing against them. Wind howls through the trees and scratches at the glass like a leopard's claws, but the place seems solid.

No sooner had you stepped in further did thunder crack so close it felt like the gods were arguing just over the mountain-

Wait...

"That's not your brother, is it?" You look at Loki over your shoulder, half-joking.

"No," Loki's low, rich voice chuckles behind you. "Not nearly dramatic enough."

You're almost soaked-through from the dash, a chill threatening to settle into your bones, but you notice that, though isolated, the safe-house isn't freezing. The lights are low and warm, casting the room in comforting haze. It feels luxurious; hardwood floors, thick rugs, a fireplace in the centre of the wall, opposite to the kingsized bed draped in earth-coloured linens and furs and- wait. Fuck.

Bed. Singular.

You look around and quickly confirm the sheepish feeling sinking into you. This is a studio. Designed for one. Or for a couple.

Who... the fuck decided that only one bed was appropriate for safe house?

Instead of making it a big deal, you declare, "I'm going to shower to warm up."

Loki looks to the stone mantle and says "I'll make a fire."

But as soon as the word fire leaves his lips, the empty cavity hisses to life, flames beginning to spark and build. You bite your lip as Loki scowls.

"Spooky," you tease, twirling your finger to the ceiling. "The cabin must be haunted by helpful ghosts."

Loki swings that scowl on you, but softens it. "We do also have technology on Asgard, you smug little goblin."

You smirk and turn on your heel. "You keep calling me things like that and I'm gonna think you’re flirting."

"I am," he calls after you.

You don't dignify it with a reply. You also don't stop smiling as you close the bathroom door.

The bathroom, and the shower itself, match the quiet wealth of the rest of the place. Such a shame, you think as you let your shoulders ease under the spray, that this place must be empty most of the time. It's exactly the kind of place you can imagine yourself... being. Just relaxing, letting go. Preferably alone, considering the one-bed situation.

Your stomach pings in a cluster of nerves as you lather the fig and sandalwood suds over your skin, trying to scrub the tension from your shoulders - tension that, annoyingly, has less to do with the mission and more to do with the god in the other room.

Loki is… a menace. Not just in the field. Not just in battle. But here. In the quiet. In the glances. In the way he looks at you like he’s already peeled your thoughts apart and likes what he sees.

The bed is big, and it's not like you'd mind sharing it with Loki - you'd known since the first time you worked with the God of Mischief that you'd likely fall into bed together at some point or another - but this... it feels forced. Like two dolls some child is guiding into a kiss.

Soon you're standing in front of the mirror, brushing your teeth, wiping a path through the fog on the glass to look yourself in the eye and coach yourself mentally, as if you were a child: just because you're under the same covers does not mean you will have sex with him.

You feel your cheeks warm as you realise that Loki probably isn't thinking about any of this. At all. Even though he makes no efforts to hide his physical attraction to you, that doesn't mean he's... wanting, in the same way you are.

Besides, he's your mission partner. Your headache. Your shadow in the field. The beautiful thorn in your side when you're not under fire. Taking it further could make it messy.

You throw on some standard-issue lounge clothes; socks, underwear, sweat shorts, tank top, and a cloud-soft sweatshirt, all found in the bathroom's linen cupboard that must contain at least two dozen different size options.

When you walk back into the main area, the warmth instantly seeps into your skin like a gentle summer evening. One deep breath, and you've eased further.

Loki looks up from the couch where he's lounged with his head against the headrest, hands folded over his stomach. He's still in his tac gear.

"There's a change of clothes in there," you nod to the bathroom.

Loki's eyebrow lifts. In a slow pulse of green, his clothes change into a softer, yet seemingly still tailored, all-black set that covers his limbs entirely. It looks too good for something summoned out of spite. "Over my dead body," his eyes rake over you, critical on the surface, heated underneath.

With a roll of your eyes you make your way to the bed. "I'm tired," you say, seeing it in his eyelids. "Ready to sleep?"

"I'll tend to my needs and then take my rest here." He stands and heads towards the bathroom.

"Loki," you put a little casual laugh in your voice. He stops and turns his head. "The bed's huge. We can share it."

He doesn't say anything for a moment, and you're worried you've fucked it. That you've been presumptuous. That he's going to say something about how he'd rather die than share sheets with the likes of-

"Very well," he tilts his head in agreement, barely looking at you before he closes the bathroom door.

Internally, you're screaming. Outwardly, you're pressing the heels of your hands to your eyes, wondering if there was any possible way you could've made it more awkward.

You hear the shower spray and try to think about anything other than him in here.

Whatever. Whatever. You take a breath through your nose and slip under the sheets. The lights are still dim. You narrow your eyes, and test the cabin, saying "it's time to sleep."

The lights dim to nothing, the fire pulls back from roaring to gently crackling, creating a cozy atmosphere that's calling you to sleep. But the second you settle in, you get that sinking gut feeling that sleep isn't going to come easy. Your limbs are tired, your eyelids heavy, but your mind is still buzzing with adrenaline.

You're staring at the ceiling when Loki reenters, crosses the room, and slides into the sheets on the other side of the bed. And sure, the bed is big, but he's still less than an arm's length away. You didn't realise how close you'd feel until he was there.

"Sweet dreams," you say with a subtle teasing lilt to try and disguise your nerves, eyes still on the ceiling, fingers playing with the hem of your sweatshirt.

You hear his head turn to look at you. Hear a small, faintly amused puff of air through his nose. "Try not to dream about me too vividly. I don’t want to wake to you whimpering." He turns, back to you, and settles in.

You bite your lip, the heat returning tenfold, but you chuckle. “Who's the smug little goblin now."

In an effort to get the adrenaline out, to help your mind complete whatever it feels it needs to, you start replaying the mission in your head. Every bullet, every chase, every snarky little jab Loki threw at you in that seductive voice, every- ... oh shit.

You almost forgot.

You press your smiling lips together, suppressing the giggle threatening to betray you. But it slips out anyway - a little puff of laughter in the dark.

That moment. The one that sent you over the edge.

Loki shifts beside you. "Don’t start," he warns. His words are a blade being drawn from its sheath.

“I didn’t say anything," you retort, now openly grinning at the ceiling.

"You thought it," he snips. He knows exactly what you're thinking about and hates it already.

You roll onto your side to face him, arm tucked under your head. "I'm just remembering a moment from today. A glorious one."

He exhales through his nose. "You truly have a death wish."

You grin wider. "You ate shit so hard on that slippery boulder."

The silence between you stretches like wire. Taut. Dangerous.

You keep going anyway.

"One second you’re monologuing, all broody Asgardian menace - 'You dare challenge me?' - and the next? Boom. Legs in the air. Splashdown."

You can feel the heat rising from his side of the bed. His magic pulses just faintly through the room. Static before a lightning strike.

"If you were wise you'd shut your mouth," he says darkly, "before I'm forced to shut it for you."

You laugh again - quieter this time, taunting. "Oh yeah? What’s the plan - another lecture about respect?" You prop yourself up on an elbow, searching the air for more sass. "Or... just another bout of empty threats and semi-inappropriate workplace banter?"

Loki turns. Slowly. He shifts to mirror you - rising on one elbow, lifting his face so you can see him in the flicker of firelight.

And fuck... he looks dangerous like this. Hot and dangerous. Hair damp and curling at the ends, shadows cutting beneath his cheekbones, pale blue eyes locked on you like you’re something he’s actively backing into a corner.

He tilts his head, and, with a devastating sweetness, he says, slowly, "Tease me again, and I’ll put you on your back and tickle you until you sob."

You blink. "Huh-what?"

Loki leans in just slightly - close enough that his breath ghosts over your mouth. "You heard me. One more snide little comment and I'll have you writhing. I will take my time. And you will not know mercy."

Your brain flatlines. Your mouth parts. You should say something sharp - should snap back, keep the banter going - but your body betrays you with a single thud of heat low in your stomach.

He sees it.

Of course he fucking sees it.

Loki's eyes narrow and you know - you know he’s cataloging every flinch, every breath. "It's the perfect punishment, wouldn't you agree?" he continues softly, dangerously. "Intimate, humiliating… leaves no mark. You won’t run to your beloved Captain Rogers with bruises. Just memories you can’t scrub off."

Your throat’s dry. You manage a single nervous chuckle. "You wouldn’t."

He smirks like the mischief he is. "We both know I would."

You go quiet.

Dead quiet.

Because the worst part is, you don't know whether you want him to or not.

And Loki - bastard that he is - sees that, too. He leans back slowly, satisfaction dripping from every hard line of his body as he settles into the pillow again.

You lie there, heart pounding, every nerve on fire. The storm still rages outside, but now it's got competition.

Loki chuckles deep and low, and it feels like thunder cracking beneath your skin.

"Wise choice," he murmurs.

And fuck, you hate him.

You hate him.

Well... no.

You don't hate him.

And you hate that you don't hate him.

You shift under the covers, giving an exaggerated sigh as you turn away from him. "Jeez. You're so fucking dramatic," you mutter under your breath.

A mistake.

"Oh, you poor little fool."

A catastrophic mistake.

Before you can even suck in another breath, his magic crackles through the air. It's an electric, humming snap that raises the fine hairs on your arms a second before you feel it.

The pillowcase under your head moves. It slides off the cushion with a treacherous slither, wrapping itself around your wrists with a speed and precision that makes your stomach drop. You jerk instinctively, but it's too late - your hands are caught, ensnared, pinned above your head, wrists bound together tight enough to be secure but loose enough to tell you this is a game.

His game.

You barely manage a grunt of protest before Loki’s hands are on you - turning you onto your back in a fluid, almost lazy motion, like he’s not even trying. His fingers are wickedly strong around your waist, holding you down just long enough for him to shift, knee pressing between your legs, swinging himself up until he straddles your hips.

You struggle, wild and panicked, kicking your legs and jerking your torso, but you’re half-covered in blankets and utterly unprepared for a fight - in soft sleepwear, no armour - and he’s bigger, heavier, faster, magical.

You buck hard, trying to dislodge him, but all it earns you is a low, infuriating chuckle from above.

"Is this truly the best you can fight?" he purrs, tightening his grip just enough to remind you who’s in charge.

"Fuck you," you scowl, jerking your hands against the bonds.

"Rude." He tsks, smirking down at you, his hips pinning yours to the bed with effortless control. "And after I warned you so nicely."

You twist again, but it's useless. You’re stuck. Fully at his mercy.

And the worst part?

You can feel the slow, deliberate shift of his body against yours - his thigh pressing against your bare skin, the long line of him caging you in - and it sparks heat low in your gut that has nothing to do with rage.

"You can’t seriously - Loki, come on," you start, trying to wriggle your wrists free, but the enchanted fabric tightens at his will, dragging a frustrated, helpless sound from your throat. "This is stupid and dramatic. You proved your point, now let me go."

He just tilts his head, studying you like a cat might study a bird fluttering with a broken wing.

"Tell me," he murmurs, voice dangerously low as he settles further, "did you really think that would go unpunished?"

His hands start inching forward.

You glare. "I really think you’re a dickhead."

His eyes gleam, a spark of delight dancing at the edges. "Mm. Defiant. I expected nothing less."

His fingers descend like vipers, darting straight for your sides, and the second they make contact... fuck.

You jerk so violently the bed frame gives a protesting creak.

You arch instinctively, breath hitching, but you refuse to laugh. Refused to give him the satisfaction.

"Nothing?" he muses, leaning closer, eyes flaring in delight. "Oh, you’re going to be so fun."

You twist under him, trying to wriggle free. The pillowcase tightens slightly in response. You grit your teeth as he drags his fingers up and down your ribs with merciless precision.

You hold on, digging your heels into the mattress, biting your bottom lip hard. His touch is devastating. Too practiced. Light one moment, firm the next, zeroing in on your most sensitive spots with surgical precision.

And still, you don't laugh.

Until-

"Ah," Loki says softly. His fingers found it - a spot just beneath your left rib, sensitive as hell, one you hadn’t even known would betray you.

Your body jolts. A tiny gasp escapes your throat. Then, like a damn cracking, a laugh punches from your lungs.

Triumphant, Loki’s smirk deepens - not cruel, not quite - something darker, warmer. Endeared, even. And utterly smug.

"There it is," he whispers, tilting his head. "I knew you’d be a screamer."

You flush, full-body and furious. "I hate you," you huff through gritted teeth, breath coming fast.

He clicks his tongue. "Then you’ll loathe what comes next."

And then he really begins.

You couldn’t hold it in anymore. You burst with laughter, loud and sharp, your body trembling wildly beneath his tickling hands.

And gods, he’s good at it - depravedly good. His fingers dance, spider-light one moment, then digging mercilessly the next, zeroing in on every little vulnerable spot like he’s been studying you for months.

Which he probably has, the bastard.

You shriek again, trying to twist away, but his weight on your hips keeps you absolutely pinned.

"You should’ve held your tongue," Loki drawls, his voice maddeningly calm over your frantic squirming. His voice drops. "Gods, you’re responsive."

"I swear I'm gonna get you for this- SHIT!" you gasp out between bursts of helpless, writhing laughter, but the threats fall flat - your voice breaking with each choked, humiliating giggle he wrings from you.

"You’re welcome to try," he murmurs, dragging one hand from your side up under your sweatshirt to your underarm, circling lightly where the skin’s thinnest, most sensitive.

You convulse so hard under him you nearly tip him sideways, but Loki handles it easily, smirking like this is all beneath him - like your thrashing and desperate yelps are just entertainment.

He skims the pads of his fingers lightly over your stomach, watching with lazy amusement as you shudder uncontrollably.

You kick your legs, trying to knee him, but he just rides out the bucking like he’s enjoying it, settling heavier against you with a rough grind of his hips that makes your brain white out for a second - makes you way too aware of how warm he is. How solid.

"You are such a dick," you gasp, breathless.

"No," he grins. "I’m your reckoning."

You whimper - actually whimper - as he attacks your sides again, fast and brutal, forcing desperate laughter out of you until you’re gasping between giggles, your whole body arching and twisting under him.

Loki only hums thoughtfully, shifting his weight slightly so his hips press more firmly against yours - deliberately - and the new friction is a whole fresh hell you’re not prepared for.

Heat spikes through you, brutal and wanted, mixing with the overwhelming sensation of his hands tormenting your skin.

He sees it.

Of course he fucking sees everything.

And the bastard has the audacity to smile wider. Slow, wolfish, knowing. His fingers skitter up your sides again, sending you into another fit of helpless, humiliating giggles.

"Fuck! This is so messed up-"

"You could have avoided this," he drawls, utterly unbothered. "All you had to do was keep that clever little mouth shut."

You grit your teeth, trying to focus. "This- this is petty. This is some villain-ass shit. No wonder Thor used to kick your ass when you were younger."

"Oh?" he says, digging his fingers against the fabric covering the soft space under your arms, dragging a laugh straight from your lungs. "You want to talk about childhood trauma now? In the middle of this? How very Avenger of you."

You throw your head back and laugh through gritted teeth, managing a whiny: "I really hate you."

He laughs. "You wish." His hands dive back to your sides.

"I wait- Loki- okay please!" you gasp, twisting hard, but the pillowcase tightens again, holding your wrists captive.

"Oh, now you beg?" Loki teases, fingers squeezing at your waist until your whole body bucks. "Where was this charming submission before?"

You shake your head wildly, laughing so hard your ribs hurt, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. Every time you think he’s about to let up, he switches tactics - light teasing along your stomach, a wicked squeeze at your hips, brutal tickling up your ribs again until you’re choking on helpless giggles.

He finds the hollow just above your hip bone and presses - firm and slow.

You squeal. Actually squeal.

He grins wider.

"Oh, you sweet thing," he purrs. "I could do this all night."

You swear at him in every language you know.

He just chuckles darkly, slow and satisfied, like he’s feasting on your misery.

"Say you’re sorry."

You growl through clenched teeth, body trembling from the effort to wrench free.

"Never."

He pauses. Cocks a brow.

