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[eli-loves-fiction]

Ouch.

you know that trope we all saw in movies growing up? that one where the guy is in a relationship and realises that he’s actually been in love with his best friend or whatever. well, what do you think it would be like when simon realises he’s in love and it’s not with you, his girlfriend?

why is it portrayed as a happy ending when someone has literally had the person they love ripped away from them? why are you expected to be happy for him just because everyone else is?

because you might not have been the love of his life, but he was everything to you

and stupid you was under the assumption that everything was fine, that these feelings hadn’t been brewing between them all this time. all those times he had told you she was just a friend, that she was more like a sister to him than anything? turns out you were just playing the blind fool each time

“I’m sorry, it’s just… it’s her. It’s always been her.”

they had just returned from a mission together. intel, just the two of them. he tried to claim that nothing happened but you know better now. he didn’t just realise this staring down the scope of a rifle. something happened behind your back no matter how much he’ll try to deny it

you want to be so angry with him, to curse him out to everyone you know about how he betrayed you. but everyone seems happy for them. clapping him on the shoulder and repeated “it’s about time” when they see him wrap his arm around her waist. meanwhile, you just have to pretend like he hasn’t completely ripped you apart from the inside

[eli-loves-fiction]

Sorry for being so very not normal about Kyle “Gaz” Garrick. It will happen again. 😔

[eli-loves-fiction]

Loyalty (I)

Daemon Targaryen x Hightower!reader

summary: the king decides it's time for his brother to produce more targaryen heirs. who better than another hightower daughter to carry them?

warnings: adults only, all characters over 18, dubcon smut in later chapters, arranged marriage, abortion allusion (moon tea), coercion, terrible parenting

word count: 2.3k

dividers

“I won’t allow it.”

“You won’t allow it?” Viserys asks with an air of frigid humor. “Who are you to deny your king what he has commanded?”

Otto seethes, decades of practiced court manners faltering under the demand. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but she is my daughter. I will not have her married off to a man whose love of violence and debauchery trails him like a shadow. She is a pious child. To marry her to Daemon is—“

“A blessing. She will marry a prince and a valiant knight.”

The other men at the table are silent. They'd expected talks of reinforcing the kingdom's claim on the Stepstones or of quelling rumors that had cropped up of Daemon corrupting his young niece in a brothel a year prior. The king commanding a marriage between Otto Hightower's youngest daughter—his only child from a tragically short second marriage—is an unpleasant surprise.

"He is already married."

Viserys gives a taut smile. "Daemon's marriage to Lady Royce has been annulled. By royal decree and with the blessing of the High Septon. It is in the best interest of Westeros that the Targaryen line remains vast and strong and it has been decided your daughter will do what Lady Royce did not."

Otto's face falls in disbelief. He's heard nothing of it. This had been set up to corner him. "She is a child."

"She is nearly four years older than Alicent was when we wed. The queen has proven your daughters are strong vessels for Targaryen children."

"It is different. She is different. She is not as strong as Alicent."

The king shakes his head. "I will hear no more discussion of this. She will wed Daemon and this feud between the two of you shall end once and for all.”

Alicent’s touch is feather-light as she takes hold of your hands. Her eyes wander across your form, taking in the exquisite ivory gown. Its crimson embroidered dragon along the skirt a special request from your soon-to-be husband. “You look beautiful, sister.”

You can say nothing to your half-sister, barely able to retain the tears brimming in silence. A fortnight was all you’d been given to prepare to wed the vilest creature in Westeros. Daemon Targaryen was all you could have ever hoped against in a husband.

Your father stands tall behind Alicent, head held high. "The image of the Maiden herself."

A choked sob escapes you at his words. This marriage was punishment by the Seven for every sin you'd ever committed. For the impure thoughts you'd had of knights. The white lies you'd spoken to save yourself the wrath of Septa Agerrea. The gambling you'd participated in when you’d bet your favorite embroidery needle in a game of cards with Lysa Tyrell. Had you only followed the Faith more faithfully, this torture would not be yours to endure.

“I believe it is time to take your place with the king, Your Grace,” your father says.

Alicent hesitates with glossy eyes. She draws you into a tight hug and whispers an apology and how much she loves you. You have the faintest memory of her wedding to the king a few years before. The happy sister who’d spent hours braiding your hair when the handmaidens failed to do it properly disappeared into a hardened queen round with child seemingly overnight. The smiles and giggles you’d shared daily turned to fond, distant memories. She withdraws a moment later, wiping at her face.

When the door shuts your father moves behind you. You watch in the ornate mirror as he drapes the green maidencloak of House Hightower across your shoulders. The new burden's weight feels uncomfortable.