Then he leans down. Slowly. Until his nose brushes yours.

You take a shuddering breath in, still panting, now caught in a frantic freeze state. Like your base animal instincts are twisted into some weird belief that if you don't move he won't see you.

"Never?"

Your heart flutters at his low, commanding voice. The pure heat in it, so obviously intentional.

The pads of his fingertips and the faint graze of his blunt nails tease along the bare skin where your tank has ridden up. Your fingers tighten around the pillow case.

"Then I suppose..." he starts, sliding his hands higher. Palms smoothing against your sides, fingers trailing, taunting.

"You and I..." You feel the curve of his grin in his voice. "...will be here a very… very long time.”

You gasp when you feel his fingers press against the bare skin of your lowest ribs. "N-n-no-nnn-!"

But your protests are swallowed in laughter. Drowned in gasps and cackles. You're out of breath, out of threats, out of any form of resistance.

Loki's dark chuckle sings against your ear. Sends tiny sparks of pleasure down the skin of your neck.

And he keeps going - meticulous and devastating - drawing it out until you’re breathless, boneless, wrists still trapped high above your head, body burning with exertion and heat and something darker, something hotter, curling low in your belly and spreading like wildfire.

"Okay- okay okay!" You squeak, some high and helpless whine in the back of your throat. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry- please stop it!"

Loki finally slows, dragging one last, maddening trail up your side that makes you jerk involuntarily.

He sits back, straddling your hips lazily, surveying you. Admiring his work. His hair is wild around his face, his eyes bright with wicked satisfaction, incandescent with smug delight. His gaze stays locked on you, drinking in every breathless tremor.

You glare up at him, chest heaving, cheeks burning, completely at his mercy - and the way he looks at you, the way you feel under his hands... you can't show it.

"That..." you pant, "was an egregious HR violation."

"Oh dear," Loki rolls his eyes. "The paperwork."

"Oh, I'll show you fuckin' paperwork-"

"What shall it say, darling? How will you explain this? I'm so terribly fascinated by the prospect of our little tryst becoming immortalised in public record."

"That was not a tryst that was an attack and - hey, fuck you, untie me - it was uncalled for."

Perfectly in time with the raising of his brow, the pillowcase around your wrists loosen. But Loki makes no effort to get off you.

And you make no effort to push him off, even as you prop yourself up by the elbows, chin tilted back to look him in the eye.

"Poor thing," he soothes. And with that teasing edge, there's a softness. A devastatingly gentle thread of temptation laced through his voice. His smirk. His sheer fucking audacity.

He cocks his head to one side, pushing the damp curls back from his face, regarding you with a lazy challenge. "Was the big bad God of Mischief too hard on you?"

You lower your brow and pout, "Yes."

His head turns the other way. His smirk is devastating. "Do you need me to kiss it better?"

Every bit of heat in your over-exerted body goes to one of two places, and your lips part with a puff of air, almost like you'd been winded.

That small, insecure part of you whispers that this is a cruel trick. That he's having you on. He doesn't mean it, he-

Fuck.

Your breath hitches when the back of his hand finds your lower stomach. Your fists tighten as he trails his knuckles along the soft, exposed skin, his eyes not leaving yours. You swallow. He lifts a brow. A quiet question.

Your tongue slips out to wet your drying lips. "Maybe."

It's pitiful, but it's the only word you think you can say without it wobbling and-

Loki's shaking his head, shifting backward, lower. "I need a yes."

"Yes, then."

"And a please."

"Go fuck yourself."

He chuckles. "So sulky. What am I going to do with you?"

But before you can answer, his lips meet bare skin. Your back arches when his mouth brushes low across your stomach, just above the waistband of your shorts. He’s barely kissing - it's more breath than lips - but every exhale is warm and deliberate, as if he's savouring the feel of your skin against his mouth.

"You’re far too brazen for someone so soft," he murmurs. His fingers press just beside your hipbone, not quite pinching, not quite tickling, just enough to make your thighs twitch and your breath catch. "So easily undone, and still mouthing off."

His lips trail a slow line across your abdomen, kissing deliberately, as if each inch deserves reverence. Then- a single puff of air against your navel, followed by a nip of his teeth that makes your hips jerk.

You yelp. "Hey!"

He grins against your skin. "Thought you'd lost your voice for a moment."

The muscles of his shoulders dance under his shirt as he slowly pulls himself higher, chest brushing yours, hands planted by your head as he mouths a trail down your neck, grazing his teeth along the slope of your collar. Just enough to make your skin sing.

He lowers himself onto you carefully, hands dragging down your sides again, this time with full intention. His palms cup your waist, pulling you up into him.

The friction is electric.

Your chest heaves, thighs trembling under the weight of him - and he takes his sweet, unhurried time, moving over you like a storm in slow motion. He kisses the erratic pulse beneath your ear, nips, soothes, nudges his nose against your neck as your fists curl in his hair.

Your breath stutters when he finally pulls back enough to look at you.

Hair wild, breath shallow, eyes locked on yours like he wants to memorise every flicker of thought passing behind them.

He dips lower.

This time, his lips ghost over yours.

Once.

Twice.

Not kissing you. Not yet. Just tasting the shape of your mouth with his breath, taunting the final inches that separate you.

"Ask me," he murmurs, so soft you almost miss it.

Your jaw flexes.

"No."

He gives a dark chuckle. The sound brushes your lips. "Still so proud. Even now."

You glare, but the heat in your cheeks betrays you.

He leans in again, mouth brushing yours. "You want me."

Your breath catches.

"You want me," you retort.

He smirks. Hums. Kisses the corner of your mouth.

Just once.

Then the other.

Teasing. Gentle. Laying claim with infuriating grace.

You feel your eyes flutter.

He lingers. Breath to breath. Lips agonising close to yours.

"Say it," he breathes.

And you can’t anymore.

You’re done pretending.

"Just-... kiss me," you rasp.

And Loki does.

Not rough. Not possessive.

Deep. Measured. Devastatingly thorough.

His mouth moves over yours with patience, with precision, like he wants to map every gasp you give him and drag them out for his own pleasure.

You groan into it before you even know it’s happening.

Your hands twist in his hair as he deepens the kiss, tongue teasing your bottom lip before claiming more, drawing it out, savouring the moment like a rare vintage.

You kiss him back harder.

Because gods help you, you’ve wanted this. For too long. Through too many missions and almost-maybes and can’t-haves and don’t-even-think-about-its.

And now he’s everywhere.

His hands are under your tank top, resting against your waist as he keeps you under him. His body presses down, moulding into yours, every inch of him demanding and anchoring and terrifying in the way it feels so right.

You gasp into his mouth when his hand skims higher, palm dragging heat up your side, sliding beneath the edge of your top without hurry. Not groping. Just... feeling. Claiming space.

Your hips lift without your permission, chasing friction, chasing him.

He groans softly into your mouth. You swallow it greedily.

Loki pulls back just slightly, breathing hard. His forehead rests against yours, both of you straining against the gravity of the moment.

Still not enough.

His hands tense with the last dregs of his self-control, his body pressing down as if to imprint the shape of you onto his bones.

"You want this?" He pants. “You want me?”

"Yes," you gutter out. "Gods, yes."

He smirks against your lips. "Swearing to gods now, are we?" One hand slides back down your waist, hooking under your thigh, hitching it up over his hip. "How flattering."

When the radio on your tac vest wakes you with an alert of incoming comms, the first thing you register is the cold.

Then the ache - deep, lazy, sated - a bruised exhaustion thrumming through every muscle. Your brain struggles up from a black ocean of sleep just as the radio, somewhere across the room, starts crackling to life.

Loki groans low beside you. You feel the movement - sheets slipping off marble skin, the faint stretch of long limbs - and you grunt, rolling onto your stomach, grinding your forehead into the pillow. Everything hurts in a way that makes your mouth curl into a smug little smile against the linen.

The night comes back in flashes. Sharp. Shattering.

Claws-in, teeth-bared, breathless destruction of all the tension that had simmered between you for months. You hadn't so much fallen into bed with him as wrecked each other - over and over again - until your bodies finally gave out, tangled in the wreckage.

Maybe an hour of sleep. Maybe two. Not enough to be functional.

You groan as you push yourself upright, the blanket sliding off your bare back.

Loki sits at the other edge of the bed, dragging a hand through his wild, tangled black hair. The dim morning light coming through the frosted windows slices across his bare shoulders, illuminating the faint, red half-moon marks you left raked into his skin.

You'd be smug about it if your legs would fucking work.

The radio then crackles with the pilot's message:

"Seven minutes out. Chopper can't land. Buckle in for hover extraction."

You swear under your breath, shivering as the cold air hits you. You stagger toward the pile of tactical gear you’d dumped near the fireplace, yanking on your thermals, combat pants, boots, shirt, jacket, ignoring the way Loki watches you, one arm braced casually on his knee, the other draped over his thigh.

Comfortable. Loose. Dangerous.

You grab your tactical vest and the climbing harness slung over it, trying to move quickly, but your hands are clumsy, your joints stiff and sleep-starved. The straps tangle. You hiss in frustration, tugging at them.

Then, you hear the bed creak.

You feel him stand.

You don't turn.

Loki approaches with slow, measured, deliberate steps across the wooden floor. Each one a promise.

The air crackles between you, sharp and bright.

By the time he stops behind you, you’re holding the harness out in front of you like an fool, still wrestling it into some recognisable shape. You can practically hear the smirk in his silence.

He reaches out and, without a word, takes the harness from your fingers.

You lift your chin, refusing to look at him.

His knuckles brush yours. Not an accident.

You glare at the wall in front of you as he circles, slow and lazy.

Then he kneels. Right in front of you.

Looking up, lazy and wicked, his hair falling forward like a curtain of night sky. His body is bruised, unbothered, utterly relaxed. It should be illegal for anyone to look that composed after what the two of you did.

His hands move to your thigh, looping the first strap around it with maddening care. He doesn't rush. Just smooths it in place and gives it a slow, tightening pull. You feel it bite into your skin, feel his fingers curl with precision.

"You seem... compromised," Loki says lightly, his fingers brushing against your bare skin where your pants gap slightly at the hip.

You narrow your eyes.

Another strap glides between your thighs. His hands are firm, his thumbs brushing near places he has no business touching right now, not unless he wants round two on the cold floor. Maybe he does.

"Compromised?" you repeat, voice scratchy with lack of sleep and and too many hours of sinning.

He flashes a slow grin, wicked and pleased with himself, fingers tightening the strap until it bites your hip.

"Fatigued. Shaky. Thoroughly plundered," he drawls. "Tell me, darling - whoever could be responsible for that?"

You snort, pressing your lips together hard to bite back the traitorous smile twitching there.

"Self-satisfied bastard."

He smirks. "I do take pride in my work."

He pulls another strap between your legs, adjusting the belt with slow, taunting movements that are absolutely unnecessary and make you grind your teeth.

You narrow your eyes. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

"Doing what?" His voice is all innocence, but his hands are anything but. "Making sure you don’t fall out of your harness mid-air? You're welcome."

His fingers ghost under the hem of your top, smoothing the waistband flat against your belly. Every touch is too much. Too slow. You hold perfectly still, trying not to tremble.

"You’re not subtle," you mutter, raising a brow as you feel your lips flush.

"Ironic," he muses in satisfied purr, "coming from someone who, not four hours ago, was screaming herself hoarse begging for-"

You kick him lightly in the shin. He catches your ankle with lightning speed, holding it aloft for a second, grinning up at you like the absolute bastard he is.

"Temper," he tuts, releasing you.

He finishes the rest methodically, hands sliding around you with the same precision he uses when breaking into a vault - like he already knows where you’re most vulnerable.

"You know," he says lightly, eyes fixed on the buckles, "I should do this more often. Watching you squirm while I dress you. It’s…" He clicks the buckle shut with a soft snap. "Endearing."

You refuse to shiver. Refuse to give him the satisfaction. But you're admittedly speechless.

When he finally sits back on his heels, looking up at you, his eyes are molten as he whispers:

“Perfect.”

You roll your eyes and lean down to grab the carabiner clips, but Loki beats you to it.

He stands.

One slow movement - shoulders rising, body unfolding to full height - and you suddenly feel too small in his shadow, the air sucked clean from your lungs.

He steps in close, smooths a hand over the centre strap down your chest, fingers dragging slowly. Then he reaches for the buckle at your waist and snaps it into place with a decisive click.

You feel the strength of it reverberate through you, far more intimate than it has any right to be.

And he doesn’t let go.

Instead, he curls his fingers around the central loop, just above your navel, and lifts.

Effortlessly.

You don’t even have time to react before your boots leave the floor. Your breath hitches. Your hands scramble for balance, but he just stands there - arm slightly bent, muscles slack, holding you aloft with casual strength, like you weigh nothing at all.

Your eyes snap to his.

He doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t leer.

He just watches you - dark and still, like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do. His grip is unbreakable, his expression unreadable.

The air between you goes molten.

He holds you there for a full, punishing heartbeat. Then another. And another.

Then, finally - finally - he lowers you, so slow you swear he’s savouring every inch of contact as your body slides back into place.

Your boots touch the floor. Barely.

"Perfect," he murmurs again. "Safe and sound."

Your breath stutters. You feel warm all over. Unmoored.

"You done?" you rasp, not trusting your voice.

He chuckles, quiet and pleased. "Oh, not even close."

You exhale through your nose, clenching your fists at your sides to keep from grabbing him.

The radio crackles again: "On approach. Be ready. Thirty seconds."

You tighten your shoulder straps brutally, trying to focus. Trying not to think about how he still smells like smoke and sweat and you.

Loki finally magics on his gear, lazy and unconcerned, buckling himself in with casual grace. You want to slap him. Or straddle him again. It's really fucking hard to tell.

The storm had eased a little - less hectic wind but still smatterings of icy rain. The helicopter blades whir louder, slicing the air like a knife through satin, as you reluctantly leave the cabin behind and run, side-by-side with Loki, the short distance to the pickup point.

You clip yourself and him to the main retrieval cable, double-checking the lines with stiff, professional efficiency.

Your hands brush at the connection point. He catches your fingers in his and holds them just long enough to make your pulse stutter.

"You're trembling," he says barely over the wind, eyes glinting.

"Shut up," you mutter, clicking the radio twice to signal all is good. Pushing his hands away from the line so his skin doesn’t catch.

He chuckles, deep and low.

Above you, the cable jerks taut, the winch starting to pull.

You and Loki are yanked upward together, slammed chest-to-chest, bodies colliding with force as you're hauled into the storm-torn sky.

Your breath catches. Loki grins down at you, devilish.

"Another round when we get back?" he calls into your ear over the wind.

You narrow your eyes, baring your teeth in a wicked smile.

"Only if you leave your harness on."

He throws his head back and laughs - a wild, delighted sound ripped away by the screaming wind - as the two of you disappear into the storm.

#loki x reader #no y/n #loki x you #marvel fanfiction #marvel reader insert #marvel one shot #mcu reader insert #mcu x reader #loki laufesyon x reader #loki tickle #ticklish!loki

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mandoalorian · 2 months ago

Text

taste of you [vampire!bucky barnes x f!reader]

Synopsis: You’ve always dreamed of him—ice blue eyes, a dangerous smile, and a hunger that feels too real to forget. But when dreams slip into reality, you find yourself caught between desire and damnation. He’s waited a century for you… and he won’t wait another night.

Rating/Warnings: 18+ explicit content, smut, unprotected p in v, fingering, public sex, dub-con (?), biting, horror elements, vampires obvs— mentions of blood, dream walking, allusions to stalking, allusions to murder, Possessive!Bucky, you are desperate, dark romance, alternate universe

Word count: 3600>

Author’s Note: My first ever supernatural themed fic? I don’t think I’ve ever wrote anything like this before so, I’m feeling super nervous to share. Vampire!Bucky was something @ava-starrs-girlfriend put into my head, and gave me the green light to share my idea on it!

── .✦ Bucky Barnes Masterlist

The first time you dreamed of him, it felt like drowning.