He returns to stand before you, his expression sorrowful. "I am sorry, my sweet child, for this atrocity. You deserve far better.”

“I could have saved myself this fate had I been less worldly and become a Septa.” Your palm wipes at the tear that had fallen.

He cups your cheek. “Perhaps. But we cannot lament on what we could have done. Indeed we must focus instead on your duty to the realm.”

“To be a good wife,” you state. It was what he had raised you to be.

“No, sweet child,” he says softly, “I fear that I must ask something far more difficult of you. For your duty to the realm must supplant your duty in marriage.”

The wedding takes place in a haze. You tremble, stumble over words, and can not meet the eyes of your now husband nor the Septon. Soon you would betray them both.

For the good of the realm.

You do not eat or drink through the feast. You barely speak. You think you might have danced, though all you remember of it is a blurring background and an embroidered dragon that matches your own. It had stared at you accusingly.

“Shall I call for the bedding ceremony to begin, brother?” the king slurs loudly. If there had been anything in your stomach, it surely would have come out now. It was one vile thought to have him touch you. But to have other men undress you as well?

Your hand is pulled from your lap, enclosed in another twice its size, callous and rough against your skin. For the first time that day you look at your husband. You’d never seen him this close. The lavender gaze cannot have been of this world. It’s too vibrant, too knowing. “Too many of the men here have wandering hands. I’d hate to spill blood on such a blessed day.” His lips brush against your hand. “My sweet wife should not have to endure such tragedy.”

The king responds dismissively. Something of disappointing guests, but to do as he pleases. Daemon takes it as a dismissal and pulls you from your seat. The last thing you hear is the call from many about bloody sheets.

Perhaps the Mother has decided to take mercy on you. For you cannot breathe as the doors to the prince’s chambers close behind you. Death can take you before he can.

He stands in front of the fire, pouring some drink into a goblet. The flickering orange light suits him. Like he was born for flames. “You must relax. There is nothing for you to fear from me.” A lie. There was much to fear from him.

A booming knock echoes through the room.

“Enter.”

Two servants carrying trays of bread and fruit enter. Then they are gone just as swiftly. The door closes once more.

“You must eat,” he says, taking your hand once more and leading you to a small table. You sit and a piece of bread is offered. You take it and, after an expectant nod, take a bite. It’s still warm and soft. You take another bite. And another.

It’s gone quickly. Too quickly for a lady. A bowl of berries clatters softly in front of you. You pick at it slower, though not as slowly as you’d like. They are sweet. Perfectly ripe.

“Would you like some wine?”

Despite the juice of berries coating your tongue, your mouth is dry as you speak for the first time since you’d said your vows. “Yes, please.”

“So well mannered.” A smug smile spreads across his face as he raises his goblet and sips. He reaches over and sets it down beside the half-empty bowl. “I forgot to have them retrieve another cup.”

The crimson red liquid ripples. A challenge.

“You are very gracious, my Prince. Thank you.” You lift it by the stem and drink. It was stronger than you’ve ever had before. The taste takes you aback, coughing as it soaks your tongue. Hastily you set the cup back down.

"I take it you don't often indulge in Dornish Reds."

"No, never."

His head cocks to the side appraisingly. "I suppose such a thing has never been offered to you before. Not within the confines of your father's authority. He has given you a rather sheltered life."

A prickly heat seeps up your neck. "My father did not confine or shelter me. He has only ever guided me to live as virtuously as the Seven wished for all their children to live.”

“How very kind of him to not let you endure the same vices as himself.”

You blink, his words sinking in. The implication that your father is a drunkard stings. He isn't, but you don’t fight his accusation. Selfishly, you do not wish to defend your father. Instead, you pluck a berry from the bowl, hoping to end the conversation entirely.

"Are the berries quite good?"

You nod, not wanting to speak again.

"Might I have one?" When you go to pick up the bowl, he stops you. "Pick me out the best one."

The best one? The bowl is still half full. Which berry was the best? Would he be disappointed if you picked one he did not like? Or one that was not ripe enough? Not sweet enough? What would he do to you if he disliked the one you chose?

It was the largest blackberry that you finally settle on, prepared to hear how terrible the choice had been as you hold it out to him. He doesn't simply take it. He leans over the table, taking the berry and your fingers into his mouth.

The act is heinously intimate. It leaves you frozen and breathless as he pulls away, his eyes alight in devious amusement. "I'm not sure which taste I prefer. The berry's or your's."

Fire spreads across your cheeks. You flinch away, embarrassed. In the escape effort your arm knocks against the goblet. To your horror, it clatters against the table. The liquid sloshes across your front, staining the white gown.

The crimson seems to seep from your womb, condemning you for something you had yet to do. You paw at the stain as the chair clatters on the ground from the force with which you'd stood.

Tears brim in your eyes as it continues to spread.

“There's no need to fret. It is only wine.”

“I have desecrated it.” The tears have not stopped falling and your hands have not stopped scrubbing at it with your fingers. “The stain will never come out.”

“It is only a dress.” He cups your face, encouraging you to meet his gaze. It searches for some understanding.

He would never understand.

“I am so sorry, my Prince.”

He shushes you softly and places a kiss against your forehead. This was the monster? The vile, unholy beast whose every action was an affront to the Seven? This man who had shown you nothing but kindness?

You cry harder.

He is not the monster.

You are.

You aren’t sure how long you cry. But he holds you through it all. He speaks little more than a few consoling phrases, but it is more than you deserve. His presence, arms around you, kisses on your hair. All of it more than you deserve.

You’re finally calm, only left with sniffles, when he says, “We should get the dress to the washwomen before the stain sets.” What good would it do? The stain can never be removed from your soul. Still you agree and turn for him.

His fingers are swift as they loosen the strings of your bodice. Practiced. He is practiced. Behind closed doors you assume, but there were numerous tales of his public debauchery. It has been gossiped that he prefers the thrill of open affairs and touches of multiple women.

“Why did you refuse the bedding ceremony?”

He pauses. “Did you wish to have one?”

“No,” you say quickly. “But given your…tendencies I…I thought…” A quiet hum has your words trailing off.

His work continues, though slower. “You are not a whore in a brothel.”

“Neither is your niece and yet...”

Air blows across your neck as he chuckles. “Has my pious little wife been gossiping about the chastity of the Crowned Princess?”

Your lungs seize at the realization of what you’d just said. It’s treason. Questioning her virtue is treason.

“Relax, jaesa.” His hands slip between the shoulders of your shift and the loose gown, pushing the sleeves down your arms. “I took you under my protection today. You may speak freely to me.”

“I,” you hesitate, freeing your hands of the garment, “I had heard that a year ago you snuck the princess from the castle and—“

He bunches the fabric at your waist and tugs. “Had my way with her in some brothel?”

“Yes.”

The gown struggles for a moment, snagging on the curve of your behind. Another tug and it is a pile around your feet. “My niece wished to see King’s Landing. I showed her and returned her to the castle, still a fair maiden like yourself.”

“Of course.”

“You doubt me?”

“No, my Prince.”

"It would do a great disservice to our union to begin it with lies." He prompts you to turn and hesitantly you do. He is shorter than your father, yet his presence is as commanding. More so. It makes you aware of how thin the fabrics of your shifts were when his gaze drifts down. "My niece's heart belongs elsewhere. As do my desires."

His touch is gentle as he cups your cheek, but the feeling's it stirred are rough and uncertain. Bordering on traitorous.

“Shall I call a servant to fetch the dress?” The words waver. You wonder if they’re comprehensible at all.

They are, it seems as he rejects the offer and slips out the door himself with the dress. The reprieve from his watchful, astute eye is welcome. You fall to your knees at the edge of the bed and recite the prayer your father had taught you minutes before you’d been led down the aisle.

Warrior, give me strength for what I must do. It is for the good of the realm.

Mother, forgive me for what I must do. It is for the good of your faithful servants.

Stranger, lead my children to peace. It is for the good of their innocent souls.

a/n: all your thoughts and reblogs are appreciated 🌺

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[eli-loves-fiction]

House of the dragon has infiltrated my thoughts and now I am plagued with ideas for illustrations that I simply don't have the time to create 😭

But I sketched Aemond.... And started drawing dragons (and wyverns)

[eli-loves-fiction]

"if i was orpheus i would simply not turn around" yes you would. if you were orpheus and you loved eurydice, you would. to love someone is to turn around. to love someone is to look at them. whichever version of the myth — he hears her stumble, he can't hear her at all, he thinks he's been tricked — he turns around because he loves her. that's why it's a tragedy. because he loves her enough to save her. because he loves her so much he can't save her. because he will always, always turn around. "if i was orpheus i would simply —" you wouldn't be orpheus. you wouldn't be brave enough to walk into the underworld and save the person you love. be serious

[eli-loves-fiction]

Some people “save” Penny from an alcoholic mother: [*no one bats an eye*]

Some people romance Shane: [*everyone loses their SHIT*] 💩

🤣🤣🤣 you see what I’m saying here!?!