Not in water — in silk, in smoke, in heat. In him.

You were in a room that wasn’t yours. High ceilings, windows that bled moonlight, a bed draped in red velvet. Somewhere far off, a record hissed low, a mournful jazz tune threading through the air like incense. The kind of place that clung to you. The kind of place you'd never been, but somehow knew.

You stood barefoot on cold stone, your breath misting like winter. The air tasted of copper and something sweet — like wine on someone else's lips. Every hair on your body stood on end.

And then he stepped out of the shadows.

Tall. Broad. Dressed in black like the night belonged to him.

You couldn’t see his face — not really — just a glint of silver at his hand, and the glimmer of eyes too blue to be real. They raked over you with heat, dragging up from your ankles, your hips, your chest. Not leering. Claiming.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.

You should have run. Instead, you stood there, heart galloping, blood roaring in your ears — because something inside you whispered you know him. Your soul reacted before your brain could. The fear melted beneath the heat curling low in your stomach.

His footsteps echoed softly as he crossed the room.

You didn’t breathe until he was right in front of you — close enough to smell. Spice and ash. Rain and old paper. Something ancient. Something wrong. Something perfect.

He raised a hand and ghosted his knuckles down your cheek. Cold skin that left a trail of fire. You shivered, and he smiled.

“Been a long time,” he murmured.

His voice was dark velvet — old-world charm stretched over something rougher, deeper, dangerous. Your lips parted, but no words came. His thumb traced your bottom lip, slow and reverent.

“Do you know why you dream of me?” he asked.

You swallowed. Shook your head.

He stepped closer, chest brushing yours. “Because I’ve been dreaming of you, too.”

Then his hand slid to your neck — not choking, just resting, his thumb pressed to your fluttering pulse. You tilted your chin without meaning to. His mouth hovered over yours, and the moment stretched — hot and thick and unbearable.

You whispered, “Who are you?”

His lips brushed your jaw. His breath stirred your hair. And he said, low and dangerous:

“Yours.”

You woke with a gasp, tangled in sweat-damp sheets, thighs clenched, heart pounding.

And still — still — you swore you could feel his hand on your throat.

It had been weeks since this man had started visiting you in your dreams, and now it was a nightly thing. Routine. Too much to be a coincidence. Hell, you’d hate to admit it, but part of you looked forward to it. His lingering touch and his words laced with honey. Your therapist could not find out about this.

But your hand had drifted to your neck sometime after midnight — to that same spot where he’d touched you in the very first dream. You didn’t remember closing your eyes.

You didn’t remember slipping under.

But you remembered him.

The room was the same as always. Cold stone, velvet sheets, soft shadows stretching like fingers across the floor. But this time, there was no distance between you.

He was already there.

Behind you.

You felt him before you saw him — a presence at your back, heat pouring off him in waves. His breath ghosted over your bare shoulder, and you shuddered.

“You came back,” he murmured.

“I didn’t mean to.”

His chuckle was soft. Amused. “No one ever does.”

He didn’t touch you — not yet — but you felt the space between you shrink. Your body lit up like it was wired to his, like his nearness alone could bend your spine, tilt your head, open your mouth.

“I still don’t know your name,” you whispered.

“You will.”

You closed your eyes. “Are you real?”

That question hung between you, thick as smoke. He didn’t answer. Instead, you felt the press of his hand — low on your abdomen, fingers splayed just beneath your navel, grounding you, possessive without being forceful.

“I shouldn’t let you come back,” he said softly, lips at your ear now. “It gets harder to stay away.”

He dragged his hand upward, slow, slow, until your breath caught in your throat. When it reached your sternum, he splayed it flat, just over your heart. His touch was cold, but it burned. Everything in you turned molten.

Your body was betraying you.

“I wake up aching,” you breathed. “Why do I feel you after I wake?”

“Because I leave pieces of myself behind,” he said.

He turned you slowly to face him.

This time, you saw him.

Blue eyes, impossibly blue. Long lashes, dark brows pulled into a faint furrow — like he was constantly torn between tenderness and hunger. His mouth was plush and unsmiling. A scar split his eyebrow. Another carved through the side of his throat.

“Who are you?” you asked again.

He cupped your face with both hands, and this time his voice was hoarse, almost reverent.

“I’ve had many names,” he said. “But yours is the only one I crave on my tongue.”

Then he kissed you.

And it was nothing like you’d imagined. It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t sweet.

It was starving.

He kissed you like he needed it to live. Like you were something vital, something he’d been denied for too long. His lips claimed yours, his tongue slid deep, his hand twisted into your hair. You clung to him like gravity had failed, and only he could anchor you.

When he broke away, your lips were swollen, your chest heaving, and his fangs were showing.

Not fully.

Just enough.

“I shouldn’t touch you yet,” he whispered. “You’re not ready.”

Your voice was hoarse when you said, “For what?”

His eyes darkened. He leaned down, kissed the side of your neck — just a brush — and your knees almost buckled.

“To be mine.”

You woke with a moan caught in your throat, blankets kicked to the floor, skin flushed and slick with sweat.

And your neck?

Still tingled.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

You weren’t planning on going out.

You hadn’t slept properly in days. The dreams were getting worse — or better, depending on how you looked at them. Last night, you woke up gasping his name. You didn’t even know his name. And yet it was on your lips like a prayer, or a curse.

So when your friend dragged you out to a downtown club, you figured a little noise, a little vodka, and a lot of distraction might snap you out of it.

But the second you walked through the doors, your skin prickled.

Something was off.

It wasn’t the music — a throbbing bass-heavy track that vibrated in your chest — or the lights, which flickered in pulsing shades of red. It wasn’t the crowd either, though they pressed in tight, loud and laughing and drunk on Saturday-night sin.

It was the feeling.

Like you were being watched.

No — hunted.

You brushed it off. Dismissed the chill. Ordered a drink. Laughed when your friend pulled you toward the dance floor.

But that feeling stayed — low in your spine, coiled around your ribs. Like a string was tied to your chest, tugging you toward something you couldn’t see.

And then you did see him.

At first, he blended into the shadows above the main floor, just another dark figure in the mezzanine. But the moment your eyes locked, the rest of the world fell away.

Time stopped.

He wasn’t dancing.

He wasn’t drinking.

He just stood there — still as stone — with one hand resting on the brass railing, the other tucked into the pocket of a long black coat. His face was half-cast in shadow, but his eyes… those eyes.

They glowed faintly in the red strobe light. Icy blue. Familiar.

Dream-blue.

Your stomach dropped. You blinked hard.

No. No way.

He wasn’t real. He couldn’t be. He was just a figment — a fever dream stitched together by sleepless nights and too much alcohol and your traitorous imagination.

And yet…

He didn’t look away.

You did. You had to.

Your breath came shallow as you turned back to the bar, heart racing. You tossed back your drink like it could burn him out of your system. When your friend leaned in to say something, you barely heard her.

Because you could feel him still.

Watching.

Claiming.

Like you’d walked into his territory, not the other way around.

You turned back to the mezzanine.

He was gone.

A soft thud startled you — the bartender setting another glass in front of you. You shook your head. “I didn’t order—”

“It’s already paid for,” he said. “Guy said to give you this, too.”

A folded scrap of thick black paper.

You unfolded it slowly. Your hands trembled.

I’ve been waiting for you. — James Buchanan Barnes.

Your pulse stuttered.

And somewhere deep inside you, something clicked into place. The name. You knew it.

Not from this world.

But from your dreams.

You pushed the note into your bra and with shaky hands, whipped out your phone, the bright white light illuminating your face in the dark club. Sipping on your drink that the ghost had bought for you, you narrowed your eyes, focusing on the Google search.

James Buchanan Barnes. Brooklyn, NY.

No relevant searches. Just the obituaries for a man who died in 1945. Disappeared before the war could end. Left a surviving sister. Never seen again. That would make him at least 100 years old now. It couldn’t be…

That would be impossible.

You left the club before midnight.

Told your friend you had a headache. Lied through your teeth. You couldn’t tell her the truth — that the air in there felt too heavy, too thick with him. That you kept seeing those blue eyes everywhere. That you could still feel his gaze, sliding over your skin like a velvet rope.

You just needed air.

Needed to forget.

But the moment you stepped into the alley behind the club, the night folded in around you like a trap.

The city was loud on the other side of the brick wall — traffic, shouting, laughter — but here, in the narrow space between the buildings, everything went still.

You turned right.

And there he was.

Leaning against the wall beneath a broken red light, half-shadowed. Waiting.

Just waiting.

Your breath caught. You didn’t move. Neither did he.

His coat was open now, revealing a black button-down shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms. His hands were in his pockets. His head tilted slightly to one side, like he was studying you.

“Don’t scream,” he said softly.

You didn’t plan to.

Your body betrayed you instantly — pulse fluttering, mouth parting, that now-familiar ache building low and hot. Even your dreams hadn’t prepared you for how devastating he was in the flesh. Older than he looked. Timeless. Unnerving. Beautiful in a way that felt unnatural.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said.

You took a step back anyway. “Who are you?”

He didn’t move from the wall. Didn’t smile.

“You already know.”

You shook your head. “No, I don’t. You’re—this isn’t real.”

“I’ve been in your dreams for weeks.”

His voice was calm. Deep. That dark velvet again. “You’ve felt me watching you. Craving you.”

Your back hit the opposite wall. The cold brick grounded you.

“What do you want from me?” you whispered.

His gaze dropped — slowly — from your eyes to your lips, then lower. Taking you in, like he’d done from the shadows. Like he’d done every night.

“I want you to stop pretending you don’t want this too.”

You swallowed hard. Heat coiled in your gut. “You’re not—human.”

He stepped closer now, finally pushing off the wall. His boots were silent on the pavement.

“No,” he said. “I’m not.”

He moved like liquid shadow, fluid and controlled. When he reached you, he didn’t touch you. He just stood there, close enough to taste. The scent of him hit you — leather, smoke, something cold and earthy like a forest at night.

You tilted your chin defiantly. “You’ve been haunting me.”

His eyes darkened. “You called me.”

A beat of silence. Then:

“Every time you dreamed of me. Every time you whispered my name. Every time your hand slipped beneath your sheets with me in your head—you called me.”

Your cheeks burned.

His voice dropped to a whisper. “And now I’m here.”

Still, he didn’t touch you.

He just watched as you trembled beneath his gaze. As your body betrayed your fear — and your hunger.

“I should let you go,” he said, almost to himself. “You don’t know what I am. What I’ve done. I kill men who look at you the wrong way.”

Your breath hitched. Your thighs pressed together. A horrible, horrible part of you liked the way he said it. Like he’d already done it.

You took a step back, your gut telling you to run.

“Going somewhere?” he asked, voice low, smooth as velvet and twice as dangerous.

Your back hit the brick wall. You weren’t sure if it was fear or desire — maybe both — but your breath stuttered.

“You—” you began.

“I know,” he said.

He was in front of you now. Cornering you. Close. So close. The scent of him hit you — woodsmoke, leather, the faintest copper note that made your stomach twist with something primal.

“You shouldn’t be real,” you whispered.

He smiled then. A slow, devastating curve of his lips. He pressed forward — one hand gripping your hip, the other braced against the wall beside your head. Your gasp escaped before you could catch it, heat flooding your body.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, mouth ghosting your jaw.

You didn’t.

His lips trailed lower, to your neck, and lingered. He didn’t bite. Not yet. But you felt his breath there, the drag of his nose along your pulse.

“I’ve waited long enough,” he rasped. “Watched you. Hungered for you.”

His hand slid down your side, slow, claiming. His fingers slipped beneath the hem of your dress, dragging up your thigh until you whimpered.

Your voice trembled. “You said you wouldn’t hurt me.”

“I won’t,” he said, eyes glowing. “But I’m not going to be gentle either.”

His mouth crashed into yours.

It wasn’t a kiss, not really — it was a claim. All teeth and tongue, rough and demanding, like he meant to consume you. You moaned into it, your hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt as your body arched into his.

He groaned, low in his throat. Like the taste of you had undone him.

“Fuck,” he growled against your mouth. “You taste— exactly like I knew you would.”

Then he dragged your leg up around his hip, pressing you harder into the wall, the sharp bite of brick against your back barely registering over the dizzying heat flooding your core. His hand found its way to your thighs, his touch teasing, skilled, possessive.

You gasped at the sound: a faint, mechanical whir, like gears shifting. Metal. You blinked. The arm holding you up wasn’t flesh—it’s blackened steel, marked with strange golden runes and claw-like scars etched deep into the plating.

He saw the question on your face. The way your eyes flicked down to where his hand gripped your thigh like it was made for nothing else.

“They didn’t just turn me,” he growls. “They rebuilt me.”

His voice is like gravel dragged through blood.

“Who?” you breathe.

His mouth brushes your jaw, your throat. Not biting—savoring. His voice is low, hateful.

“Hydra. They called it an enhancement. A fusion of sorcery and science. Said a soldier like me deserved to live forever.” His nose skims your skin. “Didn’t tell me I’d have to feed to stay sane.”

Your breath stutters. “And now?”

His lips hover over the pulse in your neck.

“Now I’ve gone longer than I should. And you—” his hand slides between your thighs, metal fingers dragging over your panties like he’s memorizing you— “you’ve been dreaming of this. Of me.”

You whimper, hips lifting into the pressure.

His flesh hand slid up under your dress like he had every right to be there, dragging hot fingers along your thigh until they met your underwear. He didn’t pause. Didn’t ask.

Just hooked a finger under the soaked fabric and tore it aside.

A sharp gasp escaped you. His gaze darkened.

“I’ve imagined you like this,” he whispered, lips brushing your cheek, your jaw. “Begging. Wet. Mine.”

He was everywhere — his mouth at your throat, his voice in your ear, his fingers pushing you toward the edge. Your body betrayed you with every sound, every roll of your hips into his palm.

And as the tension inside you snapped — as he held you through it, murmuring your name like a vow — you realized something terrifying.

This wasn’t the end of a dream.

It was the beginning of something you wouldn’t be able to walk away from.

He kissed like a man who was finally touching what he’d starved for, and you couldn’t keep up. Your body just responded, thighs trembling, hands in his hair, heart galloping like prey.

“So wet for me,” he muttered, voice guttural, feral. “And I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

Two fingers slid between your folds — slow, hot, claiming. He growled low at the way you clenched around him, like he felt how long you’d been dreaming of this. Of him.

“Is this what you needed?” he rasped, pumping them deeper. “When you touched yourself at night? You wanted this?”

You moaned — high and breathless — as his thumb found your clit and circled hard. He fingered you fast, rough, filthy, like he couldn’t get deep enough, fast enough. Like he needed to brand you from the inside out.

“Say it,” he demanded, his lips against your jaw. “Tell me you wanted me.”

“I wanted you,” you gasped, hips grinding into his palm. “I want you.”

He groaned — a broken, inhuman sound — and curled his fingers just right. You cried out, clinging to him as your orgasm built with terrifying speed.

“Come for me,” he hissed. “Let me feel it.”

You shattered in his hands — body jerking, thighs trembling, cries muffled by his mouth as he swallowed every sound, devoured your pleasure like it was blood on his tongue.

But he wasn’t done.

He pulled back — barely — just enough to undo his belt with shaking hands, shoving his pants low enough to free himself. You barely had time to register the size of him before he gripped your hips and slammed into you in one long, brutal thrust.

Your gasp turned into a cry.

“Fuck,” he snarled. “Fuck, yes. You were made for this.”

He fucked you hard, fast, grinding you into the brick with every thrust. One hand on your ass, the other in your hair, keeping you where he wanted you — pinned, shaking, his. You couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Could only feel him splitting you open and filling you, claiming every inch like it belonged to him.

“You’re mine,” he growled, forehead pressed to yours. “Say it.”

“Yours,” you whispered, dazed. “I’m yours.”

His rhythm faltered — something primal tearing through him. His face buried in your neck, lips brushing your pulse point.