[eli-loves-fiction]

OOO YES.

Imagine Shane wearing a kilt, those thighs on display 😤🥰🥵

[eli-loves-fiction]

I think if Ghost was gonna have any piercings it would be a belly button piercing. That's objectively the funniest piercing he could think to get, and that means it's a fucking winner. He takes it out when he goes to shower so no one really... knows that he has it. Which is great, exactly the point. It's his own private joke for himself. Except when Siap walks in on him changing and spots it. Both of them freeze and Soap just stares before meeting Ghosts's eyes. And Ghost isn't worried, why?

"No one will ever believe you," he tells Soap with the most smug tone Johnny has ever heard in his life. And it's TRUE. No one will ever believe him and he now has to fucking live with this knowledge. Probably sits down next to Ghost in the mess hall later still fuming like.

"You're a fuckin' slag, you know that?" And Ghost just smiles to himself, because he's the funniest person he knows.

[eli-loves-fiction]

Welp.

[eli-loves-fiction]

Gods I need someone to talk about me the way Hozier sings about women oml

[eli-loves-fiction]

[eli-loves-fiction]

I love Shoko so much.

<333

Imagine laying in bed beside Shoko, face pressed half into the pillow while your eyes are struggling to remain open. She's lighting a cigarette, a blissed-out smile on her face as she relaxes into the blankets. She had just finished fucking you into the mattress.

"Shoko..." you mumble weakly, lower half still throbbing from the aftermath of her work. She smiles when she hears your tone, she knows she did a good job if you sound like that. "What is it, pretty?" she pulled the cylinder from her lips, puffing out the smoke and watching it swirl around the air before dispersing.

"Want you..." your arm is reaching over to her, there was less than six inches keeping you apart but it felt like a chasm. "...more?" she seemed a little surprised, especially with how tired you looked. "No...no not more sex..." you laughed a bit, scooting closer despite your limbs feeling like lead. "Oh I see..." she turned on her side, letting you bury your face in the crook of her neck.

"You just want more of me..." she hums, one arm hooking under your neck while her other is bringing the cigarette back to her lips. "Always." you breathed out, inhaling her natural scent as your body fully relaxed into her embrace. "I did a number on you, hmm?" she says even though she knows you are falling asleep. Her voice has always been a comfort to you so she knows it's fine.

You give your girlfriend a half-hearted hum, way too tired to actually speak anymore. Shoko grins, puffing out more smoke before reaching behind her to snuff it out in the ashtray. "You did so good for me, just like you always do." Your body was covered in her love bites, scratches from her nails, a nice dark hickeys. Ones you’d complain about tomorrow when you had to leave for work. but for now you’d enjoy them.

“Sleep, when you wake up I’ll make you dinner and a bath.”

You smiled into her skin, finally letting your body relax in her warm embrace, completely and utterly content.

[eli-loves-fiction]

I'm sobbing violently(in a good way)

😭❤️❤️❤️❤️

*Slides into the ask box*

Brief question here for you today, but did Ghost decide to ask Price's permission to marry Goose? I can see him wanting to do everything by the book and traditionally, but I can also see him respecting that Goose is her own woman and can make that decision for herself.

Ghost did ask permission in his own way! I like to think it was more important to Ghost than Goose to get the captain’s permission. For Ghost, Price is not just his captain, he's as close to a father figure as he can get, and past that Price is the person that dragged him back from the edge every time he walked too close. And, well, I'll just let you read it.

“You cannot be this scared of my daddy,” You cross your arms over your chest, watching Simon fuss with his boots by the door. He gives you a stern glare, and tugs his mask up to cover his face. You roll your eyes, “You served under him, isn’t this easier than tellin’ him a mission went sideways?”

Simon grunts, his way of saying he doesn’t want to talk about this. You’ll have to tell your dad eventually that you’re getting engaged, it’s not like he can find out at the wedding. Simon isn’t asking for your hand or anything, more getting your folks' blessing.

“That’ll do,” He grumbles and you throw your arms up. Christ you cannot be the one to tell your dad. As much as you think he’s warmed up to you and Simon dating you don’t think he’s exactly entertained the idea that Simon might become his son-in-law. If you tell your dad you’ll feel like you’re asking permission to marry Simon. That's not how you want to start your engagement. Simon catches your hand before you can start really working yourself up.

“This is important to me,” You tell him.

“I know,” His thumb rubs the back of your hand, soothing, “I’ll tell him.”

(Several months earlier)

“I’m gonna marry your daughter,” Ghost tells Price as they watch cattle file past. The sun is high in the sky, the horses are comfortably docile, and cicadas whirr loudly from the nearby trees. Price lowers his cigar between two careful fingers, eyes tracking the herd. He taps the ash against his boot to keep it away from the horse and off the grass. The air is still as both men seem to wait on the other.

“Goose know that?” Price asks finally. He knows as well as anyone that Ghost doesn’t make decisions lightly, and that once he does he isn’t likely to change his mind. More importantly he knows the man hardly thinks he’s worth being called human, let alone thinks about things like love and marriage.

“No,” Ghost tugs a cigarette box from his pocket and pulls one free with his teeth. Price sniffs, nudges his horse forward with his heels against its side, leaving Ghost to light his cigarette before he follows. It’s a beautiful day. The sort of day people paint when they don’t have a picture, clear blue skies and the wind rippling through the grass. Quiet too, y’know if you don’t count the bugs.

“So why’re you tellin’ me? Take it up with her.” Price spares him a glance as Ghost catches up, their horses meandering after the cows at a respectable distance. Ghost lowers his cigarette, exhaling smoke before pulling it back between his teeth.

“Because if you tell me not to, I won’t.” It’s the even honesty that makes Price pause. Ghost’s a good soldier, ruthless, efficient, fully tactically aware of his role as an instrument of violence. Some part of Price blames himself for that, for not doing enough to save Simon from compartmentalizing his humanity away after everything, for pushing Ghost to be the tool he needed him to be to take down the bad guys.

He doesn’t have to say anything more than that. If Price gives the order he’ll obey, even if it hurts you. Always a good soldier. He can’t do that to him, can’t do that to you. Not when he sees so much of himself in Ghost: the anger, the need for something(anything) to be right. That’s why he’d offered him a position at the farm in the first place.

“You’re a better man than you think you are Simon,” Price says finally, he powers through the questioning ‘Sir?’ from Ghost, “You make my girl happy, and if she heard you say that she’d tan your hide faster than any AQ could.”

“She would,” Ghost says with a touch of fondness in his tone.

“I trust her judgment, you just tell me if she says yes,” Price takes a long drag of his cigar, enjoying the fullness of smoke in his lungs before he lets it flow free with his exhale, “How’re the nightmares?”

Ghost is quiet for a long time, long enough Price wonders if he might’ve overstepped. There’s a long exhale, before Ghost answers. “Better with her.”

Price nods, “They always are.”

(Present)

“Goose said yes.” Ghost rolls a cigarette between his fingers, careful to compensate for the movement of the horse so he doesn’t lose the loose tobacco. Price sighs from his right. The wildflowers are starting to peak up through the grass. The ones the cows haven’t eaten are even blooming. Gaz is off corralling the cattle that’ve wandered too far from the herd, it’s a good time to talk if they want privacy.

“About damn time,” Price says after a moment, “Thought Goose was gonna drag your ass to the courthouse.”

“Sir?” Ghost looks up quickly from his work, his surprise nearly startling his horse.

"How long were you plannin' on pretendin' you weren't part of this family?" It's an honest question but it cuts deeper than Ghost had expected. Deep enough he doesn't fault Price the gentler tone he uses to ask it.

"Haven't even married 'er yet," Ghost grumbles.

"Know that's not what I'm talkin' about," Price leans back in his saddle, making himself as comfortable as he can watching the pasture, "'M proud of you son, don't make me hafta tell you that again."

Simon frowns to stop himself from making any other expression, and tugs his mask a little higher up his nose. It's a beautiful day, it would be a shame to ruin it by saying something stupid, or getting worked up over nothing.

[eli-loves-fiction]

THIS!!!

I DONT LIKE SHANE BC I CAN FIX HIM. I LIKE SHANE BECAUSE DECIDING TO CARE FOR HIM, ROMANTICALLY OR NOT. GIVES HIM THE MOTIVATION NECESSARY TO TRY AND KICK HIS ADDICTION. IT SHOWS THAT WHEN YOU HAVE PEOPLE WHO LOVE AND CARE FOR YOU, IT MAKES YOU WANT TO BE A BETTER PERSON FOR THEM!!! FUCK.

[eli-loves-fiction]

I forgot how much I love stardew valley :3

Also my first time romancing Shane and I'm going through the emotional trenches <33

(Also why do people hate Shane?)

[eli-loves-fiction]

Soooo I'm trying to repost more stuff but I feel kinda bad because that's all I really do.... maybe I should start posting my art hmmm

[eli-loves-fiction]

the hottest thing a man can do is tilt his head and say ‘yeah?’ —like no need to be a slut, calm down.