“You don’t know what that means to me,” he breathed. “I’ve waited so long to find you. To touch you. To drink you.”

He hovered there, teeth scraping your throat — holding back with every ounce of strength he had.

“I want to bite you,” he confessed, voice trembling. “But not without you saying yes.”

You didn’t hesitate.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Do it.”

And that was all it took.

He drove into you one last time, groaning as he came — thick, hot, possessive. His hips stuttered, cock pulsing inside you — and then you felt the sharp sting of his fangs piercing your throat.

The pain was white-hot for a heartbeat.

Then it melted into pleasure.

Warmth, pressure, ecstasy. Your second orgasm tore through you as he drank — deep and reverent, like a man starved of salvation.

He held you through it, arms wrapped around you like he’d never let go, mouth sealed to your neck like you were his altar.

And when he finally pulled back, blood on his lips, eyes glowing with something ancient and broken — he kissed your mouth again, slow and deep.

You weren’t dreaming anymore.

You were his.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

Sebastian Stan taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira @monsteraddicts-world

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #sebastian stan #sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan x you #smut #thunderbolts #vampire bucky #marvel #james buchanan barnes #mcu #james bucky barnes #bucky barnes fic

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rosachae · 1 month ago

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she plays bass | megan skiendiel x reader

⁍ song: she plays bass - beabadoobee ⁍ requested: yes ⁍ genre: band AU. non!idol megan x musician!reader. a little bit of angst, a little bit of fluff ⁍ a/n: thank you again for the prompt, anon! i hope this is what you were looking for. ⁍ wc: 5.3k ⁍ warnings: none that i can think of. ⁍ synopsis:

y/n falls. hard. just, not for the right girl. megan had long gotten used to being on the sidelines while she watched y/n pine after her best friend. if she couldn't call y/n hers, then she supposed being her confidant was the next best thing.

hyunjin’s garage always smelled like the ghost of gasoline and febreze. sharp and synthetic, like something trying too hard to cover up something worse. the cement floor was stained with oil spills from years ago, smudged into abstract shapes no one had bothered to clean, and every surface had a fine layer of dust that clung to fingers and instrument cases alike. wires snaked across the ground like vines, half-taped down with mismatched duct tape that peeled at the corners. an old fan groaned in the corner, doing very little besides moving the heat around in slow, humid circles.

y/n wasn’t sure which scent she hated more, the fuel or the floral, but they both clung to her clothes by the time she left. it was loud, so loud her ears buzzed between songs. the garage was hotter than it had any right to be, the fan hopeless against the summer bleeding in through the open door. kai had just broken another one of the cheap sticks they bought in a plastic-wrapped bulk pack from the club, splintered wood rolling across the floor like tired confetti.

she sighed and leaned against a crooked amp, watching hyunjin fumble with the aux cable again like it was some ancient artifact.

“dude,” hyunjin groaned, sliding off his stool and letting the aux cord fall to the floor with a defeated clatter. he grabbed a bent sheet of chord progressions from the amp and started fanning himself dramatically, like a wilted victorian heiress. “quit breaking my sticks. that’s the third one this week.”

kai didn’t even blink. “i’ve got rhythm and rage. sue me.”

“you’ve got weak wrists and commitment issues,” yuqi muttered from behind her mic, barely looking up as she tuned her guitar with one hand and sipped from a sweating iced coffee with the other. “we have a gig on friday. i’m not dragging your pretty ass out of another mess with mr. choi. he already hates it when you break his equipment.”

“mr. choi loves me,” kai said, flashing a grin that had absolutely no basis in reality.

“mr. choi has a heart condition,” hyunjin deadpanned, blotting his forehead with a faded bandana. “every time you walk in, he clutches his chest like he’s halfway to the light.”

then hyunjin let out an exaggerated sigh, dramatic enough to ruffle the sheet music still clutched in his hand. “anyway, is anyone going to acknowledge that i’m dying? of heatstroke? of being underappreciated? of being too hot for this mortal realm?”

y/n didn’t bother looking up from her bass, fingers still working through a scale she barely needed to think about. “you’ve been saying that since junior year.”

“and i’ve been right since junior year,” hyunjin shot back, fanning himself harder. “consistency is a virtue, y/n.”

all y/n could do was roll her eyes. honestly, she wasn’t sure how she managed it—spending hours holed up in hyunjin’s sweltering garage, surrounded by a chaotic blend of egos and inside jokes that grated on her nerves more often than not. still, they were her people. loud, messy, ridiculous— hers.

maybe that’s why she put up with the heat, the noise, the endless bickering over broken drumsticks and who drank the last of the lukewarm soda.

she figured she could overlook it all. for now. a small, reluctant grin tugged at the corner of her mouth before she buried it behind the low thrum of her bass.

especially hyunjin. for all his self-proclaimed glamour and melodrama, he was her best friend. they’d basically grown up side by side. sandboxes, scraped knees, and all. his mom still lit up like a marquee sign whenever y/n came over, insisting she stay for dinner, fussing over whether she’d eaten, if she was warm enough, if she needed anything at all. sometimes y/n swore hyunjin’s mom was secretly waiting for the day he’d turn around and admit they were dating. but that was never their dynamic. never had been.

they both liked girls. y/n, truthfully, wasn’t quite sure if that was a problem or perhaps the glue that held them together. it turned their friendship into a quiet battlefield of shared crushes and unspoken one-upmanship, always dancing on the edge of competition. they clicked a little too easily, probably because they were cut from the same cloth. same dry humor, same impulsive streak, same incurable weakness for a certain kind of girl.

it was a curse. or a cosmic joke. probably both.

y/n still got shivers thinking about chaewon, the girl from high school who had the misfortune of being exactly their type. soft-spoken, pretty, polite. practically a walking bullseye. they both zeroed in on her like moths to a chandelier, oblivious to the disaster unfolding in real time.

chaewon transferred schools halfway through senior year. honestly, it was probably the best thing that ever happened to her.

y/n still wasn’t sure how she lasted as long as she did, stuck between two emotionally chaotic teenagers who spent most of their free time either teasing each other or trying to one-up the other’s flirting. but through it all, nothing ever shifted between her and hyunjin. they were friends. chaotic, codependent, sometimes insufferable—but just friends. always had been. always would be.

this was i don’t care. the band that wasn’t supposed to be a band. born from a running joke they said out loud one too many times, sparked by a half-finished song y/n left in hyunjin’s car. something raw and messy that yuqi covered on a whim, recorded in one take, and posted to instagram with the caption: we’re sad and hot and broke. somehow, it took off.

now they had real gigs, a decent local following, and an accidental manager– yuqi’s cousin’s girlfriend’s sister, who claimed her marketing minor and “a vision” were all they needed to blow up.

it wasn’t that they weren’t good. they were. talent wasn’t the issue. but the soul of the thing had always been the chaos. the late nights in hyunjin’s garage, the impulse decisions, the fact that he once made a logo on canva at 3 a.m. and printed it on t-shirts without telling anyone. that was the band.

it was noise and laughter and friendship and half-eaten takeout on amps. it was making something that felt like them. unfiltered, unpolished, real. nothing had ever been that serious. and maybe that’s what made it work.

until, of course, the friday night show where everything changed.

megan skiendiel had a lot of opinions, most of them half-baked and delivered with the kind of timing that made people pause mid-sentence. earlier that day, she’d announced that 80s synth-pop deserved a cultural renaissance while buried elbow-deep in a crate of dusty vinyls at the record shop. a few hours later, she’d loudly speculated that their coworker jake was obviously into lara, citing the fact that he kept offering to cover her saturday night shifts like it meant something.

megan said things like they were gospel, as if the world would catch up eventually.

“it’s not because he’s nice,” megan said, tossing a cracked duran duran record back onto the shelf. she straightened up, brushing dust from her hands, her voice full of certainty. “he’s got crush energy. you can see it in the way he hovers. limp-wristed, overly eager, always offering to help with the trash like it’s some romantic gesture.”

lara didn’t even look up at first, just clicked her pen and made a note on her clipboard before glancing over, one brow raised. “so basically you, but with worse shoes.”

megan gasped like she’d just been shot. “excuse you. these are vintage.”

lara finally looked down at the scuffed platform boots on megan’s feet, the left one with a barely visible patch of duct tape near the sole. “those are a hate crime,” she said flatly.

megan clutched her chest like lara had just insulted her entire bloodline. “they’re from a thrift shop in sapporo,” she declared, eyes wide with the kind of faux betrayal she’d perfected over the years. “i had to elbow a grown man to get them. he had biker gloves on, lara. biker gloves. it was life or death.”

lara gave her a once-over, slow and unimpressed. “yeah, well, something tells me those boots were meant for that man. all gruff and dusty and slightly unhinged. they look like they’ve seen a bar fight.”

“they’re lived-in,” megan snapped, offended but not surprised.

“they’re tragic,” lara corrected, scribbling something on her clipboard before adding, “you look like you stole them off a trucker with emotional baggage and a fifth divorce.”

megan scoffed. “it’s called edge, lara. ever heard of it?”

“not when it’s flaking off the soles,” lara muttered, deadpan.

megan grumbled. “you’re lucky i believe in nonviolent communication.”

they were opposites in a way that just worked. where megan was all impulse and noise, lara had a sharp-edged charisma, the kind that made people pause and take a second look. they'd been inseparable since high school, partners in crime, co-conspirators in chaos. now, they ran the town's only indie record shop, a place that felt like a hipster’s fever dream, filled with dusty vinyl and the pervasive scent of incense and intellectual pretension. they’d already given up trying to convince yoonchae to join part time while she finished her senior year. the poor korean girl was too buried in coursework to even think about it.

with a sigh, megan pushed past the mess of records on the next rack. some kids had come in earlier, scattering vinyls like confetti, leaving chaos in their wake. but as she dug through the disarray, something caught her eye. something she’d never seen before. there, buried beneath a pile of mismatched album covers, was a record that felt out of place. the cover was stark white, almost blank, with an almost minimalist design. ‘i don’t care’ was printed in lowercase, as if the title itself couldn’t care less—simple, effortless, and unpretentious, like it wasn’t trying to make a statement.

“never heard of them,” she mumbled, turning it over. “should i?”

lara shrugged. “local maybe. looks cool.”

so they played it.

and god, the bassline. the low hum that thrummed right through her chest. a voice that sounded a little messy and a lot emotional. lyrics like inside jokes you weren’t quite in on but wanted to be. megan leaned against the counter, eyes wide.

“we’re going to their show.”

it was one of those club venues that tried too hard to be cozy but ended up just being loud and sticky. the floor clung to your shoes, the lights pulsed a relentless red for no real reason, and the bartender wore a look that suggested he hated everyone under thirty-five on principle. megan, though? she was right where she belonged. she couldn’t quite remember how she’d talked the whole group into coming out tonight, but low and behold, there they were.

"okay," megan practically shouted over the music, nursing her overpriced drink and scanning the stage like she was looking for hidden treasure. "which one do we think writes the lyrics?"

lara hummed. her eyes scanned the stage, no particular keen interest on her face. then she perked up as if the answer came to her in a dream. "oh, definitely him. he’s got it.”

megan followed her line of sight to the guy on drums. his dark brown hair bounced with sweat and clung to his forehead, pure concentration cemented across his face. she didn’t need to know what ‘it’ was. he was lost in the rhythm, eyes closed as his hands moved like they had a mind of their own. she couldn’t deny that there was something a little too intense about him.

before megan could reply, manon chimed in. the swiss girl leaned over, glass in hand and a fun loving grin painted across her lips. "it has to be the keyboard guy."

sophia and daniela had practically run to the dance floor the moment they’d entered the club, drawn in by the pulsing beat and the chaos of bodies moving to the music. sophia, already a few drinks in, was swaying slightly as she made her way back to the group, a wide grin plastered on her face. she wiped her hands on her jeans, clearly more tipsy than usual.

“what’s going on?" she asked, her voice laced with mischief, slurred. "are we picking which one of them cries in the shower?"

daniela, just behind her, looked like she was on her way to catching up to sophia’s buzz. she leaned against the bar, still catching her breath, eyes sparkling with curiosity. daniela squinted at the stage, then turned to look at keyboardist. "i’m voting for him too.”

megan grinned. "i think we’re all in agreement then. cheers to keyboard guy."

the set was already halfway through when megan saw her. she wasn’t sure how she didn’t notice sooner, but when she did, her heart thumped.

she wasn’t flashy, wasn’t trying to draw attention. she didn’t jump around or put on any kind of show for the crowd. but when megan’s eyes landed on her, everything else seemed to blur out. the girl was holding her bass like it belonged to her. like it was a part of her, like it meant something. her fingers moved with a calm precision, her face focused but distant, like she was lost in a world that was all her own. megan couldn’t help but watch, her heart suddenly a little too loud in her chest.

there was a look in her eyes, almost like she was listening to a secret only she could hear, and when she smiled, it wasn’t big, wasn’t one of those stage smiles people perfected. it was crooked, soft, like it happened by accident. it was the kind of smile that made megan forget to breathe.

“you’re staring,” lara said, leaning in slightly with a knowing grin.

megan blinked, realizing she hadn’t said anything for a few seconds. her hand was still clutching her drink, but it was starting to slip a little. "i’m admiring,” she corrected quickly, her voice coming out a little more flustered than she intended. “huge difference."

lara didn’t say anything at first. then, with the kind of dry humor megan knew too well, she added, “sure, romeo."

megan's cheeks flushed and she quickly looked away, trying to act like she hadn’t just made a fool of herself in front of the whole bar. but she couldn’t stop the way her eyes kept drifting back to the girl, as if there was something magnetic about her presence that megan just couldn’t look away from.

little did megan know, that would be the start of everything.

the crowd was still howling when y/n unplugged her bass, the last notes still humming in her fingertips. sweat clung to her collar, the adrenaline thrumming beneath her skin like a second heartbeat. hyunjin was already off his stool, dramatically twirling a drumstick and tossing it into the crowd like he was born to do it. the four of them slipped offstage, ducking into the narrow backstage corridor that smelled like beer and electrical wires.

someone’s drink had already spilled on the floor. the walls were lined with peeling posters, curling at the corners. the sound tech gave y/n a nod as she passed, and she returned it with a crooked grin, cheeks aching, the kind of post-show daze that made everything feel like it was moving half a second behind.

then came the chaos.

“oh my god, you—” a sharp voice broke through, right before a blur of limbs barreled past the security guard like a wrecking ball in lipstick.

y/n blinked.

a girl in a halter crop top and low-rise jeans launched herself forward– tall, pretty, absolutely hammered, her glossy lips moving faster than her brain. she headed straight for kai, arms outstretched like she’d just spotted a long-lost lover across a war zone.

kai, to his credit, looked horrified.

before security could step in, four other girls came flying in after her, looking every shade of mortified. manon and daniela managed to grab sophia by both arms, hauling her backward with a practiced desperation.

"we are so sorry—" manon started, breathless, still grappling with sophia like she was trying to wrangle a wild animal.

before she could finish, sophia whipped her head back in protest and caught manon square in the nose.

“ow! what the hell—”

“she has this thing for keyboardists,” daniela finished, like it was an explanation she’d given one too many times. she tightened her grip as sophia tried to lunge again.

“i swear to god, sophia, if you get us banned—”

“i just wanted to talk to him!” sophia whined, slurring a little as she dug her heels into the sticky floor.

kai blinked at them, shell-shocked, holding his keyboard like a shield. he only lowered it and shuffled away the moment he was sure manon and daniela successfully wrangled sophia out from backstage.

y/n stood frozen for a beat, trying to process what the hell she’d just witnessed. then she laughed. sharp and startled, the sound of someone caught between disbelief and secondhand embarrassment.

hyunjin leaned in. “that’s gonna be us one day,” he said, nodding sagely.

“stormed backstage by strangers?”

“groupies, y/n. we’re building a brand.”

“right,” y/n muttered, tugging her strap off her shoulder. “well, your brand just pissed off security.”

she raised a hand, waving security off when they moved to come over.

that’s when two other girls stepped forward. not charging like their friend, not slurring or flailing. megan looked like she’d sprinted halfway there and only just remembered to slow down. her hair was a little windblown, her expression wide-eyed and caught somewhere between panic and awe. lara, on the other hand, was all cool detachment, hands tucked into her jacket pockets, eyes scanning everything like she was cataloging it for later.

y/n straightened slightly, unsure whether to brace or laugh again.

“hi,” megan said, breathless. “um. sorry about our friend. she gets flirty when she’s drunk.”

“she almost ate kai,” hyunjin hummed, biting back another laugh.

“believe me, we know,” megan stammered, embarrassed, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet. “sophia once hit on a waiter mid-order. it’s a full-time job trying to keep her from getting banned from establishments.”

“well, thanks for wrangling her,” y/n said, her voice steadier than she expected. “and for coming. to the show, i mean.”

but then y/n’s eyes trailed over to the girl standing behind her. she was stunning. tall, dressed in tailored black, sleek hair and gold jewelry catching the low light. there was something about her that immediately made y/n want to straighten her back. magnetic. she looked confident, the kind of confident that made you feel like she knew exactly who she was, and didn’t care if you didn’t.

“you guys were great,” lara said, flashing a smile. “really. we just found your record at the store and figured why not come check it out.”

“music store?” hyunjin perked up. “which one?”

“garrison’s. we both work there,” the first girl said. “i’m megan, by the way. this is lara.”

y/n repeated both names in her head. megan. lara.

however hyunjin, naturally, latched onto the pretty one.

“lara,” he said, already dialing it up. “you have a beautiful name.”

y/n nearly snorted.

“how about we get you girls a drink?”

to megan’s bad luck, both y/n and hyunjin seemed taken with the very pretty, very social girl standing beside her. it was obvious. painfully so. and yet, she couldn’t help herself. she kept gravitating toward y/n anyway.

hyunjin was shameless about it. all charm and theatrics, practically ignoring megan in favor of lavishing attention on lara. but y/n… y/n smiled at her. offered to buy her a drink. asked for her name. it was friendly. casual. meaningless, probably.

but it meant something to megan.

in that moment, she decided that if both of them were going to fall for her best friend, she’d rather it be y/n. if it had to be someone, let it be the one who smiled gently. who asked questions. who noticed. besides, she always believed what people said—if your friends can’t stand the person you’re dating, maybe that’s a red flag worth listening to.

maybe that was the real problem. megan got along with y/n a little too well.

megan and y/n became good friends. it started simple. megan showed up to shows, bought the merch before it was cool, called y/n’s bass lines sick even when they both knew the sound system was trash that night. they hung out between sets, shared fries at late-night diners, argued about which the smiths album aged the worst. it was easy. it was enough.

then, the love came slow. like a sunrise. subtle, steady, then suddenly everywhere.

megan realized it a year in. their friendship already carved deep, unshakeable. they were mid-set, stage lights flaring red and gold. megan stood in the crowd, bass thudding through her chest.

and then y/n looked up. their eyes met, and something in her splintered. after that, it hurt. a little bit, every day. a slow undoing. a soft ache she learned to live with.

but she never left.

at some point, maybe five months after they met, hyunjin and lara started dating. five months of half-flirting and inside jokes that weren’t so inside anymore. five months of megan watching y/n pretend she didn’t care.

the band had gotten bigger by then. not international– god, not yet– but local enough that strangers started recognizing them in line for coffee. their sound was sharp around the edges now, tighter, cleaner. more people were paying attention.

but still, y/n was pissed. quiet about it, mostly. but it lived in her shoulders, the way they hunched a little tighter when lara laughed at hyunjin’s jokes. in the way she stopped volunteering stories about her day whenever lara was around.

“i was the one who listened,” she told megan once, voice low like it was a secret. “to all her dumb little tangents. about which incense gives her migraines, or how her dog only eats if the bowl’s rotated a certain way. he wasn’t there. he didn’t even know the dog’s name.”

megan nodded, said nothing, and let her vent.

“i gave her my coat that night,” y/n added, quieter now. “when she shivered. he didn’t even notice she was cold.”

it was just something she needed to let out. and megan… megan made space for things like that. a quiet pocket of the world where y/n could be soft, small, furious, grieving, without ever having to say sorry for it.

it was always megan who showed up. not just for the gigs or the late-night diner runs. but at 2am, when everything felt too loud, too much. megan, who picked up the phone without hesitation. who sent stupid memes until y/n laughed again. who knew when she needed silence and when she needed to scream. who carried gum and painkillers and the exact words y/n needed to hear tucked somewhere behind her tongue.

megan knew every version of her. the messy ones. the moody ones. the ones that cried at shampoo commercials and flinched at confrontation. and she loved them all. quietly. stubbornly. without asking for anything in return.

because they were friends. just friends.

so megan kept her mouth shut. swallowed her feelings like bad medicine. because y/n was already hurting, and megan knew– intimately– what it felt like to love someone who didn’t love you back. she’d never wish that kind of loneliness on anyone. least of all her.

still, it was megan who listened. who stood in the sticky venues with bad acoustics and worse lighting. who cheered the loudest, even when the set was off. it was her y/n called when the world tilted sideways. it was her y/n trusted with the fragile parts, the ugly truths, the things she couldn’t tell anyone else.

megan never missed the details. how y/n took her coffee, which hoodie she wore when she was spiraling, the playlist she avoided when she was heartbroken. megan paid attention like it was a religion. like y/n was a language she was learning by heart.

she loved y/n in silence because it was safer. because it was easier than risking everything. because some part of her still hoped that one day, maybe, y/n would choose her.

for now, she settled on simply being.

two years had passed. the band got louder. not just in sound, but in presence. local fame turned regional. “i don’t care” started slipping onto playlists they’d never heard of, getting tagged in stories by strangers from cities they hadn’t played yet. they still rehearsed in hyunjin’s garage, still argued about setlists, still tripped over the same tangled cords. but the rooms got bigger. the lights got brighter. the noise followed them home.

through it all, megan was constant.

y/n couldn’t pinpoint when it changed. maybe it was always there, just quiet. maybe it was the way megan always had gum when her throat went dry before a set. maybe it was the way she cheered—arms in the air, mouthing every lyric like it mattered. maybe it was the night y/n crashed on her couch and woke up to tea already steeping, a blanket tucked around her shoulders like it had always been there.

she remembered calling megan when she found out about hyunjin and lara. she hadn’t cried, not the way she expected. just sat on megan’s floor with a pint of mint chocolate chip between them, watching reruns until the theme song blurred into background noise. megan leaned her head on her shoulder. y/n didn’t flinch. didn’t pull away. she just leaned back.

it stayed with her. for days. for weeks.

then it started happening more.

megan, humming along to rough cuts that weren’t even mixed yet. megan, lip syncing the bassline with a wink, like it was just for her. megan, dancing in the front row like no one else in the world existed.

and something in y/n started to unravel.

she started noticing things. the curve of megan’s smile when she was teasing. the way she always smelled faintly like coconut shampoo and old records. the way she made everything—music, heartbreak, life—feel easier just by being around. and then one day, in the middle of a show, y/n looked out into the crowd and found her.

megan. grinning like she had a secret. eyes bright. mouthing along to every word.

y/n forgot her next chord for half a second.

that’s when she knew. not all at once. not in some dramatic epiphany. but in a quiet, steady way.

then came the jealousy. sudden, sharp. it happened that night at manon’s rooftop party. it wasn’t like y/n to care who megan flirted with. she always chalked it up to megan being magnetic. of course people wanted her. megan was loud, energetic, silly and charismatic in her own socially awkward way. but it was charming. it was a sort of way that made her feel real. a type of authenticity that she found herself craving.

the energy was charged, an intimate gathering between friends. the whole time, she found herself watching her. when megan laughed at something a girl in a yellow dress— sophia— whispered in her ear, she felt herself stiffen. she recognized her briefly from the time she barreled backstage at their first big gig and the time she awkwardly apologised to kai a few months later. sophia was pretty. painstakingly so. watching it happen before her felt like a punch to the ribs.

“you good?” hyunjin had asked, nursing a warm beer beside her.

y/n didn’t answer straight away. just stared across the rooftop, jaw tight.

“is that megan jealousy?” he asked, tilting his head.

she still didn’t say anything.

“oh my god,” hyunjin whispered, turning to her in slow motion. “it is.”

y/n sighed, leaning back against the railing. “shut up.”

“i won’t. you’re pining. this is pining. this is textbook.”

“i’m not pining.”

“you’re glaring at a girl for speaking to your best friend. that’s at least two stages past pining.”

y/n groaned.

hyunjin leaned closer, voice soft. “why haven’t you said anything?”

she stared down at the street, lights blurring in her vision. still, she masked her internal worry with a quick joke and a teasing grin.

“why’re you interested so suddenly, hwang? gonna fight me for this one too?”

hyunjin chuckled good-naturedly. his eyes briefly glanced over to lara, the desi girl dancing with a younger korean in the middle of the dance floor. then he turned back to his friend with a shrug.

“you’ll get no push from me. you should go for it, y/n. what’s the worst that could happen?”

and she thought about it. about all that could go wrong.

they were friends. megan was phenomenal. what if she ruined it? for now, she’d wait. she’d bite back her jealousy.

though sometimes, the heart simply wants what it wants.

the confession came later. sooner than she expected. it wasn’t planned—just spilled out, raw and real, like most things y/n did when she finally let her heart speak louder than her head.

it was after a show. one of their best. the kind that left your lungs burning and your skin buzzing. the energy clung to them like static.

megan found her side stage, eyes bright, hair a mess, smile even messier.

“you guys killed it—”

“i love you,” y/n said. blurted, actually. no warning. no buildup.

megan blinked. “wait—what?”

“i love you,” she said again, steadier this time. her voice still shook, but there was no taking it back. “i know you’re with sophia, and i know this might screw everything up, and i’m sorry if it does. but i’m in love with you. i couldn’t keep pretending i wasn’t.”

megan didn’t move. didn’t speak. just stared, eyes wide and unreadable.

“it’s okay if you don’t feel the same,” y/n rushed on, heart racing. “i just… i needed you to know. because you’ve always been there. you’ve seen the worst parts of me and never walked away. and somewhere in all of that, i fell for you. hard.”

silence.

then megan stepped forward, slow but certain, and cradled y/n’s face in both hands.

“i’m not dating sophia,” she said softly, almost like a secret. “you could’ve just asked.”

she laughed then—a quiet, breathless sound—and shook her head. “idiot.”

and then she kissed her. not just a kiss. the kiss. the kind that unraveled something deep in her chest, slow and aching and warm. the kind that made the noise of the world drop away, like a stage going dark after the final chord.

it was everything megan had imagined. every half-dreamed moment, every day she spent loving y/n in silence. for as long as she could remember, it had been her. from the first late-night walk, the first shared laugh, the first time y/n looked at her like she saw her. megan had loved her then, quietly and completely, like it was stitched into her bones.

and now, y/n had chosen her. out of everyone. not lara. not anyone else in the crowd. her.

the kiss tasted like every unsent text, every time megan had almost said something and swallowed it down instead. it tasted like hope. like relief. like a door finally opening after years of standing in the hallway.

all the waiting had led to this. all the almosts, all the quiet pining, all the nights she convinced herself to be content with friendship. it washed away in a single, breathless moment.

because y/n was kissing her like she meant it. like megan had been the one all along. and god, she had.

outside, the crowd screamed for an encore. but y/n?

she already had everything she needed.

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idkyetxoxo · 1 month ago

Text

Six | A Light to Follow Home | Little Star

Pairing - Azriel x reader

Word count - 2.5k

Warnings - Slight angst (if you squint basc)

<- prev || series masterlist || next ->

Being woken up by shouting and off-key singing was the last thing I expected.

The warmth of my cocooned blankets vanished as the silky sheets were ripped away, cold air rushing in to replace them.

I groaned barely conscious, instinctively flinging an arm over my eyes just as the curtains were drawn open, sunlight piercing the dimness of my room.

"Happy birthday!" a voice screeched far too close to my ear than I would have liked.

Even with my eyes shut, I knew it was Mor. The scent of jasmine and joy clung to her like a second skin.

"It's not my birthday," I mumbled voice hoarse, still half-asleep. I cracked an eye open and immediately regretted it.

Far too many people stood in my room.

"You're four hundred and fifty today. You're ancient," Rhys drawled from near the foot of my bed, his violet eyes shimmering with amusement.

"Rhys," Feyre hissed, elbowing him in the ribs. He winced dramatically, rubbing the spot like he'd been grievously wounded.

Mor grinned and tugged me upright by the shoulders, fluffing the pillows behind me as I blinked away the sleep.

"What if I was naked under those sheets?" I muttered, squinting at her through a curtain of hair.

"Then we'd all witness far more than we had hoped for," Amren said flatly from a chair in the corner, a glass of something red already in her hand despite the early hour.

Her tone was clipped, dry as always like she had far bette things to do but the fact that she was here at all drew the faintest curve to my lips.

"I, for one, would've been delighted," Cassian chimed in as he shouldered his way to the front of the chaos.

He immediately thrust a plate into my lap, something suspicious and oddly shaped wobbling slightly on top of it.

I stared at it inconspicuously. "What... is this?"

"A cake," he announced proudly. "Mor and I baked it. It's in the shape of a star."

"I only made it if you like it," Mor interjected with a smirk. "If you don't, it was all Cassian."

Cassian scowled at her betrayal.

It looked atrocious. Lopsided. Slightly burnt on one side. A few sad dollops of icing slid down the surface like they were trying to escape. But it was perfect.

"We couldn't fit 450 candles on it," Cassian added, "so you get three. It's symbolic."

With a small flick of her wrist, Feyre lit the candles. Autumn flame danced atop the crooked little wax stubs.

"Thank you for not singeing off her eyebrows," Rhys said solemnly, deadpan. "She would've pummeled me."

I arched a brow at him but didn't get the chance to respond before Cassian launched into a booming rendition of "Happy Birthday," dragging the rest of them along with him in a cacophony of sound.

As I leaned forward to blow out the candles, I caught a pair of hazel eyes watching me from near the door. Azriel, quiet as always, stood just on the edge of it all.

I exhaled. The candles flickered out. Still, his gaze held.

"Now eat it!" Cassian said far too gleefully and, before I could protest, he shoved a bite of the cake straight into my mouth.

I tried—I tried, to chew but it was thick and dry with some strange crunching texture I didn't want to identify. My stomach rolled ominously.

I clamped a hand over my mouth as I stood on shaky legs. "Nope," I uttered through gritted teeth before bolting for the bathroom.

The door hadn't even clicked shut behind me before I was on my knees, the contents of my stomach heaving into the toilet. I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing one hand on the cold porcelain, the other gripping the edge of the wall.

Warm fingers swept my hair back.

I hadn't even heard him follow.

One scarred hand held the strands of hair out of my face while the other rested gently between my shoulder blades, rubbing slow, steady circles. Azriel didn't say anything. He didn't need to.

I let myself lean into the silent comfort of it.

The noise of Mor and Cassian bickering filtered faintly through the walls, like background static. But here, it was quiet. Just me, the ache in my chest I didn't quite understand, and Azriel's patient presence at my side.

"I really tried," I rasped, forehead still resting on my arm.

"I know," he murmured, soft enough it felt like a secret.

The worst of it passed. I sat back on my heels, still breathing through the nausea.

Once Azriel had ensured I was done being sick and that I hadn't turned a lovely shade of green, he offered me a glass of water, his hand brushing lightly against mine as I took it.

No words were exchanged, only a small nod between us before he helped me to my feet.

We made our way back to my room.

The moment the door creaked open, I was met with the sight of a rather flustered-looking Cassian and Mor, both of whom wore sheepish smiles as if they were trying very hard not to laugh.

"Feyre has something she'd like to give you," Rhys said smoothly, stepping aside with a smug grin. "Now that Mor and Cassian have failed to poison you."

Feyre flushed slightly and nudged her mate in the ribs before stepping forward with a large, carefully wrapped canvas in her hands.

"Come over here," she said gently, ushering me to a quieter corner of the room.

I peeled away the wrapping slowly, unsure of what to expect—until the moment I saw it. And everything else fell away. My throat tightened. My vision blurred.

It was a painting, no, the painting. A memory I hadn't touched in centuries, perfectly preserved in brushstrokes and colour.

Feyre had captured it exactly, me as a child, laughing with my arms thrown in the air, perched atop Azriel's shoulders. Cassian and Rhys stood on either side of him, barely more than boys themselves, all three of them grinning wide with the kind of joy you can only find in fleeting, golden childhood.

"I asked Rhys to show me the memory," Feyre said, her voice soft, "I thought... maybe you'd like a reminder of how long you've been loved."

I set the canvas down with trembling hands and pulled her into a fierce hug, words tangled in the back of my throat.

"Feyre, this is—thank you. Thank you so much."

Behind us, Cassian groaned dramatically. "Well, how are the rest of us supposed to top that?"

I let out a laugh, the tears clinging to my lashes. "Wasn't the cake your gift?"

"Mother above, no," he said, as if horrified by the idea. Then, before I could tease him further, he thrust a small, poorly wrapped box into my hands.

The ribbon was tied like he'd wrestled it into submission but I managed to undo it.

Inside was a slender dagger with a gleaming gold finish. Tiny stars had been carved into the hilt, shooting stars, arcing across the polished metal like a constellation.

"I expect you to kick my ass with it," he said with a wink, and before he could play it off, I tugged him into a warm, laughing hug.

Mor's gift was next, a glittery slip of paper that shimmered like stardust. Her familiar, elegant handwriting danced across it, "An adventure with your favourite person."

"A day of shopping, dancing, and food," she grinned. "And I get to pick the outfit."

I rolled my eyes fondly, holding the promise close to my heart.

Then came Amren, who held out a velvet box with all the ceremony of a queen bestowing a gift upon a courtier.

Inside was a bracelet of silvery thread and a single gemstone that sparkled in the light. She didn't bother with an explanation, only muttered, "I get to borrow it whenever I want."

"Of course," I said, suppressing a laugh. "How generous of you."

Next was Rhys who ushered everyone out of the room as he approached. He stepped forward, expression unreadable for a moment, and placed a small, worn book in my hands. The leather was black and soft with age, the corners rounded and fraying.

"It was our mother's," he said quietly. "A journal. She used to write little things—about her days, about us."

My breath hitched as I flipped through the pages. Her handwriting. Her words. Like she'd just stepped out of the past and into my hands. A familiar ache bloomed in my chest, one I'd long since buried under other wounds.

"How... how did you even find this?" I asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Rhys only smiled. "That's for me to know."

He gestured to the last page. "Open it."

I did and instantly felt the breath rush from my lungs.

There, in the same delicate hand, was a single line.

"To the stars that never dimmed, and the dreams that answered anyway."

It was her favourite line from the book. The same one I'd clung to during the darkest nights, thinking it had been lost forever by the hands of Daeron.

I instantly flung my arms around Rhys, burying my face in his shoulder as I whispered, "I love it. I love you. Thank you."

"I know, little star," he said gently, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. "Now go get dressed. We've got a whole day planned."

He stepped away, giving me one last look before slipping out of the room himself.

As the door clicked shut behind him, the light in the room shifted. Shadows drifted in, quiet, smoky tendrils of them curling at the edges of the walls.

And then he stepped through. Azriel.

His entrance was silent, but I felt it in my bones, the sudden, subtle shift in the air that only he could bring. He paused by the door for a moment, just watching.

"I wanted to give you your gift," Azriel said, his voice quieter than usual.

There was a flush staining his usually controlled demeanour, a faint colour dusting his cheeks, just barely visible. His shadows swirled around him.

He held out a small box, wrapped in midnight-blue paper that glimmered faintly as though it were woven from starlight itself. The ribbon that held it shut was black, simple yet deliberate in its neatness, and I found myself hesitating for a brief moment before I accepted it.

I gently untied the ribbon, the paper crinkling softly under my fingers. The moment the lid opened, I gasped.

Nestled inside was a necklace, delicate and elegant in design. A thin chain of gold caught the light, and from it hung a small, glowing blue star, shimmering with an ethereal, otherworldly light.

My fingers shook slightly as I lifted it out, the cool metal warming in my palm.

The star was small, almost like a fragment of the night sky itself—something too perfect, too beautiful to belong to this world.

"It's beautiful," I breathed, my voice barely above a whisper. My gaze lifted to meet his, and for a heartbeat, the room seemed to hold its breath.

"It's enchanted," he murmured, his voice soft, almost hesitant.

His eyes remained fixed on the necklace, as though he couldn't quite meet mine. His fingers brushed over the charm one last time.

"It holds a piece of my shadows. Not just to protect you..." His words trailed off, and I noticed his gaze flicker upward "...so I can always find you. Even in the dark."

The words sank deep into my chest, like a hand gently pressing against my heart.

My throat constricted. I swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his gift, the depth of it pressing against me.

I could feel it, a warmth growing from the small star, pulsing in time with my own heartbeat.

I didn't trust my voice, so I didn't speak. Instead, I turned, my fingers trembling slightly as I handed the necklace back to him.

My heart beat faster as I brushed my hair from my neck, exposing the delicate skin there. I could hear him move behind me, the faint rustling of his clothes, the quiet shuffle of his boots.

He hesitated for just a second—one agonising moment where neither of us moved and then his fingers brushed the back of my neck, scarred hands cool against my skin.

He fastened the necklace with practised ease, his fingers lingering just for a fraction of a second longer than necessary.

I could feel the weight of it settle around my neck, and I closed my eyes for a brief moment, overwhelmed by the sensation of his touch, the heat of it.

When I opened my eyes, I stood on my tiptoes and before I could second-guess myself, pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his cheek.

It was a gentle touch, a fleeting whisper of affection, but it felt like it was more than that.

His shadows stirred violently at the contact, swirling around him in excitement. It was as if I had offered my heart to him on a silver platter, vulnerable and raw, without a second thought.

His eyes flickered briefly, his jaw tightening, but he said nothing. He only nodded, as though the moment was something too sacred, too fragile, to be spoken aloud.

"Thank you," I whispered, my voice trembling with the intensity of the emotions I couldn't quite name.

He gave me a small, almost imperceptible nod, his gaze softening ever so slightly, before he turned and walked toward the door.

The shadows followed him, their presence lingering as they always did, and with a soft click, the door closed behind him.

For a long moment, I stood there, my hand still resting against the delicate star pendant, feeling the weight of it, feeling the weight of his care.

It felt as though the room had shrunk around me, the air thick with unspoken words, the heaviness of emotions I couldn't hold in anymore.

And then, before I could stop it, I crumpled to the floor.

The tears came in a rush, a flood of them that spilt from my eyes, hot and overwhelming. I barely registered the cold floor against my knees as I sat there shaking, my arms wrapped tightly around myself as though I could hold in the pieces of my shattered heart.

Every single moment of the morning replayed in my mind—each gesture, each tender word, each bit of love that had been given to me in spite of everything that had happened, in spite of the darkness I carried inside.

The love, so pure and unwavering.

The quiet trepidation I could feel in the way they all treated me.

The collective guilt that gnawed at me, the overwhelming belief that it was all my fault, that I was the reason for the weight they carried in their hearts.

And then, as if the shadows had sensed my unravelling, they moved.

Azriel's shadows slipped under the door, soft and silent, like the touch of a whisper. They drifted into the room and wrapped around me, like a blanket of cool air, soothing and gentle, a quiet presence in the chaos of my mind.

They were his and for a moment, I wasn't so alone.

Outside the door, Azriel paced, his footsteps hesitant, uncertain. He touched the handle once—paused. He stood there for what felt like an eternity, his shadows curling under the door.

He didn't come in.

Maybe he didn’t know how. Maybe he thought I wouldn’t want him to. Or maybe... maybe he just didn’t know how to show me that I wasn’t what I believed I was.

I could hear the faintest of breaths he took before he let the door handle go, his steps retreating softly down the hall.

And just like that, the quiet settled in.

I was alone again.

A/n - If you didn't cry on your birthday, did it really happen? Okay, Slightly filler chapter, but I had to add it for the necklace (it'll all makes sense later, trust me).

I also needed to show her bond with Feyre and a sentimental gift felt like the perfect way to do that! I’m not diving too deep into the background plot here because it’s not super relevant to this story—just giving little bits and pieces for now!

Also I know Azriel probably wouldn’t actually leave someone crying like that... but humour me. I can’t let things resolve too quickly—it’s a slowburn for a reason :))

Pre-warning, the next chapter is angsty and full of drama, so get ready. It’s definitely one step forward, three steps back <33

Little Star tag list - @jaybbygrl @writtenbypavani @fall-winter-heart97 @coeurdeveea @lilg101010 @krazykangaroo712 @moonlitlavenders @lil-lupa @jasmineee05 @pinksnowtiger @yourdarkrose @nerdybee123 @bookwormysblog @thoughtfulcoffeeflower @suspicious-stain-in-spain @anainkandpaper @theflowerswillbloom @queenoffeysand @historygeekqueen @lexi-in-wonderland @tele86 @saamanthaag3 @whydohumansss @xlosttdreamss @bookishwondersworld @plants-w0rld @i-am-infinite

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mysticalcrowntyrant · 3 months ago

Text

Twisted Disney –

Day One: Beauty and the Beast

The wind howls through the skeletal trees, their bare branches clawing at the sky like the fingers of the damned. Snow, thick and heavy, blankets the ground in an unbroken sheet of white, save for the winding path you tread. The village is far behind you now. You should not have left. You know this. Yet, something in the stormy skies and the hush of the forest called to you.

Your boots crunch against the frost-covered earth as you pull your coat tighter around yourself, but the cold has teeth sharper than any wolf’s, biting through the wool and seeping into your bones. You shudder and glance over your shoulder. The road you have taken is treacherous—too far from home, too close to the shadowed mountains where old stories still breathe in the hearts of the fearful. The villagers warn of it often: the Schwarzwald, the Black Forest, is not a place for the unwary.

A gust of wind rushes through the trees, and with it comes a sound that stops you in your tracks. A deep, guttural growl. Not the distant, echoing cry of wolves, but something closer. Something waiting. Your breath catches in your throat.

Then, a shadow moves.

Your first instinct is to run, but where? Back to the village, through the maze of trees that have swallowed the path? Deeper into the forest, where no light touches the ground beneath the tangled canopy? It does not matter. The choice is taken from you before you can make it.

A figure looms from the darkness between the trees—too large to be a man, too monstrous to be anything else. It moves with an unnatural grace for something so massive, its long limbs clad in dark, tattered garments that hang from its broad shoulders. The fur lining its cloak is thick, matted with frost, but it is not the cloak that makes your blood turn to ice. It is the face.

Sharp features, almost wolfish, but twisted into something not quite human. Eyes like molten gold fix upon you with an intensity that makes you feel as though you have already been claimed. A mouth that is neither fully human nor fully beast curls into a smirk, revealing teeth too long, too sharp.

A clawed hand reaches for you.

You try to scream, but a palm claps over your mouth. The beast moves quickly, effortlessly hoisting you into the air as though you weigh nothing. You thrash, kicking against its unyielding grip, but it is like fighting against stone. Snow flies around you in a flurry as it begins to move, carrying you deeper into the forest, farther from everything you know.

The journey is a blur—branches whipping past, cold air searing your lungs, the rush of wind as the beast moves impossibly fast. Darkness presses in from all sides until, at last, the trees part to reveal a structure looming against the white sky.

A castle.

Its towers stretch high into the storm, their jagged spires lost in the swirling snow. It is ancient, its stone walls draped in ivy, its windows like empty eyes staring into the abyss. It should not exist. The villagers speak of ruins hidden deep in the forest, a place where no sane man dares tread, but this… this is no ruin. This place still breathes.

The beast does not slow as he crosses the threshold, pushing open the great wooden doors with ease. The warmth inside is jarring against your frozen skin, the flickering glow of firelight casting monstrous shadows along the walls. Tapestries hang in tatters, their images faded with time, and yet there is something grand about the decay, something timeless and terrible.

At last, he sets you down. Your legs buckle beneath you, but you do not fall. The beast’s grip lingers, steadying you, holding you in place.

“Do not run,” he says, his voice like gravel and thunder. “It will do you no good.”

You swallow hard, your heart pounding against your ribs.

“Why?” The word slips from your lips, barely more than a whisper.

The beast tilts his head, considering you. Then, with slow deliberation, he steps closer, until his breath ghosts against your skin, warm and unsettling.

“Because you are mine.”

Masterlist

#oc x reader #x reader #male yandere #yandere x you #yandere #yandere oc #yandere x reader #male yandere x reader #yandere fanfiction #yandere imagines #oc x you #yandere oc x reader

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nasa · 1 year ago

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Six Answers to Questions You’re Too Embarrassed to Ask about the Hottest Year on Record

You may have seen the news that 2023 was the hottest year in NASA’s record, continuing a trend of warming global temperatures. But have you ever wondered what in the world that actually means and how we know?

We talked to some of our climate scientists to get clarity on what a temperature record is, what happened in 2023, and what we can expect to happen in the future… so you don’t have to!

1. Why was 2023 the warmest year on record?

The short answer: Human activities. The release of greenhouse gases like carbon dioxide and methane into the atmosphere trap more heat near Earth’s surface, raising global temperatures. This is responsible for the decades-long warming trend we’re living through.

But this year’s record wasn’t just because of human activities. The last few years, we’ve been experiencing the cooler phase of a natural pattern of Pacific Ocean temperatures called the El Niño Southern Oscillation (ENSO). This phase, known as La Niña, tends to cool temperatures slightly around the world. In mid-2023, we started to shift into the warmer phase, known as El Niño. The shift ENSO brought, combined with overall human-driven warming and other factors we’re continuing to study, pushed 2023 to a new record high temperature.

2. So will every year be a record now?

Almost certainly not. Although the overall trend in annual temperatures is warmer, there’s some year-to-year variation, like ENSO we mentioned above.

Think about Texas and Minnesota. On the whole, Texas is warmer than Minnesota. But some days, stormy weather could bring cooler temperatures to Texas while Minnesota is suffering through a local heat wave. On those days, the weather in Minnesota could be warmer than the weather in Texas. That doesn’t mean Minnesota is warmer than Texas overall; we’re just experiencing a little short-term variation.

Something similar happens with global annual temperatures. The globe will naturally shift back to La Niña in the next few years, bringing a slight cooling effect. Because of human carbon emissions, current La Niña years will be warmer than La Niña years were in the past, but they’ll likely still be cooler than current El Niño years.

3. What do we mean by “on record”?

Technically, NASA’s global temperature record starts in 1880. NASA didn’t exist back then, but temperature data were being collected by sailing ships, weather stations, and scientists in enough places around the world to reconstruct a global average temperature. We use those data and our modern techniques to calculate the average.

We start in 1880, because that’s when thermometers and other instruments became technologically advanced and widespread enough to reliably measure and calculate a global average. Today, we make those calculations based on millions of measurements taken from weather stations and Antarctic research stations on land, and ships and ocean buoys at sea. So, we can confidently say 2023 is the warmest year in the last century and a half.

However, we actually have a really good idea of what global climate looked like for tens of thousands of years before 1880, relying on other, indirect ways of measuring temperature. We can look at tree rings or cores drilled from ice sheets to reconstruct Earth’s more ancient climate. These measurements affirm that current warming on Earth is happening at an unprecedented speed.

4. Why does a space agency keep a record of Earth’s temperature?

It’s literally our job! When NASA was formed in 1958, our original charter called for “the expansion of human knowledge of phenomena in the atmosphere and space.” Our very first space missions uncovered surprises about Earth, and we’ve been using the vantage point of space to study our home planet ever since. Right now, we have a fleet of more than 20 spacecraft monitoring Earth and its systems.

Why we created our specific surface temperature record – known as GISTEMP – actually starts about 25 million miles away on the planet Venus. In the 1960s and 70s, researchers discovered that a thick atmosphere of clouds and carbon dioxide was responsible for Venus’ scorchingly hot temperatures.

Dr. James Hansen was a scientist at the Goddard Institute for Space Studies in New York, studying Venus. He realized that the greenhouse effect cooking Venus’ surface could happen on Earth, too, especially as human activities were pumping carbon dioxide into our atmosphere.

He started creating computer models to see what would happen to Earth’s climate as more carbon dioxide entered the atmosphere. As he did, he needed a way to check his models – a record of temperatures at Earth’s surface over time, to see if the planet was indeed warming along with increased atmospheric carbon. It was, and is, and NASA’s temperature record was born.

5. If last year was record hot, why wasn’t it very hot where I live?

The temperature record is a global average, so not everywhere on Earth experienced record heat. Local differences in weather patterns can influence individual locations to be hotter or colder than the globe overall, but when we average it out, 2023 was the hottest year.

Just because you didn’t feel record heat this year, doesn’t mean you didn’t experience the effects of a warming climate. 2023 saw a busy Atlantic hurricane season, low Arctic sea ice, raging wildfires in Canada, heat waves in the U.S. and Australia, and more.

And these effects don’t stay in one place. For example, unusually hot and intense fires in Canada sent smoke swirling across the entire North American continent, triggering some of the worst air quality in decades in many American cities. Melting ice at Earth’s poles drives rising sea levels on coasts thousands of miles away.

6. Speaking of which, why is the Arctic – one of the coldest places on Earth – red on this temperature map?

Our global temperature record doesn’t actually track absolute temperatures. Instead, we track temperature anomalies, which are basically just deviations from the norm. Our baseline is an average of the temperatures from 1951-1980, and we compare how much Earth’s temperature has changed since then.

Why focus on anomalies, rather than absolutes? Let’s say you want to track if apples these days are generally larger, smaller, or the same size as they were 20 years ago. In other words, you want to track the change over time.

Apples grown in Florida are generally larger than apples grown in Alaska. Like, in real life, how Floridian temperatures are generally much higher than Alaskan temperatures. So how do you track the change in apple sizes from apples grown all over the world while still accounting for their different baseline weights?

By focusing on the difference within each area rather than the absolute weights. So in our map, the Arctic isn’t red because it’s hotter than Bermuda. It’s red because it’s gotten relatively much warmer than Bermuda has in the same time frame.

Want to learn more about climate change? Dig into the data at climate.nasa.gov.

Make sure to follow us on Tumblr for your regular dose of space!

#NASA #earth #climate #climate change #global warming #planet #el niño #science #la nina

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indepthpokemonheadcanons · 6 months ago

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Treasures of Ruin Headcanons

It is not uncommon to find stone figures of Ting-Lu marking settlements in northern Paldea. In ancient times, the custom was to put coins in the domed vessel atop its head, typically whenever one arrived or departed the village. The reasoning is not well understood. Some scholars believe they were merely respectful offerings. Others speculate that the coins were intended to weigh Ting-Lu's head down, to prevent it from escaping its shrine and ravaging the earth.

Paldea is home to a proverb, often translated as 'melt the sand and leave nowhere to stand'. It cautions against the ruinous effects of jealousy or envy, and likely traces back to Chi-Yu's origins. Both in Paldea and its surrounding regions, envy is associated with fire and heat.

It is commonly believed that flowers and fruit trees do not grow in the woods surrounding Grasswither Shrine, but this is not true. As any local will tell you, the fruit grows quickly, but rots quicker still. Wild pokémon do not eat it.

Paldean fables warn children against walking alone in heavy snow. If they see a snowman, they must ignore it - especially if it seems to be waving at them. Chien-Pao is the most playful of the Treasures of Ruin; while your eyes fix on the snow figure, you may miss the sheet of ice descending from above.

The exact nature of the Treasures of Ruin is poorly understood in modern Paldea. While their existence is accepted, there is dispute over the extent of their abilities and the level of destruction attributed to them. Some academics argue that they were only symbols of the bloodshed and environmental discord under the ancient monarch's rule, later elevated to legends via oral storytelling. However, more recent research supports the Treasures' historic reputation. A newly-published geological analysis of Grasswither Shrine detected elevated levels of heavy metals in the soil, with no clear source but the shrine itself.

Ornamental metal vessels, often known as 'worry bowls', are found in many houses across Paldea. They are a common gift for children, who are told to write their fears down on scraps of paper and put them in the vessel to be rid of them. Some believe that these bowls are styled after the vessel on Ting-Lu's head. The protective nature of the bowls is at odds with Ting-Lu's generally negative reputation, which may suggest that the Treasures were not always a symbol of evil in Paldean culture.

In old Paldean writings, frostbite is often referred to as 'sword touch' or the 'bite of the cat', thought to be physical evidence of Chien-Pao's ruin on the body. Even in modern Paldea, children are encouraged to wrap up warmly against the cold, lest 'the cat nip their nose'.

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novaursa · 5 months ago

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Legacy (the long night)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: winds of winter

- Next part: terrors

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxifics @alkadri-layal @butterflygxril

The world had fallen into a relentless shadow. For three years, the sun had not risen, its absence plunging the realm into a perpetual twilight. The snow never stopped, blanketing the land in an unyielding cold that seeped into bones and stone alike. Winter, as prophesied, had come with a vengeance. Crops failed in the frozen fields, rivers turned to ice, and the seas were treacherous with thick sheets of frost. The strongholds that endured did so by sheer will and meticulous preparation. Those who had ignored the warnings perished within the first year, their homes abandoned to the cold.

The economy of Westeros had crumbled, barter replacing coin in many regions. Gold was useless when bread was worth more than a kingdom. Merchants risked their lives traveling frost-covered roads, their wagons carrying what little food could be spared. Peasants flocked to castles, seeking refuge behind high walls, only to find those walls offered little warmth without fires to fill their hearths. The smallfolk suffered the worst, entire villages swallowed by snowdrifts, their inhabitants becoming frozen specters of a dying world.

In Casterly Rock, the Lannister stronghold, survival had become a calculated endeavor. The castle stood defiant against the winter, its towering walls warmed by the fires deep within its belly. This warmth came not from wood or coal, but from the two dragons that had taken residence beneath the Rock. Viserion, regal and massive, and the once-juvenile black and red dragon, now much larger, their combined heat radiating upward to make the castle livable. Tywin Lannister, ever the strategist, had ensured his people were prepared. Food stores were rationed with precision, and the Rock’s vast wealth had been converted into resources long before the first snows fell.

But even here, the cold was felt. The people whispered of old sicknesses returning, ancient plagues born from the ice. Every cough or fever brought fear, for healers were few, and even fewer had remedies that worked. Hope was a rare commodity, and those who had it clung to it desperately.

In the eerie stillness of the castle mines, Damon, now almost seven, wandered through the labyrinthine tunnels. His silver-gold hair was tousled, his violet eyes flecked with green wide with curiosity as he clutched a small lantern. His breath misted in the air, but the deeper he went, the warmer it became. The faint, rhythmic rumble of the dragons’ breathing resonated through the stone walls, a sound both comforting and thrilling.

“Damon!” the voice of Ser Barristan Selmy echoed faintly from somewhere far above. “Come back this instant!”

Damon grinned to himself, his young heart racing with the excitement of disobedience. He had slipped away while Ser Barristan was distracted, eager to explore the forbidden depths of the Rock. The mines, abandoned long before his birth, held an allure he couldn’t resist. Here, the world felt alive in a way it didn’t above, where the cold muted everything.

He followed the warmth, the air growing heavier with each step. The faint glow of his lantern illuminated the smooth, claw-marked walls, remnants of Viserion’s movements over the years. Damon knew he was nearing their lair.

Finally, he entered a cavernous chamber. Viserion lay curled in the center, her scales gleaming faintly even in the low light. She shifted slightly, her massive head lifting as her molten eyes flicked toward Damon. For a moment, he froze, his breath catching in his throat.

“Hello, Viserion,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. The dragon huffed softly, a plume of warm air escaping her nostrils. She did not rise but watched him with a mixture of curiosity and indifference, as though deeming his presence harmless.

But it wasn’t Viserion who captured Damon’s attention.

To the side of the chamber, where shadows clung to the edges, another figure moved. The black dragon with blood-red undertones had grown significantly over the years. Once the size of a horse, it now rivaled Viserion’s earlier size, its sinewy body coiled with latent power. Its eyes, a piercing red, glowed like embers in the dark.

The young dragon stepped forward, its claws clicking against the stone floor. Damon took a cautious step closer, his lantern trembling slightly in his hand. The black dragon sniffed the air, its head lowering to examine him more closely. A low growl rumbled from its throat, not a threat, but a warning.

“Easy,” Damon murmured, his voice steady despite the pounding of his heart. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

The dragon tilted its head, the glow of its eyes flickering as it studied him. Damon reached out slowly, his small hand trembling as he extended it toward the beast. The dragon’s nostrils flared, and for a moment, Damon thought it might snap at him.

Instead, it leaned forward, its hot breath brushing against his fingers.

Damon smiled, his awe replacing his fear. “You’re not so scary,” he said softly.

Behind him, Viserion let out a low rumble, her gaze never leaving the interaction. The black dragon pulled back suddenly, its wings unfurling slightly as it let out a piercing screech that echoed through the chamber. Damon stepped back, his lantern shaking as he realized he might have pushed his luck.

Above, faintly, he could hear the panicked shouts of guards and servants. The black dragon turned abruptly, retreating into the deeper shadows of the lair, leaving Damon standing in the warmth of the cavern with Viserion’s watchful eyes on him.

“Damon!” Ser Barristan’s voice was closer now, filled with worry and anger.

Damon sighed, knowing his adventure was over for now. But as he turned to leave, a spark of excitement lit his eyes. He had seen the black dragon up close, and it hadn’t harmed him. That was a story worth telling—if only someone would believe him.

Tywin sat at the head of heavy oak table, his presence commanding as ever, his eyes scanning the gathered lords and advisors. The air was heavy with the weight of their discussion, as it had been for moons now. The endless winter had made every decision critical, every misstep potentially fatal.

“Provisions are holding steady, my lord,” one of the bannermen reported, though his voice carried an edge of unease. “But the nearby settlements are struggling. The latest reports indicate several have run out of stored grain. We’ve begun receiving refugees at the gates.”

“Refugees that we cannot feed,” Tywin said sternly, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. “They are not our responsibility. If they come to the Rock, they will starve. We must protect our stores for those already under our protection.”

The bannerman nodded reluctantly. “Understood, my lord.”

Kevan, Tywin’s ever-loyal brother, leaned forward. “There’s another matter. The settlement near the eastern ridge—their maester has sent word of shivers spreading through their people. The disease is claiming more lives with each passing day.”

A heavy silence fell over the room. Shivers, a sickness that had not been seen in generations, had returned with the cold, its symptoms cruel and fatal.

Tywin’s expression remained unreadable, but his tone was unrelenting. “Quarantine the settlement. Allow no one in or out. Supplies will be sent to their perimeter, nothing more. If it spreads to the Rock, it will cripple us.”

The lords murmured their agreement, though some exchanged uneasy glances. The decisions required to survive this winter were growing harsher by the day.

You sat beside Tywin, your hands folded in your lap as you listened intently. Though your presence became more symbolic than authoritative, Tywin often sought your counsel privately. Now, you spoke up, your voice calm but firm.

“If the disease spreads further, it could reach the gates regardless of our precautions. We must ensure the settlements understand the severity of this quarantine. Panic will only worsen the situation.”

Tywin nodded faintly, acknowledging your point. “Send a raven to the maester there. They will comply, or they will perish.”

Before the discussion could continue, the doors to the chamber opened abruptly, and Ser Barristan Selmy entered, his cloak flowing behind him. In his grasp was Damon, his small face flushed with guilt, though his eyes remained defiant.

The lords turned to look, some with mild amusement, others with disapproval, at the boy’s untimely entrance.

“Forgive the interruption, my lord,” Ser Barristan said, his tone measured but strained. “Your son decided to explore the abandoned mines beneath the Rock. He was found near the dragons’ lair.”

Tywin’s gaze turned to Damon, his expression icy. “You went where you were explicitly forbidden?” he asked, his voice cold and cutting.

Damon shrank under his father’s stare but didn’t look away. “I just wanted to see them,” he mumbled. “I wanted to see the black one.”

At this, a murmur spread through the room. The black dragon, now significantly larger, had been a source of both awe and anxiety among the household. That Damon had ventured so close was both reckless and dangerous.

Tywin’s jaw tightened, his displeasure palpable. “You will go to your chambers and remain there until I decide what is to be done with you.”

Damon looked as though he might protest, but before he could speak, you placed a hand on Tywin’s arm and leaned in to whisper. “Let me handle this.”

Tywin’s gaze flicked to you, his expression softening just slightly. After a moment, he nodded curtly. “Very well.”

You stood and walked to Damon, your tone calm but firm. “Come with me, Damon. We’ll discuss this elsewhere.”

Damon hesitated, glancing at his father, but the stern set of Tywin’s jaw left no room for argument. The boy followed you out of the chamber, his small steps echoing in the stone corridor.

As the doors closed behind you, Tywin turned back to his council, his tone as sharp as ever. “Where were we?”

The lords hesitated briefly, then resumed their grim discussion, the tension in the room a reminder of the perilous state of the realm.

The corridors of Casterly Rock were quiet, the muffled sounds of wind outside a constant reminder of the harsh winter that gripped the land. Damon trudged ahead of you, his head hung low as he clutched the edge of his tunic nervously. Ser Barristan Selmy followed a few steps behind, his expression neutral but his eyes watchful.

As you entered Damon’s chambers, the warmth of the fire crackling in the hearth greeted you, along with the sound of Maelor’s delighted giggles. Your younger son, now almost five, was sitting on the floor, surrounded by a small assortment of wooden toys—a lion, a dragon, and a knight among them. A pair of attentive servants hovered nearby, ensuring he stayed out of trouble.

Maelor looked up at the sound of the door opening, his silver-gold curls bouncing as he grinned. “Mama!” he chirped, holding up a wooden dragon proudly. “I made him fly!”

You gave him a soft smile, though your focus quickly shifted back to Damon, who lingered by the door, clearly trying to avoid your gaze. “Thank you,” you said to the servants. “You may leave us.”

They bowed quickly and exited the room, casting curious glances at Damon as they passed. Ser Barristan stepped aside, his presence reassuring but unobtrusive.

“Damon,” you said firmly, your voice carrying the weight of your authority as his mother. “Come here.”

He shuffled forward reluctantly, his hands clasped in front of him. “I’m sorry, Mama,” he mumbled, not meeting your eyes.

“Sorry isn’t enough,” you replied, your tone sharp but controlled. “Do you understand what you’ve done? You put yourself in danger—again.”

Damon’s head shot up, his eyes wide. “I wasn’t in danger! Viserion wouldn’t hurt me, and the black one didn’t either!”

“That is not the point,” you countered, stepping closer. “You disobeyed. Those mines are not a place for you to wander, especially not alone. Do you have any idea what could have happened if the black dragon decided you were a threat?”

“But I wasn’t scared,” Damon argued, his voice rising slightly. “They’re dragons, Mama. They know I’m not going to hurt them.”

You knelt in front of him, your hands resting on his small shoulders, your expression softening just a fraction. “Damon,” you said gently, “bravery is not the same as recklessness. Just because they didn’t hurt you this time doesn’t mean they won’t if you startle them or get too close. Dragons are not like us—they are fire and instinct, and they do not think the way we do.”

He looked down again, his lip trembling slightly. “I just wanted to see the black one,” he murmured. “I wanted to talk to it.”

You sighed, your heart tugging at his innocence even as you felt the frustration of his disobedience. “You have to promise me, Damon,” you said, lifting his chin so he met your eyes. “Promise me you won’t go down there again unless your father or I say it’s safe. Do you understand?”

He hesitated, then nodded slowly. “I promise.”

“Good,” you said firmly, though you allowed your tone to soften. “Because if you break that promise, there will be consequences.”

From the corner of the room, Maelor piped up, his voice bright and curious. “Did Damon get in trouble?”

You turned to your younger son, who was now holding his wooden dragon upside down, his innocent expression making you smile despite your exasperation. “Yes, Maelor,” you said lightly. “Your brother decided to play where he wasn’t supposed to.”

Maelor gasped dramatically, his wide eyes darting to Damon. “Did the dragons eat you?”

Damon finally cracked a small smile, shaking his head. “No, they didn’t eat me.”

“Well, don’t let them,” Maelor said seriously, as though he were imparting great wisdom.

Ser Barristan, who had remained silent until now, cleared his throat. “My lady, Lord Damon has a strong spirit. But strong spirits need guidance. He’s lucky to have yours.”

You stood, brushing a hand through Damon’s silver-gold hair. “Thank you, Ser Barristan. I’ll make sure he remembers that.”

The knight inclined his head. “I’ll be just outside if you need me.”

As Ser Barristan exited, you turned back to Damon. “Now, stay here and play with your brother,” you said, pointing toward the toys Maelor was holding out. “No more adventures today.”

Damon nodded quietly and went to sit beside Maelor, who immediately started explaining the intricate story he’d created with the toys. You lingered for a moment, watching them with a mix of relief and affection. No matter the challenges, they were your sons, and you would do everything in your power to keep them safe—even from their own boldness.

The door had barely closed behind you, Ser Barristan, and Damon when Tywin spoke, reclaiming the attention of the room.

“King’s Landing,” Tywin began, his voice firm and measured. “What is the latest report?”

One of the bannermen, Lord Brax, cleared his throat. “My lord, reports indicate the capital is… strained. The commonfolk grow restless as supplies dwindle. They mutter of betrayal, of unworthy rulers, but they fear the crown too much to rise.”

Kevan interjected, his tone grim. “Cersei has always ruled through fear, not respect through her children. The city may be quiet for now, but unrest festers beneath the surface. Jaime's letters suggest he has struggled to keep her in check.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, though his expression remained unreadable. “Jaime’s role is to enforce the king’s peace and ensure Tommen remains unchallenged. If Cersei becomes too bold, he knows what must be done.”

Kevan hesitated, his brow furrowing. “And if he does not?”

Tywin’s cold gaze flicked to his brother. “Then I will remind him of his duty.”

Maester Aldren shifted uncomfortably before speaking. “The city may endure for now, but the longer this winter lasts, the harder it will become to maintain order. The crown’s debt to the Iron Bank also remains unresolved.”

Tywin’s lip curled faintly. “The Iron Bank will wait. They have little choice.” He leaned forward, his tone cutting. “The capital will not fall to chaos, not while my grandson sits on the throne. Focus on ensuring our supply lines to King’s Landing remain secure. If Jaime sends word of further unrest, reinforcements will be dispatched.”

“What of the North?” Tywin asked, shifting his attention to a map spread across the table. His finger tapped lightly on Winterfell, now marked with the sigil of the direwolf. “Jon Snow has returned to Winterfell with his siblings. He may no longer hold the title of King in the North, but his influence grows.”

Lord Brax hesitated before responding. “The Stark children have consolidated their power, my lord. Jon Snow, though no longer holding any titles, remains a prominent figure there. Sansa Stark manages Winterfell, alongside her siblings Arya and Bran.”

Kevan added, “There has been no new formal declaration of kingship in the North as agreed upon. The Starks seem more concerned with their own survival and the long winter.”

A flicker of irritation crossed Tywin’s face. “The absence of a king does not diminish their influence. The Stark name carries weight in the North, and their control over Winterfell makes them a rallying point. They may not declare themselves now, but should the snows ease, they will remember old grudges despite our agreement.”

Maester Aldren nodded. “The North’s allegiance to House Lannister remains tenuous at best, my lord. If they choose to rise—”

“They will not rise,” Tywin interrupted, his tone final. “Not while winter holds them in its grip. But we will watch them closely. A weakened North is easier to manage.”

The mention of Dragonstone brought a shift in the room’s atmosphere. The lords exchanged uneasy glances, and Maester Aldren unrolled a new scroll.

“Daenerys Targaryen remains isolated on Dragonstone, my lord,” the maester began. “For three years, her forces have remained stagnant. Her ships are frozen in the surrounding waters, and there has been no attempt to move south or engage with the realm.”

Kevan frowned. “What keeps her there? She has dragons, does she not?”

“Two,” Aldren confirmed, “though they have not been seen beyond Dragonstone’s shores. Reports suggest they are restless but remain grounded, likely due to the harsh conditions.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed. “She waits for an opportunity that will not come. The longer she sits idle, the weaker her position becomes. Isolation breeds irrelevance.”

Lord Brax spoke hesitantly. “And if she grows desperate, my lord? If she decides to unleash her dragons?”

“She would not survive the attempt,” Tywin said coldly. “This winter has hardened the realm. A foreign invader with barbarian armies would find no welcome, especially one who has sat idle while the rest of Westeros suffers.”

“And what of Dorne?” one of the lords asked. “Their silence is... unnerving.”

The mention of Dorne brought a new layer of tension to the discussion. Kevan spoke next, his tone cautious. “The Martells remain ineed quiet, though they send the occasional envoy to King’s Landing to reaffirm their loyalty.”

Tywin’s gaze sharpened. “And yet, their loyalty is worth little. The Dornish never forget, and their hatred festers beneath their hollow gestures. Have we heard from Myrcella?”

Kevan hesitated before answering. “There has been no word, my lord. Her fate remains unknown.”

Tywin’s expression darkened, but he said nothing for a moment, his mind clearly working through the implications. Finally, he spoke. “The Martells are opportunists. They wait for a moment of weakness, but we will not give them one. Continue to monitor their movements. If they so much as look toward the capital, I will ensure Dorne burns.”

The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of their discussions settling over the assembled lords. The flickering firelight played across their faces, highlighting the unease that lingered beneath their stoic expressions.

Tywin’s voice broke the silence, cold and measured. “The crown remains fragile, the realm fractured. Every decision we make must strengthen our position. No alliances can be trusted, no threats underestimated. We rule, or we fall. There is no middle ground.”

The men nodded, some more reluctantly than others, as Tywin leaned back in his chair, his gaze keen and calculating.

“And what of the juvenile dragon beneath the Rock?” Kevan asked cautiously. “It grows bolder. Some of the men fear it.”

Tywin’s expression darkened, but his voice remained calm. “The dragon remains under control. It is not a matter for this council.”

Kevan nodded, though the unease in his eyes was clear.

“Dismissed,” Tywin commanded, rising from his seat. The lords filed out one by one, leaving Tywin alone with Kevan.

As the door closed, Tywin turned to his brother. “Keep me informed of any movement from King’s Landing. Jaime must remain vigilant.”

Kevan nodded. “And Daenerys?”

Tywin’s gaze was icy. “If she makes her move, she will find us ready.”

With that, Tywin strode from the room, his mind already turning to the next step in his meticulous plans.

The fire crackled softly in the hearth of the private chambers you shared with Tywin at Casterly Rock, casting shadows across the richly appointed room. The heavy drapes were drawn against the unyielding winter winds, but the warmth of the flames and the insulated walls kept the cold at bay. You sat across from Tywin at a small table near the hearth, the remnants of your evening meal pushed aside as his piercing green eyes remained fixed on the flames.

Tywin’s jaw was set, his expression unreadable save for the faint tension around his mouth. The day's events—Damon’s reckless venture into the mines—still lingered between you, the weight of his displeasure palpable in the air. You could see it in the way his fingers drummed against the armrest of his chair, in the slight narrowing of his eyes when he glanced your way.

“He is just a boy, Tywin,” you said softly, breaking the silence. “And he has Targaryen blood in his veins. Dragons call to him as they did my ancestors.”

Tywin’s gaze snapped to you, his voice cold and clipped. “Blood is no excuse for foolishness.”

You sighed, leaning back in your chair, your hands folded in your lap. “Foolishness, perhaps, but curiosity is not a crime. He wanted to see the black dragon, and you know how rare it is to witness something like this. He is drawn to them because they are a part of who he is.”

“Curiosity gets men killed,” Tywin retorted, his tone biting. “And I do not have the luxury of risking my heirs on childish whims. Damon must learn discipline, or he will suffer for his lack of it.”

You tilted your head slightly, watching him carefully. There was more to this than Damon’s actions, you realized. Tywin’s anger ran deeper, tangled in something older, something unresolved. “This isn’t just about Damon, is it?” you asked quietly.

Tywin’s eyes narrowed, his fingers pausing in their rhythm against the chair. “I will not indulge your attempts to soften this,” he said curtly. “Damon endangered himself, and that is the end of it.”

But you didn’t back down. “It’s about more than that,” you pressed. “You’re thinking about how we got here. About what could have been.”

Tywin’s gaze hardened, but he said nothing for a long moment. Then, finally, he spoke, his voice low and edged with old grievances. “If Aerys had not been a fool, this realm would look very different. If he had agreed to our marriage, as I proposed—if he had not been blinded by his own arrogance—the rebellion may turn out diffrently.”

You straightened slightly, caught off guard by the admission. Tywin rarely spoke of Aerys unless it was to condemn him outright. The bitterness in his tone now was different—intense, more personal.

“He wasted everything,” Tywin continued, his gaze fixed on the fire. “Even in death, Aerys found a way to waste my time. More than thirteen years spent rebuilding what his madness destroyed. Thirteen years lost, chasing after order while chaos consumed the realm.”

You studied him closely, the set of his jaw, the faint lines etched into his face. This wasn’t just about Aerys. It wasn’t even just about Damon. It was about the life Tywin had been denied, the choices stolen from him by a king too blind to see his worth.

“You’re angry because he kept us apart,” you said softly, the realization settling over you. “Because if things had been different, we could have had this—” you gestured to the room around you, the warmth, the family you’d built together—“years ago.”

Tywin’s lips pressed into a thin line, his silence speaking volumes. For all his calculated strength, his relentless control, there was something raw beneath the surface, something that still rankled after all this time.

You reached out, placing a hand on his arm. “We cannot change what happened. My father is dead, and the choices he made died with him. But we are here now, Tywin. Damon is here. Maelor is here. We’ve built something despite everything he tried to destroy.”

Tywin glanced at your hand, then at you, his gaze softening just slightly. “And yet, it could have been more,” he said quietly. “We could have been better prepared for what is coming.”

You leaned closer, your voice gentle but firm. “We are prepared. Because of you, we have a chance. This family, this stronghold, everything we’ve built—it’s because of your strength, Tywin.”

He exhaled slowly, his gaze returning to the fire. “Strength means nothing if it cannot be passed down. Damon must learn this. I will not allow him to squander what he is meant to inherit.”

“And he will learn,” you assured him. “But he is still a boy. Give him time.”

Tywin was silent for a moment, then nodded faintly, though his expression remained guarded. “See that he does not test my patience again.”

You smiled faintly, knowing that this was as close to a concession as Tywin would ever give. As you sat back, watching the firelight play across his features, you couldn’t help but marvel at the man before you—unyielding, brilliant, and haunted by what might have been.

For a moment, you allowed yourself to hope that the warmth of your family, the strength of what you’d built together, might one day be enough to ease the weight of his old grievances.

The cold winds of winter swept across the narrow road leading to Casterly Rock, carrying with it the faint whisper of unease. The guards stationed at the main gate stood huddled near a brazier, their cloaks pulled tight against the biting chill. They were accustomed to the darkness, the long stretches of night that swallowed the land, but tonight felt different. There was something sinister in the air, a feeling that something—or someone—was approaching.

“Do you see that?” one of the guards murmured, peering into the gloom. His companion, a burly man with a thick beard, squinted into the distance. A single figure cloaked in red emerged from the shadows, the faint glint of her garments catching the light of their torches as she drew closer on horseback.

“Who rides at this hour?” the bearded guard muttered, gripping the hilt of his sword.

The rider approached at a measured pace, her posture regal, her face hidden beneath a heavy hood. As she reached the gates, she slowed her horse to a halt, her presence commanding despite her solitary arrival. The guards exchanged uneasy glances before stepping forward, their weapons held cautiously at their sides.

“State your name and purpose,” the first guard demanded, his voice steady despite the wariness in his eyes.

The rider lifted her head, revealing the pale, unblemished face of a woman with striking red hair. Her eyes seemed to look through the men rather than at them. She smiled faintly, the expression unsettling in its serenity.

“I am Melisandre of Asshai,” she said, her voice smooth and calm, yet it carried an undercurrent of authority that made the guards stiffen. “I have come to speak with Lady Lannister.”

The guards exchanged wary glances. “Lady Lannister does not receive unannounced visitors, especially at this hour,” the bearded one replied. “If you have a message, it can wait.”

Melisandre dismounted gracefully, her movements fluid despite the heavy fabric of her cloak. She stepped forward, the hem of her garments brushing against the snow-dusted ground, her eyes never leaving the guards. “This is no ordinary visit,” she said, her tone unwavering. “What I bring is not a message but a matter of great importance.”

One of the guards shifted uncomfortably. “What sort of matter?”

Melisandre’s lips curled into a faint smile, though it did little to soften her unnerving presence. “A matter of fire and shadow. But that is for Lady Lannister to decide, not her gatekeepers.”

The guards hesitated, clearly unsure of how to proceed. Finally, the bearded one nodded to another nearby soldier. “Fetch Ser Barristan. He will decide what to do with her.”

The soldier saluted and hurried off, leaving the others to keep watch over the red priestess. Melisandre waited patiently, her hands folded before her, her calm demeanor only adding to the unease of the men around her.

“Why do you wish to see Lady Lannister?” the first guard asked, his tone suspicious.

Melisandre’s gaze flicked toward him, her expression unreadable. “Because she walks a path few can see. Her choices will shape the fate of this world, and the flames have brought me to her.”

The guard frowned. “What do you mean by that?”

Melisandre offered no answer, her attention shifting briefly to the towering form of Casterly Rock behind them. The brazier’s flames flickered as a gust of wind swept through, the firelight casting eerie shadows across her face.

The sound of footsteps drew their attention as Ser Barristan Selmy approached, his white cloak billowing slightly in the breeze. His expression was stern but calm as he took in the sight of Melisandre.

“Who are you, and why have you come here?” Barristan asked, his voice steady but laced with authority.

“I am Melisandre of Asshai,” she replied, inclining her head slightly in greeting. “I seek an audience with Lady Lannister. The matter is urgent.”

Barristan studied her for a long moment, his keen eyes narrowing slightly. “The Lady of Casterly Rock does not meet with strangers lightly, especially not in these times. State your purpose clearly.”

Melisandre’s gaze met his, unwavering. “The purpose is for Lady Lannister’s ears alone. But know this, Ser Barristan—what I bring concerns not just her family but all of Westeros.”

Barristan’s expression remained unreadable, though his posture stiffened slightly. After a moment, he nodded curtly. “You will be escorted to the castle. But tread carefully, priestess. This is not the North, and your words will be weighed carefully.”

Melisandre smiled faintly, her expression serene. “I would expect no less.”

As Barristan signaled for the guards to accompany her, Melisandre turned her gaze toward the abandoned mine entrance, the lair of the dragons beneath the Rock. She paused for a moment, her expression unreadable as she seemed to sense the presence within. The guards hesitated, unsure of whether to rush her along or let her linger.

“The flames burn strong here,” she murmured, almost to herself. “It is as the Lord of Light has shown me.”

Barristan’s voice broke through the tension. “Move along.”

With a final glance at the mine, Melisandre resumed her path, her red cloak billowing as she was escorted toward the gates of Casterly Rock. The shadows of the dragons followed her, unseen but ever-present.

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